Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

lt was a split moment, half-second decision for Kris to walk a different way to school today, given that they rarely ever walked to begin with. They didn’t have much of a choice since their mom needed to go in early for a meeting, but it's not like it’s a tough trek. The whole town’s like, three houses and a shitty pizzeria, it gave them plenty of time to clear their head and still get there on time. 

As much as being around others was something they could handle in moderation, with as lonely as they got without their friends around and with Asriel gone, these quiet moments were ones they loved the most sometimes. Not having to worry about the feelings of social anxiety, if they could get the next sentence out without their vocal chords seizing up, all those staring eyes and judging glares. . . 

None of it’s malicious, and everyone’s pretty accommodating, but it still hurt not being able to just be like everyone else was sometimes. . . It’s a thought that came in a lot of different areas often. 

At least now they could just watch the autumn trees sway on a tender breeze, the crackling of rocky gravel beneath their old sneakers, and the subtle whistling of birds in the crisp breeze. The light winds blew their brown hair softly as they walked, long strands bellowing back and forth as they made their way down the backroad near where the lake was, planning on cutting back down near the forest and making their way to the school from there. This early in the morning their town was mostly dead, and they didn’t have to worry about anything but themselves, able to just close their eyes slightly and let their footsteps do the seeing. 

They counted every step they took to see how it compared to their normal path, counting a few dozen more than usual, their concentration absolute on their childish game. 

“. . .Wow, this sucks.” They mutter to themselves lightly, fighting back a soft, gratified smirk, hands tucked right into their pockets as they keep to the pace they’ve established with a hypnotic rhythm. The enby could tell how close they were getting to their goal when the sounds of whistling birds and swaying leaves became intermixed with the trickling of lake water. . . 

Everything was going as normal at first, until they got close enough to the lake, and a new sound entirely was bleeding through the otherwise normal white noise. . . 

A deep hum, not as gruff as something like Susie’s growl or Asriel’s purr, but it had its own verboseness to it. Like too many cigarettes after too much yelling. This jovial strum that was only missing the guitar, and it attracted their attention like the Pied Piper, their red eyes shooting to attention and scanning across the early morning lakeside. The water was deathly still and reflected the low sun across its mucky sheen, nothing stood out much. . . until they spotted the figure leaning against a distant tree. 

They were enshadowed by the rickety branches, a thick pile of orange and brown dead leaves crunched beneath their tall frame, staring out towards the brownish blue water with the same stillness, one hand pressed against their chest and the other wrapped around their. . . hat?. . . 

The humming only seemed more mesmerizing the closer they got to them, their own tentative curiosity getting the better of them in the face of a stranger to the otherwise tiny town. Even with the enby’s careful steps, plenty of twigs and leaves snapped and crackled beneath them, but the figure just continued that same strange song like they hadn’t even noticed them. . . 

“. . .Hello?” They try to talk over the humming, not really expecting a conversation this early in the day with their social skills even more on the fritz than they usually are. That seems to do the trick at least, but a part of them is already regretting it when that dark tune ends, and their entire body twists to face the enby all at once. . .

From this close, Kris could finally get a proper look at the figure, and it quickly becomes obvious they aren’t from around here, and even more so, they aren’t even a monster. 

The human is disturbingly similar to them, and it makes them wonder if they all look this familiar. . . The thought makes them feel nauseous in a way that they can’t explain. His hair has a more vibrant orangish hue hidden beneath age, and his complexion is darker and worn from travel, but it's all so alike still: similar brownish muddy hair splayed out over a face of skin and bone and muscle, stubby peach fuzz across wrinkled cheeks, the barely there hint of dulled red eyes under his oversized hat. His pursed lips were chewing on a tuft of dried wheat, nibbling the long strand between squared teeth like a piece of chalk. A orange-red hat with a golden heart emblem on the front is low on his head, and a striped brown scarf obscures his bony jaw, a long red poncho swayed in the winds overtop one piece longjohns wrapped in various rawhide straps. 

Pointed brown boots were tapped in beat to his hum, and fingerless leather gloves pressed the tip of his up an inch or two to get a better look at the enby a few feet away. 

“Oh, thas’ a real surprise.” He mutters out in a voice that was just as deep as his hum, a thick country draw audible, swaying side to side and jangling like a bag of loose change, scratching overgrown nails on a random stain on the poncho. . . It was red. “Didn’ expect to see no humans ‘round these parts.” He snickers, craning his head up and down to get a good look at them, at the enby standing there with a bewildered look. 

Kris’ brighter red eyes give him the same up and over, from boots to hat. With so many questions in their mind at that moment, so they just blurt out the first one they can think of: 

“Do all humans dress like that?” They bluntly ask, raising an eyebrow at him and gifting the other human a deadpan stare. At first they were worried he’d be offended, but a windy chuckle and a casual tipping of his hat cuts those concerns rather quickly. 

“Neh, just me. When you’ wanderin’ as long as I have, you gotta amuse yourself a lil. . . Maybe next time I’ll go for pirate.” He flashes a toothy grin, all the visible ones are bright yellow like Susie’s, but they don’t think that's normal for humans. . . They run their tongue over their own a few times self-consciously. 

Though, the semantics of the question seem to cross him, and he crumbles the wheat in his grasp into a messy chunk that's soon discarded to the leaves below. 

“What, neve’ see another of yah kin before?” He questions, a judgmental aura resonating from the tone, glaring past them and back towards the town far off in the distance. “Well, shoulda known given *they* live here.” His canines are practically dripping with venom with how much disdain is behind that remark, his neutral grin grinding into a tense frown. 

They shift uncomfortably, feeling a discomfort they’d never really felt before, like a bitter chunk of something stabbing right into their SOUL. . . 

“Yeah?. . . My family are monsters.” It felt like the wrong thing to comment given his reaction so far, but they weren’t going to lie, it's not like it’d help much here. “. . .I’m the only human here.” It was something they’d recognized at some point over the years, but only now did it really feel like a prominent fact. Like it was something even worthy of focusing on at all and not just a fact of the situation. . . It's not like they haven’t felt conflicted feelings on it still though. 

The human’s hate twists into sympathy, tugging a fresh tuft of wheat tucked into a strap on his side and plopping it right back between his dry lips. This one is longer somehow, and it bobs up and down as he leans forward with an offered hand.

“Heh, I’m yah first, huh?” He gives them a playfully little click of his tongue, and drags his hat off and holds it right to his chest, right where his SOUL would be. “Nice to meet yah then, young lady.” He bows down slightly to be polite, but he only succeeds in making them prickle up instead. 

. . .They grab his hand with the loosest pressure possible, giving it a halfhearted shake in between a bunch of very murderous thoughts. Not even trying to give a very positive expression in the process.

“It's Kris. . . And I’m not a girl.” They only let themselves keep contact with him for a few seconds at best before pulling away. The scratchy leather digging into their skin only brings feelings of tense overstimulation they didn’t expect to have this early in the morning. The human’s grin stays just as big even with that, and he brings that same hand up to point somewhere off into the forest, back towards the lake. 

“Hey, I got a real good idea. Why don’ we take a walk and I could tell yah a bit ‘bout your people. My treat, lil’ lady.” 

. . .They didn’t know how to respond to that. Over the years, especially when they first started identifying this way, they of course had people slip up. Assume they were one way until told otherwise, use the wrong pronouns, the wrong *everything*, but it wasn’t ever malicious. Monsters varied too much and were too diverse to ever really care, everyone in town always seemed so *nice* about it. They’ve never had someone just. . . ignore them. 

All the intrusive desires in their brain misfired, and they were just at a loss for words. . . 

But. . . A part of them is willing to put up with it for a little bit if it means they can learn more about humans. They’ve seen things in class and in books at the library but always felt too much of a disconnect to digest it all. It felt like something different entirely, something they couldn’t ever really see as their history. Just. . . history. It made them nauseous, like a budding existential dread forming deep in their stomach. 

It felt different when a real one was standing right in front of them. It felt more real than just text and pictures in a book. They spent so long feeling like the odd one out and dysmorphia over it, over not being a monster like the rest of their family. 

It’d be interesting, if nothing else. . . Their mom probably won’t mind them being a *little* late to school. . . 

“. . .Sure.” 

. . .

. . .

. . . 

The entire “walk” started as the usual with Kris: entirely silent while the other party talked and talked. Making sure to give the occasional nod or confirmation to keep the conversation going, keeping a healthy distance just to feel comfortable. 

He was plenty talkative even if that accent made him near incomprehensible at times, though, the closer they got to the camp the more actual engagement he seemed to expect from them. The rambling soon makes way to questions and comments right at them.

“So, how's the ol’ SOUL treatin’ yah?” He casually comments, it's so lightly said it was almost like it didn’t practically stop them dead in their tracks. They had to use all the energy in them to keep walking, to not make it clear how terrifying the question was for so many reasons. There's bile in their throat, and they can feel the object thumping louder in their chest like it wanted confirmation. The palpitations were near panic attack levels.

“H-How do you know about that?” They suddenly blurt out in between a panicked breath, the teen’s feelings only worsening when he looked at them like they were stupid. Though, his weird expression softens and he seems to understand better. 

“Ah yeah, you didn’t have none of yah kin. . . We all got lil’ SOULs like that in us. They all come in differ’ flavors dependin’ upon what life throws at yah.” He explains it slowly, and tentatively, like they were just a child. Maybe this was a speech made for one for all they knew. All that was obvious was the implication when he tapped his fingers against his own chest in tune to his heartbeat. “Mine is Justice, of course. I know how the world is, and I keep my morals firm. . . I don’t let mongrels walk all over me.” He adds the final bit in a morbid mutter, like it wasn’t a part of that script he was reading mentally. Not that its what Kris could focus on, given that they were learning about something that's been plaguing  them their whole life.

It's always been a part of them, but only recently has it started. . . acting on its own. Making them do things they didn’t want to. And dragging them wherever it saw fit. This felt like the only time they’d ever get a chance to even learn about it, and about what it even wanted. 

“Um. . . what do I do if it's making me. Do things? . .” They keep it vague with a soft whisper and a gaze moved towards the ground of the muddy trail they were trotting down. Expecting the other human would understand what they meant if he knew so much. . . .

It only made the look of perplexment on his face even more haunting. The human looks between their SOUL, and Kris’ face, and back to his own. . . And he goes very silent. 

It takes him a few minutes to settle a response. 

“It doesn’t do that.” 

. . .Kris drops the subject. 

The two just go back to talking about what they had been at first, human things, human “mythos”, everything the man thought was valuable for them to know. His traveling and his journeys. But it moved on again, and the next question hit them like a sack of bricks. 

“So, them monsters. Plenty scary, huh?” It came out of nowhere in the middle of him talking about a human town he wandered through, like it was just a natural progression of things. The man leans in closer and whispers it right to them, like it was something they were both in on. Like something they’d understand. “Must be real freaky bein’ ‘round em all day.” A little whistle and a long arm wrapping around their shoulder only further emphasizes that familiar vibe, like this wasn’t some guy they met a few minutes ago. 

They’re more confused than concerned about it, and the physical contact only made it harder to think on their feet at the same time.

“Uh. . . No?” They tilt their head, trying to understand what he was getting at and just finding nothing but malice in his features. In the way he scoffed at the words so openly and only pulled them in closer. He waves a hand around in the air, squeezing his digits nice and close with the squealing of taut leather.

“Surprised you made it this far growin’ up around them *beasts*.” The hate starts getting more overt the farther they get from town, the farther they are from prying eyes. The more it was just *them*. The human’s vileness gets sharper, like the serrations of a dagger. “I mean, you can’t tell me they haven’ tried to hurt you at least once.” He suggests it brazenly, tightening his grip on Kris and leading them deeper into the woodland, all they could see was forest now, even the lake felt too far away anymore. 

Kris fidgets in his hold, their apathetic frown twisting into frustration. If all felt so accusatory. They dug their hands into fists in their pockets to fight back some of the anger.

“J-Just once, it wasn’t that serious. She’s cool now. . . They aren’t-” They regretted giving him fuel, giving him something to work with when his face contorted into a validated smirk, that tuft of wheat poking them in the cheek with how close they were. The human just overpowers them and keeps going before they can give any defenses. 

“I told you! Human like you ain’t safe here. . . Pretty young girl like yourself is liable to get *hurt*.” He hints it so darkly in such a sharp tone you’d swear it’s foreshadowing. Twisting his neck enough to make red eyes flutter through his hair and his hat, each lavishing brightly underneath that muddy gray that dulled them. 

It does the opposite of calming them down: it just makes them go from frustrated to furious. Huffing out loudly and stiffening up straight, knocking his hand off their shoulder with a hard slap. Kris’ face scrunches up, and their own eyes glow brightly enough to flare right through their bangs.

“I’m not- stop saying that.” They firmly demand, as loud as they could get without it physically hurting, getting up near him to make sure he understood this. “They aren’t like that. They’re my friends. . .” They don’t care how much bigger he is, they’re not going to just stand there and let him shit talk people they care about like this. 

. . .The Human loses some of that casual demeanor then. He bites down so hard on the wheat chaff it snaps, fluttering to the forest leaves, the trees cascading shadows across his cold face. They were in a clearing now, no trees in this spot, just the ones surrounding them, a clear circle of dirt and rocks, the sun so distant above it felt like it was practically night.

He grips into his hat, pushing it right back down so only his deep frown was visible, huffing out of both nostrils with annoyance. The winds felt like they were howling now, and his crimson poncho was swaying with a loud flume. 

“Are you really defendin’ those curs? Fuckin’ hell you’re soft.” He stands up at his full height, and without that crook in his back just how tall he is becomes painfully apparent. He towered over them even more than some monsters did. He had a foul smell to his breath like decay, the yellow teeth sneering in revulsion. “I’m being real nice to you, I try to give you some fuckin’ *companionship* for the first time in your life with actual kin, and you get up in my face like you’re tough shit and spit it right back at me? You need to learn some fuckin’ manners.” He snaps at them like a whip crack, a bright yellow glow pulsing right through the longjohns and poncho like they were paper thin, and the entire world screeches to a halt. Everything felt like it was hued in that sickly, yellow tinge, the corners of their eyes bitten by its overwhelming glow. Kris is stumbling over themselves to get away from it, and to reach for what was tucked neatly into their back pocket. 

Before the enby could understand how badly they’ve fucked up, a red pocket knife is out and clenched between both shaking hands. The small, insignificant blade pointed right at the human defensively. . . 

The blade was shined to a good polish, the edge almost white, and they were familiar with how good it was on skin.

How easy it made them bleed, the scars on each arm beneath their wind ruffled sweater.

If it cut them well, it only made sense it’d cut him well. 

It felt like as good a plan as any given the goodwill he gave them had all run thin. 

“J-Just leave me alone. Okay?” They summoned as much force as they could, trying to steady the stubby, pointed blade carefully to make clear how serious they were. 

At first, the human just seems shocked, clearly not expecting them to just prod a knife at him. . . 

. . .It's not long before that stun just warps into an uncannily amused smile. The glint in the eye of a hunter whose prey landed right in the bear trap. And it's only now that Kris properly realizes just how alone they are out here. No one would hear anything out here. No one would be out here at this time of the day.

“Nice knife. . .” He flutters confident fingers under the ridge of his poncho, prodding in between the various leather straps hidden beneath. . . and with an elaborate *click* and a flick of his wrist, reveals the long revolver hidden right under the long folds of fabric. 

They’ve seen them before in video games, in movies and TV, but never in person before. Even the *cops* didn’t carry them in town, they’d never even seen their dad with one. . . But this one was very, very much real, and with a casual flick of a hammer, is aimed right dead center to where their SOUL would be.  

“Shouldn’ of pulled it on me, though.” Any and all of that amused southern charm is all gone in that instance, and all that's left is dead, cold apathy. A face not unlike one that Kris has pulled so many times in the past.  

Not a hint of emotion was left behind his expression. Not anger, or happiness, or sympathy, just that same corpse-like neutrality. . . 

Now it's their time to freeze up. They can see right down the barrel, and its pitch black. And they imagine the pitch black they’d see if he fired, and never seeing their friends and family again, and the last interaction they ever have being with this *human*. The thought of it all makes them more sick than dying was alone.

Kris locks in place, not risking running or trying to fight back now, survival alone was their priority now. 

Survival. That was the motivating force that goads them into dropping their precious little knife, what little security they had left, and be completely at his mercy. 

They tried to remember where it was for when this was over. That was their second biggest priority besides getting home alive.

The human waves the revolver around casually, just resting his gloved finger on the trigger and giving them plenty of angles of his shiny toy. It was bright silver, scuffed in many spots with wear like its owner, scratches and markings and. . . tally marks. The wood was cracked in some spots with cascading patterns like spider webs and shined with the same orange of his hat. 

He shows off his intentions by spinning the cylinder, trying to make it obvious it really was loaded. Six fresh bullets right inside and at the ready to end them. 

“. . .I’m going to drop the cowboy act now, if you don’t mind.” He coldly notes, that southern country accent melting away into a sterile voice not unlike Kris’ own, just raw words, as lacking in identity as his face. The golden glow of his heart is still thumping clearly through his chest, and it only seems to grow louder as he steps closer to the small teen. “You know, I believe I see the issue with you. I see the. . . fatal flaw with you.” The revolver’s long, slender barrel is pressed against their beating heart, right into them enough that you’d swear he was trying to push it inside their torso. Until the metal was digging through green sweater with a rough *scratch*. 

They don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Just the light trembles of nervousness that came with the act, that came with being scared even if they were trying so hard not to be. . . And then he taps the revolver in hard, and then brings it back, and taps it right against his own chest too. Digging it in just as deep, and not flinching anywhere as hard. Over his own SOUL. 

“You don’t understand what it means to be human. Socialized with these monsters. . . I think you need some *bonding* with your peers.” He’s acting so differently they can’t even expect the swing of the revolver. When the bright metal is hit into them like the blunt end of a club, right into their temple with agonizing bluntness.

It's such a hard hit, everything in between waking up on the ground and getting knocked down isn’t remembered. 

They feel the pain, and the sting of hard metal on soft skin and bone, and the cracking of their skull, and then nothing. The taste of autumn leaves in their open mouth, and the whistling of birds in the distance with nothing but brown leather boots to fill their gaze. 

One of those cartoonish cowboy boots presses against the bruise on their temple, where that bloody spot is twisting from bright purple into dark black, and he rubs it in hard, stars bouncing through their vision in glittery silver like splatters of glitter. He applies *just* an ounce too much pressure, and it all goes black again before everything comes rushing back with twice the pain. 

Kris groans in disorientation, the only thoughts they can find being ones left over from before they walked to school. Vague remembrances of a test today. They still needed to do that test. It’s going to be harder with a concussion. 

It falls back down low onto the priority list when they finally regain their senses. When they finally remember where they are as the familiar click of a hammer drags them kicking and screaming back to reality.

“Everything I say. When I say it. However I say it. And I won’t put 357 caliber through your skull. No more whining. Nod if you agree, little lady.” The misgendering almost felt intentionally sadistic now, if it ever wasn’t always to begin with. Not even letting them push back against it now that they’ve had their vocal chords metaphorically slit. It makes the tears come quicker than the pain alone. 

They swallow whatever pride they had left, think about hot chocolate and a night with Asriel at the diner, and reluctantly nod at gunpoint. . . 

. . .He doesn’t smile anymore. Or even do much of anything. They were past that point now, and all that was left was whatever he wanted. 

“Good. . . Follow it with your eyes. Your pretty red eyes.” He swings the revolver up and down to make them understand, it was appreciated given they could barely string sentences together mentally right now. It was a simple, fluid motion. Up. It gave the enby something to focus on while they pathetically tugged themselves up in tune to the revolver’s hypnotic swaying. It’s just as stunning as his humming was, but it felt more like a death rattle than a lullaby now. They felt so stupid for being this trusting. 

Eventually, they’re on their knees with a bloody skull and a bruised nose, staring up at the revolver with a miserable quiver, and a hushed breath. It would be midday now, but it felt as cold as midnight. He doesn’t speak just yet, he just makes them follow the gun around and around obediently. . . until its prodded right against their lips, and ceases anymore trembles in the process. 

“Hold still.” They were happy he didn’t expect any participation yet, but yet felt like the key word. The human just rubs the shiny, thin tip around and around, mashing it like bitter kisses from a lover, only making the metaphor feel more apt when it breaks the seal and forces itself inside their mouth.  

The revolver tastes like old quarters and fresh steel polish, burning with a chemical tang as it's pressed deeper in. It forces Kris’ tongue flat against the bottom of their mouth and stretched their jaw painfully wide to accommodate the girth. It feels like even an inch further would snap it off entirely, but he just keeps going anyway, not waiting to let them adjust even as they start gagging on bubbling drool pooling in the back of their throat like a festering pond. They try to crane their neck far enough forward to let some of the spit drip out, but they just find their teeth caught on the oversized metal sight, and can’t get more than a tiny drip to trickle down their twitching bottom lip. 

And the sensation only intensifies when the tip hits *right* against the back of their throat.  

“We could have just talked, girl. It could have been different. But you had to defend those animals instead.” He softly chasithes, phrased like a bittersweet promise but coming out more like Kris’ inner intrusive thoughts given form. Everything they wanted to ignore but would never be able to, those cruel lies being their only escape from the revolver barrel being crammed into their windpipe. 

A thick convulse comes when their body tries desperately to swallow the foreign intrusion, and all it accomplishes is dragging it deeper into them. A shot at this angle would blow apart their pathetic, overstressed vocal chords before they bled out all over the autumn leaves. 

Choking on their own blood, red splatters against orange leaves and gray rocks and brown dirt. . . They wondered if anyone would ever find them. 

They wondered if anyone would even care enough to look.

They- 

 The intrusive thoughts and the pure overstimulation combine, the smells, the sights, the ringing of a fresh concussion in their ears. 

It's all too much, and the revolver is finally pulled from their mouth when all of today’s breakfast ends on the floor in a puddle of chunks. Brownish chunks intermixed with undiluted stomach acid. They buckle over with a hand at their mouth to try and stop the flow, but all they accomplish is spitting up bile through the slits in their fingers, and straining their dirty hair with the foul smell. 

All those wet strands cling to the sides of their head and to the moistness still lingering on their face, their sweater stained with the same awful pungent sickness, everything reeked of them. . . 

A weak attempt at curling into a ball and crying was quickly prevented with a reminder of what could still happen: the revolver slapping another fresh bruise into the back of their vomit soaked hair. 

“I know being around *them* made you used to rolling around in your filth, but you’re not done yet. . .” It's an order but it comes with none of the anger or loudness associated with one. Just expectations. Expectations to listen. Or else. 

Brains. 357 Caliber. No home. Nothing. 

The second attempt at getting back up is twice as hard, and twice as wet. Slipping on the bile between their hands, and sloppily stumbling up until they’re at their full height on their knees once more. Pale skin a pungent, sickly green, and a face that was half-pathetic remorse and half-disgusted loathing. 

“S. . . Su. . .” They stumble out something slow and low, they can’t even say what. Subconscious frightened pleas. “. . .R. . .R. .ra. . .” Weak whimpers make way for equally weak sobs. Nothing comes out anymore, even if they wanted it to. 

It’s too hard to think straight. Vague, warm memories are the best they can summon, things they want to go back to so bad. Things they didn’t ever truly appreciate until right now.

“It's been almost an hour. . .” He calmly notes as he grips his free, gloved hand into Kris’ sweater, ripping through the delicate, carefully sewn fabric with none of the care that went into making it. Just tearing it with a single rough pull, exposing the tight black binder beneath and the bare flesh of their bony shoulder. . . “If no one came yet, no one ever will.” 

The tears at least clean away some of the bile, but the smell never leaves. All it can do is serve as a tragic reminder of how far they’d fallen into despair as the revolver’s tip finds its way into a soft spot between the bones on their shoulder, like it was perfectly made to be put there. A delicate bit of chub that let him push it in as much as he wanted and keep a firm grip still.

“You spit in the face of every human who died fighting those monsters with every breath you take. . . Maybe we should stop you from breathing for a moment to make up for that.” That sickly remark is paired with one hand remaining firmly around the revolver’s trigger. . . and the other being brought to fiddle with a zipper running down a slot on the center of the longjohns.  

His already hard cock breaks free from the thin fabric’s hold, and it's not like anything the enby’s seen.

So many idle hours browsing porn, they’ve seen plenty of monster cocks, but never a human one before. It’s just all wrinkled skin and puffy veins, with a slightly thicker tip and a mangy, curled mass of thick hair around its base. It’s rather plain, almost boringly so, not very large or very colorful like so many they’ve seen. Just a lighter shade of his skin tone with a different, darker shade at its leaking tip. . . 

They’ve never seen one in real life before to begin with, and they were robbed of any chance for their first time to be anything special and sweet. Instead, they found the revolver once pressed against their lips replaced now with the tip of the human’s cock, it felt just as much like a loaded gun still with the intentions. 

Kris flimsily grumbles, not even able to close their mouth anymore without an intense pain shooting through their whole aching jaw, forced to just let him slide the tip of his cock right between their vomit soaked lips. 

“I told you what my SOUL stood for.” 

The words flare out in between pumping his hips forward with a sturdy thrust, feeding inch after inch of sweaty, pre-soaked skin into their gullet, hitting right back into the same spot in the back of their throat that the revolver had. Earning himself another loud gag and a convulsed swallow, any and all resistance broken by the gun digging circular bruises into their pale skin. Just when one of the bruises gets a lovely shade of purple, he shifts it a few inches left or right to start a new bruise, and splotchy bundles of circles are soon spread all across their delicate flesh. 

“It's Justice.” 

His leather gloved grip wraps through their hair, twisting bile dyed locks of muddy brown like a makeshift handlebar to force them deeper onto his plain cock. He’s moaning with a deep purr, humming that same tune from earlier to himself like a little lullaby. . . It sounded disturbingly familiar for reasons the enby couldn’t explain, and was too sick and exhausted to care about. Just when he bottoms out in their throat, the loudest moan yet leaves his cracked lips, and he tugs his waist back and promptly slams right back in. 

“Justice comes from many sources. The barrel of a gun. The rule of law. . .”

He keeps going even as he roughly, sadistically skullfucks them beyond repair. It feels like the thin cracks in their skull and jaw are only deepening with every pulse that leaves their lips kissed against the pubes of his crotch. The taste of vomit intermixes with scraps of blood and the revolting saltiness of pre as he picks up his pace, faster and faster than they thought physically possible, their vision blurring in and out from the speed. The world was a miasma of skin, of hair, of sensory hell, and of absolute agony. 

“*This* is Justice. And you’re- you’re going to *learn* what Justice me-” 

As the human gets close to climax, his body hardens, and he convulses too sharply. And his long, bony fingers curl. 

*B A N G* 

A sound like summer fireworks rings out through the whole forest, all the distant birds in treetops scattering to sky with the rapid fluttering of leaves and crisp autumn. The already ringing sound in Kris’ ears intensifies into an outright deafening tremor, they can’t hear anything but that high pitched booming, the whole round turning bright white. 

At first, they don’t feel anything. They’re trapped in a pocket somewhere far away. But then comes the pain, and the realization that they’re lying on the forest floor, staring up at the cloudy sky above, flickering sun poking through holes in the smooth sheen. And when the pain does hits, it's worse than anything they’ve ever felt before. It made every injury and wound throughout their entire life, and up until this point in this hellish affair, feel like babycuts. It comes in waves like the flickering of the lake, surging from horrific agony into overwhelming hysteria, not even knowing what had happened and why they hurt so badly. 

All of it becomes rather clear though when they press a trembling palm against their bare shoulder to help themselves up, and find a gaping bullet wound where those deep bruises once were. It was oozing in a steady pour, more like a river, thicker than any small cut and perfectly circular, that tiny amount of force they exerted on it making the unending pain even worse.

They’re hyperventilating now, the fear of death properly knocked into them. All those suicidal ideations and moments of complete self-loathing feeling like distant memories at this terror.  They didn’t want to die. They didn’t- 

“Hah, sorry there, lil’ lady! Looks like my finger slipped.” A hint of that southern draw comes shooting back with even more intensity. But the human is barely visible behind all that fuzzy blackness overwhelming their eyesight, tilting his hat back and giving them a “comforting” flash of red eyes. They’re dragged back up and held on their limp knees by digits wrapped through their ruined hair once more, forced to stay up and let the continuous blood flow drain right down the fabric of their green sweater. . . “Huh, that's a real nasty gnash. . . Here, let me help yah out.” He puts an extra harsh emphasis on “help”, making it very clear what was about to happen next was far from it. 

If anything, he just seemed mad that his orgasm was ruined and was giving them one final lesson to remember this by. 

The enby stays in the pose he put them in, their whole body was locked up like a vice. Rigor mortis setting in, every joint felt like fire and trying to fall back to the bloody puddle felt near impossible. All they can do is mumble out more pleas to not die as his grimy, grubby fingers *dig* into the bullet wound, splitting it open and wider with one hand, and jerking his cock hard with the other. 

He’s looking for something inside of them, the squelching of their flesh being fingered and prodded had the same sickening consistency of digging into raw ground beef. They’re happy their stomach is empty, the pain would make them vomit again if they hadn’t already. Slipping two fingers in as far as he can force them, stretching them out inside the gaped hole and earning himself another thick spurt of blood.

They aren’t moving even an inch, but the sobs are flowing freely and only end when they had no more tears to give. All they had left was pathetic whimpering and grumbling grovels. 

“Don’t- don’t worry, this’ll hurt a whole lot less when I- There it is~.” He moans hard with a rumbling whistle when he grips at something inside the bullet wound. Worming his soaked tips around it and tightening, the edges of his knuckles practically pressed inside the injury.

Kris bites down so hard on their tongue they could chew it off. The pain surging into one final overwhelming climax that's paired excellently with his own, ripping a small, stubby chunk of metal right out of their exposed shoulder. 

 The tip of his cock is prodded against the disturbingly stretched wound. With a hard twitch of his painfully stiff shaft, a few spurts shoot out from its exposed tip. 

Each one lands right into that open wound, stinging in the process. White cum splattering into dark red, the oozing fluid pouring down into the river of blood and being washed away just as quickly as it landed. 

“I should just kill you for how much of an insult to humans you are.” He calmly ponders aloud, pushing his blood stained fingers into Kris’ open mouth, slipping the broken scrap of bullet into them. . . He clamps his hand over their lips to make sure they couldn’t spit it back out. The implication was obvious. 

The bullet tastes like their insides, like gore and viscera, chunky bits of themselves still clinging to it. . . 

Metaphorically, they bite the bullet. And they swallow it down like all their pride was minutes prior. It scratches and cuts going down, and it lingers in their acid burn throat like a pox. . . . More cuts inside them to add to the cuts on the outside. 

. . .But something seems to shift in the human’s features. Like some horrible thought crosses through him that he couldn’t let leave, an awful plan that seals Kris’ fate. Just as spontaneous in its appearance as their decision to go walking this way was. A split-second choice.

“. . .See, I was going to let you go. But I think. . .  we had a good talk. You’re a good kid. You’re salvageable.” Whatever he meant, it wasn’t clear, but what certainly was very clear is the way his face looked.  

He broke his apathetic cruelty at long last, and it twisted into an eerie, wide grin. It wasn’t like the rustic, trustworthy smirk of his cowboy persona, that one that resonated with friendliness. This expression was animus, like decades of resentment worn into every crease and fold and wrinkle that constructed that yellowed, full-mouth grin. It was everything cruel, and uncaring, and strenuous, and it was. . .

*Justice*. 

“. . .I don’t think you’re going home just yet, *Kris*.” 

As he winds the large revolver back like a club, that smile doesn't leave his face for even a moment. Kris can only watch with dread as it's swung down with all his might. 

Another sickening crack, another pulse against the enby’s temple, and then, blackness. 

And nothingness, without even a chance to scream. 

. . .

. . .

. . .

Kris feels pain as the first sense that returns to them. The intense aching still lingering in their shoulder, and it was worse somehow.

What was once thumping waves was now stuck as a single beating twinge, agony that never went away. Like someone had stabbed a dagger into their nerves, and gave it a deep *twist*. It's the strongest of the intense stimuli that assaults them when they wake up, the second being the lingering smell of vomit and blood that clung to every inch of them like a miasma. Their hair was dry now, and it was all clumped up in crisp clots that stuck to their sweaty, abused skin. 

Sight came next, but it did little. All they can see is a vast, endless gray with red splotches staining the coarse, textured surface. . . The red marks looked fresh, but the crusted dust caking it looked far older, and far more dug in. 

Concrete. A concrete floor. A cracked, bloodstained concrete floor. A dirty, dust soaked concrete floor. And they desperately hope it's just normal dust, that its not- 

Still empty stomach, still no more vomit to give. The potential that it was *dust* dust made them feel sicker than the scraplets of their own blood somehow. They’ve seen their own blood plenty with their habits, but they’ve never seen a monster’s dust before. 

Their first impulse is getting out of it as quickly as possible, but it's easier said than done when effort to put any weight on their arm ends up driving pins and needles into their injured shoulder. Barely an ounce of an ounce of pressure is put into their hand in its pathetic attempt at pulling themselves up, and it fails just as quickly, and they’re back in the dust once more. . .  

*GET UP 

The enby can feel their SOUL pounding harder than it ever has, trying so hard to make up for all the blood they’ve lost. A fight it lost hours ago now but was making up for anyways. At least it’s still here, at least even that thing that possessed them hadn’t abandoned them wherever they were now. 

“Just. . . g-get up. . .” They groan out in a hush, trying their hardest to follow that simple, self-command. Their remaining good hand is brought over to push off the ground, rolling themselves across the rough concrete. Trying their hardest to flip onto their back and burning their sensitive, bloodshot eyes on the bright bulb in the ceiling above. 

It feels like it does nothing to wake them up when all of this feels like a nightmare. A fire burns through them, and a few tentative fingers are brought to touch at that festering bullet wound, at its gaping hole and crusted mass. It’s still painfully open, and disturbingly wide. Oozing with blood even now, and the signs of rot already setting in with the greenish-yellow pus they find on the tips of their trembling fingers afterwards. 

How long has it. . .? 

One hand is all they need, all they need to drag themselves onto their side, and begin to crawl. Crawling with one arm hanging limply, knees buckling over to try and find any leverage on the sandpaper-y concrete. The enby had no clue where they were going, or why. They just needed to get *out*. Needed to go anywhere.  Anywhere other than this blinding bulb and this horrible concrete floor. 

“Need t-to. . . get home. . .” They’re too disoriented to plan more than a second or two at a time. Every movement as it happens, not examining their surroundings beyond the floor in front of their dull red eyes. . . 

 
Getting home, that was all that mattered. 

Their homely, comforting bed with its familiar sheets and padded pillow. If they clenched their eyes shut hard enough, and imagined it so vividly, they could almost feel it already. . . So much warmth, even though everything in this basement was so, so cold. 

That heat covers them like a blanket, like their own blanket. Like the blanket in Asriel’s bed when they’d crawl into it when they were younger, like when the two used to sleep together when they were near inseparable, like when all that white fluff would press into their sensitive skin, like wh-

 . . . 

Kris passed out again. Simply awake one second, then gone the next. Too much bloodloss. Their arm with its dirty, ripped sweater is still clinging into the concrete where they had been crawling. They were drooling, and that deathly, powdery taste of dust lingered on their open mouth. 

Someone’s dust.  

Crawling intensifies into frantic stumbles, on all fours, not even caring how badly it hurt their shoulder until the pain was too much to handle.  The handle digs in deeper with every touch, and yet, the futility of it all becomes awfully apparent when something grabs their ankle mid-drag. 

“Hey there, Lil’ Lady! I think that's plenty outta yah. Gonna tire yourself out now~!” That stupid, stupid voice is back now. That one they’d hope they’d never hear again, that one that they once found so trustworthy and now only reminded them of their own stupidity. A southern drawl that somehow only felt thicker, mockingly accenting every word behind a heaping of incomprehensible. The human snatches right past their pant leg, digging into the bones of their ankle with a clawing grip, ripping them back and flipping them over with one fluid pull.

Once more back facing the ceiling, facing steel pipes and metal foundation, vision flickering from the white dots burnt into their eyes. It felt impossible to not stare at the man out of sheer necessity with him making them press all their weight on their spine and neck from this angle, their expression betraying part anger and part fear. 

“Was real worried yah wouldn’ be wakin’ up! . . That’d be a real shame. I got a lot to show yah. . . Lots to. . . You’re still in the woods, so don’t try callin’ for help. No ones gonna hear yah.” He snickers ominously, offering a gloved hand out to them mockingly. Swaying his fingers softly to make it more “appealing” somehow.

The enby doesn’t take it, just giving him a clenched teeth growl. They don’t want to take anything he has anymore, just using what little remains of their energy to weakly kick their legs like a child and squirm in his hold. . . 

Any patience for Kris’ bullshit was clearly lost earlier, and he doesn’t put up with their kicking for long before dropping their leg from his hold. Soon replacing his grubby hand with the leather, studded sole of his boot. 

He slams down on their ankle as hard as possible, pinning that bony spot against the solid concrete with an overbearing *snap*. Quickly splintering the tender joint like a baby bird’s neck. Kris doesn’t squeal anywhere as loud as they’d have expected to. The constant pain already had their senses numbed of anything but what was left in their shoulder. All they can work up now is a weepy, teary eyed yelp. . . 

“You really gotta watch yourself a lil’! I told you, you’re likely to *get hurt* if yah don’t.”  The cowboy boot remains towering over their broken ankle, grinding it in deeper to emphasize the point. It felt like they could feel chunks of splintered bone scratching around inside, and it was like insect bites under their skin.   

That fighting force they were trying their hardest to manifest felt like it was fleeing just as quickly as it had appeared. It felt like that little moment where they had their knife was the only time they’d have gotten to stand up for themselves, and they’ve just been a lamb to the slaughter ever since. 

They lost their pride a long while ago now, begging didn’t feel like it would hurt them anymore than they’ve been hurt already. The best puppy eyes they could summon, and the most sincere quivering lip possible.  

“J-Just. . . let me go, and I w-won’t tell anyone. . .” It wasn’t a lie, even with how fake their tone sounded. Even with how stuttery and unconfident it all is. If they got out of this they never wanted to think about this ever again. They just wanted to curl up on their bed and cry and try to forget what the taste of a revolver was like. . .  

Well, it flickers between that and vivid intrusive thoughts of cramming their pocket knife in his eye.

It didn’t seem like the enby would be so lucky in either camp. And that fact is painfully apparent when the man in front of them paces around the room, giving them a better look at their surroundings at long last: A barren basement, no windows on any of the cracked, stacked stone walls, simply barren dirt and thin fiberglass. There were rusted pipes running through the walls and ceiling like snaking spider webs, a rickety wooden staircase to the right leading up to the rest of wherever-they-were. 

What the human seemed interested in though was a bulky, large metal box against the wall with a bunch of industrial tubes sputtering out of it. . . The soft sound of flickering flames is audible within, a crisp noise that isn’t strong enough to overpower Kris’ heavy breathing and the man’s delighted humming. It quickly becomes apparent the box is a furnace when they see the fire dancing inside. 

“Now, I know you grew up aroun’ them beasts, but I hope yah know how wounds work! Especially that there bullet hole.” He explains in a casual way, like he was back to educating them about how humans work. . . Like he even felt like the same thing as Kris anymore. He felt more like a demon to them than a person, much less the “same” being. “To be frank: you’re dyin’. I give it, say, a few days maybe before the infection gets right up in your bloodstream and offs yah. That's if the bloodloss doesn’t kill yah first!” It was all things they could have figured out themselves, but hearing it said like an active timeline only made it more clear how badly they were doing. Just how much pus was running down that shoulder wound, and just how weak they felt with that lingering concussion haunting their mind.  

More pleading. More red cheeked embarrassment as they crawl and snatch at the human’s dirty longjohns. Snatching desperately at one of the leather straps and fighting back frustrated, liquid metal tears.  

“J-just t-take me to a hospital. . .” They weren’t in any position to be demanding, but with every second being the difference between dying in this shitty basement and surviving they couldn’t help it. Aching, awful stinging intensified in their shot throat, they weren’t in a position to feel comfortable talking and they had no choice but to anyway.  No more words and no more input left. . . And that feeling of muted helplessness only crackled into a sputtering inferno when he pulled the cast iron door of the furnace open, and revealed a giant metal prod within. 

It was a fireplace poker: the ornate, curved tip with one straight edge and a hooked prong glowed distressfully orange. Flickering, crisp spots of darkish red crackling between the brighter hues, the handle that was crammed between the edge of the door and the interior fire was the only cold metal left to be found. Cool enough to be held between the human’s leatherbound grip, swaying the overheated metal in the bitter air of the basement and watching fresh steam sizzle off its blistering frame. . . 

“Hospital? Hehe, as if those fuckin’ monsters could treat yah. . . Don’t worry, lil’ lady. I’m gonna deal with it. You know what cau-ter-ize  means?” He’s shuddering in excitement, in anticipation, his eyes glowing searing red from behind that ten gallon hat still low on his head. Not hiding how much he enjoyed this, grinding leather strapped thighs together to soothe some of that waiting tension. .  . It feels like his pupils are pulsing in tune to Kris’ heartbeat. At their absolute terror at recognizing what was about to happen as they unravel themselves from his leg and find themselves scuffling against the concrete away from him. Getting nowhere anytime soon with only one arm to use, and with their filthy sneakers sliding all around on the caked dust. 

He’s taking his sweet time in approaching them, in letting the fear build. In letting them wallow in their miseries as that glaringly hot poker is slowly, inch by inch, brought closer to the bruised, mangled bullet hole. Closer to their exposed skin, to that spot between their ruined sweater and black binder. That festering, infected wound, with their stuttering, weak arm attached to it by torn nerves and shattered tendons. 

“Wait j-just take me to-” Nothing will get them out of this, nothing is left to argue and nothing will suffice. Once more their dark, filthy hair is grabbed at like the handlebar it was, like all it was good for was holding them down, twisting that injured shoulder up towards the waiting heated prod. 

The enby could feel it even before it made contact, the heat was too intense and growing with every inch. An image of a stuck pig over a cooking fire came to mind, in the way he spun it around to find the *perfect* angle, the perfect spot to press down. . . 

A comforting, motivating smile forces its way onto the older human’s wrinkled face, and every muscle in his gangly arm tenses all at once, and the firepoker goes stiff. No more sways, pure focus at last.

“Feel *real* free to scream your SOUL out. . . It’ll make it hurt less.” A final pant and a sneering laugh is all the warning Kris gets before the hot metal poker is finally jabbed right against the bleeding bullet hole. 

Screaming is all they can do, even if he didn’t tell them to. A part of them they thought they were too exhausted to channel was found, their vocal chords springing to life to fuel one last intense, earth shattering howl. Louder than any noise they’ve ever made ever, and yet the scream wasn’t anywhere as loud as the sizzling of their flesh being burned and fused shut from the firepoker’s intense embrace. 

It never ends. Their vision vanishes into pure white from the shock, everything locking up, feeling already dead from how little their body wanted to move. They couldn’t even pull any breaths in, they were trapped in their own pain. All they could do is scream, scream into the white void, just wishing they could rip that SOUL out of their chest and break it and have all this be over. Wishing anything other than this. Anything. 

Muffled words can be heard somewhere in the neverending screaming and neverending sizzling, but they were too lost to the sensory hell to matter.

They were never going to get to do that test, were they? 

That thought came to them in the agony, and it was so stupid a concern it almost brought some comfort. 

At least they didn’t have to do that test. . . 

All the heat from the red hot poker dissipates into them, into their sweat-soaked skin, into everything fleshy and physical beneath it all. . . 

Until all that was left to give was lukewarm contact, black carbon steel, and soldered flesh. 

“Thereee we go, lil lady. You’re lookin’ right as a whistle!” He gives them a playful hum, throwing the fire poker against the concrete with an uncaring *clang*, forcibly hitching them up by the scruff of their tight binder to get a better look at his own handiwork. Rough fingers prod the seared black spot, the thick layer of reddish scar tissue formed right over where the hole had once been. Scraplets of blood linger on in reddish globs forming a crusty ring around the cauterized wound, little reminders of the purple bruising buried beneath seared meat and sickly red. “. . .Well, you look like shit to be honest. But a lil’ rough and tumble never hurt nobody! Right, Red?” He gleefully exclaims, clearly enjoying this way too much. Enjoying the way their miserable eyes couldn’t focus enough to look him in the eyes, in the way they just laid there in a puddle of their own discomfort. . . The air smelled like their own burnt flesh. Disturbingly similar to fried meat, like crispy bacon on a hot skillet. 

Kris couldn’t force out more pleas. They were barely vocal on good days, and this was far, far, far from a good day. At this rate, all that was left was grumbled mutters and a desperate headshake. . . Things that the human had no resolve to give any shit about. 

“Red. . . That's got a good ring to it, dontcha think?” His calloused fingers lingered from the enby’s shoulder down to over their binder, to where the SOUL is hidden beneath layers of fabric and skin. . . Where it seemed just as scared as Kris themselves was. They’re surprised it hasn’t taken control yet, given it easily could. 

Maybe it didn’t want to be the one to feel all this.

The human fingers that spot twice at a time, tap tap, tap tap, tap tap. . . It almost felt calming, if they could even feel calm right now. With his red eyes beaming at them with cruel intentions, and his dusty poncho pressed hard against their heaving chest. 

“I don’ think I gave yah a name myself though, Red. . . Well, heh.” 

They’re dropped back down with the same softness he gave that filthy firepoker. Stars bounced in their vision once more, at least having enough motor skills left in their freshly “fixed” arm to tug their knees close and hug themselves tightly. . . And they’re still stuck in that defensive, paralyzed pose when the human slaps his cowboy boots together, wraps two fingers around the wide brim over his dark eyes, and gives them a mocking bow and a tilt of his hat. . . 

“Yellow. . . I have no name that means anything to anyone anymore, so you can call me that.” The accent drops, and so does Kris’ SOUL into their stomach when that cold, violent apathy returns. 

Maybe “Yellow” wanted to drop that cowboy act for his actual manifesto. The reason why the enby was here. They were owed that much, if nothing else. From one human to another. From one SOUL to the next. 

“I think you deserve some context. To put everything into perspective: I don’t plan on keeping you here forever. Or for very long, for that matter.” He flickers his fingers across the revolver clearly visible within the folds of his poncho, that constant reminder of a death that could come if he truly wanted them dead. “I’m a wanderer by heart, and I have no resolve babying some halfbred forever. . . So do remember that everything I’m doing here is for your benefit.” 

The antique revolver’s cylinder is lightly rattled, the spinning noise feeling like the prize wheel on a game that Kris couldn’t win. No matter where it landed it would end only in more misery. 

“If you make yourself open to it, the velvet gloves will stay on. . .” He’s slowly glancing his hand further back until it snags on something strapped to his back, and unravels a long, heavy strand of browned rope. Yellow snakes it between his arms, constricting his skin between the uncaring strands, and giving them one harsh *snap* like a thunder crash. “But the iron gauntlet is seldom ignored, and will return if prompted. Allow me to demonstrate.” He doesn’t give Kris any hint in his words, he sounded too uncaring to find anything but mechanical action to it all. Like it was just a preamble to his next ACT, something to break the silence before he snatches at them from their sniveling ball on the concrete.

They can only grumble and whine as the ropes interlock around their stiff wrists and tender ankles, forcing them face down into the ground, their little short nose pressing into uncaring stone while he ties them together. Each of their limbs is carefully slipped together until they can feel their own soles and all the dusty, dirty stains lining them. A few old, autumn leaves were still stuck to some spots. With no more words, came no more pushback beyond shakes and glares. 

“I don’t go into this expecting I can make you hate monsters as much as I do. . .” He somberly hints at what's to come, testing every fresh knot with a rough tug like they were just cattle to the slaughter. Their fingers already going numb and their skin covered in reddish ropeburn. “. . .But Determination be damned if I won’t try my hardest.” He growls out as he gives the revolting bundle they’ve been twisted into one final *pull* with intense might, practically snapping their limbs off and tying the hogtie off with a neat bow. 

Yellow can practically carry them in this pose. They’re just a contorted, folded little package of teenage hormones and inflamed emotions, their messy hair covering their whole face with no way of fixing the damage. 

“. . .I suggest getting some sleep, Red. We have a lot of work together tomorrow.” It's more an order than a suggestion, but Kris has little choice in the matter. Its not long before they’re once again buried into that dusty grave with no way of mitigating the disgust. 

And he’s gone just as quickly as he appeared. Rickety wood creaking filling the basement as his heavy footsteps trot up the stairs, and then they’re truly, utterly alone. 

The too-bright bulb finally snaps off, and they soon miss its presence when they’re left in pitch black with nothing but their own thoughts and the painful discomfort as their sole company. 

A small sound lingers on their dry tongue. Something that might have been a name if they could work up the energy to speak anymore. An utterance that fades off before it could even sprout leaves. 

“S-S. . . .” 

It would have been of no use anyways. She can’t help them now. No one could. 

It's just them and the ashes of the dead for now. And the thought alone is what goads them into once again losing consciousness, and embracing the void once more.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Chapter Text

 Kris nuzzles into Asriel’s touch, into those padded beans lining the undersides of his oversized paws. Nesting their whole being into his larger, fluffy body. 

“Mmmfy. . .” The tiny enby mumbles into him, biting at the little tufts of fur prodding between pursed lips. Relishing in feeling the warm, deep purr bellowing out of him in response. In the way he strokes little circles into their dark hair, with his blunt claws tugging out knots in the locks, their name fresh on his toothy fangs. . .  

“I’m here, don’t worry. . .” Asriel declares with a full chest and a loving heart, the lights were low in their room, their shared little room they’ve been in together their entire life. On Asriel’s bed with its familiar sheets and its familiar scent of him, only he gave off such the same strong smell, of sweat and cologne and pet shampoo. . . 

Those delicate paws pet their hair so carefully, like they were made of sugarglass and were just primed to break. Just always ready to shatter into chunks of red SOUL, their heart subdued and cool in their flaring, protruding chest. 

Asriel was the only one who they’d let see without their binder on. They used to bathe together when they were younger, it was only natural. And it just let him press soothing circles better into them, to let them curl into his wide thighs and massive lap and bury down into fluff and size XXL collared shirt and slacks. 

Their little red eyes flicker shut, focusing on the sensation of being pet and patted and prodded, at the way he knew all the right spots on their scalp and hair to make them melt further. In the way he kept doing it even after they began drifting off into the deep dark. . . 

“Kris. . . You should wake up now.” 

. . . 

A feeling like vertigo lurches through their stomach and spreads intense fear through their SOUL when they realize it’s all just a dumb dream. It's not even just that, given how even then they were certain it wasn’t real. 

It was still feeling the sensation of their matted hair being pet that scared them. 

They were still being touched, and it wasn’t stopping even as reality forces itself on them at last, and rips them from that delusional slumber. 

Everything sucked still, unfortunately. And they were still here: still in this shitty concrete basement in this shitty dusty corner. With their shitty broken limbs contorted like a fleshy pretzel, in this shitty tight hogtie, in their shitty ruined sweater and their shitty mangled body. 

And who was touching them now in the real world was easy to guess now, it could only be *him*. Asriel nowhere to be found in this awful, awful place. As much as they’d love to hope and pray they got rescued while sleeping and were going home soon. But the roughness and unskilled strokes made that hard to believe even as a fantasy, the way the hand touched their hair with no finesse or knowledge of what they liked. Putting knots into their already knotted tumbleweed of acid reeked hair. 

“Wakey wakey, lil’ lady. . .” He whispers in a disturbingly caring tone, the words coming out like a muffled grunt since it ounded like something was pressed between his snipping teeth.  What that “something” is comes out rather strongly when the bitter, intoxicating aroma of tobacco pooled at the ceiling of the basement like a foggy sauna. The lingering white cloud only made sucking breaths in through the hogtie’s embrace harder, and it felt near impossible with those hands fondling them so familiarly. 

Kris clenches their eyes shut extra hard, trying to unslack into the most comfortable pose they can. Fighting back against the shaking to make the halfhearted attempt more realistic. 

Maybe if they just pretend to be asleep, he’ll stop. And he’ll leave. And he’ll just let them drift back into their dreams. Shifting away once more. Trying to ignore the cold truth. . . But it felt undoable with the way he was petting them, with how it was turning harder, with little rubs contouring into hard scratches and delicate strokes twisting into harsh tugs.  

“Com’ on now, it's time for school~.” He coughs back on a thick grumble, his free hand gripping into the overly tight ropes around their back and flipping them over like a beached whale. Only able to squeal and squirm in this position, their aching fingers crushed beneath their limp frame and their face still squeezed in fake-sleep. 

It was the best they could do, it was the only thing they could do. Like a little kid who didn’t want to get their shots. But it was all null, and Yellow clearly had plans, and ones that didn’t have room for their bullshit. 

The enby can’t see him, but they can hear him moving. Pushing a few locks out of their face, and rubbing the tip of his finger down their open bottom lip. 

“Aww, my lil’ knots that comfy, Red? Well then, lemme help yah wake up real quick.” He mischievously sneers, forcing their drooling jaw open another inch or so, and replacing his hold with something far less fleshy. Something with a rough, paper-y texture that practically crumpled in their wet mouth. A hard, deep press into the center of their gut forces them to inhale around whatever it was.  

Their lungs are full of *something* in a millisecond, a deep smoke constricting away all the air within those small sacks. Forcing them to swallow it all down into their stomach compulsively. 

No more faking sleep then: their red eyes shoot open to quickly spot the cigar crammed in front of their curled nose. They try to cough up the sour, chemical-y smoke but weren’t able to before the cigar is shoved back between yellowed teeth, and a gloved hand clenched firmly over their dry lips.

“Stop squirmin’, you’ll suck more down and burn your insides real bad.” He knowingly suggests, forcing them to respond with a reluctant nod as the feeling of breathlessness intensifies into outright constriction. There was no air left, it was all just nicotine and smoke, just aching and wheezing as the man counts down *very* slow. 

Three. 

Two. 

One. 

He finally frees them, and they’re a gagging, lightheaded mess as the whole inhaled mass is coughed out. Kris’ lidded red eyes go cross, their nose sniffling to try and pull in much needed air, lapping at the musty air like a dog in heat. Desperate panting to try and soothe the burning, Yellow just glaring down with mocking laughter as he takes a few painless puffs of the cigar himself. Real casual-like, no pain to it at all, like he’s done it dozens of times. The homemade, rolled cigar’s tip glowing just bright orange like the poker that burned them so deeply hours ago. It was slowly warping into used ash with every inhale, and he reveled in blowing smoke into their face just to see them gag more. 

“Now, as much as I *love* those lil’ sad sounds of yahs. . . “ He unclasps something from his waist with a click. Holding out a small, metal canteen in his leather grasp, sloshing it back and forth to make it clear it was filled right to the brim. The sheer presence of water made Kris’ inflamed throat salivate, and they were staring at it like their personal salvation. 

The reminder of that phrase came to mind.

“Velvet Glove”. 

It was all they could think about as he wafts the tip of the canteen under their flared nostrils. Very well knowing they couldn’t take it with their locked hands and tied ankles still hogtied. 

“Imma undo them ropes of yours’ and yah gonna behave yourself like a right schoolgirl. Don’ bite the hand that feeds, yea’?” He expects a response from them, and the most they can get out in their tense, hoarse throat was another whimpered nod. And the offer of that lovely, lovely cool water on their blistering insides was an inspiration in itself, and they responded practically instantly. 

A familiar mindset of survival came to them, like when they were being held at gunpoint. Surviving, and “behaving”. But it was increasingly hard to keep still and behave when he ripped a giant knife from a rawhide holster. The same ominous glow of a sacrificial dagger: an ornate wooden handle in shades of lavish hickory, and a thick, serrated blade that curved inward, a tool made for hunting animals. . . With him though, what he considered animals made the weapon’s intentions even more sickening.   

Small, messy text was carved into the hunting knife’s shiny, polished blade with the care expected of a sadist: “DAKOTA”. Sick, crusted stains of dust were caked on its sharp edge, and he plants a single, affectionate kiss against the brim, right over where that name was cut in. Or at least, the best kiss he could give without taking his cigar out. The knife looked as long as their forearm and was half as girthy.  

It made Kris’ own pocket knife look like a meager toy. The enby had a similar sized knife stored somewhere back at home, a gift from their dad during the failing years of their parent’s relationship, and wished more than nothing that it was here right now.

They’d slash his throat clean through if they had the chance. Watch all that smoke in his lungs bellow out through the gnash, and listen to him gag on his own bubbling blood. But that chance wouldn’t be coming anytime soon, and all it was doing now was gathering dust in their nightstand. 

When they were back on their stomach again, they were gathering dust too. Yellow works a boot into their neck to work the hogtie the knife’s slick, sturdy blade worming its way under the layers of grueling rope and finding a good spot to saw right through. Unsurprisingly, it was just as sharp as it looked. All he needed was a quick flick of his wrist like a duel at high noon and the whole bundle came undone in one fell swoop.  

Even when they’re “free”, it still feels like the ropes are there physically, every joint was deadlocked and they stayed clinging to their shoes until they literally couldn’t anymore. Going slack at last and splaying out wide in a spread eagle, every part of them cracking and snapping, especially on their measly broken ankle. 

The whole foot beneath it felt dead. They could move it still, barely, but it lacked any senses, like every nerve ending was cut at the seam. Broken bones grinding against muscle and nerve and serving as a constant reminder like an iron shackle of how trapped they were. 

No chance to run. No clue if they could even *walk* like this right now. But escape was extremely low on their priorities when the metal canteen landed between their wobbling legs with a cowbell ding, and they scrambled after it like a starved dog. 

Uncapped and clutched like a holy object, spilling water all over their own face in the process of desperately clenching their lips around the spigot and downing as much of the sweet liquid as possible, gagging from the way it stung their burnt throat. Waterboarding themselves in desperation. 

The feeling is too wonderful for them to even care that Yellow is snickering at them. Just about short of pointing and laughing with how much glee he’s clearly finding in them sapping at the remaining little drops of water and licking them up like a cat on a sink tap.

Even then, the feeling of drowsiness in Kris’ head never left, and the flaming in their lungs still felt lingering.They tried to lap at the metal for any moisture left and found nothing but raw steel and their own drool.

“Feelin’ better, lil’ lady?” He asks with a tilt of his bushy eyebrow, a small, jutting scar intersects through the middle of the overgrown hair and runs parallel to two more scars of the same size on his temple and crown. From up close, and through the harsh light of the bulb, more scars were visible, all of them looking just as animal-like as that one. . . 

Kris doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a proper answer. They just grumble out a vaguely positive confirmation, not trusting themselves to be vocal right now still . . . 

And he didn’t like that very much. 

His right eye twitches, and his large smirk slopes into a frustrated frown. The hunting knife was still in his grasp, and he’s slouched down on his jagged knees to force the curved tip against their little bony chin. Forcing them to look straight up into his waiting expression, to let them simmer like a pot that was ready to boil over.

“. . .Look, I know you got this quiet kid act goin’, but I’m not gonna coddle you like those animals did.” He’s setting down the rule of law, his rule of law, his *justice*, and all the violence and cruelty it entailed. “I don’t care how bad it hurts, I don’t care if it makes you uncomfy and hurts yah lil’ fee-fees. when I yap, you yap. You’re gonna act like a respectable fuckin’ human for the first time in yah miserable life and use your fuckin’ words. So then! Whaddya say, *Red*?” He got sincerely offended, the way his words were edged with such anger. An anger they’ve yet to hear like this. 

He thinks he’s helping, which only makes it feel worse.

It hurts more than the physical pain does somehow. Everyone back in Home Town was always so accommodating of their issues with talking. With how they just couldn’t do it sometimes, with how their brain worked and how they struggled to communicate like other people did. And he just took all those efforts and comforts and crumpled them into useless swatches, and they were back at square one. 

Kris’ vocal chords ache, and it feels like they’re trying to force a square peg into a round hole to make the speech come out. To *speak*. The knife still against their chin, and his eyes staring two more into their SOUL, they had no choice but to listen and be verbal. 

“O. . ki. . .” It's a slurred jumble, but it's “words”. It's comprehensible. It's understandable. Its. . . being normal. Normal enough for Yellow to calm down, to bare a line of yellowed teeth and flash them an encouraging smile.

“There we go, we’ll make a real person outta you yet! And whaddya say for me givin’ yah my canteen?” He’s screwing the metal object back to his waist as he gives them that warm praise, praise that just felt mocking with how pathetic their attempt at speaking came off. . . But in all this, a part of them almost found some comfort in it. Whatever put a wall between them and the pain was good enough for now.

The blush was the more worrying part. 

“. . .sank y-uoo.” It felt like their entire body was rebelling against them, it was only a couple syllables, a couple tiny utterances, and it still was so hard. Faded images of being a dumb stuttering child still not talking even when all their peers were flashed to memory. 

Back at square one.

And yet, Yellow was treating this like it was a victory somehow, a victory for both of them in the way his already-beaming smile grew into something sincerely charmed. Snapping the cigar from his lips and putting it out right on his own arm with a light tap. A sizzled black mark appearing on his longjohns that doesn’t break his stride for even a second. He doesn’t even flinch. 

“. . .One hand gives, the other takes. . . I think you deserve a lil’ give right now.” An offered leather palm pairs perfectly with his golden boy western hero grin. All he was missing was the orange-red sunset behind him and a damsel in his arms. 

Humanity’s bright son, with his yellow heart, and yellowed smile. 

Kris didn’t have a choice but to play along. . .  But they weren’t going to act excited about it, or give him an inch. They don’t take his outstretched hand, but give an agreeing nod nonetheless. Which seemed plenty enough for the cowboy, his poncho swaying with a heavy shouldered shrug. 

Yellow scoops them up with a high-pitched squeal, squeezing them in his fingerless gloves and holding them close to his heaving chest like a bride. They were so short, and so, so small they fit into him like a ball, leaning their filthy haired head against his stocky shoulder for support to fight passing out again. . . 

He smelled like gunpowder, of body sweat, of the aroma of death and the worn weathering of age. It lingered so strongly on him that it stuck in them so vividly, it clouded their senses just as strongly as the lingering smoke in the air was. Like the lingering tobacco in their lungs was.  

They were too lightheaded to even fidget, or squirm. That pain in their shoulder was still agonizingly fresh, it didn’t hurt anywhere as much as the bullet wound itself but it still was searingly constant. And it only kept biting at them with every swaying move, with every heavy footstep up the rickety wooden steps. . . 

The enby expected some horrible, revolting place when the door to that basement swung open, but it was far from it. It only drove the cognitive dissonance into overdrive when the horrors of that awful, awful concrete cellar are compared to their new surroundings: a fresh, lovely, well maintained cabin. 

It wasn’t impressive, far from it even. A decent sized living room with a few old sofas and lingering furniture, a fine, reddish brown wooden floor lining the entirety of the space. The closeness of nature prodding its way through slits in the vintage floral curtains, trees pressing against the old, splotched glass. A few doors led off into a couple other rooms, but there couldn’t have been more than three or four, and small ones at that. . . 

A cabin, like the type Kris saw whenever their family went camping when they were super young. The wafting smell of woodland flora fresh in the clear, crisp air, even with that musty aroma of old clothes over it all. 

It was uncannily vibrant: the sun bright in the sky outside, a perfectly lovely day with perfectly lovely autumn trees. It was so warm up here, it felt like fire on their frozen skin. None of it felt real, like this was just another fake dream before they’d end up waking up back on that miserable concrete floor again. . . 

But it was very, very real. And Yellow was making this fact known with a fresh hum, that little, adoring tune that he loved so much. 

Maybe it’s a tune meant for children. Human ones. 

They didn’t feel very human, since it didn’t comfort them even one bit. 

“Real nice place, yea? I’ll let you walk around freely soon enough. . .” He’s explaining it so warmly, it almost felt like he wasn’t talking about a kidnapping. . . Though, the tinges of vile intent return with the next scraplet of food, that next little fun fact. “. . .We’re forty minutes from the nearest trail. Then? . . . Well, anotha thirty to civilization. . . Though, you’d gotta double that with that busted ass ankle o’ yours. Oh, and that's if yah walk the right way. Otherwise you’d just end up in the wilds.  . . and nothin’ for hours out there. So stay real close.” 

The implication was as loud as the humming in Kris’ ears. Trapped in a little bubble in the middle of nowhere, no way out but at his will, and his whim. 

Whenever he felt like letting them go. 

. . .

. . .

. . .

The bathroom was narrow, and compact. A shower with no rim, stained white porcelain, barely larger than a prison cell, a wide squared-glass window high on the wall and a patterned curtain pulled back to bare it all. Heavy cowboy boots tipped and tapped against the paneled floor and left muddy footprints in his wake as the human dropped them right into the center of the shower, into the still-wet unpadded porcelain.  

Kris already didn’t like where this was going. Especially with the way he was eyeing them, mentally cutting them open and baring everything hidden within like a slab of meat.

Yellow is grinding his thighs together again, probing at the leather straps to tug them away from the visible bulge, resting his hat and poncho on a mounted towel rack and stripping away some of his outer clothes. The man swipes his ratty hair back and rattles at the now-exposed revolver, letting them get a good look at its ready hammer and loaded cylinder. 

“So to put it real plain: you smelt like a barnyard even before you vomited all over yourself. Don’t realize just how badly those fuckin’ monsters reek since you grew up around ‘em, can get a good whiff of it all over yah.” He bitterly notes, hate drenching every remark. The threat of another bullet wound right in their stomach keeping them subdued beyond winces and uncomfortable twitches as he finally rips the rest of that torn sweater off them. Their familiar sweater with its homely texture and soft wool, splintered into messy strands that are cast into a waiting trash can like they meant nothing. Like their mom didn’t spend hours making that sweater for them.

Kris was just left clutching themselves protectively, wrapped around the black binder like it wasn’t enough to hide his probing gaze towards their flattened chest. Putting aside the embarrassment was worth the pain that came with contact with the still-glaring shoulder burn. That bloodied mark only seeming more crusted and scabbed after however long they’d been out for.  

Slacks came next, practically ripping them off the shower floor, lifting them vertically to strip them down to their barest parts. By the end, all that was left was striped red boxers hitched high on fatty thighs. 

He’s examining them more and more brazenly with each new inch of revealed skin. Every spot of bone, of supple babyfat, seeming to linger particularly long on those rows of scars on their exposed sunstarved arms. 

The faded scars on each wrist, reminders of their humanity, and reminders of all their mistakes. . . The smaller ones ran horizontal across the width like little railway lines intersecting right through the large parallel ones that ran from the base of their elbow all the way up to beneath the palm of their hand. 

Different intentions for different scars, each feeling just as vile nonetheless. . . But Yellow was fixated on the vertical ones uniquely. 

“Cutter, huh?” He runs a line down one of those cutting scars, so soft like he understood how delicate it was. Feeling just how deep it went, how many stitches it needed, how long they were in the hospital for, and how many times they had to reapply the bandages. 

Kris can still remember Asriel never leaving their side the entire time after it had happened, saying he never would no matter what happened with them. 

Just felt like a lie now. . .

Though, a different light seems to show up in the human’s gleaming eyes for a moment. He clicks his tongue knowingly, and drags the full sleeve of his longjohns up to his elbow, revealing thick, curly bodyhair. . . with scars. Lines and rows, so old they looked near invisible, but still jutting beneath his tanned, rawhide flesh. Similar to Kris’ own, enough to make their lidded eyes perk up tentatively. 

“. . .Lotta folks I met share that nasty lil’ habit. Humans love manglin’ themselves, it gives a real rush. The sting of adrenaline. . .Though, I think you’re doing it for different reasons, heh.” Nostalgia, vindication, something foreign lingers in his tone, at least enough to goad him into shutting up then. . . It didn’t make them feel better to know this was a common human thing, it only made them hate themselves more.

His sleeve goes up just as quickly as it was pulled down. Only staying long enough to let Kris get a good, quick look, and no more. 

If it was made to build some solidarity, it did little when the human began reaching for their binder next, that simple black one that they got as a christmas present. The only binder they had. Just having to watch as he undid every little metal clasp, one by one, by one, by one, until it falls from their compressed chest with an unceremonious droop. . . 

Bared and revealed in a way no ones seen since they were a kid, all those *developing* parts of them that they hated and reviled. All those areas and bits that were still growing and changing and sprouting.  Ones they so desperately wanted to get rid of but hadn’t been able to yet. . . Little, underdeveloped breasts, barely anything to gawk at, fatty buds with perky, penny sized nipples, so easy to cover with their shaking arms but not leaving them feeling safe at all. 

Surgical precision was found in Yellow’s expression. You’d swear his eyes were beaming like lanterns in the dead of night. A predator’s gaze. 

“. . .See, ain’ that better?” He softly begins, stretching the binder’s thick padding between his clawing hands twisting it around like a towel, pulling it slack, until there was no more give left. “The real issue with you is yah let those monsters poison your head.” Oozing hostility is found in the way he listens to the fabric *tear*, in watching the way Kris’ eyes were stuck on their special item being pulled to the brink.

The human uses those metal clasps as leverage, his toned muscles straining through the longjohns sheerness. Microtears forming in the center of the stretchy fabric slowly, until they can see the glow of his yellow SOUL through them.

“This “They/Them” shit and this “I’m not a girl” crap, it's all just a loada rubbish. It might be fine for those freaks. . .But you’re a human.  It’ll take a real whole lotta effort to undo it, but we’ll fix it. I’m gonn’ *fix you*, Lil’ Lady.” A jeering scoff is the last thought, the last recognition of value the black binder gets before its ripped clean in half. Each broken, clasped bundle being promptly discarded right with the rest of their soiled clothes.

With the rest of the garbage. 

A part of them only now realizes just how fucked they are. 

Their sight doesn’t leave that trashcan even as Yellow finally strips the last remainder of their coverings, those crumpled boxers. Their sweaty, slick folds covered in a thick bush of unshaven hair, the curtains certainly matching the drapes, if not splotchier and a different texture. With both of their sensitive areas exposed they didn’t know where to block, where to prioritize, pressing themselves into the smallest shape they could. . . and spotting Yellow resting his hunting knife on a small table right next to the bin.  

Placed right to the edge, practically tittering on the brink, close enough that it’s within Kris’ reach. That oversized knife, it’s handle perfectly at the ready to be rammed into someone’s gut, to eviscerate an animal and to spread its insides over the bathroom floor. 

Or an annoying, awful human. . . .

It would sure be a lot easier to find their way home if he wasn’t here.

. . .Kris breathes in and out, slowly unraveling themselves forcibly, forcing back more vomit when they open up and give the human a pleading gaze. Puppy dog eyes, like they’d give their mom to get out of trouble when they were small enough that it still worked. 

“. . .My arm hurts. . . Can you um, help me clean? . .” They beckon at their own mangled shoulder with its oversized burn mark. Putting on their best wounded gazelle act, one that the human seemed to take in stride. 

Yellow kneels close to them, taking his red eyes off his knife very quickly. Not focusing on it at all as he rubs his dirty, grubby hands together with a bar of unused soap. 

“Already planned on that, lil’ lady. But if you wanna be a dear, lift yah arms out real wide now. Like you’re reachin’ for the sky.” He snaps them an encouraging whistle, giving them plenty of time to follow the order to a key: stretching each arm out to let him squeeze right in front, conveniently hovering their hand even closer to the knife too. 

Before long, the sputtering of hot water is hitting their sore skin, and it's heavenly after everything they’ve been through. Washing away all that grime and blood and dust, surging down the metal drain and leaving them purified like a baptism. And all the while he’s scrubbing at them with that bar of soap, hard enough you’d swear he was trying to strip away a whole layer of skin, cleansing them to the bone. Until their pales skin was red and inflamed, until any lingering scents or smells were entirely purged. 

You’d think they’d start regretting their plan when he starts giving their *sensitive* spots attention too. His lurid, rubbing touch making fresh contact with their breasts, with those supple areas, trembling, convulsing wetness joining the water dripping down their legs and crotch. At least enough to obfuscate how much their hole was enjoying the contact, how much it wanted more, how much they hated how it felt good. That part of them that just reacts with hormones and impulses before thoughts. 

And it only gets worse when he’s actually touching them there. When he’s grunting and panting and scrubbing their engorged folds, when he’s leaning close enough to be getting his greasy hair caught in the crossfire of the shower’s stream and is growing increasingly soaked.

They don’t regret this, they’re using every ounce of pressure and molestation as fuel for grabbing the knife.

He’s so busy fondling and groping and washing, they can lean themselves a little closer, inch by inch, until their moist fingertips make contact with the wooden handle. It was larger than their own big knife, but they knew how to handle it. They’d make themselves handle it. 

“C-Can you get my neck. . ?” They lean themselves to the left, baring a dark bruise like a hickey forming on their throat. Goading Yellow into pushing in closer to get a better angle to strike.

Just as he leans in to go for that bruise. . 

Kris jumps into action with all the force of a dog biting back, snatching at the knife, scrambling in the wet shower and- 

It was like the tossling and tumbling of house cats fighting, rolling around, spinning and lashing, the enby’s whole view going into a rapid blur as they quickly found themselves pinned facedown. The knife was still grasped within their shaking grasp but it was crammed right down into the water, the stream slamming against their soaked hair, a pointy knee jabbed into their back.

“God you’re easy to bait. You think I’m that stupid?” The human grumbles casually, pushing the bony joint in harder. Chastising them with a hoarse growl when they desperately try to force the blade up, trying to knick him, trying to find some angle to cut him even a little. 

This already failed, even just hurting him a little would be enough now. Just a little blood to make up for all the blood that's been spilled from them. Yelling as much as they can with their shot throat, lurching into him to try and knock him off balance. 

“Fuck- F-F. . .” The rush of vengeance is melting away, and all they’re left with is defeat, only able to just let the larger man worm his way between their fingers and unlatch the knife from their hold. . . And now it's pressed right against their throat, right into that spot they had just requested he clean. Into that bruise, until a thin slit is forming that bleeds bright red, all soon washed into the drain with the rest of the filth.

Yellow keeps the knife there casually. Letting it rest in the perfect position to end their miserable life as he grabs at a bottle of shampoo with the opposite hand. 

“I know you had a lot of fight left. So giving you one attempt felt fair. Did that feel nice? Did you get all of that out of your system?” Sloshy, foamy globs are pressed into their filthy hair, covering them in the sharp, chemical smell. Something vaguely fruity buried beneath it all, making sure every inch of their vomit-crusted locks are given special treatment. “. . .This was your one free mistake. I won’t be so nice next time.” He’s firm but soft, which is more infuriating given he was seconds away from slitting them wide open. Only being able to sit there and let him finish washing them off. . .

At least the water felt nice still. In any other situation they’d consider it way too hot, steaming into a fuming white mist that drips from the ceiling. Burning their skin even redder than it already was, and yet anything felt better than that frozen basement. . . 

Maybe they can pretend they’re in their own shower if they ignore the leg on their back hard enough. Just trying to focus on letting this whole ritual finish. 

“. . .Sorry.” They stutter out, the bulging flesh of their neck making it come out more like a meager whisper. . . And Yellow just snickers, and flicks a glob of the shampoo into their closed eyes, rubbing the sharp, stinging liquid into the corners and crevices. 

“You’re not, but thankya kindly.”

. . .

. . .

. . .

Where Kris finds themselves in is clearly a children’s bedroom, which raises questions they felt too nauseous to answer. 

 Sitting naked on the edge of the small, undersized bed, a bundle of pink and purple pawprints on it in a diagonal decoration, a few scattered stuffed animals splayed around the fluffy pillow randomly. . . Toys and random youthful commodities were spewn all over, on tables and nightstands and on the equally fluffy carpet. It reminded them of simpler times, but not enough to make any of this feel normal. . . 

The enby wanted to focus on everything *other* than what was left there for them to dress up in. “Dress-up”. It wasn’t just wearing clothes, putting on their clothes, it being like a sick game of playing with dolls was the only way they could describe the outfit: A floral, feminine dress. A bright orange one with a gushing pattern of bright sunflowers, two thin, stringy spaghetti straps and a flowy frilly skirt. 

“. . .I don’t. . .” They poke at it like it’d bite them if they touched it too hard. Not wanting to pick it up, not wanting to even look at it, much less put it on. . . 

Though, they didn’t have much choice given the human was watching them like a hawk from near the open doorway, slicking back shower-soaked hair and swiping another dred wheat between his rotted teeth. He’s huffing on it like he did the cigar earlier, the same compulsive, heavy inhales, and these deathly glances into their very being. . .

Doesn’t look like he’s gotten over their little murder attempt. Or maybe he just knows they’d try it again if they could. Either way, he’s clearly waiting, and he’s not leaving anytime soon. . . 

Kris hasn’t worn one of these since they were a young kid, and even then it was rare. Too much of a “tomboy” to be caught in much more than overalls and shorts. . . 

They still remembered how to put it on though. Stretching the wide skirt out between dry, reddish tinged fingers, pushing it over their head and letting the whole thing free fall with the gentle swaying of thin cloth. 

The discomfort starts up again the millisecond it's on, and it stays there at the feeling of how well it fit. Distant Dysphoria returning from the brink and nipping at them with a resurging vigor. 

Yellow doesn’t seem to share that sentiment. He seemed positively delighted, even with them awkwardly fidgeting with the spaghetti straps to try and find some position to hide the exposed burn visible from the low top. 

“Heh, not bad! . . Much, *much* better. . .Mnn, it’s missin’ something though. Here.” He gives them a playful catcall, leather straps jangling as he wraps both hands around their sides. With no effort he lifts them up like a wet cat and spins them to face a mirror on a nearby vanity. . . 

So they could see themselves in that stupid, stupid flowery dress. Just wanting to block it out while he pulls a pink hairbrush out of a drawer on a nightstand, and brushes their hair nice and slow. . . 

He’s almost being soft, the still-moist hair stroked down carefully, unraveling the remaining knots, giving plenty of force to rip out the harsher ones, not caring about their wincing noises during it all. The way it's being done is all wrong: uncovering their anxious little self-conscious eyes, unraveling those long locks and not letting them hide behind as they usually did. Pressing it all neat, not like their common messy styling. . . Though, he doesn’t seem to like that detail much. 

“Hold very, very still now.” His focused voice is paired with the familiar *swish* of sharp metal leaving a holster, and the blade of his knife is soon pressed into those pieces that usually hang in droops over their face.  The man evens them out with a careful touch, and then, in one clean cut, slashes a straight line right through. Leaving them with nothing but messy bangs where there were once camouflaging strands. “Thereeeee we go. . . Perfect! Ain’t I hot shit? All I’m missin’ is the red and white pole, hehe.” He snickers out happily, returning right back to finishing off their hair. Brushing slowly and giving Kris plenty of time to absolutely hate what he’s done.

A part of them wishes they should have fought back earlier and got him killing them over with. At least then this embarrassing display wouldn’t have happened.

Survival only got them so far mentally if this was the alternative. . . 

The only thing goading them into staying still is the vague promise that this was going to be over soon.

Kris sighs, and doesn’t give him anything to work with. 

Eventually, it's finally over, and the midday sky that was there earlier is now a crisp orange and red. Low and vacant and casting shadows through the cold cabin, their painful exhaustion still fresh, bruises from the hogtie still aching on every limb. . . 

Solace, Dysphoria, Loneliness, and Misery. Too many feelings to process, and too much to handle. And the emotions only worsen when they’re dropped back onto that kid’s bed, and a single, soft pat is delivered right over where their SOUL would be. 

“. . .I haven’t interacted with another human in a long, long time, you know. I seldom interact with anyone, it's the life of a wanderer. Of one who's seen beyond the veil.” He notes in a deadpan voice, pressing his fingers into the dress, until he’s practically pressing himself through that spot in their chest that was prime for being tugged through. “It was rather disappointing to meet another of my kin, and have it be someone so defiled. . . But. . . Perhaps its fate. . . You may view me cruel, but this will be mutually beneficial. . .” He slowly pets down, like he could feel their SOUL, like he could feel that red core that fueled them.

Or maybe he just wanted an excuse to fondle them some more. That was as much value as Kris saw from all this, when you stripped away those delusional words. 

His SOUL glistens with a sharp hue of blinding light, and that uncanny, puppeted smile returns. 

“Relax, Red. . . Get some rest. There’s a lot we’re going to be doing soon.” He leans in closer, and closer, and closer, until the tip of his nose is brushed right near his hand. Like he’s whispering a little secret to someone private. . . Right into their very SOUL.

“And you. . . You’re going to be very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very okay, soon enough.”

Something otherworldly glowed in his voice for the briefest of moments. 

The bedroom door slams shut, and the loud clicking of locks seals their fate. . . 

It's just them now. But Kris could swear they could still hear those words in their head. . . Like something familiar, and uncannily echoing. 

. . .It reminded them of something in themselves. And they can’t get the thought to go away as they mimic his gesture, and hold their own hand to their chest. Where that SOUL was. . . 

It's pounding loudly. And they swear they could feel it moving inside. Like it wanted to escape. 

And no escape was to be found. Just the hurt of a shattered ankle and burnt skin, and they clutch a soothing arm to themselves to try and relax the terrified entity. 

“. . .I know. . . I’ll figure something out. . .”

They hated that red being inside them, but there was someone they both hated a lot more than each other right now, so they put it aside. 

Another weak lie, but the best one they could come up with. Kris rolls over as they laid back on the small, insignificant bed, and tried to get some proper sleep. . . 

It was going to be a long month. 

. . .

. . .

. . . 

Chapter Text

 The dead of night is when Kris’ eyes next flicker open. . . or at least, the body they call Kris, and what's buried so deep within. That buried core that flickers to life in their chest, beneath that mangy dress’ translucent floweryness. . . Glowing red and crimson in the too-small bed, and their pupils just as empowered. 

*Escape. 

Kris stumbles to their feet, a prisoner in their own body once more, but still limited by the damages of that mortal shell. The moment they put weight on their shattered ankle, a flare of pain like a crackling jolt of lightning surges through their entire leg, and they collapse to the pink carpeting. A minor setback at best for their current host. 

*Escape. Escape. 

Kris whimpers in resistance, but they continue on anyway, snapping rickety fingers around the nearest furniture and swaying up on one foot. Dragging their bad ankle behind them like a useless bundle of meat and bone, giving the doorknob a few heavy twists. . . Earning themselves nothing but metallic shakes and jangling clicks. They try it again, and again, and again, but it never works. Locked. 

*You need to Escape. 

Attempt one down, the real vessel groaning and trying to worm back control as their SOUL drags them through the room lit only by pale moonlight, shadows reflecting upon their terrified face. Knocking old stuffed animals and abandoned toys onto the dusty floor to snatch at the window hidden behind. Kris tugs at it with their full force, their full might, and finds it completely jammed no matter how much effort is given. Though, it’s very little with how weak and disoriented they were. 

*Break It. 

Kris snatches at one of the old children’s shirts laying on a nearby table, wrapping it around their bruised hand like they were mummifying themselves. Winding their hand back with a sway of their shoulder, and giving the thick panel of glass a solid *jab* right in the center. Their knuckles oozed with their own blood and the bruising turned spongy, but the glass didn’t budge. Not even the tiniest microcrack. . . It felt like they broke more than the window did. 

*Breakitbreakitbreakitbreakitbreakitbreak-

Dry heaving fills the silent cabin, grunts of exertion. Kris worms enough control back from their misfiring neurons and puppet’d limbs to hectically snatch at their own chest. 

Sliding right through with ease, into their own warm, revolting insides. Into that writhing hole where the squirming heart was nestled deep.

They grunt, and writhe, kicking their knees and slinging their arms, and drag it out at last with a nauseating *pop*. 

Kris crumbles, clutching that shifting mass of glassy red close to themselves, its soft glow like a beacon in the dark of the early morning twilight. . . Holding it close, and trying to fight the feeling of emptiness rushing through them. That bloodied mass held onto their mangy dress to try and soothe its panicked wiggling. 

“R-Relax. . .” They hated that bundle, that thing that forced them to do what they never wanted, to be who they never were. . . That made everyone like them, too. “. . .That won’t help.” It sounded like defeatism, and maybe it was, to an extent. Realizing just how fucked they were, and knowing that some halfhearted attempt at running would only make this all much, much worse. Even though they plenty understood the fears. . .They were so, so scared too. 

*Escape. 

They’re still clutching the SOUL close when they limp their way back to their- the bed. That bed. In this room. The room they were trapped in. That they were being kept in. Laying back into those crumpled sheets, those childish patterns stretched and smeared as they tried and worked themselves underneath. . . Giving that red heart they despised so much a supportive pat like it was a frightened dog. 

*. . .

The SOUL’s movements turn slow, and subdued. . . Crimson flickering soothing into pinkish white. . . Their shared heart rate, their shared beating, their shared fear. All those feelings rushing through them both as that glassy, hard mass was shoved right back inside them with a convulse beneath the sheets. . . 

Just Kris and the demon possessing them now. 

*Just you and the vessel you inhabit. 

. . . 

Birds were whistling outside when they awoke next, and flickering sunlight was bellowing through the uncracked window. . . Woken by their own stomach pains, and by the flaring of their various injuries. Clean injuries, but ones that stung nonetheless. A clean body, but a broken one. They hurt inside and out, and waking up here only worsened that blow. 

“. . .” They knead into the bed, and find it painfully unfamiliar. It was soft, but didn’t remind them at all of their own one, and all the nostalgia it brought.  

Kris unravels themselves from the bed’s pastel sheets, dragging themselves out like a worm through mud. Grumbling, and scratching clawing fingers into their eyes to soothe the intense pains lingering behind them. 

They try to adjust their bangs, and vividly remember the previous day’s horrors when they find their long locks replaced with short strands. . . They felt naked somehow without something to cover their eyes, and their teeth chatter from the discomfort. 

Red eyes exposed to the early morning sun, maybe it was the same time as when they were walking to school earlier. . . 

The thought terrified them and they didn’t know why. Burying it down, clinging to the dress’ skirt and rolling to force themselves back up to the edge of the bed. 

The SOUL was entirely silent. It didn’t seem to have anything to say, or much to add. . . Back to just watching, and letting Kris take the blunt of what was coming next. 

“. . .You never take control during the bad times.” They mutter harshly to their own chest, like it could hear them. Giving that sore spot a few small pokes, the thing within just beating louder in response.

Heavy footsteps overpower the woodland ambience, rocking the entire cabin, approaching step by step towards the room where Kris was. . . Who it was is rather obvious, but Kris can’t help but have wishful thoughts of it being literally anyone else. . . Someone with overbearing footsteps, old leather boots, long jeans dragging against the ground, clawed hands buried in ill fitting coat pockets.

. . .That was just a fantasy though, and the grinding click of a lock and the whistling of a cheery tune ruins it quickly. 

And the door soon swings open to reveal the human waiting behind it. 

He had an axe. 

A part of them just silently accepted they were about to die. That this would finally be over as they saw that axe and its shiny, sharp head, its long wooden handle, hefted over one of Yellow’s broad shoulders like it weighed nothing.  

“Well there, mornin’, lil’ lady!” He whistles out, letting Kris get a good look at the tool in his hand but not paying it any mind, just swinging it around and trotting up on them with a playful swagger. “You’re lookin’ full of piss and vinegar! Lil’ shuddye did wonders, yeh?” A toothy yellowed smile grows on his grizzled features as he winks. His boot pressed right between Kris’ legs, leaning in close and licking his dry lips. 

They can’t stand to look him in the face, just trying to stare into their own feet and their broken ankle. Trying to not linger too long on that ominous axe that was being held out at the ready. . . 

“. . .I said: How did you sleep?” He asks more directly, tilting the mirror-polished blade so they could see their own miserable features in its shiny metal. It had plenty of bite, and he was clutching the handle so tightly his fingers were paling.  

. . .Kris remembered those brief moments where they just talked, and it felt like a whole lifetime ago now. The best they could do is playing pretend that everything was normal. As normal as any of this could be. 

“. . .I slept fine. . .” The bags under their eyes made the lie obvious there. Not that Yellow seemed to care, holding the axe blade to his poncho to wipe off loose bits of dust caking its sharp edge. 

Playing pretend. That was all they could do. It fit the children’s room, they guessed. 

“I’m really hungry. . .” They mutter out lightly, trying not to come off too desperate with the request. Breakfast before school was the last time they’ve eaten, and they needed to focus on that before anything else. Survival was everything. 

They survived the dark worlds, they can do this. . . It just felt so much more real when their stomach was rumbling and was eating away at what little fat was on them. 

“Ah, right! Sorry ‘bout that, Red. You must be starvin’ up a storm! Got so carried away there, forgot to put a lil’ kibble in yah bowl.” He gives them a mocking tilt of his hat and a half inch bow, bellowing out in a full-stomach laugh when Kris’ dull face turns into a frown.

Yellow ruffles their hair again, sighing and slinging the axe right back over his shoulder with no effort.

“Relax, I’m just fuckin’ with yah a lil’. You gotta learn how to take a joke, kid. Monsters got y’all sensitive.” 

Kris grumbles out a vague response, not knowing what he even wanted of them. . . Just trying to fake out a nod. 

“Okay. . .” 

They felt like their SOUL was in control with that response, with how empty it was. It’s either that or nothing, and they saw how far nothing got them here.

. . .Yellow’s expression grows, and the hold on their hair turns hard, twisting between those long locks and hitching them closer. Enough for them to smell the sharp smell of booze on his breath and the lingering hint of tobacco. . . 

“You wanna eat? Then we need firewood. And you’re gonn’ lend a hand. . .”

/ / / 

/ / / 

/ / / 

. . .

. . .

. . . 

The vibration goes through their entire arm, surging right through like it was trying to shake the bone apart. An earthquake in every joint and their skin alit in prickling needles. 

“Not bad, Red! You gotta hold it *real* tight though. Maybe we’ll put a lil’ muscle on yah, girlie.”

Yellow laughs as he has been the entire time. Laughing with every wince they did, laughing with every strike of the axe’s head into the wooden logs, laughing at his own dumb jokes and dumb remarks and degrading remarks. 

Both of them were outside the cabin, letting Kris at least get a better understanding of their surroundings, enough to get a better mental image of their current dilemma. The outside of the cabin was just as unimpressive as the inside, wooden planks and a rickety curved roof, no road of any kind to be found leading up to it beyond snaking woodland trails. Spiderwebs spread through the autumn forest’s orange undergrowth, giving them no hint of where the right way would be. A thick, brick chimney shoots out plumes of black smoke into the early morning sky, and a thick pile of wooden logs was being prepared to keep that flame within the cabin going. . . 

A large, sawed tree stump was where they were splitting the wood, not attached to anything, rocking in the muddy dirt with every powerful swing of the long axe. You could see every gangly muscle strain in the human’s body with every sway and every stab, stacking the wood up neat against the outside wall of the cabin.

Kris wasn’t allowed to handle the axe, not after their stunt yesterday, not after what they tried. 

Their “job” here was far more painful. 

Everytime he stacked up a new log, they gripped the edges of the tree stump with all their bodyweight. Holding it steady as the blade swung down inches from them with a whiff of wind. 

The remaining force left over from the cut skips the ground and goes right through them instead. Thumping pressure and force. Their hands felt like they were being flayed to the muscle beneath, and every inch of their skin was thick in dark, purple bruises. . . 

“C-Can I have g-gloves. . .” 

. . .Yellow stacks another log on the stump, slamming it right into an indented circle forming in the center. . . he doesn’t look at them at all, just expecting them to act without input. 

“You know, I mighta lied a lil’ bit earlier. . .” He notes aggressively, raising the axe high above his head as he talked. His poncho swooshes in the torrent of air that bursts around him as he slams it down with a snap and a crack. 

Another agonizing sting, rawed skin and bloodied red. Kris whimpered from the sensation, trying to fight back the tremors of locking muscles. . . 

They keep hoping eventually that it’ll be done, that he’ll be done for the day, but he never is. He just keeps going, stacking logs, way more logs than seemed necessary. Too many logs. . . and his stupid, cold face all the while.  

“. . .I said I was gonna go easy on you for that lil’ *outburst* of yahs yesterday, but Imma be real: I’m still very, very pissed about you being that stupid.” His usual jovial tone turns increasingly malicious, and violently deranged in its vileness. . . He knocks the cut log to the forest floor with a swipe of his axe, but he doesn’t raise it once more. 

This time, he taps the tool’s large blade into the stump itself, two times, two times, like the thumping of their SOULS. 

“Hey, I got a real fun idea. . . Put your hand in the center.” 

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . . 

Kris thinks he’s trying to test them at first. Why wouldn’t they? They did everything *right* here. They were *listening*. 

But a glare that could sink ships from Yellow’s judging eyes makes it clear he’s not. How he stops chopping wood at last, and just waits with dreaded anticipation. With a heart as black as charcoal, and his expression hollow and vacant. Like an empty vessel, with no one home. 

“. . Put. Your hand. On. The Stump.” He calmly states again, patting the spot in the middle where the most axe marks were. The preferred path of least resistance to cut and carve. . . He cut through wood so easy, it’d be plenty easy to cut through shattered bones and fragile skin. 

. . .Their bruised hand is slowly brought from the edge to the center, so slowly like they were convinced he’d change his mind eventually if they stalled long enough. But no salvation came, and eventually they were in that spot he wanted them to be in. . . They wished they could blame the trembling on the cold autumn wind, but both knew better than to believe that. 

The enby simply holds it in that spot, and watches with panicked breaths as Yellow goes to raise the axe. Hefting it above his messy hair in a ready pose, keeping it there like all it would take is one swing. . . 

Yellow licks his tobacco tinged tongue down the long wooden hand. Grinding his teeth into the unyielding hickory, not breaking eye contact, making what he was doing very clear.

“. . .Choice. Us humans are always poisoned by choice. So many choices, and yet, so few differences. There’s something. . . soothing about two. Two options, two pathways. . . I’m going to give you two choices here, my dear.” He explains it so softly, just like when he was talking about humanity earlier. Like he was educating them on something valuable, something that would stick with them forever.

Kris was wobbling on their shaky leg, trying desperately to hold themselves up, ankles pressed together to try and hold steady. . . Nodding to tell him they were listening. 

It was so rare they got a choice of any kind, given how their SOUL was the one making all of the valuable ones in their life. And it was plenty clear with the way he was leading into this that they were going to burn no matter what they chose. 

“To put it. . . plainly. You’re going to be punished no matter what. And I want you to choose what punishment you’ll get.” He hitches his boot up, tapping its leather tip right against their palm, digging it in deep. Enough to make the bruises flare up in pretty shades of red and white, and a soft wince from their dry lips. 

“One: I drive the head of this blade directly through two of your fingers. . . Two, just like your options.” He coldly declares like it was already set in stone, giving a hard tap to Kris’ ring finger and pinkie. The shortest two fingers on their hand, the ones that served the least purpose. The two they’d miss the least. “I sever them down to the bone, clean down the center. . . Hopefully missing your others, but no promises. Then, we go back inside, and I cauterize them like that bullet wound.” 

Remembering that wound made the pain return at full volume, and the agony that came with it. The blinding white, and the searing burn. How badly it hurt then, and how badly it’d hurt if it happened again. They’d rather pull teeth than ever go through that again. . . but the way his eyes wandered to the enby’s lower bits made it obvious whatever he was about to suggest instead is just as revolting.

They were going to regret giving him fuel. 

“I know how *badly* that hurt the first time. You aren’t used to pain yet, so I’ll give you a reasonable out. Another option. You would like that, no? . . “ The outcome felt so obvious he was already preparing for it, pushing the axe dull-side down into the wooden stump, right next to Kris’ outspread hand. . . The metal felt so cold, colder than the human’s heart, and colder than Kris’ frostbitten skin. 

They’re shivering as he brings his boot up, and slams it hard against the sharp edge, steadying it enough to stay where it was even without his hands on the handle. 

“. . .Option two. . . First things first. Have you ever masturbated with something before, Red?” It was asked so tenderly, like he’s genuinely curious. . . If only it wasn’t something so secretive, something they’d only talked about with a few people. With friends they could trust instead of someone they met under the worst situation. . . His cocks already been in their mouth though, so it's not like there was any room for secrecy anymore. He’s already ripped them down to their softest parts, and bared everything in between. 

. . .Nights alone in their room flash into mind, with a soaked pillow between their thighs, moaning someone’s name into their palm, and wishing it was something else they were riding. Too many hormonal thoughts, with too many hormonal, flashing faces filling their mind. Too many to remember, but a few rising above the rest.

White fur, purple scales, gnashing fangs, and dragging claws.  

They’d wash the pillow four times afterwards, and four more to keep the thoughts away. 

It wasn’t theirs, after all.  

“. . .Yeah. . . Sometimes. . .” It felt weird talking at all, hearing their own voice. And what they were admitting to so brazenly. Leading themselves to damnation. “I don’t really d-do that often. . .”  That part was a blatant lie, they were a twitchy introverted teen, of course they did. But they wanted to keep some semblance of modesty here. Some method of keeping a part of themselves safeguarded. 

 Yellow took it at face value, and gladly so with the way he leaned over and stroked his hand down the flowery lacing of the skirt, up until it lingered right over their crotch, no underwear beneath the numb the touch.

“. . .To put it. . . slowly. . . Kris. . .” His voice goes transient in the way he speaks, in the way he grows fascinated by the hitch in their shoulders, and the trembling shifting from their hand to their thighs. . . 

The human buries his other hand beneath his poncho, down to where his SOUL was. . . 

“. . .I want you to ride the blade.” 

. . . 

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . . 

. . .

They had no choice. They never did in life, but only now did it truly feel like they were finally just a rat in a cage, being led towards poisoned cheese. 

Kris knew rather quickly that there was no way of doing this safely, none of this was safe, none of this was okay, but they had to do it anyway.

“Take your time.. We have all day. . . You don’t eat until you do.” Yellow is already touching himself, moaning into his neck high scarf rubbing through his longjohns with his palm. Bucking his legs, and keeping a ready hand on his revolver as the enby reluctantly tries to figure out how to do this.  

It was going to hurt no matter how they did it, so the best Kris could do is try and minimize that harm. Hitching the rim of that stupid long dress up with both hands, trying to find some position to comfortably get as close to contact as possible without applying full weight. 

“Did you know that historically, the axe has always been a symbol of Justice? Amongst humans, amongst the vermin. The axe is a shared sigil of judgment.” His body is reacting, but his words are disturbingly stable, as if they were entirely separate. Like they were being beamed right into Kris’ head, into their consenting mind. It was hypnotically clear, and it gave the enby something to focus on while they slowly, carefully, gingerly lowered themselves inch by inch. Until they eventually made contact with the cold steel, and could feel it rubbing against their dry folds, too scared to get any pleasure from this at first. At first, at least. The sensation of contact against their hole was impossible for their body to decipher from real, genuine touch, and the intermingling of the pain and sensation made their parts wet very quickly. 

“Ride”. 

They knew exactly what that implied, and they tried to warily push themselves with a small hump back and forth. The shiny, sharp edge being stained with their leaking fluids as they felt the metal *grind* between the two halves of their pussy. 

“In the old days, they would force someone’s head into a mantle, to hold their neck in place, you see. The prisoner would kneel, and we would relish in the sensation of the axe being raised above one's head, and being brought down on anothers. The gush of blood. . . Or the splattering of dust. . . I wish I could have been there. I would have relished every decapitation.” Jerking himself faster, rutting like a horse in heat, slamming into his own breeches and forming an oversized stain on the front of the sheer sleepwear. The jangling of a revolver forces Kris to try and mimic his gestures, trying to speed up as much as possible without cutting themselves too badly, grazing the blade with chaotic sliding smears of their juices and terrified pants. 

Occasional “Fucks” and “Shits” bleeding out when they saw there was a little trickle of red leaking out beneath them. . . 

Yellow trots around them to take the whole sight in, to get every angle of their thrusts, to get every perspective of their raised dress, their shaky thighs, their soaked crotch and engorged clit. 

Kris loved pain when it was pain they could safely indulge in. The pain of self-harm was one they knew well, with all those scars on their exposed arms. But their crotch couldn’t tell the difference here, and that stung more than the axe shoved into their sensitive spots did. 

The human grips both hands into their small shoulders, humping his crotch into their back to milk pleasure from them, accidentally meeting his thrusts with their own while they continue riding. 

“Would you like to be decapitated, Kris?” 

Kris moans louder than they have in years, and they can’t even explain why.

They feel sick for it.

They close their eyes to try and fight the shame, the embarrassment, the desire to just die. And they can’t help but convulse, and answer before they could stop themselves from.

“Y-Yes. . .” It’s just a whisper, an indulgent yearning to burn. Kris wanted to die for years now, and the thought intermixed with teenage hormones in unstable ways.  

Kris wanted to die, but not like this. But not in this way. On their own terms. Back home, at the very least. 

They-

Suddenly, a rustic whistle fills the autumn air.

“Hey there, Lil Lady~. Buckle up now.”

Yellow grips them tighter, and with all his weight, forces them right down on the axe. 

*PAIN 

It takes a second to process what just happened, and when they do, they seize up in horror. The cowboy bursts out laughing, slapping his own knee and giving them a firm pat on the back too in encouragement. 

“Now that's what I call ridin’ the bull! Ain’ that swell! I’m real sorry, yah just opened yourself up there too much! I can’ help myself sometimes, I’m a shithead, what can I say. . .Haha, you in there still, Red?” He clicks his tongue delightfully and talks so casually, a far cry from the enby beneath him that was completely paralyzed.

Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain.

Kris is frozen. Stiff. Solid. Like a leaf about to fall from a tree. Eyes wider than they’ve ever been. Mouth hanging open. Drool dripping. Rigor Mortis. Like a corpse. 

“W-Wh-wh-wh. . .” No words come out. Nothing comes out. Nothing is left. They’re staring at their crotch. The axe buried deep. Deep. Deep. Too deep. Too, too deep. 

Blood was pouring from their pussy. So was so, so, so, so much wetness. 

They came. And they were bleeding. And they were bleeding. Blood oozing, the axe’s head pressed in hard to their clit, too scared to move even an inch, too paralyzed to even move an inch. 

Afraid of anything. Afraid. 

*AFRAID. 

Loose tears are trickling. Pain tears. Pain. Pain. Pain.

Yellow massages their shoulders like he was trying to work them out of the disorientated hole they’ve hidden themselves in. He’s being so soft, but he still finds this so funny. 

“Aww, this your first rodeo, bucko? Was I a lil’ too rough on yah? . .” He tries to pick them up a bit, but Kris fights back against it. Too scared to let him move them. He does it a couple more times just to give himself more fuel to mock them, trying to lift them, but Kris keeping themselves buried in the axe’s tip. “You enjoyin’ yourself? Heh, if I had known you were this much of a freak I woulda sharpened it even more.” He strokes through their hair, giving them soft scratches. Too Soft for what had just happened. Their cum stains the tree stump between them, mixing with their blood to form a dark shade like mahogany. 

Kris can’t answer him, they’re in their own head right now. Like their SOUL was buried in their chest. Everything was muddied, and blurry. Like after an especially bad cutting session. 

“You look so cute like this, yah know. Real cute. . . Like a lil’ stuck pig.”

Their stomach grumbles, but they weren’t hungry anymore. 

They didn’t want to eat now. 

Eventually, the human gets tired of their little terrified act, and he grabs them by the waist.

“Relax now. Fight me more and I’ll force yah down deeper. . . And clench your teeth real tight.” He’s still panting from earlier, they had no clue if he had even came, but they were certain he’d get his chance to soon enough. . . The back of their dress was stained in his cum, and it reeked of him vividly.

With one big pull, he unspears them from the axe’s blade, a little gush of gunky blood leaking down their thighs, and a loud squeal filling Kris’ throat. 

They hit the forest floor once he lets them go, hitting the muddied leaves with all their dead weight. . . It was so cold, but they appreciated the coolness on their inflamed parts. . . 

“Lookin’ real cozy there, Red! . . You know what? You did good, kid. Take a lil’ nap! I’ll get the food goin’.” It sounded like he was joking at first, that they wouldn’t just *leave* him here. But it's not like they could escape, so this was as much a part of their cell as the inside is. It was cold, but it wasn’t enough to kill them. . . And his footsteps heading back to the cabin with piles of firewood in hand.  

He’s whistling that tune to himself again, and for the first time, it almost makes them feel calmer. . . 

That felt like a bad sign. And only more proof they needed to get out of here as soon as they could. 

Kris groans softly, trying to find a good spot on the crisp, colorful leaves to be comfortable, a makeshift pillow beneath them. Curling into a tight ball, and rubbing their blood-soaked thighs together slowly. . . 

The last thought they had before they passed out was wondering if anyone was looking for them right now, and knowing it didn’t matter. 

The enby sighs, letting their eyes creep close, and blacking out.

Birds sung around their sleeping form, and the leaves rustled. 

It was a very pretty day. 

. . .

. . .

. . .

Chapter Text

Susie flicks the silver coin over her knuckles, catching it on the tip of her largest one, blunted from repeat impacts. It's easy to snatch it from there between the curved crook of her longest claw, swaying it along the sharp edge like a cart on rails. Repeating that gesture over and over again to pass the time as she leaned slack on the wooden park bench, glancing over Kris and the still surface of the lake. 

“You’re overthinking it, dude. It's just a dance, there’s gotta be *someone* you’d ask to go.” She stretches out with a deep groan, hitching one chubby leg over Kris’ thigh and spreading herself out. Getting a better angle to scratch at the baggy fabric of her jeans clumped around her crotch. “Doesn’t even have to be, yunno, romance shit like with me and Noelle.”  The coin is unceremoniously flicked out into the lake, the shiny metal reflecting a warm glow of sun as it hits the water with a heavy *plonk*. It's still just as shiny going down as it was in Susie’s hand, and Kris can watch as the silver vanishes down into the murky depths below. 

Kris reaches into the moist bag crumpled on their lap, pulling out another coin buried within. It wasn’t as shiny as the first one, and the face of the old monster on one side was scratched out with deep gnashes. Eyes clawed out with cut after cut after cut. 

“I guess. . . Just don’t see the point.” They sound bored, but that's just how they always tended to anyway. The enby squeezes the metal into the palm of their paw, watching how it leaves a soft, circular indent in the white fur afterwards. “. . .You’re going anyway.” The lightest smile flickers over their snout, barring two stubby fangs. They’re much more careful in folding the coin into their thumb and pointer, digging pink claws in for more leverage. 

With a quick flick of their wrist, the coin is thrown with the softest pressure. It stays flat as it bounces three times over the water’s edge, before vanishing into the lake’s brownish-blue with the gentlest flutter. 

It didn’t shift from its position even as it sank. 

Susie huffs angrily, grabbing them suddenly by the fluffy white of their hair, pulling them close to get a better look at their amused face. 

“Fucks that supposed to mean?” 

She’s blushing, but she’d never admit it, of course. The sharp teeth helped hide her embarrassment. And that purplish pink glow is ever present as Kris gives her an innocent flutter of their pink eyes. Tilting one of their horns to scratch at the corner of the other monster’s scaly snout. 

“Nothing.” 

The blindingly gold sun reflects them along the lake, their mirror opposites copying every move. 

Though, when Kris looks into that reflection, they can’t help but think it looks Wrong.  

There’s nothing there when they look closer. 

. . .

Kris’ eyes shoot open, and a midday sun is what greets them.

“. . .Mnnh. . . Su-?” Their words are garbled through cottonmouth, every inch of their mouth felt dryer than the dirt they were laying on. The sounds of nature surround them on all sides, even as they lay crumpled amongst the colorful leaves and inky mildew. 

The sun above is bright and beaming, just like in the dream, but it feels more like a mocking beacon than a comforting glow. A light that was so close, but impossible to grasp. They try to reach a shaking hand out towards those golden rays, but all it does is give them a painful reminder as they see the bare skin. Short nails on each finger, not a single hair to be found on any inch of those smooth palms. . . 

“. . .” Their palms were still black with bruises from earlier, and it felt like a part of them didn’t return whenever they woke up here. It takes a few minutes for the pain to start flaring up again, when the dream fades and the cruel reality sets in once more. 

That agonizing pain is back in their crotch before anywhere else, spreading out from a knot inside them like reverse waves of pleasure. It feels impossible to move, to breathe, to do anything but lay in that spot amongst their own sloshy insides bloodying the ground below. They couldn’t see how much blood had leaked out from their hole while they were passed out, but the thought alone sent more nausea coursing through them. Their thighs alone were practically soaked in crusted blood.  

The thin sundress did little to protect them from the elements. A part of Kris was hoping they’d be forgotten and could just die from exposure before things get worse, but it wouldn’t be cold enough for that for a while now. It was a chilling breeze at worst. Bearable, if not uncomfortable. 

At some point, basic survival instincts kick in anyways. At least that's what the enby tells themselves to justify why they wrap their spindly arms around the dress’ narrow chest and clutches the messy fabric close like a blanket. . . 

Sleeping on the ground used to be a novelty they could appreciate. 

Small flashes of years ago when they would sleep in the grass behind their home with Asriel, staring up at the stars on a warm summer night. Camping with their family in one crumpled tent that could barely fit them all.   

Though, they recognized that these memories had already faded long before they arrived here. All that’s left was the sensations, and those were all muddied by the agony. 

It was still a pretty day, at least. . . 

Kris sighs, reflexively going to swipe a few messy strands of hair over their sore eyes protectively, and remembering they didn’t have long bangs anymore. All they can muster is a weak grunt of frustration as they slam their head down on its side, not caring about how hard it hit against the squishy mud of the forest floor.

They can see the outside of the cabin from this angle again, the chimney now bellowing with an even thicker plume of smoke that fills the air with the scent of burning wood. The tall pile of logs once stacked along the wall was stripped bare, and the long, slender handle of the axe was sticking out from the remnants.  

Its blade was crusted at the edge with brownish crimson, and it worsened the sickness threatening to overtake them. Their insides felt like mush, and the stomach pains pulsed like a rapid heartbeat. 

*Grab It

Intrusive thoughts at best with no actual motor control. No risk of the SOUL taking control in this state. Too weak to even lug that axe around anyways in their current state, especially with a busted leg and ruined insides. 

*Grab It. Threaten Enemy. Use to walk. Defend Vessel. Grab It. 

Kris thumps their head against the ground harder, not caring about getting dirty anymore with the twigs and mud that already soaked it. 

“This isn’t a Dark World. . . I can’t just. . .” This wasn’t a fun adventure that they could hack and slash their way through, and the hesitation in their dehydrated voice only made how powerless they were even more apparent. There wasn’t an easy fight that could solve this, and their attempts at being violent only ended in tragedy. 

All they can do is lay there in their own misery, their SOUL thumping in anticipation of escapes they weren’t going to attempt, and wait their stay of execution. 

At least the birds sound happy. . . 

A curious part of them reaches beneath the silky folds of the dress, a difficult task in their current state. Two fingers *barely* make contact with their crotch, but the pain is almost immediate, and a wince leaves their cracked lips instantly. 

When they pull their hand back, fresh blood is soaked on their trembling fingertips. 

Still bleeding. 

Kris’ new hope was that they’d fade out before *he* got back, but the sound of whistling dashes any hopes before they could really begin. A frustratingly chipper tune, that same tune as always, entwined with the snapping of sticks and crunching of leaves. 

Pressure rushes through the enby’s temple as they feel something hard press flat against the side of their head. Pushing their skull further into the moist mud and stopping even a single movement. That alone felt like too much, but it's when Yellow actually leans onto that leg with his weight that it feels like their brain is going to burst. 

“Well, shucks! Ain’ yah comfy? I bet you’re really missin’ your bed now.”  He chirps happily, not a care in the world as he slowly leans more of himself onto them. Their vision blurs with black and red squiggles, and the discomfort grows into outright stinging. 

He keeps it at that intensity for a few brief moments before pulling back. Letting Kris’ vision recover, before snapping his cowboy boot back down with just as much force. Repeating the process a few times, and applying slightly more with every step. A reddish, inflamed mark in the shape of his boot’s sole was quickly forming on the surface of their cold skin. 

“Now then! You wanna apologize for bein’ a brat, girl? I think it’ll be *real* sincere this time.” He snickers as he keeps the boot planted on their head, lingering it an inch or two above the surface of the skin. A constant reminder of what happens if the enby doesn’t obey to his liking. 

If Kris looks at the very corner of their vision, they can see the bottommost tread of the human’s sole, and the pattern along the bottom is in the shape of hearts. 

They’d laugh if it wouldn’t be agonizing. There’s a throbbing heartbeat in their head that thumps in tandem to their stomach cramps. Like a drumbeat that intensifies as they swallow down remaining scraps of their pride. 

“I’m. . . sorry. . .” They try to make it sound real, to hide the irritation that was always below the surface. At least the dehydration made them sound extra pathetic. 

Yellow taps the studded tip of his boot against the line of their jaw, tracing the mud-soaked leather over their dry skin with a chuckle. 

“Those animals really gave yah no manners at all. I’m sorry, *what*?” His tone is a low purr as he makes that next demand, tapping the triangular tip into the space between their lips in an imitation of a kiss. Letting what he wanted linger in the air, a dance that the enby was expected to follow perfectly.  

*. . .

They don’t know why their cheeks are warm, this wasn’t any more embarrassing than anything else. His cock was in their mouth, this wasn’t any more of an ask than that. Just acting like this was any other adult was the easiest option here. . . 

All they could do is ignore the indignant noises from their SOUL, and focus on survival. As much as death felt easier. 

“I’m sorry. . . Sir.” It’s a barely there sigh, no sincerity behind it beyond whatever meaning was beaten into them. It was a lie, and they both knew it was, but the color still intensifies on their face anyways. Brighter pink than anything he’s gotten out of them yet.

The glow only grows as his chuckle grows into an outright sneer, finally ripping his boot from their skull, letting all that built up force dissipate. Though, it's soon replaced with a gloved hand that gripped the loose collar of their dress like a handle. 

“There we go, lil’ lady. Was that so hard?” He makes it sound so simple, like it’s just such a basic ask. Kris could only hope that a deep down part of him realized just how hard it really was. . . But they don’t get long to think on this before the human drags them to their feet by the scruff, keeping them steady as they teeter on wobbly legs. They already weren’t able to support their own weight with a busted ankle, and the intense cramps from their insides only made it harder.

Kris’ vision blurs as they try to suppress the nausea, and they swear they can hear *dripping*. . .

They’re scrambling to catch themselves when the last of their energy gives out, grabbing for the first thing in their reach. Clinging into the striped red and black of the Yellow’s poncho, falling into the loose fitted fabric with a yelp.

“Easy now! You’re gonn’ feel real better when you get some grub in yah gut.” He almost sounds charming as he clutches them close, an arm around their narrow waist to keep them steady. Like the hero in some old cowboy flick holding a damsel. 

 The regret is instant as they try to pull away, but it's hard with their lower half being completely limp.   

Not that the cowboy even seemed to notice, flicking the long strand of wheat from his yellowed teeth and pushing the stem into the space between their lips. 

“Just suck on that a lil’ ‘til we get you some water.” He casually explains, pressing a thumb into their chin to snatch their jaw shut. . . It's still wet as Kris tentatively tries to give the stalk a testing suck. A Lollipop gesture, but the taste was far from sweet. It vaguely stung of tobacco, with something rotten that was too tough to describe.  

It's better than nothing, given the most they expected at this point *was* nothing.  

He's trying to be nice, or his closest imitation of nice, when he wraps his poncho around their trembling frame. Holding them close to his warm body and letting them rest their heavy head on his sturdy chest. But all it really does is remind them of the weather. 

It won’t be cold enough to freeze to death for a few weeks. 

. . .

. . .

. . . 

It bothers them how quaint and homely the kitchen is. Just about the same size as their one back home: a wooden dinner table, a plain metal fridge that looked decades old, and a black wrought iron gas stove that was burning bright. A part of Kris could just imagine having dinner here with their family here, in a better time and a better place. 

Though, the cracks in that comfortable facade only become more transparent in time. 

Yellow drops Kris in the closest chair available, though not before an already dirty towel is thrown down first below them. 

“I’m sure you don’ wanna stew in yah own juices, eh?” He vulgarly remarks, only inspiring more grumbles in their already sick stomach. . . They hadn’t gotten a chance to see what the damage was yet, but the feelings alone made it clear it wasn’t pretty. “Real sure you’re used to bleedin’ up there anyways.” Even as he fishes at something inside of the stove’s top slat, he’s still laughing at his own shitty joke. 

It's almost funny that he doesn’t realize how badly it stings. That something he meant as an off-hand remark was cutting through their defenses. . . This stupid body of theirs that tormented them so. With its awful urges and physical needs. Its *stupid* bleeding, with its *stupid* cramps that flared up at the worst times, with that *stupid* pain and-  

. . .They dig clenched palms into their lap defensively, desperate to not feel so vulnerable. The *dripping* still feels constant, but a slow tap-tap that forms a circle of red at best. Nothing major. Nothing that would kill them, beyond leaving them drained and their brain fogged. 

Same as usual, they supposed. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. 

“You ever had *venison* before, Red?” That same small talk tone is back from earlier, as if he didn’t just have a boot on their head. The cognitive dissonance had to be intentional, or at least Kris was hopeful of it. 

 Too many emotions to judge all at once. Too much dissociation. 

All they could go by is whatever emotions were the most compatible at the time. Quaint and homely. . . If Kris looked close enough onto the table, they could spot nicks on the clean surface, like cuts in straight rows. Similar to the ones on each of their wrists, most likely from the other human testing his knife on its rough surface. Each was in lines of five, and they jotted their way over the table from this end. 

“. . .No.” Even if they grew up in a small town with plenty of hunting, they’ve never taken a chance to, given, well. . . 

The human drops a large chunk of meat in front of their waiting gaze, right over where the nastiest of those jagged cuts were. A simple ceramic plate gathering reddish juice underneath in a puddle of greasy slop. It's an oversized slab, only just browned on each side, the inner chunk still a fresh shade of flesh-like. . . It looked almost cooked. 

Sprinkles of a grayish spice are dabbled on it from a small bag he tugs from his holster’s belt. It looked like pepper, but had a smaller consistency, like grains of sand. 

“I put a lil’ of this on a lot of my meals. Old family recipe.” He explains it with pride, but something else seems hidden that the enby can’t describe. The corner of his wrinkled cheek twitches as he hesitates, sprinkling a little more on first. . . 

Yellow sways a small kitchen knife in his grasp, poking at the top of the venison with its sharp end, letting Kris get a good look at the serrated edge. Making sure they watched very carefully as he ran the sawed teeth down the meat, juices gushing from the mark like a fresh wound, showing just how sharp it really was.  

A bright glow thumps through the thick layers of his clothes, the golden SOUL within shining like the sun. Beating steadily in anticipation. 

He carefully places the steak knife at the edge of the table, right over where those cuts were, watching Kris like a hawk as a fork is placed alongside. Sharp, shiny tools, perfect for being crammed into someone’s eye socket to shut them up for good. 

. . .Kris slowly reaches for the knife, feeling a familiar weight to it. It was a similar size to their pocket knife, as good as that did for them. At least they were happy he thought they had enough fight left in them to try and bait them again, but it felt insultingly obvious. . . 

“. . .Thanks.” Synthetic was what described that. A dull, deadpan tone. One that Yellow didn’t even recognize beyond a knowing nod and a wink of his exposed eye. The drab red had a brighter glow to them for once.   

They’re more excited about the water than anything else, practically gulping it down before the moment the human placed it in front of them. The meat on the other hand felt a lot more. . . questionable. 

“I know it ain’ fancy, but yunno. It's food. Can’ be any worse than whatever those animals could cook up.” He almost sounds bitter in the way he grabs at the slab of meat with his bare fingers, not caring over how filthy they were as he forces it between canines. A drip of red gushes from the corner of his weathered lips, wiping the leftover juices away on his poncho. 

It's not that it looks revolting, it looks *fine*. But they can’t help but keep their mind entirely focused on Noelle as they stare at it. 

They imagine the dust in the basement. It had to come from somewhere. It's all they could think about as they slowly cut the smallest piece from the venison, poking into it with the fork’s prongs and watching the way it oozed like a stab. 

“It's just Venison.” 

Too wet, dripping onto the plate, a thick sprinkling of that weird spice on the top. It had a smell like fragrant incense. 

“It’s just Venison.” 

When they bring it closer to them, it's all pungent and earthy. It's possible he killed whatever this belonged to today at some point. Death feels ever present as they finally take a bite. 

“It’s just Venison.” 

They can’t stop thinking about Noelle. It’s just deer. Why are they so worried? It’s not monster. It's not monster. It's not Noelle. Why can’t they stop imagining things? Why can’t they stop picturing curling on all fours and sinking a bloodied knife into Noelle’s side and taking bite after bite after bite from her flesh while blood leaks from the corners of their mouth like him. They’re not him, it's not monster. Its n- 

Kris is on the floor before they even realize it. Spitting up partially chewed chunks of meat all over the black and white tiles. Red-tinged drool staining the dirty ceramic as they coughed and sputtered in disgust, desperate to make the sickening feeling go away.

They’re still choking up the last scraps when a snarl fills the kitchen, and a kick slams into the already sensitive flesh of their stomach. Making them spit up more red, but some of their own this time. 

“You fucking tramp, what the fuck is wrong with you?” He sounds practically monstrous as he hitches them onto their back, stomping hard right on their chest and pinning them to the filthy floor. Making them writhe in their own mess as he glares down with glowing eyes. “Are you going to clean that shit up? I swear you’re a fucking child.” It doesn’t feel like it's about the mess, it was such a stupid thing to get mad about. But what it is about only seems to become clear as the boot on their chest is replaced by the human’s full weight. 

Yellow mounts them before they can react, pinning them to the kitchen floor, a plate of partially eaten food slamming into the ground right beside them.

“W-Wait- I’m-.” They realized their mistake quickly, but it was far too late. Greasy fingers dig into their open mouth before they can snatch it shut. Forcing their jaw wide until it felt ready to snap, pressing their tongue and hooking over the curve of their front teeth. Keeping it in that uncomfortable angle as he pries another chunk from the venison. 

“Now, Red. I spent- a real good ‘mount of time cookin’ yah somethin’ nice, yeah? I’d really, really, *really* hate for you to waste your breakfast.” His accent fades in and out as he crams the rare meat into the enby’s mouth, only letting go of the hold on their jaw when it was firmly crammed inside. “Close your eyes. . .Chew, and swallow.” He clutches their nose shut with the same wet fingers, still reeking of debris. That was the only scent Kris could focus on as they reluctantly obeyed, only focusing on forcing the food down so they could get a much needed breath. Only able to breathe when their mouth was empty and he’d let them tug in second-long inhales.

They’d like to say that it helped, that it made any of the pain inside them feel better. If only it was that simple, if only the stinging didn’t burn with every second the human was on top of them, and if only they couldn’t stop focusing on Noelle. Struggling to fight back gags as Yellow started shoveling more pieces in, one at a time, giving them only a breath’s worth of time to gulp down each. 

“Yeah. . . Just like that. . .Mmmm. . .” He’s getting faster, and more ravenous. Ripping off too much for Kris to finish at once, cramming handfuls of greasy slop into their lips and face, wiping the oily grease over their pale features. Watching with hushed anticipation every time they’d gasp for air by the end of the next round of forcefeeding. 

Their insides feel too empty and too full at the same time, struggling to not vomit up the only food they’ve eaten in days. No clue how much is left, and how long they have until they’re done. Just trying to focus on finishing, on not gagging on everything being forced inside them. 

Trying not to focus on the feeling of something hard prodding into their chest. Something that only was getting harder and harder with every finger that found itself inside their mouth. 

At some point, they’re just gnawing on the inside of their cheek by the time he runs out of meat. The same compulsive motions with nothing to fuel them. Only stopping when they feel the mass hovering over them shifting itself off, and a tight grip on their collar once more. 

“I don’ think you’re done just yet. You made a real mess on my floor, lil’ lady.” There’s still a hushed warmth to how he speaks, and a bulge in those form-fitting longjohns that left everything underneath entirely open. 

What this is about becomes painfully apparent as he nurses himself with a clenched knuckle into his crotch, forcing Kris back onto the tiles face down. Inches from the spew they had spit up a few minutes ago. 

. . .They hover over the partially chewed food, the red splatters that were half blood and half grease, wobbling with shaky knees and a quivering stomach.

It tastes the same as the rest. The texture was revolting, and the taste of the dirt outside was fresh on it. That's the only way they could describe the task of lapping at the filthy tiles, simply closing their eyes and getting it over with as quickly as possible. 

They’re still swallowing down what's left of the mess when Yellow kneels at their side, the vague hints of pleasure still persistent on his raspy voice. Leaning in close, and flashing a yellowed smile. 

“If you thought that was gross, you’re not going to be very happy about what I seasoned that with.” 

It's then that they realize the marks on the table weren’t cuts. 

They were claw marks. 

. . .

. . .

. . .

Chapter Text

“I’ll be back real quick. Be a good girl and behave. . . Yunno, enjoy yourself a lil’.”

There’s nothing to do. Nothing but sitting there, at least. It feels awkward in a way that was familiar to Kris, that feeling of not really knowing how to act or what to say. Feelings that were recognizable to them, given they felt so alone for so long. . . 

If they seemed alone at home, here they might as well be on the moon. Sitting crumpled in the cabin’s living room sofa, apparently trusted enough to not try anything, even after what happened earlier. The sky outside is bright, but buried by thick clouds, and only scraplets of light flicker through the tree-covered windows. . . The birds are still singing, but it’s a softer tune. Somber and melancholy, like this whole room was.  

Something felt wistfully nostalgic about it. A weird part of them swears they’ve been here before, but that was probably the exhaustion talking. Everyone's been somewhere like here before. 

“. . .What does he even want me to. . .” Speaking feels rough, but in a different way to their nonverbal periods. Probably the blood loss. Or the dissociation. 

Kris flickers their gaze over the room, filled bookshelves lined the wall in front of them, dusty sheets thrown over tables, abstract shapes hidden beneath. Random vintage junk that belonged in an old person’s home, and smelled like it too. Musty air that was freshened by the forest breeze. 

They hitch that messy dress up over their dirty knees, clutching them close and rocking side to side on the middle of the sofa. That provides about a minute of entertainment before they throw themselves back, staring up at the wooden slat ceiling, kicking the padded arm of the couch with their good foot.

No clock in here, no chance to tell the time beyond listening to the shower’s continued thumping a few rooms down. He was taking his sweet time with it compared to their quick wash yesterday. 

Being *bored* in a place like this felt maddening. Not feeling worried for their life or what was going to happen to them, though those thoughts were still always present, but just utterly lost. . . 

At some point, they just need stimulation. The last few hours are long enough to stabilize themselves, and they’re finally able to tentatively stand on their own. Dragging their limp leg behind them in a clumsy hobble, trying to ignore the feeling of bones grinding together with each step. A constant pounding in their gut that was barely an improvement from the agony from earlier, still not getting a chance to check how badly they were mangled. 

Mangled.

A table closest to the sofa is the first one they decide to pilfer, pulling the vast cloth sheet off with a *whoosh* to reveal what was hidden. What's underneath is nothing special: an old television with its bunny ears missing, an equally ancient looking VCR, and a teleph- 

*PHONE.

It’s older than the one back home, with a plastic dial covered in faded numbers and a stringy looping cable. But it looked functional . . . Kris leans on the table, flicking the dial wheel to 9, watching how it *clicked* back into place with a tick. From here, they glance at the corner of their vision, back towards the bathroom where the water was still going. No sign of movement, but their heart is still pounding. It felt like the SOUL wanted to rip itself out of them with how much it pried and pushed on the center of their chest. How desperately it moved and twitched on its own. 

*Try it. 

. . .Slowly, they grab the receiver. Heart ready to burst as they press it against their ear, repeating a phone number to themselves to make sure they could get it down the millisecond they had proof that- Nothing can be heard on the other end. Even when they clicked the dial and watched the rotary snap back, not a single noise came from the still phone. 

“. . .What did I expect?” Disappointment was all you could hear in that sigh, slamming the receiver back down hard. Not caring about the way it rocked the table along the hardwood floor roughly. 

*Don’t catastrophize. Check the wire. 

Fears of getting caught only intensify as they check along the back frame of the phone, following the long strand that disappeared down behind one of the bookshelves. Giving it a firm tug, and finding the wire’s lead suddenly ending halfway down.  

All they find is stripped copper wire, a messy slash with loose bits of plastic hanging limp.

It’s been cut. And no time recently, given that the once bright orangish yellow of the copper was now just an off-shade of verdigris green. Too little too late. Snipped a long time ago.  

*Find new wire. 

. . .Kris lets the wire drop, pushing the rotary phone back into its original position, making sure every detail was just how they found it. No sign of it being touched more than the whole table was. 

“You’re not helping. . .” All that disappointment is just frustration now, at how little they could affect anything.The SOUL’s heartbeat grows into an outright pounding, just as the brink of wanting to take control. It takes all their willpower to not let it consume them when they knew it wouldn’t fix anything. 

Still, they keep this in the back of their head. An option to consider for the future if they get time to themselves, if he vanishes off to go hunting or whatever. Finding another wire somewhere was a better option than dying out in the woods, maybe in a cabinet?. . . There were still a few rooms they hadn’t gotten a chance to explore yet.

For now, they focused on their immediate surroundings. The bookshelf next to the table was filled with dozens of books, with a bunch of old VHS’ lining the lower shelves. All of them were labeled with sharpie labels in handwriting that’s too fancy cursive for them to even read.

The enby fishes one from the middle shelf, a simple pink album with the same fancy font along the front. They flicker through the pages, finding it filled with dozens of vintage photos stained brown with age. 

They find themselves freezing on one specific picture: alone on a page entirely by itself, large enough that it took up the whole plastic sleeve. 

A monster family, four of them posed happily together. They looked similar to Tannish-Red Boars, dressed in practical khaki camping attire and flannel, the tallest of them clutching the others tight with a toothy six-tusked grin. The smaller boar is clutching two children close in their grasp and glaring at the biggest one. 

They were posing in front of this exact cabin.  

That chimney in the background is still billowing black smoke, perhaps it's a little more put together, but it's clearly the same.  

All Kris can think about now is those claw marks on the ta-

“Having fun?”

A heavy boom fills the silent living room as Kris suddenly drops the photo album, landing flat with that same photo still exposed.  Practically turning on a dime to face the human now leaned against the hallway’s wall.  

He’s half-dressed still: tanned skin slick with water, stringy hair crumpled behind his neck dripping pellets, only a pair of loose dark trousers to keep him modest. Frazzled, thick bodyhair runs a long line down the center of his out-of-shape chest, a bushy happy trail vanishing down his waistband with puffy tufts poking out the tight fabric. Neither particularly built nor really that thin, muscles just about there at his protruding stomach and flexed arms.  

The scars were what they really couldn’t keep themselves from staring at. Jutting, jagged scars that bounced over his skin like bolts of lighting. Messy claw marks, just as carved into him as they were on the wood in the kitchen. . . 

All the flesh over where his bitter SOUL would be was a festering mass of indented scar tissue. A wound that hasn’t healed properly and never would. Thin enough that Kris could see ambient yellow glowing right through the narrowest pieces of ugly membrane. A part of them wonders if they’ll look like that someday, but the thought alone feels more terrifying than the wounds themselves.

Faded scars marking each of the man’s wrists made the similarities feel nauseating. Just as faded as they were a day ago, but they swear there were new ones. It felt like a map that was difficult to decipher, all those marks with curly hair obscuring them.

It reminds them of the lake from that dream, a reflection that almost matched. . .  but didn’t. 

A trail of water follows Yellow as he mozies along, while Kris is just stuck in place. Watching like a hawk, watching how he takes the photo album in his grasp with uncaring firmness. Soiling the plastic with smudged fingerprints, slipping through the two halves of the sheet, taking the photo secure inside. 

“They were a lovely family, you know.” He comments fondly, dragging a nail over the snout of one of the monsters, watching how the flimsy material creased and crumpled. “Sometimes I look through these photos. I like remembering I’ve made a difference in the world.” He snatches opposite corners, splitting the photo straight down the center, watching as the glossy material collapses into pieces.

. . .Kris takes a step back, and he’s so slow in how he tilts his neck to meet their startled expression. Bright red, and strangely narrow. He doesn’t say anything at first, letting all but the largest of the photo pieces fall to the cabin floor. Flattening it into a spiky ball in the palm of his damp hand. 

“What did you. . .?” It’s a moot question, given the dust in the basement. A frightened reaction that slipped out. Another step, but it barely closes any distance. It feels impossible to fully comprehend the scale of what's happening here. Too much dust in the basement. 

He’s so uncannily gentle in how he takes the enby’s thin wrist, wrapping every finger around it slowly, preventing them from moving an inch more. 

“It's very rude for little girls to ask questions when they already know the answer.” The balled up photo is pushed into their open hand, still so light in the way he forces them to close themselves around that mass of glossy paper. 

Kris doesn’t drop the scrap gifted to them, even when they’re back on that uncomfortable sofa, sitting with Yellow opposite in a gaudy armchair. It feels like their fingers are too stiff to let go, the various points and prods of the spikes poking into the delicate skin of their palm.

Eventually, the sky darkens to an orangish haze, and the terror melts back into a complacent boredom. Watching silently like usual while the other human digs in a cupboard for a few moments before returning right to his shitty armchair with a bottle.  

It's a fat, dark brown bottle, an equally dark liquid sloshing around inside. Already a quarter-empty, betraying a familiarity with the sharp smelling liquor inside as Yellow twists the metal cap. Holding the open tip under his red nose, and giving a long sniff. He shudders in adoration, not even hesitating to down another quarter in a single gulp. 

He’s hazy, tittering on the balls of his feet, glancing over at the teenager who was currently swishing their finger around on the sofa in circles. Boredom gestures.  

“Red~. Les’ chat.” He grins, his teeth still as unwashed as ever even with the rest of him cleaned off, tilting the bottle’s open maw towards Kris. They can practically smell the whiskey from there, and it burns their nostrils. 

. . .They’ve drank before, though nothing serious. A few beers with Susie in the woods. Enough to only show the smallest bits of hesitation, more worried about his intentions than the drink itself. But. . . even the smallest moment is all he needs to try and get under their skin.

“Come on, I thought yah wanted to be a guy. Don’t yah wanna get some hair on your ch-?” He barely is able to slur out that messy insult before they snatch the bottle from his grasp. A hateful glow to their pulsing red eyes as they down a quick sip of the whiskey within.  

It burns like drain cleaner going down. Stinging their dry and abused throat, using everything they had in them to not cough up everything they forced themselves to swallow. Hiccuping, lids drooping low, gritting their teeth in a closed frown. 

“Nonbinary.” They aggressively note, only able to earn another sip of the whiskey before the human snatches it back. Clamping one hand on Kris’ free hanging leg to balance himself. Matching their sip but with none of the sputtering, going down smooth with a triumphant roar. 

“Same monster bullshit- and cross your fuckin’ legs, girl. You’re in a dress.” He’s manhandling them, tugging their thigh over the other in a messy fold. A feminine gesture that didn’t fit their angry face at all. For once, it almost felt like their SOUL and them were both in tandem with one another, the thumping motivating them on. 

“Chatting” comes at some point, but time starts to blur together. The bottle ends up with Kris what feels like a dozen times, and it never seems to end. Sip after sip going into them, and the world shifting and shimmering into a blurry mess of yellow and orange shapes. 

A story comes up along the way, as words slip out without either necessarily thinking clearly. 

“I think about the war a lot, yunno.” He slurs the words out in the weakest mockery of that cowboy accent, barely really working to keep it going in his current state. “I wasn’. . . *there* but I think about it a whole lot. You learn about it in school?” He’s tapping the bottle on the boniest spot of Kris’ knee, their legs ending up in a clumsier fold without them even noticing. It's the broken one, and the jolting in their ankle feels buried under a thick layer of cotton.

Kris leans on their arm to keep steady, feeling ready to collapse into the sofa and pass out at any point. 

“. . .Small stuff. . . It's old history.” It's said so lightly, given it was the truth. They meant nothing by it, but they can tell it struck a nerve in the way the other human’s expression darkened. The red of his eyes was a shade of lurid maroon.

“Of course they would’ teach it well. Whatever they did was probably lovey dovey crap anyways. “Peace” type shit.” He spits a big glob of spit into a crack in the boards, watching it seep through the slats into the foundation below. A gesture he repeats dozens of times as he drinks. 

They’re glaring at him, but they can’t help but be interested. All of this started from wanting to learn about humanity, after all. A part of them still wanted that, even if all they knew of it so far was so miserable. 

“No one won. What else even is there?” They don’t have any of the emotion he does, no connection to an event that was practically ancient. All it did was make how serious he looked more childish. A grown man chasing fairytales. 

“That. . .” He’s breathing rough, but it's hard to tell if that's from the liquor or something else. “. . .We coulda won. Shoulda won.” As he talks, he pokes an idle finger into his chest, prodding at the membrane separating his SOUL from the outside world. Scratching at that delicate flesh until it bled.  Until the yellow inside was practically exposed. 

“. . .Who cares though.” They’d shrug if they weren’t worried about falling over. At some point, the bottle is back with them, and they’re letting tiny bits of whiskey drool from their open lips. Back into the bottle. Not that either noticed, or cared. 

It feels more like a story than history with how Yellow tells it. A good story he wants to tell himself, that he wants to drill into their head. That he says with a puffed out chest and all his pride. 

“A long, long time ago, there were two races rulin’ earth: Humans. . . and Monsters. With their own civilizations and all that. Monsters were always jealous of humanity’s strength, the power of our SOULS and our technology. They *always* lagged behind us, even as they bred like rabbits and filled the world with more of themselves.” He’s talking with such dedication, enough to make Kris understand he sincerely believed those words, as true or false as they are. “It only made sense we’d strike first, before they grew large enough to overwhelm us. To keep ourselves safe. They woulda done the same in our position.” He mixes all kinds of justifications into the raw hate, and in Kris’ current state, it was hard to decipher which was which.

Still, they were listening. He made it almost sound thrilling with how he waves his hands and accentuated every sentence with a storyteller’s tone.

“Humanity’s leadership is unified at first, and we’re winnin’. Wipin’ their worthless villages off the map. One of us is worth a dozen of them. . . War starts draggin’ on though. Too little progress, too much stagnation. And then the *sympathizers* and *monster-lovers* start whinin’. They start- ruinin’ everything. Years of war, and suddenly “Oh, monsters are our friends! Why are we fighting? Let's all just *get along*”. His voice is disturbingly different when he’s repeating those mocking words, like someone else’s voice is coming out of him. It makes them wonder if that's even his real voice. . . “. . .Do you understand? Do you *fuckin’ understand me*?” No one is riling him up but himself, but he has such *hate* in his heart as he speaks. Anger that burns right through Kris. It almost feels like he could spread it through sheer passion.  

. . .Kris shakes their head slowly. It's all they can really manage, their throat full of lukewarm liquor. They don’t even feel when one of the man’s hands finds its way onto the skirt of their dress, gripping into it to try and relieve some tensions.

“People like you ruined everything. We had one shot at riddin’ the world of those animals, and cowards who want to live in filth and rut with monsters ruined it.” There’s loss in how he speaks, a sadness that feels genuine. Something that Kris could almost sympathize with if it wasn’t so hateful against those they loved. . . 

Sympathy is in their heart, but that's not what comes out. It's not what they’d let come out. 

“. . .I can tell why school didn’t teach this. No one cares but you.” They slowly mumble it out, finally working out a halfhearted shrug. Too blurry to care about having an internal filter. Looking right at him with a dozy, sly smile. Eyes beaming brightly. 

Whatever happens because of this, that felt too good to ever regret. 

A part of them is almost disappointed that he doesn’t react stronger. That he doesn’t break their skull with his fists and pound their insides into the sofa until it is stained red. That they can’t grit through broken teeth and always have that win over him. 

Instead, Yellow goes quiet. If you looked close enough, you could see him tremoring. Broad shoulders lurched back, SOUL pounding so loudly it’s audible. Digging fingers into his own chest, splitting that gorey wall and grabbing at the glossy heart within.

  “. . .I think I get it.” He sourly comments, pulling his bloodied digits out of his chest cavity with a sloshy *pop*. A sheer, fleshy mass quickly reforming to cover the gaping wound. An even thinner membrane than before that rethickened slowly. Each was soaked in his own essence, and he watched how the blood webbed between the spread fingers. “See, I took you as a sympathizer type, but I think you’re more a monster-lover.” He’s so rickety standing up, stumbling over himself with how much he’s drank. Kris didn’t even know he had the bottle again, but he takes an extra deep swig, and only a mouthful of whiskey is left inside. Swallowing it all down, practically stumbling over his own feet to sit right at the enby’s side. At the padded sofa, practically lurching over them. Wrapping one arm around the back of them, getting into their personal space until his chest was pressing into their fragile frame. 

They don’t like where this is going, and they don’t like how he's giving them their exact sly smile back.

“You gotta monster back home you’re sweet on, lil’ lady?” His entire mood shifts on a dime, and he’s got this weirdly sweet tone. Bloody fingers twirling together in small circles to spread the red over each neatly. It reeked of the same scent as Kris’ own. . . 

A bad feeling lurched in their stomach, but they were too drunk to shut themselves up. Head spinning itself into circles, only able to lean into the man’s contact with how unsteady they were.

“Y-Yeah. . . “ They hadn’t gotten a chance to admit this to anyone before, even though they’re certain their friends knew. It felt so obvious, and yet they just couldn’t force themselves to spit it out. “We’re not dating but. . . we’ve been through a lot together. I like her a lot. . .” It's too honest, too many things they’ve wanted to tell someone else but never have gotten a chance to.  Things they never should be telling to someone like this in a position like this .

Yellow’s smile only seemed to grow at that, spreading his fingers in a “V”, blood dripping into the crack formed like the spit had into the floorboards. The drunken blush that was on his fuzzy cheeks intensified into an outright blister. 

“Heh, shoulda know’ you’re into other girls. That's real hot. . .” He slips that last comment under his breath, only to continue like nothing happened. “So, what's she like? What kinda monster?” Right back to that lovey dovey fascination, but Kris’ dread is just growing, and growing with every question. Realizing just how trapped they are in this current position, even under that wall of muddiness.  

“W-Wait, what are you-.”  They shouldn’t sound so panicked, it only makes how vulnerable they are more blatant. How weak their hand of cards is, and how easy they are to lead wherever he wanted. How quickly a comforting shush was able to ease their tensions, a little hum and soft strokes through their messy hair. . . 

“I want to know. Sincerely.” He’s certainly lying, but he’s so painfully earnest sounding. And his touch feels so real in a world of gray, as little as they really wanted it. . . Enough to goad more out of them at least. 

“. . .She’s an uh. Lizard? And ourp- purple. And. . . big. Bigger than me. Strong. . . Teeth, and claws, and stuff. . .” Weak words forced out through hiccups, only able to form the basics. What they would say if they had to boil her down so simply when she was someone they loved so dearly. 

They swear he’s getting closer. So close that their hearts were practically close enough to touch, that they could reach out and poke at that secure yellow mass. It looked glossy and crystalline in the same way as theirs, but with a weaker finish and small pitting on the otherwise smooth surface. Corroded, just like its owner. And it was practically vibrating in excitement now.

“Heh, a dyke then? Of course. . . What's her name?” It's an order now, not a request like the rest. But that adoring never leaves.

They’re shaking too, but for different reasons to him. It feels impossible to stop trembling as all those memories come flooding back, and where this is going becomes even more abstract. . . 

“. . .Susie.” It slips out before they can realize it's a bad idea. It's only getting harder to think, harder as the human holds the liquor bottle to their lips, tilting it slowly to let all that was left slither down their insides. 

When they’re at their most comatose, it's then that he gets on top of them. Pushing them into the plush sofa so deep they felt like they were melting into the pillows. He’s still so tender about it versus how harshly he pinned them to the floor earlier. Trying to not put himself fully, an uncanny care in how he kept stroking them slowly, working his hand down from their hair, over their whiskey soaked bottom lip, over their flat chest and perky nipples. 

“I have a real fun idea. Close your eyes.” It's a drunk whisper, as much an order as the previous remark. Kris only can muster token resistance, barely knowing what was happening until they felt those bloodied fingers making contact with their mangled crotch. 

It's still painful and sensitive, not feeling anything at first but those long nails pressing into their tight folds. The wet slickness of blood letting him easily force those clumsy fingers inside. An inch at a time, pushing in slowly. Their body is barely reacting beyond a vast heat that spreads from their abused parts. Heat and Discomfort. No skill or deftness to how he just forces himself in, and pushes, and pushes.

When they don’t listen,  a free hand clamps over their wide eyes, the shaky, chaotic world being covered by serene black. Keeping it firmly there as he leans in close, against their ear with foul smelling breaths when he gives them a simple suggestion:

“Imagine its her fuckin’ you right now.” It felt like he squeezed their heart right out of them with that. At the thought that sent them into a spiral. Everything inside of them was empty, and it was so easy to cram something sweet into that spot. Something comforting. Something that reminded them of home.

Kris tries it. Trying to ignore whatever intentions were behind it, imagining those fingers exploring  their insides were her. . . It's hard to build a scenario. Pretending they’re on the sofa back at their house, her heavy frame kept steady to not crush them. 

Feeling at those fingers that started pulling out with a slick noise, and were pushed back in at a steady pace. Purple fingers hitting the deeper spots inside their moistness, at a specific nub that sent shivers through their waist. Rutting into a wide palm that was rubbing itself into their outer lips, lifting their hips, trying to cram as much of themselves in as they can.

Yel-Susie slipped another finger in, stretching out what had little more room, bloody digits being washed clean with every thrust into their increasingly wet insides. Susie is panting, growling sweet whispers into them, seeing how deep they could be filled. How many fingers it would take to bring them closer and closer to *something*. Something they’ve felt many times, but never in this way. So different from long hours alone in their room. Something that almost felt like love. 

“Susi- Susie. . . Please, I. . .” The lines start to blur, and it feels so real. If they keep their eyes clamped shut hard enough, they can feel her body on theirs. All that love and yearning paying off with those clawed fingers thrusting as fast as they can. As quickly as possible. They didn’t even realize they were moaning. Louder than they’ve ever been when touching themselves with their face buried into a pillow. 

Feminine noises they were too drunk to even give a shit about. Slurring that name into the rough hand clamped over their face, repeating it louder and louder as they were seconds away from release. 

Susie’s tongue is on their earlobe, a long lick that quickly turned into a bite. Pain mixed with the pleasure, the smell of blood in the air, their insides tightening around the digits crammed within a- 

Suddenly, something harsh and sharp claws at their closed eyelids. Something that twisted at the flesh until they reflexively shot open in agony.  

Just in time to be reminded of reality as they finished. Yellow’s cruel, sneering expression, mangy hair hanging over his face, towering over them with cum soaked fingers dripping with their climax. The juices mixed with the blood, staining different parts of him, all their blood, all their juices, and his own crimson too. 

They freeze in that moment, and only then realize what had just happened. What he was getting at as he closed what little distance was left to keep them safe, until his forehead was near pressed into theirs. 

That soiled hand is pressed into their cheek, and the liquids left when he drags it slowly over their trembling flesh is painfully hot.

“You really are a little monster rutter, huh? Don’t worry. . .” 

He smiles as wide as a wolf.

“You’ll be moaning like that for me by the end of the month.” 

Chapter Text

THE LITTLE BUNNY

By █████

Little Bunny is in the Woods.

Little Bunny is lost in the Woods.

Little Bunny is far from home in the Woods. 

Little Bunny is abandoned by her mom in the Woods.

Little Bunny is underdressed for winter in the Woods. 

Little Bunny is approached by a strange man in the Woods. 

Little Bunny is given an encouraging smile in the Woods.

“Hey there, lil’ darling! Whatcha doin’ all on your own?” 

Little Bunny is given a welcoming hand in the Woods. 

“Aw, get a lil’ lost? Here, why dontcha come with me? Somewhere nice and warm ‘till I can take you back home. . .” 

Little Bunny isn’t leaving the Woods. 

. . .

. . .

. . .

Kris doesn’t dream. Their head is too much of a mess to be able to, they can’t even really recall when they had fallen asleep. All they remember is tears. Clenched knuckles pounding against someone's chest. Trying to dig their rage filled hands inside to break his heart as much as he broke theirs. All they wanted was to get that stupid smile off his face for even a second.

When they’re awake next, their eyes still feel wet. The body next to them was gone, and all that’s left was a crumpled poncho. Striped fabric sticking to their sweat-soaked skin, still smelling strongly of its wearer.  

They can’t tell how long it's been. Outside, all they can really see is the pitch black of night. Could be a few hours, could be almost morning by now. The sky through the windows betrayed nothing, not even a moon. For as far as Kris was concerned, this might as well be the whole universe. It's almost like the Dark World, the closet just before the descent. 

The air is bitterly cold, and they struggle to unwrap themselves from the poncho’s embrace. A part of them just wants to go back to bed. Every second they’re asleep is at least another second where they might get to go home. A pounding pain is thumping in their temples, and the thought of standing feels nauseating. 

The ceiling looks a mile away suddenly. Those wooden slats felt as narrow as jail bars. They’re trying to be gentle on themselves, leaning back into the sofa, counting each plank slowly. It almost felt comfortable like that. Like when they’d lay on the couch in front of the TV and pass out with Susie.

Susie. . .

They tried to think of her as they clamped their eyes shut again. Hoping they’d get another dream of her, or just anything. Anything that felt more comforting than this dark, dark room. . . 

Just as they’re finally about to doze off, the wooden door of the cabin slams open with a thump. They’re far from asleep, but aren’t in the state to deal with him right now. Too drunk to care. Hopefully, they’d daze off before he even-

“W-Woah, your cabin is r-really nice. . .” It's a new voice. Something soft, and fragile. 

Young. . . Really. . . Y. . .  

Kris’ eyes shot open. A soft red glow builds behind their dull pupils. Something is spurred to life by that new person. They’re too drunk to stand, but *they* aren’t. Pulled upward like a puppet suspended on supernatural strings. As much as the actual vessel grumbled and groaned at the gesture, the being within wouldn’t leave well enough alone. It's not like Kris wouldn’t do the same in a better situation. 

*Stranger. 

They can’t bother to stop them when they’re this dedicated. It feels like dissociation when they simply are a passenger for the actions happening in front of them. It's been rare for them to so openly assert control like this since they were in Home Town. They had no qualms being direct and open about who was pulling the strings then. 

The pull of prophecy felt ever constant. That alien force that wanted them back on their predetermined path no matter what. Popping up from the couch with the faintest hint of a wobble, finding two figures walking in from the cold night air. 

A familiar human, and an unfamiliar monster. 

She’s this distressingly frail thing. A head shorter than Kris, maybe even more. Thin, fur-covered limbs that were little more than bone. An almost whimsical nature to how little there was to her. A fairytale drawing that had no room for organs or muscles, and it looked like the soiled, tattered nightgown draped over her weighed more than she did.  

Two floppy, long ears were drooped over the sides of her brown eyes protectively, a stubby snout with small bucked teeth sniffed at the cabin’s musky air curiously. She looked like a rabbit with her caramel fur and brown splotches with a puffy cottonball tail sticking out of a hole ripped in the nightgown. The only detail that stood out was a stick-like antler jutting out from messy bangs. It looked more like wood than bone, so spindly that it felt like you could snap it off just by glancing at her too strongly. 

On the other side, the matching antler was already broken off. Only a little broken bit sticking out an inch or so like a cracked log. 

One tiny paw was gripped into her yellow gown, and the other was being tightly held by the much larger human at her side. Her entire paw engulfed in Yellow’s grasp, a weirdly caring look on his usually bitter face. 

“Heh, well thankya, lil’ lady! Ain’ yah just so mannerful?.” His accent felt stronger. So forcibly put on that he sounds more like a cartoon character than a real person. Clicking his tongue and flashing the little monster a supportive nod. “Les’ get y’all wrapped up now. You mus’ be *starvin’*.” It's a gentle tone. Caring, but with something lurid under it. He knew what was going to happen soon. They knew what was going to happen soon. 

It’s the energy of someone who's done this before. Luring in others with a silver tongue. They’re starting to understand why he can change his voice so easily. He’s feeling less and less like a person the more they know him.

“Y-yeah, my mama didn’t feed me this morning. . . I’d really like. . “ The monster’s words trail off as she spots Kris. Staring far more than they should be. Standing at the threshold and watching where the other human’s hands roamed. With his usual red poncho still crumpled up on the couch, one with shades of yellow and brown was draped over his shoulders instead. Just as rough as the rest of him is.

When Yellow flashes them a disarming smile, their stare becomes a grimace worthy of shattering glass. It doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence in the small girl at his side, not realizing how much danger she’s in when she shrinks back behind one of his leather strap covered legs.

Kris knows how close their SOUL is pushing things, but even they can’t help but feel pride still. All it did was serve as a temporary distraction though, all it accomplished was making her more scared of them than him.

“Hey- Hey.” His accent falters for a brief moment, but he’s quick to bury it back down. It didn’t seem like he was used to distractions. “Now l-listen, darlin’. That’s just my. . . daughter. She’s a lil’ aloof, but she’s plenty nice. Maybe you’ll get a chance to chit chat real soon.” The smarminess is back, and he picks everything carefully to twist the knife in. Not letting Kris respond as he subtly drags the monster along by the wrist. His hand practically could wrap around her wrist twice. . .

They haven’t heard that used for them since they weren’t much older than this girl. If he’s trying to get under their skin, it’s old wounds for Kris, but not for the SOUL. They were a recent development, and had no real connection to it beyond the hurt the body itself felt.

Before pulling her away, Yellow whispers something into their ear. Something quick, meant only for them and not their sudden guest:

“I’ll be in the basement. Don’t bother me.” He orders firmly, beckoning down at the sofa with a casual point. Not interested in getting distracted from whatever he had planned below. Something that felt painfully obvious given the piles of dust that Kris had woken up in. 

A small graveyard’s worth of death, just under their feet. All they could do is watch as Yellow guides the small girl towards the basement. Promising all sorts of sweet things as she glanced down the open maw of the doorway.

The door snaps shut with a solid click. Muffled footsteps vanishing into the earth with an echo. Kris stays standing right in the spot they had been in, trying to listen for anything decipherable. . . 

Nothing to begin with. Just silence, not even the sounds of them moving below escaping to the surface. They’re still just standing there, shifting on sore legs and awaiting anything to act on. 

*ACT 

It feels obvious, in a way. They’ve convinced the worst villains to change their ways. This isn’t about world destruction like their blessed prophecy, this is something far simpler. Little sadists who believe they have far more push in this world than they do. 

It’ll be easy for you to talk him out of this in the same way you did for the others. The darkners. Queen. Those blasted shadow beings. You have no malice to your vessel for losing faith so quickly, but this is your world and you have far more pull.

Suddenly, the basement becomes invigorated with noise. Not screaming, nothing that explicit. Simple shuffling and heavy grinding. Soft yelling. 

*Convince 

They move smoothly as they take long, careful strides to the door. Slow steps to hide what they’re doing until it's too late to prevent it. Just treating this like another Dark World that needs to be solved. 

Simple, right? You assumed so at the very least. When given a chance to save another life, you’d never pass on it. You’d never throw away your heroisms in this body to sully your soul now.  

You can feel your vessel’s hesitation, but it's secondary. Their feelings have rarely aligned with your approach to begin with. Sometimes a more forceful hand was needed in the name of improvement. 

“We will talk to him. I will talk to him. I will amend the splintered prophecy.” There was little of the hesitation and fear in their voice. The events of the previous night have made what needs to happen clear.

The doorknob is slowly turned to not make even a click. Tugged open to give the smallest crack for them to pass through. Making sure not a single step creaked as they watched the scene playing out in front of them from the top steps. 

The Gold Heart is standing over the White Soul. She’s on the floor, in a puddle of grey dust. Frozen stiff like a deer in the headlights, eyes wide with betrayal. Both of her ring-thin wrists are clutched in the human’s grasp, and he’s lurching over her like a specter of justice. 

“Hold still.” He growls the order out with none of the care or smoothness of his previous savagery. Stripped of rationale, all that's left is hate. A long strand of rope is stretched over her wrists in careless knots. Keeping them pressed together even as he pulls away with a hiss. “You got yourself into this, mongrel. Now shut up and sit the fuck down.” Yellow points down at the filthy concrete just as he had with Kris, but this time his victim is far more compliant. The jackalope drops down instantly, stumbling over meager whimpers and not even trying to fight back tears.  

She just wasn’t ugly crying yet, but they’re sure that’ll come soon.  

Yellow tilts open his poncho, making the revolver stored within visible to the small girl. Six bullets in the chamber. He had been preparing for a night like this. 

“See that? That is a *gun*. It makes very big holes in you if I pull that trigger. If you move from that spot for a second, I’m going to fucking fill you with very big holes. You understand, cur?” He jangles the shiny metal to make how real it was very obvious. How dangerous it is as he clicks the hammer and spins the cylinder.  

The frantic nodding doesn’t stop the tears, and she only just shrinks deeper down into the floor in terror. Teardrops stain the ashes dark gray as she sits in that graveyard worth of dust. A baby rabbit’s cries bring the gnashing teeth of the wolves.

“Y-You’re sc-scaring me. . .” She whimpers out, still not understanding what's happening here. Too young to understand what's happening here. 

It's only when Yellow takes another step closer to the scared child that you finally spring into action.  

“Wait.” They make their presence known by trotting down the stairs slowly, letting the human catch them at the corner of his eye. “You don’t have to do this.” They’re at the peak of their passive, convincing voice. As light as they can be. A sweet tone as always, one that could befriend anyone and sever all blasphemers of prophecy.  

Yellow seemed. . . confused. He looks at them, but he looks through them instead. Like he wasn’t entirely certain where this came from. Trying to unravel a puzzle that just appeared before him.

“What's gotten into you?” He stares down at their chest, something red visible under the thin dress’ fabric. “You have a lot of fucking gull suddenly.” When they take a step towards him while talking, he can’t help but step forward to meet them. They refuse to back down, and so does he. 

You breathe in and out. Trying to give the girl a few moments to catch hers as well. Trying to let the atmosphere in the room cool. This was a situation that required a careful touch. 

“I know this all has to come from somewhere.” Their talking is light, and lacking the usual awkwardness that Kris’ voice usually had. Something confident and maternal. “You’ve hurt a lot of people, but this doesn’t need to happen this way. We can work through it. . . Don’t you want that?” It's easy to play off other’s emotions, to try to tug on another’s heartstrings. They’re trying to find anything to stab a needle through his cold exterior. *Anything* that could work. All they need is an ounce of hesitation. 

. . .Yellow doesn’t say anything. His eyebrows curl, and his eyes soften. All he does is march across the basement, and drag back a wooden chair from the table. He sits backwards on it, folding his tense arms on the rest and mounting his head on them. Kicking his cowboy boots into the legs and smiling fondly. 

“*Do* I wan’ that? Hmmm~. Well, why should I?” He asks inquisitively, leaning on the chair and swaying it on the front. Whistling as he waits for a response. 

It almost seems intentional that he gives you nothing. But all you can do is swallow down your hesitations, and carry on on the path you’ve chosen. The strings of fate were your guide to a better tomorrow. 

“Well. . . Does all of this not seem unneeded? You’re living in squalor.” They beckon around the desolate basement, back up towards the empty cabin above. “I just believe you could be a lot happier if you stopped this. We can help you with it. . .” It’s a white lie, given they never wanted to see this man again if they got out of here. A distraction of his accord would only get in the way of prophecy. But it felt the easiest promise nonetheless. . .

The monster girl kept sobbing as they talked, even as Yellow hums and toys with the grip of his revolver. Fiddling with the varnished wood, and barely thinking for that long. He responds quicker than they can talk. 

“Squalor? I think I’m havin’ a pretty good time.” He bares his yellowed, filthy teeth, running a splotchy-white tongue over the front row. “You wouldn’ understand. You don’ have any of the obligations I have, and you don’ get it what it’s like to carry everyone’ on your back.” He sounds serious, as if this is something that carried a deeper weight than it did. Like this wasn’t vile brutality and nothing more. 

*LIAR 

That strikes a nerve. You can’t help but feel insulted. Enough to not let something spill out before they can stop themselves. The mask falters for the briefest of moments. 

“You don’t know anything about obligation, you miserable fool. You’ve never helped anyone and never will.” Sharp words, ones meant to cut instead of aid. Red SOUL thumping through their body in frustration. 

*PAIN

A pistol grip strikes you in the jaw before you can dodge it. No blood splatters or marks from that beyond a bruise, it was a light blow meant to knock them to the floor. To sever your control of the vessel, to muddy your brain in murkiness.  

He’s on you, a revolver barrel digging into your temple. Pressing it in hard to keep your face buried into the dusty concrete. You already know you messed up, you already know what you’ve done, and it feels too late to amend it. 

Perhaps your vessel was right. That's all you can really imagine as the cowboy worms his grimy hand against the body’s chest. Right in the center, over where their h- 

*NO

Yellow gently worms his fingers onto that delicate spot, clenching his grasp in a wide cup. Massaging into the sensitive skin there that’s only a few inches thick of spongy flesh. He knows the exact spot to search for, it's one he’s explored on himself dozens of times. 

“I think you’re gettin’ a lil’ rowdy, red. Got somethin’ nasty brewin’ in yah. Wanna see a magic trick?” He clenches his teeth and stiffens his whole arm, very aware of how this will feel. Giving them no time to prepare as he drives his hand inside. 

*NO NO N

Kris gasps as they feel the familiar sensation of their SOUL being ripped away. It's a sensation that always felt atrocious when they were doing it themselves, and somehow it stung in a unique way when it’s ripped out by another. The feeling of everything that comprises them being torn out. Leaving only an empty, shallow husk in its place. They were already extremely low energy before, and being like this made it impossible to move. Nothing worked. Everything didn’t ache, or hurt, it just felt like *nothing*. Numbness without their core, staring up at Yellow clenching their bloodied heart. 

Red drips from the glossy soul, and he can’t help but hold it up to the light to view the lovely sheen. When he squeezes it firmly, Kris can’t help but seize up like a voodoo doll. 

“Golly, isn’t that lovely? You know, ‘round some parts they say you never really know someone ‘till you see their SOUL.” He softly talks as he watches the SOUL writhe, struggling in his hold, struggling to return to its host. “The SOUL is a window into humanity. It’s everything that makes us strong.” For as big as he makes it sound, it doesn’t feel that way when he crams that red heart into the unlit furnace, slamming the barred door shut and locking it up tight. 

It kept moving on its own even as Kris laid there in their own misery. A little puddle of their blood soon forming. 

It’s a shame that they couldn’t talk to it, they’d love nothing more right now than to tell it how stupid this was. All it ever seemed to do is ruin their life more and more whenever it took control. Forcing them to be someone they didn’t want to be, something they didn’t want, something that was so far from who they really were. 

In a way, the SOUL and that human had a lot more in common then they’d ever admit. 

Kris is just a limp doll at this point, and all they can really do is let themselves be maneuvered as Yellow picks them up and pushes them against the back wall. Propping them up like a camera towards the small monster still cowering, only able to watch as their face is adjusted into just the right position.

“I’m going to teach you something tonight that you’ll never forget.” He promises it with loving words, patting their cheek and wiping away tears of numbness. . . Leaving a smear of their own blood as he pulls away. They were dying, slowly. And all they could do is watch as the cowboy stands to his full height and leers back towards the monster girl with blood-soaked hands and bright red eyes. 

“Sorry about that, lil’ lady! Now, let's get down to business, huh?” He sounds chipper, practically manic. Enjoying every second of this as he crouches down at the girl’s side.

Her SOUL practically jolts right out of her body when Yellow makes contact with her head. Poking lightly at the fragment of her missing antler, scratching at its tip roughly. Watching how she winced after every bit of contact. 

“I'm- I’m s-sorry. . . I-if I did anything w-wrong. . .” She stutters it out so meekly, trying her hardest to speak over the spittle. “I j-just wanna go h-home. . .” The waterworks start before she can even finish her desperate plea, too many tears. More tears than felt possible for such a tiny little creature.

Yellow works his way down the missing antler, running tender circles around the thin bone. Circling it back and forth, gently forcing her head to the side with a grip on her floppy bunny ear. Gripping into it so tightly like a leash on a dog, keeping her angled to make it easier to examine her antlers. 

“Oh, you’ve done a lot wrong, darlin’.” He explains gleefully, twisting the girl’s ear like you’d wring a towel. Watching how the caramel fur came off in clumps and a squeak leaves her snout. “All your kin have. . . But don’ worry your sweet lil’ head. . . You’re gon’ make it up to me.” That same luridness from earlier was back, and it sounds near ready to burst.

The monster girl sniffles, kneading shaky paws into her stomach, shivering from the cold air. . . 

“I d-don’t get it. . . What c-can I do. . ?” She seems the least bit less sad at the idea of this being a big misunderstanding. That she did something she can make right. Childish thoughts, ones that Yellow was happy to play with. 

Kris wishes they’d at least be able to shut their eyes, but even that was too difficult in their current state. The world grows darker with every passing minute, only a small tunnel to mark the scene happening right in front of them. 

There’s a skip to Yellow’s steps, a craftsman’s care. Someone who was in their element, and doing what they truly loved. The bright spurs on his boots spun and jangled as he looked for something on the table. Tossing various rusted tools aside until he arrived at a particular one: A large wood saw. 

The saw is rusted at the edges, wobbling the serrated metal blade, clenching it in both hands to hold it out to the small monster. Letting her get a good look at that messy, filthy mass of teeth. 

“Nothin’ you can do that I can’t myself. Just hold. . . very, very, very still.” His words trail off as he starts breathing harshly. Panting hard, struggling to keep any sense of composure. Losing himself in his own desperate thoughts. “I’m gonna even you out. I’m going to show you Justice .” He can’t keep himself waiting anymore, snatching at the jackelope’s antler, holding her roughly by the tip. She squeals and screams, but he slams her down to the dusty concrete anyways. Forcing her head flat, using her own bone to hold her in place. As much as she scrambles on her little paws, all it takes is a bit of force to stop any resistance. And she only begs and pleads harder when the woodsaw’s deep jags are forced into the base of the antler, right where the other is snapped off.  

Nice and symmetrical, the perfect position to begin grinding the teeth into sensitive bone. A sound like splintering wood fills the basement, each cut digging the blade in deeper. He has to take his sweet time with it, her antler is so spindly only a few brief cuts would split it down the middle. So he takes it *slow*. Stopping between slashes to whisper sweet nothings into her fluffy ear. 

It's a sound that Kris would never forget.

Halfway through, the saw gets stuck. As he tugs and pulls, the serrasions bite into the coarse bone and refuse to let go.

“Heh. Needy lil’ thing, aincha?. . .” He purrs, wiggling the handle to watch the girl sob. Every movement aches, and he can pull her whole head around by the grip. Watching just how stuck on it she was, lifting her slightly off the ground, and dropping her back down. 

Yellow clears his throat with a hack, and spits up a big gob of spit where the saw met the bone. It's only now that Kris realizes they’ve been drooling. Spit is pooling at the neck of their dress. 

“A lil’ elbow grease, and. . .” He drives the jagged saw in with one last slash, thin enough left to drive the metal through with sheer blunt. A grating noise comes from the monster, but it's impossible to decipher. Just something like a high-pitched shriek, kicking at the dusty floor with her back paws and clawing at the ground with her stubby blunt paws. 

“Yee-fuckin’-haw! There’s the money shot.” Yellow hoots and hollers in pure mania, stomping the ground and thumping his shoulder with a clenched fist. The saw ends up at Kris’ feet when he tosses it haphazardly across the basement. He replaces the rusted tool with the broken chunk of antler, holding it up to the single lightbulb like a prized trophy. It’s a lovely shade of whitish-yellow, as smooth as it is poreless. Little bits of dust drip from the piece, losing what magic comprises it second by second.

The little girl’s head is pried up by both her floppy ears, clutching them over her head in Yellow’s squeezed grasp. Making her look right at the missing antler with a mocking jeer. 

“Ashes to Ashes.” He sing-songs like a children’s nursery rhyme, squeezing the antler and watching how it cracked with ease. With so little magic left, it only took the briefest pressure for him to clasp in a fist. It crumples into a small puddle of dust that falls through the cracks, joining the pile like sand in an hourglass. “Dust to Dust.” He snorts as he wipes the dust over her short snout, into her teary eyes and through her dirty hair. She’s already covered in the stuff from the other dead monsters, but only now does she seem to fully realize what she’s sitting in. 

All that's left on her head now is two stubby, broken bits of bone. She almost looks like a normal bunny now, with a fearful expression that matches the energy of prey. Her cute little nightgown is covered in gray dust, and she desperately tries to wipe off the stains to no avail. When she swipes her paws over them, all she does is smear them deeper. . .

“My m-mama’s gonna be mad. . .” She whines the words out, coughing on the dust freely filling the air and trying harder to wipe it away. No matter how hard she tries, it accomplishes nothing. Meanwhile, Yellow is back at his work table, looking for something new to play with. 

At some point, her eyes find their way to Kris. They were terrified of the idea alone, and only felt worse when it actually happened. Begging with her expression alone, wanting them to do  *anything*. Not understanding even with what had just happened that they were just as trapped in place as she was. 

All they can provide is visual comfort. Trying their hardest to give her anything, and just laying there, only able to work out a slow blink. Blinking at her a few times in a row, in no real pattern. 

They hope she got something from that, even if it was all soon dashed when the cowboy returns with something in hand.

“Now, Red. I know yah grew up around these beasts, but I bet you don’ know as much as I do ‘bout how they work!I learned plenty a’ that through the rodeo.” He’s educationally talking, happy to teach another human the tools of his trade. Just positively delighted when he holds the object out to them: a large lead pipe. Thick and heavy with a fat coupling still screwed onto the end, just as grimy as the other tools down here.   

Yellow rolls his sleeves up as he talks, tightening the velcro on his gloves with a tug of his teeth. 

“Now, compression strength! Or, tensile? Either way, monsters are special. Made of magic and all that typa’ bullshit. Nothin’ actually inside ‘em. . . But I’m sure you know that, lil’ lady..” He grips the pipe one hand over the other, in the way you’d hold a baseball bat. Giving the air a few testing swings, and relishing in how the girl flinched with each. 

His hat comes off, crinkling the brown leather as he places it right on Kris’ crooked head. It's rough and in an awkward position, but they can barely feel much of anything right now anyways.

“Monsters, you stab em and they go down like *that*.” He taps the end of the pipe on their chest as he rants. Right over that empty, bloodied hole where their SOUL should be. “Dead as a doornail. Real quick and clean. But. . . blunt force, they’re real sturdy to it. Can just hammer on ‘em over an’ over and nothin’.”  Experience is drenched in his ramblings, and the enby can only guess how many monsters have had to die for him to know this. Enough for him to be certain on his theories and ideas. 

Yellow raises the pipe high, and keeps it readied as he turns away from Kris’ tunnel vision, holding it right over his shoulder. A tiny part of them is hoping this is all just a sick game. That even *he* wouldn’t actually do this. That he just wanted to scare them into obedience before throwing this girl back into the wilds. 

Everything honestly just feels like wishful thinking. It's all they have left to cling onto. It's all they could focus on as a ringing intensifies in their ears, and Yellow’s words muddy and warp. 

“Let me demonstrate-” He starts moving before he stops talking, pouncing at the monster with a full step and bringing down the full girth of the pipe straight down on her head. It hits with sickening amounts of force, striking her to the floor as a sound like metal striking metal rings out through the basement. The sound of the pipe vibrating from bouncing off her skull makes them want to vomit. And the sounds she’s making, like disoriented howls, clenching her forehead protectively and blithering out more sobs.

When Yellow pulls her back up by her ears to hold her out to Kris, only a deep mark is left on her forehead. No blood, no caved in skull. No sign of anything beyond this petite bruise that practically took up her whole forehead. So little damage for such a massive swing. 

He pulls her face in close, giving Kris a grin and holding her up like a trophy animal. Treating them like nothing more than a glorified video camera. 

“See? It's fun. They can just take-” He uses her ears to slam her head right into the ground, watching it ricochet off the concrete twice. There’s no buildup to it as he just starts pummeling her with the pipe’s weight. Swing after swing into her oversized head, and her bony stomach, and her spindly arms. “-so much punishment. You can jus- *THWACK* hit em- *THWACK* and do whatever- *THWACK*- you want to ‘em. Like livin’ punchin’ bags.” At first, the girl tries to block his blows. Tries to protect herself in whatever meager ways she can. All it takes is a few strong blows from the full grown man towering over her for her to just collapse in on herself. Sobbing into herself, rigid on the ground, only trying to clench her eyes shut and hope it’ll be over soon. 

The girl is soaked in bruises by the end.  Bruises that didn’t really look like the ones on Kris’ own body, lacking the dark shades of purple and black. They were more grays and whites, like everything comprising her physical form was fading away. The color of her fur in the thicker areas was no longer a bright shade of caramel brown, and more an off-shade of eggshell. It looked like years of life were taken off her in only a minute of beating. . . 

It doesn’t even look like she has any tears left to give. Messy clumps of her fur appeared ripped out, but no pieces were anywhere in the room. Just dust, and more dust. Her skin was just as paled and white as the rest of her…

“I’m s-sorry. . . I’m s-sorry. . . What did I d-do wrong. . . M. . . Mama. . .”  Her words are barely whispers, like she had so little left to give. Just desperate to make the torment end, desperate to apologize and have it all be okay. 

If this was a human child, or even Kris, she'd certainly be dead by now. 

Yellow hitches her by the dust-stained nightgown, holding her right off the ground. He can keep her steady with so little with how little she weighs.

“Like I said: a whole lot, lil’ lady.” He harshly says, dropping her back to the center of the room. Keeping her pinned in place by a pipe dug into her neck. “Now, why don’t you try harder? And again. An’ more. Apologize harder.”  He squeezes the pipe and slaps it against his palm, clearly expecting her to perform. Taking a moment to wipe a thick slathering of dust off the lead connector. 

. . .The monster girl tries to sit up, but not before falling face first back into the dust. She’s slipping and sliding on the soaked floor, and it takes forever to get back to her narrow knees.

“I’m s-so sorr-” Before she can get the words out fully, another swing of the human’s pipe finds its way to her already-abused skull. Straight into her temple, knocking her right back into the dust. 

The grinning human beckons to her with the pipe, breathing heavier and heavier. Kris can practically see the glow of his SOUL through the back of his longjohns, and it was beating like a constant tremble. 

“Get up. Try again. Harder. Make it feel *real*.” He’s having the time of his life, and you can feel his excitement in the air. It felt electric.  

She stumbles up again, only more of her physical frame appearing faded. Kris swears they can see through her partially. . . Like there’s barely a glimmer of transparency. Flickering in and out like static. . . 

And yet, she still stumbles up, and gives him a chipped tooth frown. 

“P-Please, please. . . I’m s-sorry, I’m so-” She’s only allowed to mumble out a few pleads before Yellow hits her again, and again. This cycle goes on for what feels like an hour. The monster trying her hardest to apologize, to even get a single word out, and her promptly being beaten for it.

Kris can’t watch, but they can’t look away either. Trapped in their own body, their soul so close, but so far. They’re wondering if the SOUL is watching in its little iron cage. It's so used to watching while they ruin their own life, it should feel right at home here. 

This feels like all their fault anyways, so they really, really hope it's watching. All they can see from here is the slight red glow from the furnace’s metal bars, and the slight shifting of wood.

By the time he finally drops the battered pipe on the ground right beside the woodsaw, he’s struggling to catch his breath. Yellow digs into his pockets, pulling out a crumpled cigarette and taking long puffs on its unlit tip. 

“Ahhh. . . Long night on the cattle trail. . .” Something else comes out of his pocket as he sighs in relief, a handful of small. . . pills. Three or four white ones with lines right down the middle. A few numbers were on the other side, but Kris’ vision was too blurry to read it. Not that they really cared either way, just watching him throw them back and chew them up. 

The girl is a mess. All the pretty brown shades and caramel undertones are missing from her now spiky and sickly fur, all that's left are various shades of gray and white. Her eyes are a soft bloodshot, and she’s not really moving anymore. Not doing much of anything except laying there in a crumpled puddle of the dead. She just keeps staring forward, right at where Kris was. All the blathering was gone, and they weren’t certain it was going to be back before the end. 

What's about to happen next is clear as the human unholsters his revolver. They use everything left inside them to try and clench their eyes shut. . . but the big bang doesn’t happen. Instead, they feel a hand on them, gripping them by their limp arm to drag them towards the center of the room. 

“Wh. . . N. . .” They slur out nothings. It’s near impossible to speak, impossible to fight back. Impossible to do anything but reflexively feel their eyes tilting open to be met with Yellow’s sinister expression. 

“Oh come on, Red! Your daddy never takes yah hunting? It's just like that.” He’s got that same educational tone as before. Like this was all just another lesson about humans. Not letting them ignore what was soon to happen as he grips them from behind, taking both their hands in his own. 

From this pose, his chin buried into their trembling shoulder, he guides them so lovingly. Making them wrap their numb fingers around the gun’s curved trigger. 

“It’s so simple. . . It’s like a toy, it's so simple. Even a lil’ kiddo like her could do it.” He clicks the hammer back, watching how the cylinder revolves in a new bullet. He already did this earlier, but they’re sure he just wants to see them squirm. And squirm they did, trying their hardest to not do this. Failing to even flinch. Hopeless, entirely hopeless.

The monster’s forehead is right in the center of the barrel’s sight. He makes sure there’s no sway to it, not even a single movement. Her face is buried in her cute little paws, and she’s not moving anymore. A perfect prey for a fresh hunter. 

“You know why I love guns, Red? Penetration.”

*BANG*

It's painfully loud. The sound of the gunshot echoes off the concrete walls. It’s just a white flash, a *pop*, and a puff of black smoke wafting out of the barrel. . . 

A little hole is poking through the monster girl’s forehead. No blood, no gore, nothing visceral like when you shoot a deer. Just. . . . her entire body going stiff, and all remaining movement ending.

The last thing Kris sees is her empty eyes, as white as the distant moon over the lake. And then nothing as she vanishes, the last of her physical form losing its magic. 

Kris has never seen a monster die before. They expect something bigger, and all they get is those cold eyes staring with such betrayal as she simply fades away. Everything melted like sand in the wind, there one minute, then gone the next. The little nightgown is all that’s left, buried into a pile of fresh dust.  

It was no different than the rest. No difference in color, or texture, or shape. Just the same uniform gray, and by the time she mixed with her dead kin, it was as if she never existed. . .  

Yellow takes the ripped nightgown from the dust, watching how the ashy gray dripped out of the thin material as he crumpled it into his fist.

“Hey, wanna hear something funny?” He gives the old fabric a deep sniff, shuddering from the aroma caked in. The scent of death. “Her mom abandoned her in the woods. So yunno. If anything, I did the right thing here. . . Heh, *we* did the right thing.” That cutesy nightgown is ripped up in his grasp with just the same ease as he tore their sweater. 

Tears are streaming down Kris’ face as the human takes a long strand of the nightgown, wrapping it around Kris’ neck, and tying it in a neat little ribbon. 

It feels as cold as ice on their throat, and the smell of dust lingers on it like a pox. They want to rip it off, but they’re certain he wouldn’t let them even if they could.

A part of them hopes that he’ll forget about their SOUL and let them keep dying, but they aren’t so lucky. He’s quick to head right for the furnace the moment he’s done with the dead monster, only taking a break to light the cigarette in his mouth with the flash of a match. 

The basement fills with smoke as he takes dozens of puffs before grabbing the bloodied SOUL. Holding it up back towards the ceiling, and blowing a big huff of smoke into it. The heart continues to barely struggle, but it holds very still when he holds the cigarette out. 

“Oh, and. . . I have a secret to tell you.” His accent fades as his expression darkens. His eyes flash a shade of yellow, and he digs the burning orange tip right into the center of the SOUL. 

It *sizzles* as it makes contact. Kris feels a deep, spiritual sickness inside them from watching it. Pain that was connected to them, but not happening to them. Something they understood from the branding days ago. . . 

“If you ever psychoanalyze me again, the furnace will be lit next time.”

The cigarette is held in place until the glow fades, leaving a black mark on the center of the SOUL that soon fades away. And it's not long before that bloodied mass is crammed right back into Kris’ chest, finally bringing them back to life after being so close to fading. 

. . . But, something felt different. 

The SOUL, whatever inhabited it, felt distant. So far away. Something was still there, but it felt like it was hiding itself deep down. 

When Kris tries to force an answer out of it, to try and tell it how badly it messed up, to try and get *anything* out of it, only one last remark is what they’re given:

*. . .I can’t help you.  I’m sorry. 

Whatever is deep inside crawls into the darkest corners of their heart. Nothing is left where it once was. Nothing to help them, and nothing to guide them.

They were truly on their own. 

. . .

. . .

. . .

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

It’s been a week. The thought made Kris want to puke, even though the last days haven’t really been as horrific as the first two. 

They were more worried that it *hadn't* been. At least all the horror is stimuli, its brain activity, it's something that keeps them moving. But just *living* here felt painful. It felt like decay. Decay of their mind. Losing formation in all the white noise. It’s all numbing together into a gray slop, memories feeling more like dreams, dreams barely decipherable from reality. 

Only him to talk to. That’s all there is here to do is talk. They’ve tried to read some of the books on the walls, but the words feel like they’re blurring together. It’s all a mess of incomprehensible gibberish. No signal out here, barely any sensory information to decipher, with Yellow leaving at random times of the day and returning just as randomly. Only going out to get food and more supplies. 

. . .The thing inside them isn’t talking anymore. Kris hasn’t felt its presence since that night in the basement, yet they still don’t feel in control. A body that’s theirs to maneuver and move, but with none of the freedoms that came with that privilege. 

Not like they could get far or do much with this ankle anyways. Their whole world in this miserable fucking cabin. 

“. . .” Kris craned their head further into the hot water, nothing left to wash off on their naked body, but they still stayed in anyways. The guilt and trauma would never be cleaned off them no matter how blistering the water is, but it felt nice. They’ve probably spent a quarter of their time here in this shower. 

Eyes closed, curled up in a ball, slapping their forehead into the porcelain paneling over and over again. A steady rhyme, a red spot forming on the center like a big bullseye. Stimming. Stimuli. Sensory Data.   

A vague mirage of their reflection is visible in the glossy white of the paneling. They’re deteriorating quickly: skin a rougher shade of pale, blackish purple veins snaking under the gaunt flesh. . . They couldn’t bring themselves to even look at their crotch. No feelings came from it anyways. It’s just dead nerves. 

Every second they’re in here is another second until they get to go home. They can almost pretend they’re back home if they drift deep enough into the warmth of the steam. . . 

Something shiny and metal is crammed in the space under Kris’ curled legs. They stashed it here one evening while he was away, there’s so many in the cupboard that it went unmissed. A little black steak knife, tucked away in their dress at dinnertime and hidden until it was needed. 

After a week, it’s needed. This has been the longest they’ve gone without doing the deed, without breaking themselves against the waves. It’s serrated, but it’ll still work. They don’t care about how ugly they’ll be. 

A part of them wanted to spite him and carve their chest off with its curved sawteeth, but their body was already plenty mutilated and he didn’t care. Soon, the steak knife is held at the ready. 

“No one even cares. . .” A visceral hate is in their words. Maybe a part of him is rubbing off on them. So much disdain directed at themselves as they brace their skull into the paneling. “No one’s coming. . .”  If they’re crying, the water is hiding it too well for them to tell. They testingly run the knife’s tip over the dirty porcelain, scratching a decently straight line into it. Just as straight as the scars on both wrists. There’s so little they’re good at, but they’re practically an expert at *this*.

The first cut is always the sweetest, stinging the most profoundly. Before the feelings had a chance to flow out, all of the emotions ready to break through that thin slit of flesh.  

Kris picks a careful spot near their wrist, a clean bit of skin with faded scars on both sides. There’s a pleasing symmetry to filling in the missing spots. The briefest contemplation of making vertical cuts, but it’s only thoughts as of now. 

Never too late for that to change in a few weeks. The closest thing they had to an option, going out on their own terms.

“. . .S-Slowly. . .” They brace themselves as the blade makes contact, pushing the edge in until the flesh bulges around its serrasions. Slowly, the sharp metal is dragged down, splitting a nasty gash into the paled skin. None of the cleanness of the other cuts is found in this one, in the way the flesh ripped like two ends of a zipper. Blood is flowing before the knife finishes sawing, pouring in messy wet pinkness as it mixes with the shower’s water. 

It flows freely down the drain, washing away the evidence. Kris pounds their temple into the porcelain, gasping from a familiar sting with a new intensity. So much is built up, and it all flowers into a light-red mess leaking through their curled feet and contoured body. 

A deeper cut than they’ve managed in years, and they’re far from done. They’ve just started. 

It’s as warm as liquid gold, and drips between their toes as they re-steady the blade in a full-handed grip. Tracing the straight metal over the length of their forearm, and- 

*BOOM* 

Before they get a chance to make that next nasty cut. The door to the bathroom slams open, heavy footsteps soon following. 

“Jesus fuckin’ christ, Red.” Yellow booms out from behind the thin, white curtain, leaving Kris no time to even try and clean up. “You’ve been in here for forty fuckin’ minutes, I am not pissin’ in the woods again . Hell are you even?-'' His hand is gripping the curtain, and he only leaves the enby fragments of time. Not enough to do anything more than cram the used stake knife under their leg and try their hardest to cover the gaping cut.

It’s all too little too late though, too much red clinging to the tiles, even with the water still going. As much as they tried to delay the inevitable, to compress the cut, to slow the bleeding long enough for him to lose interest. But the blood is constant, leaking out through cracks in their clenched fingers, only able to stare up at the other human with droopy, guilty eyes. 

. . .Kris can tell he knows the instant he spots them. Still holding the curtain, a furious expression softening when he sees their current state. 

Yellow doesn’t say anything for what feels like an eternity. Just lingering on them, listening to their raspy breaths and watching their desperate, pointless attempts at keeping the cut covered. Their ears were ringing with a shrill treble, the shower’s sounds were too loud, too much noise in their skull to try and think clearly. 

“. . .I-I’m s-sorry, I. . .” They’re reflexive words, the type of insincere pleading meant for authority figures. All those shivered responses meant to avoid the consequences of being caught like this. Grippy socks and a long stay in the hospital. A little paper tag with their name on it.

The older human isn’t talking, he’s just so uncharacteristically silent in how he pushes their leg aside with a kick of his boot. To reveal the little steak knife pressed flat underneath, still slick with a pinkish sludge of water and blood. Caught in the act, with no chance of denying. 

All the fresh memories they had left in the garbled mess of their mind is the sensation of the axe against their parts, their last *punishment* for fucking up. Pain that could easily be given to them again for messing up in this way. 

“I just couldn’t h-help myself, and. . .” As hard as they try, and by the angel they’re *trying*, they’re just digging themselves deeper. He still hasn’t said anything. . . 

If they weren’t already crying, they were now. 

Yellow squats down until he’s face-to-face with the enby. Getting on the same level as them, and giving them a strangely uncanny smile. Something that felt so much warmer than anything they were used to, something as sincere as the gleam of gold in his red eyes. 

“Hey, hey. Now, I say you were in trouble?” His tone is pacifying. Not soothing, but pacifying. Something meant to make them shut up before he could spit out more. Forcing them to try and relax, to slowly steady their breathing. Fighting back little yelps, and flinching back when he leans closer. “Let's use our words real proper-like and pull that hand away.” It’s bizarre to have him acting so gentle suddenly. The last few days he’s been distant, probably from the shit they pulled when they first got here. Occasionally talking to them, cooking meals, and not much more. And now he’s suddenly so delicate with how he gives Kris time to adjust, to slowly rip down all the mental barriers it took to reveal the open cut to the older human. All the pressure did little more than slow the steady bloodfall, dripping out in thick pellets from the spots where the serrations dug in the hardest. 

. . .They don’t really know what's left to say. There’s so many lines that come to mind, so many words that were little more than padded justifications. More what the other person clearly wants them to say then what they actually felt inside. 

It’s all numb sores that even he wasn’t able to pierce.

“. . .I know it's bad, and that I shouldn’t-” How certain this was meant to go only confuses them when they’re shushed long before they can force out that pull-string response. It makes sense, after all. Rows upon rows of cuts line his own arms too. 

“I didn’ mean to interrupt yah lil’ session.” He politely notes, stiffening up straight, and plopping down on the closet toilet. Stretching himself, spreading his legs wide, cracking a stiff joint in his neck. “Don’ let me stop yah now. . .” There’s a goading to that request, but something with that same softness as before.  

Kris doesn’t move at first, or even try to go for the knife still laying in the shower alongside them. This feels like another test, another proof of loyalty and obedience. With him, it’s hard to tell what comes at face value and what's just another path towards more misery. They’ve swallowed their pride down so deep, and have just been trying to silently trudge their way through this to get home. Anything that risked that felt as repulsive as drinking bleach. 

UIF GJSTU UJNF J USJFE UP LJMM NZTFMG J SFNFNCFS UIF GFFMJOH PG GVS PO NZ TLJO BGUFS J XPLF VQ. FWFSZUIJOH JWF FWFS XBOUFE JT UIBU GFFMJOH GSPN PUIFST.

Their head hurts. The shower’s noise feels more like rainfall pounding their brain. Temples aching, with bloodshot eyes twitching as they held completely still. 

It clicked with Yellow what’s happening when they lock up in themselves like this. Less resistance, more the act of being lost in a lack of choices.

“I’m not fuckin’ with yah. You’ve been behavin’ yourself like a real schoolgirl.” He unhooks Kris’ dress from a towel rack, curling it up in a tight ball in his grasp. The orange and yellow flowers were bleeding together into a messy gray in their gaze as he held it on his lap. “You’ve *earned* a lil’ something for it. So come on, go ahead. Let it all out .” They’re encouraging words that’d feel so meandering coming from anyone else. The type of generic therapeutic language that everyone tries with them, the type they’ve heard from doctors and nurses and family and friends. It’s so *easy* to let it bounce off them like the water off their knife. 

. . .But, here is someone actually allowing their darkest feelings. It took so much to overcome those intrusive desires, but the opposite felt as natural as the act itself. A part of them could ignore who was giving them this, who's still watching with anticipation when Kris finally picks up the dirty steak knife. 

“. . .” They’re too blurry to fight it, too caught in their own misery to care that its *him*. All their desires and hopes were set aside for this easy, selfish goal. Steadying the knife in their shaky hands, feeling like it’s being held by someone else entirely. 

The pain from the first slash readies them for the next. Adrenaline, serotonin, and everything sweet that made the bad thoughts go away.

Kris moves  down from the previous cut, onto a drenched bit of skin that’s primed for violence. They’re so deliberate in finding a spot of unscarred skin in between the maze of carved scars, in completing that puzzle as they dig the serrations in. . . 

They’re entirely focused on the task at hand, pulling the blade downwards with the same force. Watching how a split-skinned slice leaked with a surge of blood, the same length and thickness that oozed into a shared river with the first. Shuddering as a haze of pain fogs over them like a cloud. Losing any semblance of self control, and not hesitating to go for another. 

UIF IPTQJUBM JT BMM TUFSJMF MJHIUT BOE TUFSJMF IFBSUT. UIF NJNJDSZ PG DBSF XJUI POMZ PVODFT PG TJODFSJUZ CFIJOE JU.

Following the contours of their forearm, they curve the sharp blade right over the bone, forming a long, vertical slash. Leaking far slower than the nastier cuts, but burning with thrice the intensity.  Overlapping various faded cuts and re-opening the sealed fatty tissue. The next row of cuts come rapidly, foggy eyes unfocused and teeth jittering. Four or five surface level cuts. They haven’t hurt themselves this badly in so long, it’s all to make up for lost time. To finally let all the horror of the last week drip down their arm into red splatters on the shower floor. 

Yellow is kneading Kris’ dress into his crotch, pressing the crumpled ball through the stained long johns. Not saying anything still, just watching with red cheeks and an open mouth. Scratching ratty nails into his own arm, into the faded scars that were too old to be reopened. Some seemed far fresher than others, and Kris ponders if he’s been in this same position as them before.  

This is the closest they’ve had to feeling like there’s some shared connection. But Kris only just feels it, given they can’t feel anything in general. It’s all empty, and everything that comprises them is leaking down in red drips. 

Kris slants into the wall, moaning through clenched teeth, feeling a wobbly sensation. . . The knife is still in their palm, and they use everything left inside them to keep it from falling. 

“A-Are. . .” The words come out slowly, looking to Yellow with expectation. “Are you watching?. . .” So many times they’ve wanted to be in this position, so many times they’ve craved the attention of feeling like someone wanted to see them hurt. They’re too numb to even care who it is that's feeding the worst parts of themselves. 

. . .Yellow drops the dress, and soon replaces it with an unsheathed knife. That familiar, oversized hunting knife that he’d spend every afternoon sharpening into a perfect edge. “DAKOTA” is still visible on the side, but Kris can barely read it anymore. It’s all just vague shapes. He never shows as much care for anything as he did maintaining that beloved knife. Kris can only get a better look at themselves in its mirror-finish, and they hadn’t even noticed their eyes are fogged over.. 

“I’ll do yah one better. Be a good girl and show me that wrist o’ yours.” He tests the blade by tracing it faintly over one of the leather straps on his thigh, waving the readied tool. Knowing that Kris would willingly pull themselves from the shower’s paneling, using one hand to stay up as they hold their arm out with no hesitation.
“P-Please. . . I n-need it. . .” The risk of punishment is long gone in their needy tone. In wanting pain for the sake of pain. Pain they could control and allow. He interlocks his fingers through theirs, giving them a reassuring squeeze. They were too close to passing out to return it even if they wanted to, and no matter how nice he’s being they’d still never give him the satisfaction. 

CVU JU GFMU OJDF.

Yellow puts the hunting knife at their wrist, right where their bloodied arm connected to their colorless hand. The blade is as thick as their wrist, he’s so deliberate, and so skilled in how he applies just the right pressure, slowly curling the blade around the skin in a circular pattern.

“Keep nice and still, need the line *real* straight.” His breath reeks faintly of the familiar aroma of whiskey, a surprise given how accurate he’s being. Running the cut over the entire circumference of their wrist, slowly curving their arm to finish his little art project. It’s already oozing with blood before the circle is even completed, but they’re struggling to fight back a moan as he keeps going. Cutting deeper into the circle, past the epidermis into the dermis layer.. 

Kris spots a familiar styrofoam yellowish white peeking out from the blood, and memories of what happened when they cut this deep flashed to mind. Paper tags, and medicine, and white mercury lights. If he cut *just* a bit deeper. . . 

“W-Wait, I. . .”

Suddenly, the world snaps to black. No warning, no fade, just their bloodsoaked arm, and then the shadows of the void.

. . .

. . .

. . . 

Eventually, reality seems to return. Shades of brown and gray warping into place, trying to move but finding themselves still numb. Their arm aches with pins and needles, and it’s being constantly shifted and moved by an unseen force. 

Kris hears his whistling before they see anything. An ecstatic tune, the same motif he seemed obsessed with but a quicker pace. More of a spring in its step. Close enough it felt right in their ear. 

“Mnmn. . .?” They try to sit up with a groan, but they’re still drowsy. Barely really remembering what had just happened at first, everything only flashing to mind when they finally come to. 

The first thing they see when the last of the blurriness vanishes is Yellow’s amused face.

“Howdy!” He clearly finds something funny with how little he’s fighting back the snickers. “Yah really did a number on yourself. Hehe, I’m impressed.” 

They haven’t woken up in their bed, and they haven’t woken up in “their” bed. It’s a room in the cabin they haven’t gotten a chance to explore yet, one they’ve only seen the briefest glimpses of. 

*His* room. Not allowed in during the day, and the door constantly locked both from the inside and the outside. Sealed safely within at night, and kept secure during the day. They’re almost disappointed he’s not hiding some evil secret, that it's just a normal bedroom. 

A king sized bed is where they find themselves, draped in a dozen or so colorful blankets that reeked of age. A random unmade pile of cloth rolled up with random clothes scattered throughout. Flannels of various sizes and patterns. 

The single window is blocked off by an oversized flag, light orange and yellow bars with a large cross in the middle. A vibrant glow of the sunlight outside streams through the curtains, shimmering bright shades over the wavering fabric. Ponchos hung from hooks on the walls, a couple hats similar to the one he had on, and a few boxes of ammo scattered over a large wooden dresser. A TV is in front of the bed with a VCR, a few cigar boxes stacked atop. All over the floor is covered in similar clothes, a few sets of longjohns stretched out on laundry lines.  

. . .A closet was in one corner, a mountain's worth of clothes partially spilling out of it. They were in very different styles, in very different shapes, and barely any of them looked as if they’d fit the human kneeling over them. . . Shoes and boots sizes too large and sizes too small. 

Yellow’s current hat and poncho were hanging from the door itself, his hair still partially wet and his sleeves rolled up high. 

“What are you-?” There’s a calmness to the air that stops them from freaking out. It’s probably the blood loss again, honestly. Just as the pain from their shoulder was fading, now this. . . . 

He forces their arm up slowly to show it off to them. From elbow to wrist, fresh white bandages line the gangly skin. An extra layer of padding over the spot at the joint where he had cut in deep, so much that they were already a subdued, brownish red. It’s surprisingly neat for him, not a single missing spot to be found. Comfortably snug, but stinging all the while. 

“I’m fixin’ yah up. How’s yah shoulder?” He snugly ties off the end of the bandages in a tight knot, too preoccupied to notice the blush on their cheeks.  

This XBT always NZ GBWPSJUF part.

Still blurry. . . Feelings from back home intermixing with new ones. They can’t help but play pretend, pretending it’s her again. Pretending its clawed purple hands slowly and tenderly putting them back together. 

“It’s f-fine. Still sore.” They’re hesitant, not really able to give a good answer. A thick mass of scar tissue fused over what was once a large hole. It’s ugly, and it’s no better from having a week to heal. That spot feels permanently twitchy, and they only now notice they’re still naked. A red and black blanket covered up their lower half, but that's about it. 

Somehow, they can’t bring themselves to care right now. Something else is on their mind.

“. . .I know you said that humans do that. The cutting.” Kris notes knowingly, probably delighting him that they actually remembered that. Memories from here felt more real than their whole life. “But. Why did you let me if I’m doing it to-” They don’t even need to finish for Yellow to know where those ambiguous words were going.

Yellow shuts them up with a thumb on their forehead, adjusting their short bangs with a light brush as he taps on the spot where the circular cut is hidden. 

“Look, Red. I dunno what in the damn those monsters taught yah, but I don’ see why the fuck you shouldn’.” He’s got that same voice as when he’s evangelizing. When he so clearly believes every word of what he’s said like gospel. “Here, lemme explain this real slowly.” 

The cowboy pulls something off a nightstand: an empty whiskey bottle. Sapped clean of the bitter liquid within, one that Kris is growing increasingly familiar with. There hasn’t been a single day now that they haven’t been sneaking sips for their own sanity. They jump when he places the cold glass right on their stomach, every rib jutting out far enough to count. . . Only little bites of food, only what he makes them devour. 

“Now, this’ booze. Booze kills you as yah drink it. Like all drugs do. Make you feel real good. People can say that you gotta issue, that yah gotta control yourself, but you know what?” He has so much passion, so much that they can’t help but feel enthralled. “Its *your* fuckin’ body, and you should get to fuck it up however you want. I don’ think a buncha mongrels should stop you. It does make yah feel good, don’ it?” 

Kris almost forgets to answer, they have to snap out of a haze to even muster a response.

“It does. Everything just hurts, and it makes it hurt less. I guess. . .” In their fugal state, they’re fixated on the asymmetry. One arm that’s wrapped in bandages, fresh cuts underneath, and one covered in faded scars from back home. Future, and past. Present, and past. . . And the other human’s own cuts. They’re so much more faded than their own, but it’s a mirror into different intentions with the same gestures.  

The touch on their wrist is so soft, only ounces of pain flare up as he traces himself slowly down around it in a ring. 

“Exactly. Whatever takes the edge off.” He takes that small pill bottle out of his pocket again. One that Kris has seen him sneak occasional swipes off at all times of the day “Feel free to take the tension out as much as you want here. . . I won’t judge yah.” It’s a genuineness that they aren’t used to with him, something that made him sound like this wasn’t a kidnapping. Someone giving advice to a troubled youth.

. . .Yellow gets up, and they’re happy he does. They don’t want him to see them smiling from that. No matter how hard they try to suppress it, it doesn’t go away. Vivid plans flash to mind. Their foggy mind so desperately craved someone to tell them that it *was* okay* and that it *is* okay to do this. 

They can’t stop smiling.

A part of them feels like it didn’t come back from that shower. They’re deteriorating quickly.

While Kris is testing the bandages, poking and prodding at the white linen, Yellow is digging for something under the television. Moving with certainty, knowing what he wants stored in the various shelves hidden inside. 

They’re still fidgeting with those twisted knots when the cowboy returns with a single object in hand: a VHS tape, lacking a label or a name. Duct tape is on the side in preparation for a makeshift label, but nothing is written upon it. He waves the tape in the air, holding it out to them with a lurid smirk. 

“Hey, since you're here n’ all cozy like. . . Wanna see something fun? ” 

. . .

. . .

. . .

Chapter Text

When you spend long enough around someone else, you begin to learn their habits. Kris has always been good with just watching others, watching how they tick, gaining information that lets them maneuver the chaotic mess that is socializing. With everything going on in their head, it’s a necessity for them to even try to act normal.  

With Yellow, they’ve already recognized a handful during their time trapped here. A few are on display right now that show just how excited he is for whatever’s on that tape. Dragging Kris to the end of the bed, sitting them straight, letting them use their good hand to stay propped up. . . At least they can put better amounts of weight on their leg now. If they held it at a tilted angle, the bones didn’t grind together as badly, though now it’s hard to move it out of that crooked pattern. The joint locks up and needs hard force to shift back. They tentatively run their foot over the carpet in swirling patterns as Yellow fidgets with the VCR.

“. . .What's on the tape?” They find their mind wandering as they stare at their reflection into the TV’s constant desaturated static. Black and white specs of pixels sputtering and spitting out chattering noise. The vaguest hint of their reflection flickers through the waves, and they can’t help but struggle to recognize who is looking back. Self-consciously fidgeting with their bangs, trying to catch if it's starting to grow back. 

Yellow gives them only the corner of yellowed teeth, and the white of his pupils.

“Itsa’ surprise~.” He practically chirps as he talks, rolling back the tape with a steady spin of his fingers. Going until a solid snap prevents it from rewinding any further. 

. . .Kris doesn’t trust it. They can’t bring themselves to feel anything but dread. Nothing good ever came of that smile. Nothing good comes from him in general. He’s a pox that only serves to show them new ways to suffer, new ways of losing themselves in deterioration. 

All they expect of the tape is suffering, when it’s all they expect from life now. As terrible as it might be though, they dare not look away. Whatever can be found inside can’t be as bad as what can be done to them if they don’t listen. 

Maybe I can ask if I can use that player when he’s not. . .

They’re not going to ask, not yet at least. Just needing *something*, just anything to stop themselves from going mad. . . Trying to not worry about it being too late to. Even the ever shifting mess static on the screen is better than being trapped with their own thoughts.

There’s something peaceful to it. If they listen deep enough, it almost sounds like the water in the shower. Kris leans in closer, looking deeper into the noise, trying to find meaning in the meaningless. Maybe something is-? 

Kris jumps when the static flickers away from its looping hum, a simple black screen soon replacing it. The soothing warble of static gone, only Kris’ anxious breathing as an extremely giddy Yellow sits right at their side. He’s gotten close before, but not in a situation like this. They’re quick to reflexively lean away, to minimize bare skinned contact on his body. . .

“Can I have my d- my clothes back? Please?. . .” Their tone is small and passive, far from a demand. The only voice from them that Yellow reacted positively to anymore. Soft, brittle, scared to be any louder than a whisper. Not that demeaning themselves this time would actually help, all he does is scoop them up and drop them right on his lap. Bare skin on leather and fabric, their cold body on his. 

When they squirm, all it takes is an arm around their narrow waist to stop them dead. He pulls them in closer, burying his chin in their shoulder to get a better view of the crackling screen. Jolting again as he hitches his strap-covered crotch into their ass, a preamble thrust.

“Just watch.” There’s a smarmy amusement in that order, bouncing them on his lap testingly. Making Kris stay focused on the flickering signal on the TV. 

At first, jumbled letters in the corner: a date, and a time. It’s hard to read, but if Kris focuses through the distortion a simple message can be deciphered:  “19XX, CAMPING TRIP”  

The screen flashes with multicolored bars, before the worst of the pixelation vanishes to reveal a monster. A monster holding the camera towards themselves, a vast stretch of concrete and apartment complexes bigger than anything Kris has seen before. This monster’s head is a puff of bright flames that flicker in the city skyline, tiny white eyes beaming through the swirling fire. They're surprised they can even wear clothes, but a red varsity jacket kept the flames neatly in place with clawed fingers poking out from the sleeves. 

“Is it-? Oh, it's on.” Their voice is a drone, slow and lethargic. Even their flames seemed to move at a slow pace, pulsing up into the morning sky in smoky trails. “There’s a red light.” They fumble the bulky camera, the screen going haywire as it shook between the asphalt and the rows of buildings. 

Behind the camera, they menuever it clumsily, steadying the focus with a deep hum.

“Okay! So uhhhhhh. Guys, guys. Say hi.” They snicker as they mess with the camera’s zoom, the screen growing in and out on the various faces at the table. It looks like they’re sitting at a cafe of some type, outside seating with an umbrella in the center, monsters crowded around with discarded plastic and empty paper cups.  

“Enjoying your new toy, Dante?” The monster closest to the camera remarks through puffs of a thin cigarette clasped in her blue paw. Her fur had a vaguely crystalline pattern to it that glistened in the smoggy sun, two long ears twitching while she gave the camera a stony stare. Neon blue eyes that were the same color as the big diamond embedded in her forehead.

She’s wearing a plain blue dress, smoothed down with exposed shoulder straps and open arms. It makes it easy to put the cigarette out on her wrist, the ash falling off without sticking to the crystal fur. Another one from the pack soon replaced it, caught in the corner of her protruding snout.

“It’s rad. Came with a whole pack of batteries too, enough for the whole trip. I hope.” They jingle the camera side to side again, the whole screen blurring into an unfocused mess.

Kris would be disoriented from the constant movement alone, but this whole tape is disorienting. So many sounds and visuals that’ve been vanishing into the background for days now. A reminder that so many people were living their lives while their everything was unwound. . . They wanted to block it out, but this would be the only sensory information they’d be getting for the longest time. Either this or just staring at the wall all day and losing themselves bit by bit.  

There’s so many colors, but it all just feels fake. Especially as two new monsters start speaking: both fluffy sheep with fur as white and puffy as clouds. Golden horns in the shape of lightning bolts clinking together while they lean in close on the same chair. Both are short enough to be able to fit comfortably on it with little straining, the one in a blue t-shirt holding out a beer can for the one in a striped pink dress to drink. 

“Aren’t those things, like-” For how small he is, his voice is weirdly deep. Stubby horn glowing as he hiccups on a mouthful of cheap alcohol. The other matching monster’s voice is somehow deeper, snatching the can from his hand with bony hands made of the same gold as her horn. 

“-40 pounds?” She notes with a tilt of a white eyebrow, crunching a mouthful of cold fries in her curved canines. Washing everything down with another long sip of beer, using her sibling for support from tittering off the chair. 

There’s some laughter around the table, and the camera is back towards the concrete sidewalk. Unamused sounds from just behind, like grumbling mixed with firecracker popping.

“Well- yeah. It’s pretty heavy. We can take turns carrying the bag. . .Wanna go first, Nathan?” He has *something* colder in that remark, something with its own heavy baggage. Too much baggage for Kris to actually comprehend. There’s too little information, and too little of a window into their lives. 

The camera is back up, and another *human* soon fills the screen, a slow zoom towards them to mark the reveal. . . Looking just as similar to Kris as they had feared. Palish skin with a yellowed complexion, short, dark hair tied behind his head in a neat ponytail. Cleanly shaven to the bone, a pair of thick, black frame glasses did little to hide his dulled red eyes that didn’t look into the camera’s lens directly. So careful in keeping his gaze to the table, one hand nervously pressed into the stomach of his blue flannel, the other holding the hand of the crystal monster at his side. Ill-fitted, padded gloves kept any spots of visible skin to a minimum, a little yellow hairtie being the brightest color on the man. Not even dignifying the question with more than a head shake. 

“You brought the camera, I’m not c-carrying that shit.” He’s got a very visible lisp, no confidence to be found in his tone. Comfortable to let the monster next to him do the talking, dragging her sharp paw over the table and glaring at the camera.

“Dante, you’re the biggest one here. Carry it.” She only just about gets the order out before tilting to face the human, a little supportive smile peeking over the uncertainty. The two close that little distance, chapped lips making contact with the tip of the monster’s snout. 

It’s a small kiss that barely lasts a second, but only for the briefest seconds do the human’s eyes finally drift towards the camera’s lens. Looking into the screen for only a moment before the footage suddenly cuts out with the click of a remote. 

Just a black screen again, one that lets them see their own vulnerable position in the reflective glass. The ghost of those voices are still ringing in their ears. New voices, the only ones they’ve been blessed with, those faces practically burned into them with how empty they were of anything else. 

“So. . . Which one’s your favorite?” Yellow curiously asks, his hands wandering into places they didn’t belong while they struggled to parse words. Grubby fingers rubbing circles into their bony stomach, tracing over their rib cage rib by rib. 

“W-What?” 

They shouldn’t have sounded so hesitant. The rubbing just turns into goading knuckles pushing into their womb.

“You’re the monster fucker, Red.” He’s crass in how he spits that into their ear, working a blush over their already red face. “Which one do yah like the most?” It’s so simple an ask, but it just fills them with the same feelings as when he asked about Susie. Bad intentions that he barely attempted to hide, ones they struggled to read anymore. So much of him was becoming second nature to understand, but so much is still incomprehensible and dark. 

. . .Kris lowers their eyes to the carpeting, not daring to look at their reflection anymore. Too much judgment is found in those inlucid eyes that felt like someone else’s glare. 

“. . .The blue one.” They’re quick to respond, like they were this whole week. No point in delaying the inevitable, after all. When he’s going to get something out of them no matter what they do, it’s pointless to just not get it over with. They just want to get this all over with. 

No point in not being honest, but it didn’t stop Yellow from “d’aww”ing over it. 

“You’re so easy, you know that?” He’s speaking softly, but his touch is anything but as he forces their head straight up again. Thumping a rhythm on their temple with light taps. “I know you’re a rug-muncher, but get those pretty lil’ eyes of yours off the carpet.” The video flashes through footage too quickly for Kris to parse, vague flashes of cars, gas station rest stops, and empty gravel roads. Everything moves quickly until he snaps to a specific shot, in a specific place. Like he’s watched it a dozen times now. 

A camera angle pointed upwards, the heavy recorder dropped on an idle spot, two monsters at the edge of a great vast pine barren. Nothing but needle-covered trees in the background, that flame monster lighting the tip of the blue one’s cigarette with their fingertip. Clicking two fingers together like a lighter. 

“-just us anymore, I really wanted this to be. We haven’t done anything alone in forever.” The flames on their head fluctuate, turning infuriated shades of red and orange. Only just brightening when the other monster sighs, blowing a puff of smoke at them that’s sucked into the raging inferno. 

“Dante, this isn’t productive. You need to just let it go.” She doesn’t sound very sympathetic, not much of anything but disdain. Her blue pupils turn into crescent diamonds when the fiery monster suddenly grabs her paw, their hand glowing like a dim lantern. 

“Come on, Dee.” They rub their digits into hers as welts of flames bounce in the light breeze. “I can *get* Lyn and Chok, they’re riots to be around. But like. . . Did you have to invite that geek? You’ve only known him for a few months. I don’t get why some random guy gets to come on our trip.” There’s a hurt to those remarks, but it feels silly given everything that he’s mad about. Such little things that he’s taking so personally. Not that Kris can really complain, they see more of themselves in that level of hurt than they’d admit.  

The blue monster bares her fangs, the teeth inside all having a similar crystal glimmer, a bluish tint to her saber-toothed tusks. Kris felt uncomfortable listening to this, listening to such a personal look into people’s lives. Something they were never meant to see, that no one was. It doesn’t look like either knows the camera is even rolling still.

“He is my *boyfriend*. I just- I hate when you act like this. I can make my own decisions.” 

Flames bellow like a burning furnace as they pull her in closer, the tallest of the fires practically sputtering up into the trees above. 

“He is a DECADE older than you. Dude is homeless and- and he doesn’t even have a job. All he’s doing is mooching off us.” They’re grumbling, trying to pat down at the flames, trying to make some of the worst of the streams mellow out. Trying to hide their emotions to no avail, the blue monster slapping their hand away with unsheathed claws. 

She can barely look them in the eyes right now. The fiery monster sighs, all their complaints not even being acknowledged with a response. Just judgemental eyes from a judgmental person. Even Kris feels on-edge, the tension leaking from the screen like water from a cracked window. 

“. . .You have awful tastes in guys.” They bluntly spit out, the flames dying down into gentle blues and whites. . . 

As she drops the still-lit cigarette to the spiky chunks of gravel, all she can muster is a one last remark before making her way back to the car:

“Yeah, that's why I’m friends with you.”  

Everything isn’t allowed to settle before the footage is flashing forward once more. Beyond various scenes that Kris can’t care to track. Yellow sounds bored as he scrolls through, looking with perseverance. 

“These two are real borin’. Argue like that for the whole damn trip. Ol’ married couple, eh?” He talks like it’s just characters, like they’re discussing nothing important. As if this clearly isn’t leading somewhere morbid. “You know. . . You remind me of her a lot.”

Yellow grinds his crotch onto them, he’s been getting harder in preparation for what comes next, and Kris can feel every twitch. A part of them knows where this is all going. He’s been controlling himself so far, but he has *needs*. Needs and wants that are as selfish as they are ever present . . . They can’t tell if they’re just imagining things, but they swear they can feel wetness pressing into their ass. 

He’s still occasionally giving constant dryhumps when he finally skips to the next scene he’s looking for. More fire is on screen, but this time it's natural instead of magic. A large bonfire burning in the center of a little campsite with a handful of tents scattered at the edges of the light. A vast expanse of pine trees disappearing into the horizon surrounds them, not a sign of life to be found in the underbrush. The sheep monsters are kneeling closeby, stacking up small rocks around the rim of the firepit with all the carefulness you’d expect for the various beercans scattered all over the dead grass. The brother places the rocks in the right spot, and the sister pats them down with the blunt end of her thick horn. 

“I’m thinking we go back to college soon-” The blue one comments as they work, occasionally taking breaks to guzzle down more sips from opened cans. 

“-but we’ve been having fun playing at venues. Might just try starting a band properly.”  The pink sheep responds in part, giving tempting, fluttery eyes at the human sitting on a fallen log nearby. “Natty~ You should play with us, brotha! Save us having to find a guitarist.” She mimes pounding on a drum with her pointers, giving a little lovetap and a wink. The other sheep glares at her afterwards. 

Nathan warily laughs, clutching a cheap-looking wooden guitar close to his slouched chest. He’s sitting on the diamond monster’s lap, keeping him steady with paws on his slacked shoulders. She’s smiling as he plays a ditzy little melody on the metal strings, not exactly very skilled, but not bad. It sounds. . . weirdly familiar to Kris.

“I- I’m not good enough yet. Maybe someday. . . B-But, we could play together at some point if you’d like.” Nathan uses the head of his guitar to push his glasses back up his nose, shifting on his girlfriend’s lap antsily. The blue sheep jumps up excitedly, watering the dirt with  half a can’s worth of booze as he swirls it to and fro. 

“Oh- oh- can you play Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door??” He leans on the guitar’s body for support, staining the light wood with smudgy lightning-shaped fingerprints. . . Nathan coughs awkwardly, playing that same little simple tune again to fill the silence.

“. . .I only know one song.” He admits with red cheeks, finally resting the guitar on his lap. Leaning back into his girlfriend’s embrace, letting her cram her cigarette in his lips as he talks. “. . .Its uh, “Lord’s Army "." 

. . .The fire monster isn’t visible, probably the one holding the camera again. Occasionally, the screen zooms in on the diamond one, and zooms away just as quickly when she looks over. With everything that happened earlier, everyone seems to be getting along well enough. Occasionally little snickers come from behind the lens that are stifled before the others can hear. 

“You want another can, sugarplum?” The conversation is moving too fast and too frequently for Kris to keep track of. All types of inside jokes and comments that they can’t entirely guess. The human is up on his feet next, dragging his guitar through the dirt as he vanishes out of frame. . . Though, just before he’s gone, his head tilts to face the monster behind the camera.

For a minute or so, there’s the crisp sound of someone digging through ice, glass clinking against glass, metal on metal. 

Suddenly, the sound stops, soon replaced by the popping of a can. But just as footsteps make their way closer, a sound like sizzling water fills the air: 

“OW- WHAT THE HELL?” Screams the flame monster as the camera falls from his grasp, landing with a loud thump into the dirt. There’s a scuffle offscreen, something slamming into the ground, heavy sounds and chaotic yelling. 

The camera can’t spot any of the action, only the frantic aftershocks.

“I’m- I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to spill it.” Nathan pleaded, sounds like the beginning of a panic attack as he coughed out frightened breaths. “M-My hand slipped.” His words are cutting out as something pulls him up, still struggling to steady himself.  

That sizzling sound is still there, it’s hard to tell what noises are coming from who. The flame monster manages to reclaim their camera at some point, and when it tilts back to face them their flames are much smaller and more sputtery. Weak and struggling to flicker back to life. 

“You know how much that hurts?!” They sound more embarrassed than actually mad, sniffling while they exhale strongly. Everytime they exhale, the flames bounce up for a few seconds before dying back down. “Y-You coulda. . .” They want to say more, but their own sniffles cut them off.  

Their grip on the bulky camera is shaky and uncertain as it tilts towards those standing opposite. The diamond monster is helping Nathan stay standing, his clothes now soaked in dirt and grass stains, glasses tilted at an uncomfortable angle over his nose. A little stream of blood is oozing down both his nostrils, a crumpled wad of tissue quickly crammed to stop the flow by the monster behind. 

“It was a fucking accident, Dante.” She’s thrice as mad as she was earlier, the hint of actual frustration surging through her tone. The diamond on her forehead pulsing so brightly it felt near blinding. 

. . .Before any more of the scene can continue, Yellow skips the scene once more. 

“Is she still your favorite?” He pants out through a palpable excitement. Expecting an answer, demanding a response. Knowing that Kris is too hazy to do much more than tremble out a nod. . . 

When the footage returns, it’s night. An almost endless pixelated mess of black fills the screen with only the smallest ounce of light in the middle illuminated by a cheap camping lantern. Kris can barely work out the features of what's transpiring, the vaguest hint of a lake in the background, the water an inky warble of distortion and noise. 

Two figures sit cradled in the center, where the lantern’s light is strongest. A human, and a monster. Nathan, and that Diamond Monster. Just the two of them alone in the depths of the pine barrens, the human snickering as he props the camera up a little higher. 

“Dante’s gonna kill us when he watches this tape.” She remarks with an amused purr, still not stopping him from readying it for whatever came next. Nathan sits on his haunches in front of the camera’s view, using the viewfinder to adjust the scene perfectly. The vague outline of blood still crusty around the edges of his nose, a few stray strands of hair clinging to that spot.   He’s undoing his tied up hair before anything else happens, long strands cascading freely as he worms the yellow hairband over his thin wrist.

“H-He can let us keep the tape. Make up for being so mean.” He’s humming a little cute tune as he falls into the space in front of her crossed legs, rubbing her knee slowly, affectionately. Small circles through the slick, shiny fur. 

As the human of the screen does so, Yellow mimics the gesture. Gripping into Kris’ skinny knee and rubbing little clumsy circles. Into the ruddy bruises that caked it in shades of brown and black. 

“I’ve never done this before.” Yellow suddenly mutters out of nowhere, his best insincere mockery of uncertainty.  What he meant soon becomes apparent when the monster on screen giggles, kicking Nathan’s touch away with a rowdy hitch of her leg. Slowly lowering herself from the large boulder, fitting snugly in front of the human, she stretches her legs out as far as they can go. 

“I-I’ve never done this before.” Nathan stammers out self-consciously, not very confident in how he struggles to grip her by her accentuated thighs. Watching how she hitched her dress up slowly with a pleased yowl. “I- I know I should’ve by now, but I just haven’t really found the right person.” It’s hard to see what he’s doing from the angle, only the back of his head visible as he bends in close to lay a line of kisses over her neck.  

Yellow quakes with anticipation, pushing Kris back into bed’s headboard. 

“I know I should’ve by now, but I just haven’t really found the *right* person.” He growls in delight, hitching their legs up as far as both can go, far less than on the screen given how mangled they were. Using their wobbly ankle like a handle and forcing himself into the leftover space. Pushing them so hard into the wooden board it felt like he’d push them right through. 

The diamond monster is only just now breathing warbly, nuzzling into Nathan with an supportive purr. 

“Just take it nice and slow, love. . .” She’s so sugary sweet, motivating him to the best of her ability. So understanding in letting him have as much time as he needs to tug at the jean’s waistband, discarding a leather belt into the tallgrass. Trousers dropping to his ankles, only a pair of bland boxers to hide his modesty. Giving meager dry humps like a dog on someone’s leg. Hitching himself into her to experiment with the sensations. So fresh to him, so many new feelings to explore in time.

Kris hasn’t gotten a chance to feel them, but their stomach drops yet. They know where this is going. Something they had always expected to come, but simply hadn’t until now. Only able to tremble and lock up in place.

“Wait- w-wait.” They’re trying to reason, trying to bargain, very well knowing it’ll go nowhere. “C-Can’t we wait for me to heal first? P-Please. . .” They can’t stop the panic from entering their voice, especially from not being acknowledged at all. Yellow simply starts stripping away the armored straps, dropping them off the bed over the floor, now going to unzip the thin sheet of the longjohns proper.  

Yellow grips them by the side of the head, forcing them to look past him and back to the television screen. 

“Keep watchin’. Just let it happen. I’ll show you proper ways to *feel good*.” It doesn’t take long for him to strip away the sheer onesie, both of them down to bare skin now. They’ve already seen his cock, but not in a long while now. Only when they had given that messy blowjob before this all turned to hell. Though it looked just as boring as it had been then, it comes with a newfound fear from the knowledge it’d be inside them soon. 

He’s already fully hard. A thicker plum of pubes lining the base, pulling the skin back from the tip with a careful slide of his wrist. The thick vein along the shaft twitches with need, the slit  drenched in a slick drip of pre that smears itself into the bedsheets.  

Kris tries to zone it out, trying to listen to his orders and focus on the screen.  If they pretend it's not happening hard enough, maybe they won’t feel it too badly. Maybe they can just disassociate it like they have everything el- 

It’s pressing, and rubbing, and feeling. It’s on me. It’s on- 

They’re just getting to the action back on the tape. The monster girl is gripping her legs around Nathan’s back, her paws looped around his neck as leverage. Moaning shamelessly, she grinds into his now-bare crotch, the oversized diamond on her head glowing with a rapid heartbeat.

He bends in closer, pushing something aside, and grinding his hips forward to close what little distance is left.

“Ah- ah- D-Dee. . .” He pants out with lust, the air slick with the slapping of flesh on fur. Starting very, very slow to not overstimulate himself, so careful in using her long ears as handles to push himself in more.

Kris isn’t watching what's happening to them, but even with their ruined crotch they still feel the exact moment he begins pushing through their outer folds. All the pain flaring up again as their legs desperately seize up, wrapping around him to just not pass out. Fighting back a squeal of pain while he pushes into them inch by inch. It’s so slow, but still hurts so badly. There’s pleasure hidden somewhere in that stinging pain, yet the pain is nauseating. Pain that intermixes with pleasure, their mind can only grow foggier in response. 

“Ah, Red~” He groans out, leaning in to give them messy kisses on the forehead, onto their neck in a slow line. They’re only able to squeal when he bites down on their neck, squeezing the flesh in his canines until the flesh bulges. Shades of bruises of all colors soon followed. They try to kick their legs desperate to make it stop, but can’t muster the strength to do anything with how weak they are. Clawing at his chest with so little force it looked more like painplay than real attempts to stop him.

“P-Please it’s t-tou mush. . .” They sob out, the colors all fading back into that brownish mush. Pounding their own head into the headboard as he simply keeps going. Until he’s fully inside, filling their tight insides, filling the parts of them that’ve never been explored so deeply before. 

When they try to punch at his heaving stomach, all it takes is one hand to trap both their wrists against the headboard. All the enby can muster is a begging whimper, the footage on the screen intensifying. The speed of the sex growing, and growing. Nathan bouncing her into the coarse rock as she struggles to keep the volume down, moaning his name into the night air. He’s not really saying anything, just panting and grunting like a man possessed. 

It’s all slick, squelchy sounds. Kris can’t see the action, but they can feel the rhythm and the speed. It’s the same speed that Yellow is slowly growing to, losing interest in making this comfortable, only interested in his own pleasure. In itching a scratch that's been a week in the making. 

Nathan is digging into the ground to steady himself, his hand searching through the grass for something to grip onto. Still thrusting as- 

He has a rock in his gloved hand when it comes up next.

 A large chunk of stone, clenched in tight fingers, not stopping his thrusts as he raises it high above his head. 

Kris can only watch: Nathan brings the stone down right on the diamond monster’s skull. The rock crashes with a sound like shattering crystal, the blue body underneath Nathan tensing and screaming in confusion. Clawing her large paws into his chest and back, desperate to try and free herself, not even knowing what's going on as he keeps slamming and slamming and slamming the rock. 

Kris’ eyes widened, and they can’t understand what they’re watching anymore. 

“H-Huh?-” They want clarification, they’re desperate for answers. But Yellow gives them none, he simply keeps fucking into them with the same pace as they just had been on the screen. Fucking into their abused hole in motion to the slamming of the rock onto the diamond monster’s head. So steady, he can do it without even watching. The world is a blur, and the lines between where the world here begins and the world ends is too impossible to decipher. 

A sickening snap and crack comes with every blow, until the human tires of the charades and slams the rock down on the boulder above them. Now, it's shattered in just the right way to be used as a makeshift knife, a long slender rock with a pointy tip. 

Before Kris can react, all that noise ends when he brings the sharp tip right down on her with all his might. One moment there’s a rattle like a death cry, and the next, the body below Nathan suddenly fades away like ash in the wind. A puddle of dust forming in the dirt underneath the last body left, a human still on his knees. 

“Ahh. . .” He groans out slowly, struggling to keep standing. Long lacerations line his back in red slashes, and out of nowhere he begins sobbing. Teary noises of agony, dropping the rock back to its original spot, still stained fresh with his lover’s dust. Blood oozes from his back as he struggles to stand. 

“W-What have I done?. . . O-Oh god, what have I-” He titters to his feet like he’s been overcome with grief, the sobbing noises growing louder and more cartoonish. Sobbing so loudly the whole blackened forest echoed with his macabre sounds. Back still turned to the camera, whimpering pathetically not unlike Kris’ own. 

He screams just as she did, pounding a fist into his skull and dryheaving. 

“W-Why- what did I just- I’m sorry, Dee. I-I’m sorr-.” Then, it stops. Every noise at once, his back straightening out, and his sobbing simply ending. He stands at his full height, turning to face the camera at long last as his ugly sobbing turns into a light, barely audible chuckle. 

“. . .” The chuckle grows into an outright full stomached laugh as walks closer to the camera, the dull light of the lantern held in his clenched fist.

He’s still laughing as his features become illuminated, his flannel shirt ripped open and his chest covered in rows of claw marks. Thin slashes that dripped with constant bloodflow. . . With his shirt gone, you could see the dull glow of his SOUL through his toned chest. 

It’s a bright yellow.

It’s pulsing slowly as “Nathan” takes his glasses off, crushing the thin plastic and glass in his palm with no hesitation. Letting discarded pieces litter the forest floor, making his way to the camera. 

“I think it is time we film a real movie.” There’s no sign of the lisp that had once been there. His voice is cold, without any emotions to be read in its unbreaking vernacular. As mechanical as a machine.

If Kris wanted to zone out what's happening to their body, staring dumbstruck at the screen did the trick. Trembling from the cock penetrating their tightest parts, trembling from recognition of what’s about to happen next. 

“Surprise.” Yellow purrs out as he reaches a comfortable pace, keeping himself buried within. So large and so overbearing in how he closes the distance, pressing them into the bed with his full bodyweight. They’re practically flattened as he keeps inside them with every new thrust. There’s wetness leaking from their hole, and it’s hard to tell if it's slick or blood. They only now give him the briefest glance, and find the human’s chest covered in the same claw marks as on the screen. Faded, but present. 

It’s a mistake to look at him, he’s so delighted by it. Finding sick glee in looking them in the eyes as he rails them. He doesn’t break eye contact when he bends their ankle just a bit too far, an audible *snap* fills the room, and their sobbing grows to a frenzied howl. Their foot dangles on the end of the ruined joint, Yellow moaning with satisfaction. 

“Ohh, god you’re tight.” He happily notes, twisting the leg again and earning another full body clench from Kris. “Y-yeah, heh. Keep like that. Jus’ like that.” That shattered ankle stays in his grasp, motivating them to obey. Kris trying their hardest to clench around his cock as he finishes thrusting fully inside. Just to try and avoid what happens if they don’t. Very well knowing how ruined their body already is no matter what is done. 

They’re still glued to the screen. Watching a black, dark abyss of pine trees and bushes, whoever is behind the camera repeating a familiar tune. 

I may never march in the infantry♫

Far off in the distance, the familiar glow of a campsite is visible. The fire is still crackling in the center of that small encampment. So far off, only growing closer as even, steady footsteps make their way forward. 

Ride in the cavalry♫

Along the way, a sturdy, dead pine tree comes into view. This large, mangled thing with not a single needle left. The camera tilts off course as he grips one of the large branches, snapping it off with a crack. Testing the tool with a few lighthearted twirls through the air, the end leading to a sharp wooden edge. 

Shoot the artillery♫

The camera warps. He finally gets close enough to break the seal of darkness. Crawling forward with his stick used to push away branches and brambles. He knows where he’s going, and what he’s doing. Nothing Kris can do could stop it, and nothing inside the world of that screen would prevent it. 

I may never shoot for the enemy♫

There’s movement in only one of the three tents, something violently shifting around. Another of the camping lanterns illuminating the interior, and the vague hint of two monsters chatting. 

“-ouldn’t be doing this”

“Why not?~ It’s fun, don’t you like it?”

“I do, it’s just if the others find out-”

“They won’t, dude. Dante is getting more firewood and the lovebirds are at the lake.”

“I guess you’re right. . .”

“Come on~ If they’re getting it on, why can’t we?” 

“True, I just- shit, what was that?” 

Nathan pokes the outer shell of the tent, not letting go of the camera for a moment. Readying it above himself in the same tight grip as he had on the rock. 

But I'm in the Lord's army♫

Before either of the figures inside the tent can react, he pounces. Forcing the long fabric of the cloth tent over the little monsters within, ensnaring them inside, wrapping them up in its mummifying embrace. They struggle and claw to try and free themselves, a boot slamming down is all it takes to keep them from escaping. Such small bodies, so easy to break, he tenderizes them with kick after kick. Little more than motivation to stop struggling than real attempts. 

“The squeaky wheel gets the grease.” Is all Nathan can say into those muffled masses squeaking inside the tent. All the words they speak are muddied, and lost on deaf ears. Nathan brings the stick down at last, the smooth sound of slashing air filling the campsite when it makes contact with one of the monster’s necks. 

An instant *pop*, and one of the two little bodies vanished. The yelling fills the whole cabin. Those chaotic sounds of people dying that they had no chance of ever saving. He didn’t tell them to keep watching, why are they still watching? 

Just look away. Just look- look away. . . 

Their brain can’t help but confuse the crushing horror with something akin to pleasure. Intense feelings that were just stimuli for their brain, all their emotions melting into one another. 

They can’t manage to look away. Too many hormones to think clearly. Too much *heat* and *aching* in their parts. Leaking out more of whatever-they’re-leaking, watching the readied stick be raised back to its full height, only one monster left to be its target.

When he brings the stake down, it shatters as it makes contact. Wooden shards spreading over the crumpled remnants of the tent, a lower pitched screech being the last thing to come from that cloth sarcophagus. . . 

A few holes are stabbed through the crumpled tent, Nathan poking his fingers through one to watch a steady spill of dust from within. Like leaking grain from a sack, gunpowder from a bag. His fingers dip into the grayish material, two digits vanishing behind the camera. Empty of anything when they next appear. 

The footage glitches. Sputtering in and out with screeching static. When it next cuts back in its thrice as blurry. A crackling mess that made distinguishing what’s happening near impossible. Camera propped up on *something* staring towards an orangish red mass of sprites that’s probably the fire.  

Nathan is sitting on one side of it, a bucket on his lap, and on the other is another messy mass that’s in the same shapes as the bonfire itself. Only vague reds and oranges to mark Dante standing near the edge of the encampment. 

“Nate? Where is everyone?” The flame elemental asks in a confused tone, the word barely coming out with how warped the audio is. . . The human can only smile. He pats the side of the bucket affectionately, pointing to the log on the other end of the pit. 

‘Don’t call me that anymore. . . You should take a seat, Dante.” He coldly suggests, no emotion to be found, only something dull and articulate. Something he’s been waiting for for a long time now. 

The flame monster doesn’t move from where they’re standing. It’s hard to read their expression, but their flames dull down into a yellowish flicker. He goes to take a step forward. 

“. . .Why do you sound like that? What's all- oh. . .” When they get closer, the blood becomes visible. Oozing from the human’s chest in long slits. Dripping into the bucket and dirtying the water in red. “What happened to?. . .” 

Nathan dips his fingers into the bucket, his hands soaked in murky lakewater. Watching how the tips of his glove dripped as he held his palm over the flames, little pellets sizzled into steam the moment they hit the bonfire. 

“I said: sit down.” Firmer this time, squeezing his hand to milk out what's left of the liquid within. Each sizzle makes the fire monster *flinch*. They can’t help but take the hint and uneasily drop onto the log. 

The human doesn’t say anything for a while. Humming that familiar tune to himself, flickering his fingers over invisible guitar strings. Just watching them stir in their seat, trying to get ahead of the problem early.

“I-If this is about Dee, I’m sorry.” They stutter an apology out before Nathan talks, holding both palms up in a mock surrender. “I just- I get really jealous sometimes. You’re a cool guy, I- wish I had. . .” There’s nothing to be said anymore, nothing that could get them out of this. So far from the truth of what this is about. 

Nathan sways the bucket in his glove. Bloody water teetering out as the liquid inside sloshed around. Dante shuts up again after that. It’s not their turn to speak anymore. 

“Do you know what they used to do to witches in the old days, Dante?” He calmly questions, Kris only now realizing it’s near the same as it is now. Practically the same voice, if not less raspy. More freshfaced, less worn down by the elements. “I imagined you would, given your kinship with flames.”

It’s not a hypothetical, given he awaits a response. Sitting quietly and letting Dante uncomfortably shift in place, their flames little more than fresh cinders. 

“Y-Yeah. . .?” They shrink down so much in that seat, looking so much smaller than they actually were. All of their big-talking vanishes away as the kindhearted monster beneath reappears. All monsters were so kindhearted, and they’re no different. 

When Nathan stands up, Dante doesn’t join him. Frozen in shades of white and yellow as they watch the human’s every move. Fingers still stringing along to a song only he could hear. 

“Would you like to say it?” He politely asks once more, giving the monster an encouraging nod. Smiling more familiarly like the man he had once known would. Nathan’s smile. 

Dante seems to relax a little. Letting their hands rest down, exhaling a few times to let their flames grow back to a more normal height. They try to return the smile, but it's nowhere as sincere. 

“They burned th-” 

Before the words come out fully, Nathan lobs the bucket’s contents right at the monster. The air fills with the painfully loud sizzling of extinguished fire as Dante instantly collapses to the ground like dead weight. Howling in agony with a massive fume of steam shooting out of his head. Losing its mass, desperately grasping at their own face, meager measly cinders were all that’s left of it. 

Nathan slowly makes his way to the camera, reclaiming his new toy as he aims it right at the monster’s melted features. They’d eventually heal, but it’d take time they didn’t have anymore. The screen zooms in on those disintegrating flames, it’s difficult to even tell where his mouth and eyes were anymore. A better view to see him spitting onto the steaming monster, earning himself another excruciating shriek. 

“Do you see this?” Nathan speaks into the camera, only interested in it now. The thing suffering in front of him is just an animal to be sacrificed. An object to emphasize his point. “This is the end fate of all animals that believe themselves men. This is a promise. This is the truth I’ve uncovered.” He’s holding the camera steady as grabs the monster by their ankle, so frail now it’s easy to drag them like they weighed nothing.  

They’re still screaming as Nathan drags them away from the ruined campsite, back towards where the lake was. A funeral pyre for an already flaming witch. 

“This is Justice.” 

When the footage is back to the black nothingness of the forest, that screaming is still constant. Filling the air inside the screen, and outside. There’s nothing left for Kris to focus on, but they can’t get that screaming out of their head. It’s all too much though, he’s already close to climax. It feels like they were nowhere close to finishing, but he didn’t care. 

No more distractions as Yellow forces them to look him in the eyes proper. The hand around their head soon slipped into their mouth instead, cramming tobacco-smelling digits to press their tongue flat. Gagging on them as they explored, over their teeth and prodding at the back of their throat. Using it to keep them flat on the bed. Kris is wailing when he buries his cock as deep in as it can possibly go. From this angle, they can finally spot the blood pouring from their overstretched hole, mixing with only small bits of pre. 

“W-Wait, n-not in-” They only had one request here, one frightened plea that’s the only demand they feel able to make here. Too close to passing out to fully force it out. Very well knowing it’d be ignored like everything else. No protection, no intimacy, just their first time being stolen away with violent thrusts and the flow of their insides. 

The fingers in their mouth are replaced by him soon enough. Cramming his lips over theirs in a messy kiss. They don’t even try to return it, only sobbing into his mouth as his tongue explores deep inside. Swirling over theirs and forcing that sick aroma over their taste buds.

It’s all like gunpowder and tobacco, with the smallest hint of dust below. That’s all that Kris can focus on as the heat in their crotch grows into a burning glow, weak spurts pumping into their insides. Foreheads pressed together, squinting half-lidded red eyes locked on his.  

When he pulls out, they can *feel* everything he’s filled them with gushing out. A lot less cum than they’ve seen in shitty pornos with monsters online, but healthy spurts that still leaked out of them in shades of reddish milky white. . .

A thin trail of drool leaks between their lips when he pops his tongue out, Kris watching as he snaps forward to nip at the line of saliva. Slurping it back down with a hazy smirk.

“H-Heh. . . You know why I showed that tape to yah, Red?” His voice is drenched in an afterglow satisfaction. He wants an answer, but they’re too lost in themselves to even try and amuse him. They can’t take their eyes off their crotch, his softening cock still hovering over it with the folded tip dripping in white.  

For once, he seems happy to thread the needle for them. Kris feels comatose as they watch him trace fingers over their pussy, over that dead bit of shot-nerves where their clit was once. 

Some of their blood is gathered on the tip of his finger, tracing it over the claw scars on his chest. Until it almost looked like the wounds in the VHS, their insides all over him. 

“You never forget your first time.” 

. . .

. . .

. . .

Chapter Text

Kris doesn’t feel dressed. Even after cramming themselves back into that sweat-soaked dress, looping the dusty piece of fabric around their neck in a messy ribbon, they feel more vulnerable than they ever have here. A line was crossed that day that they couldn’t be uncrossed. It’d all be getting worse from here, as if they imagined it could. 

They’re leaking again, but it’s all him this time. All of him filling their tight parts, all of it gushing out, all the warmth that polluted their insides is his juices. The tape feels very fresh in their mind, and they can still hear the screams. Nathan. . . There’s no way that’s his actual name, is it? He’d never let them learn it if it is. 

And yet, it still felt possible. The possibility that there used to be someone good in that body. Was it simply a mask he wore to hurt others or a shell he broke out of in the birth of the man he is now? 

Kris knows they’ll never get clear answers, but that’s common in their life. Everyone expects so much out of them, but expects them to simply take it without question. 

Nothing changes if I go home. Take. Take. Take. Take. Take. 

It’s all take, and take. The words keep repeating in their mind as Yellow lugs them outside a few hours later, broken ankle dragged behind them on a quarter-twisted joint. To “get some fresh air”. A trail of white follows their halfhearted limping, Kris too exhausted to care, him just not giving a shit. He’d just make them clean it up later anyways.

“357 magnums’ always been my favorite.” Yellow explains with a loving precision, loading bullets into the cylinder one by one. Giving a short kiss to the shiny brass on the last one before cramming it inside. “Real stopping power, just ‘nough bullet to take down most prey. Heh, humanity’s greatest creation. . . A real edge against the monster hordes.” He slaps the revolver’s side, pushing the cylinder shut with a firm snap. One hand on the grip, the other rested on the protruding hammer, aiming it at his targets: a row of metal cans stacked on logs a few dozen feet away. 

The two of them are outside the cabin, Kris sitting on that woodcutting log, trying to not remember all the bad memories that came with it. Legs folded up neatly as they watched him do his thing. The bandages he applied were taken off earlier, and a handful of new cuts were carved over the ones that were just starting to scab over. Their arm is a shredded mess, clutched over their dress’ lap, still mentally imagining the next time they’ll get to do it. Excited for it. Happy. Really, happy.  

“It’s a nice gun. . .” Kris admits in a groggy voice, wobbling to stay upright. “Nice. . . Nice gun. . .” Repeating it in just the same way, a record skipping back a beat. Nodding along to nothing in particular. Just in case. 

Yellow snickers, holding the gun closer so they can get a good look at it. He loved that gun, the shiny, silver metal with a long barrel that he carried  like a religious object. No matter how little he took care of himself, he took care of that revolver with pride. They’ve learned that much over the last week. 

Now he’s holding it much closer, enough that Kris is just about allowed to give the barrel a touch. It’s slightly rough, the metal itself is smooth besides little scratches, the tally marks etched in have an abrasive feel. . .There's been one more added since they last saw it up close. A reminder of what they let happen, and what they helped happen, one that they were still wearing around their neck. 

“Really is, ain’ it? Maybe I’ll let yah shoot it someday soon, if you’re good.” He guides their trembling hand, forcing them to snap the hammer down with their thumb. The human is close enough to get a good look at their freshly ruined arm too. “Looks like you’ve been enjoyin’ yourself, Red!” That’s one way to look at it, Kris compulsively holding their wrist out to show off the straight cuts. No shame in all the damage they’ve done, and dreams of all the damage they’d do. 

Yellow doesn’t care about the dead look in their eyes, he sees it as nothing but a victory. 

“You know, you never thanked me.” It doesn’t sound like a threat as it used to be, more a light comment. He doesn’t clarify what he means before thrusting the revolver forward.

*BANG* *BANG* *BANG* *BANG* *BANG* *BANG*

Six shots fired in less than ten seconds, the human fanning the hammer with each pull of the trigger. A loud metallic clang echoes through the forest as the bullets make contact with the cans, flying off into the distance to be lost in the autumn underbrush. . . Though, the last one misses, barely more than a few inches from it’s goal, the bullet vanishing through the treeline in a flash. 

The cowboy huffs angrily, quickly digging into the open container of bullets. Six more .357 are loaded inside, and this time he aims it straight ahead with a click. Gritting his teeth and closing one eye, focusing it right on the last remaining can. Stiffing his grip, he keeps the revolver focused ahead, only a thumb on the hammer. 

*BANG*  *BANG* *BANG* *BANG* *BANG* *BANG*

The first shot hits the can dead center, boring a massive hole in its frame as the rest rip the can into chunks of scrap. By the end, the barrel has a smoky trail of wafting white bellowing from the tip, the human inhaling the vapors with a relieved groan. That little outburst was just a brief distraction, they’re still his main focus here. 

“So, how ‘bout you thank me. You can do that, cantcha?” He flips the cylinder open, letting a few rows of empty brass freely fall from within. They land in a pile of similar used up shells, gleaming in the midday sun, moist with the muddy earth squelching under his boots. 

He just likes knowing I’ll do it. It’s all he wants. 

There’s an increasing amount of expectations on them, ones that keep growing with every passing minute they’re here. Pushing their limits, pushing his luck, pushing them open so he can hollow their SOUL straight out. Appeasement is the easiest way out of this, it’s all their disoriented head can focus on as they uncontrollably scratch at their open cuts. 

“. . .Thank you, Sir. . .” Just how he liked it, just as he wanted it. That meager voice that made them sound so much smaller than they already were. A clockwork phrase that’s been programmed into them in such a brief time. They already can’t pretend like they have any pride left to begin with, this is no different. 

Kris must have said it dozens of times by now, and he always gets the same gratified expression from it. Less and less resistance with every utterance of those honeyed words. Only earning themselves one last complaint in the process:
“Good Girl. . . You should smile more when yah say it. Hell, should more in general. What, I don’ make you laugh, darlin’?” He tries to get a reaction out of them, spinning the gun around his ring finger and winking with a tilt of his hat. All it gets out of the enby is an uncertain look as they bury their gaze down at their bloodied arm, clawing various of the wounds open wider. Clawing harder to open the scabs up. 

. . .He readjusts his hat without another word and goes back to loading .357 into his revolver. It’s not actually that bad watching him do this, at least at first. There’s something satisfying about watching the steps to it all: the human lining up a new row of targets, then marching back with a chipper whistle. Sometimes he sets up more cans, sometimes random bits of wood, sometimes bones left up from deer and rabbits. No matter what he lines up though, it always ends the same way: six more shots loaded, six more shots fired. Bang Bang, and the breaking of bone, the splintering of wood, or the piercing of metal.

Kris enjoys the sensory information, enjoying feeling like their brain is actually getting something to do. Latching onto the movements, onto the sounds, onto the feelings, their arm red and puffy after only a few minutes of this. 

Though, it goes on longer than it should. The sounds feel like they’re getting louder with every cycle. When Yellow gets back, it’s like all the noises coming from him are easier to focus into, like the volume is being turned up on a speaker. They try to just ignore it, tapping their foot into the crumpled leaves, but it just makes more noise. Everything makes noise.

“Mmnn. . .” Kris fights a whimper, clamping a hand over their mouth to try and shut themselves up. Rocking lightly in place so they wouldn’t attract his attention. They didn’t need him right now, it’s only getting worse.

Loud. . . Loud. . . 

It’s overwhelming, there’s so many little sounds that are only now audible. The rustling of leaves on trees, the humming ring of cicadas, the constant audible whistle of birds that kept looping and looping in their ears. The shifting of his clothes, the poncho ruffling up with his sways, the click of the gun and the bullets clinking when he digs his hand inside and the crunching leaves and his breathing there’s noise there’s noise in everything there’s cacophony that builds and builds with every second it’s white noise it’s consuming them it’s building to- 

*BANG* 

Yellow jumps as Kris wails in a full bawl, curling themselves in a tight ball, grasping bloodied palms over their ears and clutching their eyes shut. The entire world is spinning, the enby feels seconds from passing out, trying their hardest to just breathe. . .

This isn’t the first time this has happened, but it’s been a long while. Easier to manage it at home when they aren’t expected to put up with it. The SOUL was never very understanding, was never very accommodating of this, but everyone else was. They still vividly remember all those little moments growing up, trying to slowly count down from ten in their head. Others leave them alone so they can feel better. It’s not too bad, it just needs time to- 

“What the fuck are you doin’?” Yellow’s loud, aggressive voice is enough to break through their little safety bubble, getting another mewl out of them. He waits for an answer, but all he gets is a panicked headshake. They clamp their hands down harder, but only get a few seconds of protection before he grabs their wrist hard. “Hey. Use your words.” He orders with sternness, ripping their arms down forcibly, exposing them to all the garbled noise once more. Kris can tell when he’s trying to be “soft”, how he just makes them do the work to strip away their autonomy. In using chasisting words and firm looks to make them pop their little safety bubble.  

“I-Is. . . T-Too loud. . .Too l-loudd. . .” It’s a childish tone, slurred, infantile words that they struggled against their very body to spit out. Only managing to annoy Yellow more in the process, the man groaning and pulling their legs back down to the forest floor. Giving them a frustrated look you’d give to a bratty kid. 

“God, are you really throwin’ a fuckin’ tantrum over a lil’ noise? You’re a full ass teen, act like one.” He gives a testing fingersnap near their ear, getting another distressed wince from Kris. He’s not really taking this seriously, even when embarrassed tears start streaming down their snotty face. They’re mumbling out little apologies as he knelt down in front of them, roughly rubbing their hand and waving his gun lazily to get their attention.

“Come on, you were right as whistle a minute ago. Monsters coddled yah too much, we gotta work on how fuckin’ sensitive you are.” If he’s trying to be understanding, he’s not managing it at all. Making this all feel like their fault, like they didn’t feel that way already. Like they didn’t feel awful being a burden in this way. No one ever tried to make them feel bad, but it’s easy when it’s all their own feelings projected onto others. 

Just when they begin to start feeling a bit better, Yellow holds their hand tighter and rests his gun against the side of the log. He begins *grinding* the front iron sight over the textured wood, a shrill sound echoing through Kris’ head that makes them shiver. It mixes with the mess of sound all around them, it all growing back to full volume in their ears. The enby winces reflexively, starting to bring their arms back up and being stopped by the pistol slapping their hand away, gripping the other harder. 

“No more of that shit. Look in my eyes. Focus on me, Darlin’.” He’s trying to sound encouraging, but all Kris can focus on is the ringing in their ears and the throbbing in their chest. It takes everything in them to listen to that meager order. Looking right into his eyes, only growing the discomfort of an attack just around the corner. 

They hold his hand tighter, only able to rock in place to relieve the pain inside. The only thing they’re allowed to do as he clicks the hammer down, aiming the revolver up at the sky. 

Kris shakes their head desperately, but it’s not enough to stop the other human from giving them “what they need”. 

*BANG* 

In an instant they’re back to their worst, the boom of the gun sending their senses into overdrive. Bleating like an injured animal, hyperventilating with a snotty nose and teary eyes, squeezing the human’s hand so hard the leather squeaks. It’s hard to see him through all the wetness clouding their vision, but Yellow’s muddied features don’t look very happy.

“We’re goin’ to do this until you pull yourself together.” He explains harshly, making it clear what this is going to be. Where this is going.  “Don’t make us be here all night, Kris. You can do it if yah try hard ‘nough.” Recocking it, he readies the next bullet. It’s made to sound so easy, to try and repress those feelings that feel like needles in their skin.

Kris just tries to follow his orders. Looking right into the man’s eyes, at the shades of crimson that swirled with little pellets of dark hickory. If they really tried hard enough, if they were needy enough to have something to cling to, it’s almost comforting. Different colors to their own, so bright and fresh-eyed, all them hidden behind globs of tears. 

*BANG*

It all comes in waves, just as they’re about to start coming down they’re jolting back to the worst of it. Just as the echoes leave their head, it starts up just as strongly, struggling their hardest to stay still.

“I c-cam’t. . . I. . .” They can’t stop themselves from letting it all out, wheezing as they fight back the pants, slashing the skin on their arm raw to relieve the aching. . . A layer of wracked scratches cross over their cuts like a cluttered checkerboard.  

Yellow tugs their hand up to his face, kissing their palm gently, not breaking eye contact with them for a moment.  The world is getting darker, struggling to stay upright, features prickling with numbness. 

“Ssh. . . I’m *right* here.” He keeps doing that, he keeps planting those grubby dry kisses on their shaky hand, on their bony wrist, and on their veiny arm. Not even looking while he keeps the gun aimed straight skyward. 

*BANG* 

It’s hard to tell if his contact is actually helping, or if they’re just too burnt out to do anything more than whimper. When so much is taken out of them, there’s only so much more you can milk out of their tired, tired husk. 

. . .Nice. Kinda. . .Nice. . .

At some point, he swaps hands. Moving to their mutilated arm next, copying his own mimicry of loving with more of that softness. The first isn’t anything much, feeling the same as the other, but he keeps going as he stops when he makes contact with the cuts. Listening to the way Kris’ breath hitches as his chap lips touched one of those opened wounds.

Most of it stings, but there’s something else buried under the pain. Something Kris can’t put words to, something that burns their very heart when he pulls back with bloody lips.  

Kris hates themselves for blushing as he licks away the red staining his mouth, right before burying his face right back in.  Giving extra attention to all the freshest cuts.

*BANG* *BANG* 

All the noise starts fading away, but it feels like all the *everything* is fading. They feel out-of-body, watching with still-slick eyes, sniffling hard, Yellow smearing their blood all over with mashing pecks. 

Occasionally, he looks up to make sure they’re still looking slackjawed at him, only giving the lightest snort in response. Hard to see it as actually counting when Kris barely feels like they’re even seeing him from themselves. The ringing is drowned out by their own messy heartbeat, and his little pants of gratification. 

They’re just a camera watching the action, all the sensations buried six feet deep in the muddy mess of their mind. 

*b a n g* 

The last round in the revolver doesn’t register. Kris only realizes the gun’s gone off when they spot the human finally letting six casings drop to the growing pile below. Yellow’s lips are covered with layers of fresh blood as he leans in closer, inspecting the enby from dazed expression down to limp body.  

“There we go~. Now, was that so damn hard?” He doesn’t lap away the blood this time, letting it stay stained while tittering back to his full height, spinning the gun around his ring finger and winking with a tilt of his hat. . .  

. . .Heh. . .

. . .Kris can see their body smile, but it doesn’t feel like they did it. They didn’t willingly choose to. They didn’t feel it happen. But it still stretched over their features nonetheless. 

Everything is foggy. It doesn’t fade even as Yellow grips them by the little ribbon around their neck, pulling them in enough to smear a bloodied kiss on their waiting forehead. They can’t even cringe from it, or feel sick. They can’t feel anything. Everything is comfortably numb. 

. . .All the frustration is gone from the cowboy, all that’s left is something that’d make them puke if they could fully process the meaning.  

“. . .Hey.” It takes him an uncharacteristically long amount of time to spit out whatever he wants to say. Loading a single bullet into the cylinder, snapping it shut once more. “Proud of yah, Kris. Honest. . . You did real good. You know what, fuck it. I got a gift for yah. . .” With no hesitation, he spins the weapon back around, the grip now facing towards the enby’s bloody hand. 

. . .  

It’s heavy in all the right ways. Not as heavy as they expected, but with a natural heft that made what it’s made for clear. Yellow is behind them, half for his safety, and half to keep the frail enby standing. They need to stay leaning on him just to not fall over, guiding them with a warm familiarity. Pushing their shaking, nervous hands exactly where they need to go. This time, he doesn’t keep his hands there to guide them, to force them to do it. Instead just keeping himself leering over them, massaging their shoulders eagerly.

“Like I said, it’s real, real easy. Hold it up- yeah, close one eye- heh. You’re a natural.” He takes a break from molesting them to point to their target: a single deer skull, stubby antlers poking out the top like the monster from the basement. It’s staring at the enby with black eye sockets, following their every move as they do as they’re told. This is a “gift” after all.  

The hammer is the hardest part, it takes everything they have left to pull it down, a solid click letting them know when to let go. 

Never gotten a chance to go hunting with anyone. Maybe that’ll change soon. 

Nice gun. . . Nice Gun. . . 

Yellow pushes the gun a few inches down, tilting it straighter, making sure there’s no chance of missing. The iron sight is steadied right on the skull’s forehead, right between those soulless eyes that judged them as they prepared to end it.

“Buncha kick, so here. . .” He braces himself against their back, wrapping one arm around their waist, and one on the back of their head. . . Rutting into them, too. That's normal, though. Taking any second he can use them to use them for whatever pleasures he wants. This entire thing could be that, for all they know. Getting what he wants, getting to watch them do as he does. 

Kris knows this part plenty well. He doesn’t even need to order them, and he doesn’t plan on it. They gently loop their ring finger around the trigger, breathing in, and then out. Steadying their good leg on the ground. Calm. Dissociated. At peace. It’s only downhill from here. 

One Bullet in the cylinder. 

*BANG* 

Just as expected, it lands right on target. Whizzing through the  forest with the splitting of air as it strikes the deer skull right where its brain would be. Instead of fleshy matter, all that comes out is chunks of bone as the whole head collapses in on itself. Crumpling into a cracked pile of jagged parts, the rest disappearing off into the distance with the fragments of the bullet. 

. . .Kris didn’t enjoy it, but it didn’t make them feel bad either. They didn’t feel anything from it. They didn’t feel anything to begin with. Though, the other human is ecstatic. Reflexively pulling the trigger again with an empty click as he pats them hard on the back. 

“Yee-fuckin’ haw, I tolda you’re a natural!. . . You’re a real good lil’ lady too, you know that?” He’s practically drowning them in praise, smothering them in softness that’d been lacking for so long now. A velvet glove over the iron fist. 

The teen doesn’t acknowledge the remark, too lost in themselves. . . Only able to imagine all the things they’d do with that gun if they still had the fight left to. Putting a bullet right through the middle of his eyes like on that deer. Riddling his chest with shot after shot. Making him be in as much pain as everything else he touches is. 

Why does it make me feel bad now?. . .

He never likes the silence, though. Yellow never lets them get away with that silent act, especially not right now. Especially not after their “little tantrum” earlier. Sitting them back down, pulling the unloaded revolver from between the enby’s loose fingers, he gets so close up. Close enough that he’s only a nose away from them, so they have to look him in the eyes once more. 

“That was a real nice gift, wasn’t it?” He notes with a suggestive tone, they’re barely able to be concerned about his alcohol reeked breath when their own smells about the same. “So: Thank me. You can do that, cantcha?”  

. . .They just want to go back to the bathroom. More cuts will help, more cuts will fix how awful this always makes them feel. They’re deteriorating quicker than they ever have. 

“. . .Thank you, Sir.” The same tiny tone, the same pathetic desire to please. 

A different smell is on his breath as he exhales. The coppery scent of their blood in his mouth. 

“Good Girl.” 

. . .

. . .

. . .

Chapter Text

Breakfast begins as it usually does. Raw meat sizzling on a burner as Yellow cooks, with Kris sitting at the table. Waiting for their usual dose of protein, their cheek flush against an almost empty whiskey bottle. They don’t really sleep that much anymore at night, just trying to catch any period of micronaps they can throughout the day instead. The whiskey helps. He doesn’t really care if they drink it now, the taste that once burnt their throat after each sip now is as recognizable and as plain as water. It goes down smooth, it lets them relax enough to close their eyes and doze off for a few minutes. 

Kris uses their bad arm as a pillow, once again wrapped in thick bandages at Yellow’s behest. Too many cuts to not make a mess of his cabin. A few in the morning, a few more in the morning, a few more in the evening, a few more in the evening, a few more at night, a few, few, few more at night. If they were to peel the soiled linen away, they’d be unable to see skin under all the cuts. Layer upon layer, like a mesh of wounds that jutted over their flesh like rings on a tree. Every few hours the bandages need to be replaced before they seep through, the color of the white now a darkish red that’s fighting to hold back the tide.  

Yellow is only partially dressed, lacking everything from his attire but the pair of longjohns, occasionally sticking unwashed hands into the pan to check how the venison is cooking. Pulling back fingers stained red with meat juice as he gives a chipper whistle.

“-and theresa’ guy, and he kills cute lil’ college girls. He cuts ‘em up with a saw, stitches their bodies together all up like a jigsaw puzzle. Musta watched it dozens o’ times. I ain’t one of those queers obsessed with movies, but damn if it ain’t entertainin’.” He brings a sock covered foot up, running a dirty finger over his own ankle. Smearing meat juice on the fabric as he mimics a sawing motion. “Heh, he paralyzes this lady with a kinda drug, and is gonna cut her feet off. Ain’t that just swell?” He snickers, moving his ankle around so much it makes pain flare up in Kris’ own reflexively. The man marches over to their side of the table to snatch a long gulp from the whiskey bottle they nursed together.

Kris nods along, half-awake and only half-listening. They try to tap their fingers against the table, but the digits feel too stiff to bend. That one arm feels just as dead as their leg does, now a feeling like pricking needles twitching up through it with every touch. 

“Sounds exciting. . .” They’re lying through their teeth, but it’s easy to tell him what he wants to hear. This stuff is all so easy now, they’ve been learning new social rules that worked specifically on him. “. . .Noe- One of my friends is into horror. . .” They try to keep away from names, trying to not give him anything more than what’s needed. Especially as that deer cooks just feet away. It’s getting easy to sound interested in what he’s saying.

Not pretending. . . Not much. . .

Yellow holds the bottle’s tip up to their lips, letting brown liquor seep down their throat, wobbling their head back up in the process.  When they try to pull away, he keeps the bottle there until they’ve drunk what little is left. The bottle is flipped upside down and balanced on the thin spigot, a trickle of liquor forming a wet ring around it. 

At some point he’ll get more, he always gets more. Kris doesn’t really know where he gets it from, but there has to be a town *somewhere* near here. Past all the forest and trees, where he’d get the supplies he couldn’t hunt for. . . Just booze and stuff for himself. Paper bags that vanished into his room never to be seen again. . . Though, something felt different today. 

Yellow lets the meat slowly simmer as he drops into the chair opposite to them. Chipping at something caught in his dirty teeth, a yellow glow pulsing from his SOUL that’s a quicker pace than usual. He takes a moment to adjust his hair, stroking through those greasy knots that clumped in his fingers while he tried to make it neater. Unsheathing his knife, he uses the reflective blade like a mirror to examine his own patchy five o clock. It’s started properly growing into a beard the last few weeks, but he doesn’t want to let it go any further. 

The knife is used like a razor, tilted at an angle, he traces the large blade over his cheek. Scraping off the thin patchy hair to reveal the clean skin underneath.

“Your hair is growin’ in well, lil’ lady.” He comments that happily while he works, giving them more of those praises that just felt like knives in their heart. “It’ll look real nice when it grows past yah shoulders.” Targeted words meant to chip away at their gender, just the slightest adjustments. He doesn’t need to say “It makes you look more girly.” when everything he did and said implied it well enough. Small things at first, small comments on how they walk, how they look, how they carry themselves. Only expanding and building, trying their hardest to not internalize too much of it. 

. . .Kris notices their legs are folded under the table. Neatly crossed to keep themselves decent, to not expose what’s under the flowy skirt. 

They uncross their legs when he isn’t looking. 

“. . .We could w-watch that movie. If you want. . ” The words are gently suggested, a frail thing asking for permission more than a demand. A part of them cringed at the idea, but it’s *something*. They need to stop themselves from going insane, and some shitty movie is better than drooling over their cuts all day.  

Yellow grins, stretching his wrinkled cheeks out to reveal more spots of uncut hair. His expression partially obscured behind the serrated blade as he drags it down with more pressure. 

“I think I got it on tape somewhere, why the hell not?” He’s beaming at the idea, an infatuation that it’s near contagious. It almost sounds like a good time to Kris, something they can look forward to. . . 

A benign normalcy came with this morning routine. Like back home, their mom brewing a pot of coffee as they ate breakfast at an empty table. . .Warm memories. Asriel made them pancakes that always came out messy and misshapen. They were drooling at the thought of tasting them again. Someday soon, but never soon enough. 

When the cowboy is finally finished, he stabs the hunting knife into the table, giving himself one more look-over in the mirror’s dim glow. A morning sunrise illuminated the metal, and Kris could see themselves on the other side.

They swear their hair looks much longer, but that might just be the dysphoria talking. Spotting so many different, microscopic details about themselves that only now had been forced back to the forefront. 

The last while has gone on like this consistently, but today seemed to have different surprises in store. Yellow is priming himself up more than usual, the soft sizzling of meat in the background as he reaches beneath the table. . . Pulling up a plain paper bag, something shifting around inside. That strange bag shakes in his tight grasp when he sits up, dragging the chair behind him with a loud creaking of wood on paneling. It’s thrown right at Kris’ side, a big goofy grin visible while he slides into it. The enby flinches as he pulls their chair over, turning them to face him. In the perfect position to drop the bag right in their lap, his other hand sliding under their dress’ skirt, rubbing their thigh up and down tenderly. . .  

“Mozied myself down to Town last night. Gotcha somethin’! Take it. . .” 

Kris always feels dread before moments like this. Waiting to see if this’ll just be another cruel trap, ones that seemed rarer and rarer everyday now. They’re getting more used to these types of positive gestures, and yet it still hits them when they reach inside: a single chocolate bar. 

It’s a king-sized one, in some brand that Kris didn’t recognize. Wrapped in glossy pink and gold plastic, crumpled up and partially broken within. The smell is strong enough to permeate through the thick paper and gold aluminum inside, it makes them salivate. 

Oh. . . 

. . .Whatever shiny brand is on the wrapped is obscured by a few stray tears pelting its outer shell. Flustered when all it gets them is a cutesy “d’aww” from the other human, giving their thigh a tighter squeeze. 

“Go on~. It’s yours, Lil’ Lady.” They hate to see him validated like this, clearly enjoying that he’s done something that would sincerely impact them. It’s too much to fight, though. After everything that’s happened the last week, after everything from before that, after being tugged, and tugged, and tugged by other’s fates, they desperately needed this. 

That’s about all the permission they need to start digging in. The smell alone makes their stomach hurt so bad they want to puke. Better than anything they’ve ever smelled before. Ravenously cramming squares of chocolate into their mouth, choking on the brownish mush they struggled to wolf down. Everything is gone by the time they actually feel some semblance of satiated.

Kris is so focused, they can’t begin to notice the hand in their skirt is exploring further up. When all that’s left is sweet smelling plastic, they’re sniffling as they lick it for what few crumbs are left, trying to get even an ounce more of the sugary taste. It reminds them of warmth and home. Of sweet times. Times they wanted back. . . It’s hard to not let those feelings get mixed up with the human sitting opposite to them. 

. . .Bought me this. . . Me. . . 

Yellow doesn’t talk until they’re all finished, waiting until they’re all done with their little treat. 

“Heh, so what do y-?” He can’t get those smug words out before Kris beats him to the punch. Practically jumping over themselves to take his hand in both of theirs, bowing their head down low shamelessly. They don’t give a shit anymore, they just want to increase the chance this might happen again. 

“T-Thank you- thank you- thank- thank y-you.” Their tone hitches as they repeat it over and over, no amount of times feeling enough for how genuine a gesture it is. Until their throat feels hoarse, until their stomach aches and quivers, until Yellow shushes them with a finger pressed on their cracked lips. 

At first, the human doesn’t say anything. Only smiling wider, shushing them softly. 

“Heh, shoulda known this was the way into your heart~.” He luridly remarks, sliding the chair in a little closer, until the enby’s wobbly knees are rubbing up against the human’s own. “Yunno. . . That reminds me.” He transitions so smoothly, it feels planned from the get-go. In how his smile grew to something uncannily gleeful, something akin to that charismatic, fake smile that lured them in originally, that lured that monster girl in.  

Kris is giving him the usual validations, nodding to him like an automatic response, dully following along without really listening to the words. The brain fog keeps them sedated, and the alcohol removes any remaining resistance. 

. . .Until he gets to what he says next. His yellow SOUL pounding like a drum as he pulled them in close to hit them with a simple question:

“What’s your real name, Kris?” Repeated in the same casual tone as the rest of this conversation, repeated like it’s just as minor and inconsequential as asking them about the morning weather.

Oh. . . No. . . 

Kris blinks, a sensation like the coldest frostbite shooting up their spine, trying their hardest to just try and block out the terror. To delay the inevitable of what that simple, simple question brought. 

“W-What? I don’t know what you. . .?” They try to sound clueless, maybe a part of it’s real. Maybe they could lie to themselves hard enough to block it all out. It didn’t seem like they’d be so lucky though, as Yellow takes it on the chin. Just laughing a fake chuckle before slamming his hand on the table in amusement. 

“See, I was thinkin’ about it. I had a lotta time to think while I was trottin’ back to the range.” He babbilingly explains, toying with the base of the empty bottle, tittering it on it’s skinny head. “And your type usually go by different names, dontcha? When you change your sex or whatever. “Kris” is that, ain’ it?” Nodding knowingly to his own words, he seems very certain. Enough for Kris to know that all his “questions” are just efforts to goad them to what he wants to hear.

The enby wishes they hadn’t just eaten something, now that their stomach feels sick and their tepid skin is slick with a fresh wave of sweat. They try to keep their eyes to the floor to hide how they really feel.
“It's not, it’s. . .” They stumble over themselves trying to justify it, fighting back the panic that’s coming in tremors. “Just K-Kris, my name’s just- just always been Kris. . .” Forcing on an “honest” smile that doesn’t reach their hollow eyes, they try to massage his hand back like he’s done so many times to them. Making their voice as dainty as they physically could, straining their vocal chords to get the effect out.  

Yellow’s expression doesn’t falter. He chuckles again, but it doesn’t sound as fake this time, returning that hand to Kris’ thigh once more. Applying a motivating *squeeze*, digging his nails in.

“Yeah? Lil’ lesbo’ girl wants to be a guy, and she’s already named Kris? Now, that’d just be silly!” He’s burying the lede so hard, already expecting the resistances that’d come with this. Finding a sick glee in breaking it down. “Already seein’ so much progress in yah, lil’ lady. But if yah wanna really seal that deal. . . you’ll tell me.” He sounds too nice for comfort. His hooked tendrils have already been sawing into their brain, he’s only getting better at sounding like he has their best interests in mind. The exhaustion, the pain, the bloodloss, it all hit their defenses harder than he ever could. All he needs to do is to play up that charm, and slip through the cracks in their psyche. 

No- No- No. . . 

It’s been so long they’ve even *thought* about that name. They haven’t gone by it since they were a young, young child. “Kris” has just been their name for so much longer than it ever was that. It’s their real name. It’s. . . 

Kris wants to wiggle their fingers under the stained bandages, to reach for some of the cuts. Wanting to rip into one to make all the bad thoughts go away, itching it so hard they’d rip the flesh right off. 

“Please, I-I can’t. . .”  They’re already blubbering, struggling to keep that artificial feminine tone on. Fluttering tear-soaked eyelashes and rubbing his hand extra affectionately. It’s easy to feel all the texture of it without his fingerless gloves on, all those wrinkled lines and jagged scars. Kris traces over them, to try and find some combination amongst the texture that’d please him. 

Nothing would ever work, they might as well be trying fake incantations to fake gods. But he didn’t stop them from trying anyways, he let them work so hard to “save themselves”. 

“Come on, Red. You’re a mess. You’ll feel a whole lot better when yah just let it out. All you gotta do is say it once. Only one time, and it’ll be a whole lotta weight off your shoulders.”  He thinks he knows exactly what to say, he’s had time to test exactly what does and doesn’t work. Something that’s his idea of therapy, his concept of helpfulness. 

. . .They physically can’t acquiesce. 

“N-No. . .” It comes out in the softest whisper, already scared of the consequences before it comes out.

. . .Yellow’s smile shrinks for the first time this morning. He didn’t expect that. That charming expression leaves, and all that’s left is something barren. . . The human wordlessly stands up, pulling his hand out of their grasp with an aggressive tug.

They’re toiling in their seat, just watching him dig in a cupboard across the room. The constant heavy sizzling from the meat is stopped as he turns the burner off, the air now filled with nothing but Kris’ ragged breathing, and the chirping of the forest outside.  

When he’s back, he has a scrap of paper in one hand, with a ballpoint pen in the other. Yellow drops them onto the drool soaked table, right in front of them. Spinning Kris’ chair back towards it, hovering over their shoulder like a teacher, forcing them to hold the pen. The smile is back, but it’s far less earnest, with gritted teeth visible through his snarled lips. 

“Look, *Darlin’*. I get how hard it is to say it. So I’ll meetcha in the middle: just write it. All yah gotta do is put a few letters down, I won’t even call yah it right now.” He’s sweetening the pot up to make the poison go down smoother. The pen feels like it weighs a million pounds in Kris’ trembling hand. “I’ll getcha more of those sweets, some new clothes, yah can use my tapes if yah want. Hell, if there’s anything yah want me to get that’ll make you more comfy, feel more at home, I’ll get it. And all you gotta do. . . is write down a name. Sounds easy, huh?” So easy, so simple. A goading tone to his voice that offers them everything, everything he’s willing to give. So many things that’d make staying here so much more tolerable. 

It’s too much. . . I can’t k-keep d-doing this if I have to. . . 

They can’t. They physically can’t, no matter how much it’d improve things. It’s a line that they’d never recover from crossing, something that’d remove the last barriers that kept them some semblance of sane. They can’t. They can’t. They can’t. 

“No.” It comes out a lot more confident than they’ve managed for weeks now. A hard, definitive refusal, letting the pen drop from their hand, pushing the paper away from them. Only getting a few moments to really appreciate this win before the chair is angrily spun around, pushed back against the table, tittering on two legs as the human gets up in their face. 

“No? You really gonna fuckin’ tell me no? You’re gonna throw away all the fuckin’ progress you made over something as stupid as this?!” He’s yelling with spit that hits the enby, he howls like an enraged beast that’s ready to rip their neck out.. All the confidence the enby just had feels ready to burst as they shake their head defensively. 

“I just can’t, that doesn’t mean-” They can’t manage a justification before the chair drops back down, landing on wobbly legs, the other human is suddenly gone. His heavy footsteps pound through the cabin, Kris not daring to move from their current spot.  Finally getting a second to scratch at their arm, digging fingertips under the bandages to relieve some of the rising dread filling the room. 

For a while, they just are there by themselves. Getting a long time to fully grasp the reality of their actions, to fully comprehend what they’ve just done before the footsteps are back. . . 

They sound lighter this time. More careful, and more deliberate. A rhythmic tempo that rings familiar. 

When Yellow is back in the doorway, he’s wearing less clothes than he started in. Stripped down to a pair of trousers, the yellow glow in his chest now a heavy, enraged beaming. A constant searchlight that locks on Kris’ face like a target, the man’s expression a hostile grimace. 

In between his toned arms is a big stick. It looks like a cane of some kind, a hooked end on one side with a hefty bamboo shaft that he testingly slapped into his bare palm. Dragging it across the floor by its handle, he taps it three times: once in the doorway, once halfway to them, and once more at the base of the chair, right between Kris’ thighs.

“I think it is time that I remind you why you are here.” *That voice* is back. That hollow, emotionless tone that made him sound more like a vengeful spirit than a real person. They haven’t heard it in what felt like weeks now, and now they’re fully realizing what they’ve done. “No more of this idle softness. Do you remember what I told you, when you first came here? Do you remember the warning that I made perfectly clear?” He taps the cane’s blunt end into their chest, circling around their SOUL like a shark smelling fresh blood. They’re so focused on those fluid motions that they don’t even notice him grabbing the bottle behind them. 

Kris keeps scratching their arm *hard*, chunky bits of scabbed flesh coming up on their uncut nails as they keep their eyes down on his scarred stomach. They’re close to hyperventilating, not even wanting to imagine what those red eyes were imagining as he looked at them. 

The enby shakes their head, barely able to remember anything from the start of all this. It’s all a blur that blends together in their head. When did they get here, again? For once, Yellow doesn’t expect a response. This isn’t about obedience, this is about disciplining a dog.

““If you make yourself open to it, the velvet gloves will stay on. But the iron gauntlet is seldom ignored, and will return if prompted.”. . Let’s try this one more time. And I sincerely, from the bottom of my SOUL, mean that this is the last chance you will get. Now.” He makes sure he is very clear when he forces their chin up with his cane, making sure they’ll have to look him in the eyes as they answer. “What. Is. Your. Real. Name?” He slaps the bamboo shaft against the table with each word, the enby flinching with every hard slap that runs through the cabin. It leaves their ears ringing, and a weight that's ready to crush them. 

Kris can’t swallow that pill. No matter how much they wanted to, no matter how much some weak, weak part of them wants to give in and let him have wants he wants, to try and get what little they can out of this. . . It’s never going to happen, and nothing he would do would ever change that.

“Yellow. . . I can’t.” They try to numb the impact, try to make it sound as sympathetic as possible. It’s not them, it’s them being a fucking coward. It’s hard to keep that cutesy, pathetic tone as they watch the cane raise mid-answer. 

. . .Yellow’s soul suddenly goes dim, before pulsing back up to a downright inferno. 

“You miserable, insolent little brat.” A new emotion fills the otherwise deliberate tone of the man. An anger unlike anything Kris had ever seen from that folksy cowboy persona. One that made them instantly prepare an apology that never came. He’s on them before they can even blink. 

*CRASH* 

The glass bottle makes contact with Kris’ skull before an “I’m Sorry” can start to be said.  Slamming them to the floor of the kitchen in a pile of glass shards that wracked cuts over their now-bloody forehead, not able to see through all the red staining their eyes. A heavy pounding painfully surges through their crown as they reflexively wrap hands around themselves in terror. 

Kris writhes in the shards of glass while a hand snatches at their clothes, ripping the thin, silky dress away with a single tug. He discarded their little outfit into a pile in the corner like worthless scrap. Everything he’s given them pulled away, leaving them naked as something firm strikes against their back moments later. 

“I hope you realize this is all your fault. All this is because of you alone.” He flips them over with the tip of the cane, their arched back pinned under his heel to stop them from crawling away.

*THWACK* *THWACK* *THWACK* 

He slams the bamboo cane into them with all his force, striking their back, their spine, their shoulders. Slapping the curved wood into all the sensitive, bony spots as they squeal and hopelessly pant out apologies. 

“I’m- I’m sorry- I’m-” Blood oozes down their lips as the cane stabs them right on the crown of their head, Yellow driving the blunt tip in with a fist on the back. A hammer pounding a nail in. All the pain of when they first came here came spiraling back, all those fears of dying that felt so far away were back at the surface. 

Yellow just grunts while he flips them back around, exposing their stomach heaving with needed breaths. Striking their tensed gut with a blow that knocks all the wind out of them, purplish bruises soon forming in the spot as they choke for air. 

It stings more than a punch, all the weight of the shaft with all the strength he puts into it. He doesn’t sound out of breath, he doesn’t even sound strained. The human just keeps going, he just keeps hitting harder, and harder. It feels like every hit sends shakes through their entire body, especially when he takes time to give them lighter slaps to the skull. 

After each hit, their vision blacks out for a few seconds before it returns to a muddy mess. It’s hard to tell if it’s from the tears or from the pain. 

“You had every opportunity to prevent this. That is Justice. The recognition of one’s actions, and the consequences of doing them.” They can barely hear his chastising words over their own wailing, growing into a *shriek* that shook the whole cabin as he gave special attention to their gimp ankle. The human twists their leg around the cane, bracing their ankle right against the bamboo shaft, and letting it drop to the glass-covered floor. 

They know exactly what’s coming as he takes a few steps back. 

“N-No- nonono-” No amount of pleading would ever stop what’s coming, but they still desperately force out those pathetic mumbles. They writhe in a puddle of blood, clenching their teeth tight, and preparing for the worst. 

With a running start, Yellow brings his leg up as much as it can go, and it comes down right on their ankle. A sickening crunch comes first, and then a scream that burns out what’s little left in their vocal chords. Whatever bones were left were all but crushed, weak twitches all that’s left, only able to feel the aftermath. 

Yellow thumps his shoulder brazenly, kicking the wall, kicking the counter, punching the iron furnace with bruised knuckles. . . Suddenly, the human headbutts the hardwood wall. Yelling in a combination of rage and victory.  When he comes back, his forehead is covered in his own blood, his hair stringy and wet with it as he pins their ruined ankle down with the cane’s end. 

“You don’t know how *hard* I have been trying. How *difficult* is it to put up with some low-functioning monster-loving brat. This last week? The last few weeks? Do you know what it could be if I didn’t have impulse control? It would be this.” He licks at his own blood with an unwashed tongue, applying pressure on their mangled leg, pressing so hard it felt like he’d push it right through the boards. The jagged scraps of bone shifting in the mangled tissue that kept it all inside. Kris seizing up, eyes rolling in their head, just wishing he’d chop it off so the constant pain would finally stop. 

Pain is the point though. Cruelty is the point. It’s crystal clear when the cane suddenly hits them right in the jaw with a full force baseball swing.

*THWACK* 

A practical flood of blood surges from their lips, it’s all too much to deal with, too disoriented to know if they have all their teeth still. The joint feels dislocated. They’re face down in a puddle of the red they vomit out of their mouth, soon followed by real bile that pollutes it with shades of greenish yellow. There goes all of their sweet treat. Give, and take. 

“Pl-plgh. .  . Yelklm. . . “ Gagging on the chunks, words muffled by the liquids and sickness they’re soaked in, feeling fingers wrapping around their hair like a handlebar. Pulling them out of their own filth, to make their unfocused, pain-addled gaze look at him now. With his bloody face that was still nothing compared to how they must look. . . They swear there’s more blood on him, but it’s probably theirs. His chest is soaked in the stuff. 

“It’s too late to beg for mercy. All you had to do was say one word. One. Little. Word. I hope you feel as stupid as you look.” He hacks up a glob of spit that hits them right on their red forehead, all they’re able to work up from it is a miserable, half-there mewl. It hurts all over, it’s harder to tell what doesn’t hurt then what does. Everything is their fault. 

Yellow raises them a few inches higher, tilting them back so their chin is pointed at the paneling. Only then does he let them go: falling to the hard floor, not able to catch themselves as their sore jaw snaps and pops. If they weren’t too broken to talk, they are now. 

The cane pressed into their throat, the human kneeling on their back and pulling it back towards him by both sides. Earning a desperate gasp for air as they choked on the blood pooling in the back of their gullet, wheezing and watching the world feel near ready to finally leave. Just when it’s too much, he hinges it back just an inch more to practically crush their windpipe.

“Don’t you pass out on me.”  That’s the only warning they get, it’s the only thing they get before he goes to their hand next. Just as they’re soon to finally be embraced by oblivion, by the darkness that felt like a much-needed rest, the enby screams as he snaps the little bones in their pinky finger. Dislocating the joint as the world flashes back to its awful reality, what little reality they can see through the blood.

Why won he jus killm e. . .   

Yellow gives them a last few slaps of the cane, but it just feels like an afterthought. He just wanted to, he just wanted to relieve all the tensions that came with this. Their body twitches with every light blow, a nice reminder they aren’t dead yet as they gurgle in the puddle of glass and blood. 

“You know what? You know what? Fuck it.” He just seems defeated when he throws the bamboo cane away, bouncing across the floor into the mess that he’d soon have to clean. “Your name is Red now. Girly enough. If you try to go by that fucking fake name again, even when you go home, I’ll find you and break every finger on your fucking hands. Is that understood, *Red*?” He expects a response, but there’s not a lot he can get out of them right now. It’s hard for them to even exist. The pain is all they can process, and all they know. 

The warning stays in their head, though. They associate it with the pain, with the agony, with not being able to move their littlest finger anymore. Kris will remember this. It’ll never leave. 

Kris forces out a nod, not even trying to get words out with how hard they were sobbing, only able to use the last bits of their energy to curl up into a ball. They just want it to be over. They want to close their eyes and pretend it’s all over. . . 

It is, but not in the way the enby thinks. 

“You've lost your privileges.” That’s the only warning they’re given, his voice now sounding just tired of all this. Tired of all the work he did. But the worst of it isn’t over for Kris, though, and they’re only able to guess what’s about to happen as he grabs them by their good leg. 

Their head drags across the ground of the cabin, he pulls them through its familiar hall with deliberate intentions.  A blood trail seeping from their head that follows them in a red line, only able to see that and not much more.

Kris’ heart drops when they realize where they are, the heavy door of the basement creaking open like the bars on a jail cell. Only barely able to see the open black maw. 

“N-n.. . .” They can’t talk, they can’t beg, they can’t plead. A thump fills the cabin as their head bounces off each step, only knowing it’s finally over when they’re tossed into a pile of dust. It’s in their mouth, it’s all over them, sticking to their nude body with how much blood there is. They’re amongst death, and they feel ready to join them. 

. . .Yellow only looks back once before leaving. Giving them one last stare, and one last judgemental shake of his head as he trots up the wooden steps. He doesn’t talk until he’s at the top of the staircase, only yelling down at their limp, mangled body:

“You’ll be down here until I’ve decided you've learned your lesson. I’ll toss you food every once in a while. Congratulations, I hope this was worth it.” 

The door is slammed shut with malice, the click, click, click of the various locks sealing them tight inside. Only then are they finally they’re able to force out a word:

“Y-Yellow?. . .” He has to be joking, he can’t really be ready to just leave them down here, can he?. . . 

Can he? 

There’s a few footsteps upstairs, but then nothing. No sound at all. No stimuli. No anything. There’s nothing down here for them. It isn’t meant to be lived in. 

Just them in the basement, not able to move, not able to do more than spit up what blood is left in their mouth. . . They’re not getting up anytime soon. He can’t leave them here. He can’t. 

He’ll c-come back. . .  

He has to, right?. . .  

Right?. . . 

Right?. . . 

. . .

. . . 

. . . 

“. . .Yellow?. . .” 

. . .

. . .

. . . 

Chapter Text

DAY ONE 

It takes a while for it to fully set in that he’s leaving them here. How could it, really? None of this felt real, none of it felt like something that had actually happened. Even as they laid in a bloodied mess, only able to stare up at the ceiling, they kept expecting to hear his footsteps coming back down the stairs. As seconds turned into minutes, as minutes turned into hours, the pain numbed, but he still didn’t come back. 

He’ll. . . just want to make me sweat. T-Teach me a lesson. . . He won’t just. . .

The first day makes them feel the most worthless, struggling to learn how to do basic bodily functions again. Something simple like breathing is just beyond their grasp. Their body forces them to do the act, but their lungs ache and convulse as the air fills their chest. Ragged bellows, an aching weight that doesn’t come off. A broken, discarded doll that can’t move on its own, crammed in its toy box until it’s ready to be used again. 

Learning to exist comes with learning to function. It’s small things, shifting their joints, writhing on the dusty concrete, trying to roll over sideways. A more comfortable position, until he comes to get them. Until he. . . 

Just. . . get up. . . 

Kris finally manages enough to tilt their head over, a slow, syrup-y trickle of the blood pooling in their lungs soon drips from their open lips. A slimy trail that joins the rest of the wetness puddling under them. Some of it’s blood, some of it’s something else. One paralyzed finger at a time is stretched out as wide as they can manage, trying to focus on something small. All they need is easy. All they can manage is easy.

“Mnn. . .” Trying to move made their joints seize up reflexively, fighting to stop anything that’d bring the pulses of pain back. One attempt isn’t enough. Two isn’t enough. Three. Four. A dozen tries go by before they can manage to drag themselves up by their bootstraps. So much effort, and all they’ve actually done is take a turn to the left. 

The furnace is lit, bellowing waves of orangish flames that bounced shadow puppets over the stone walls, the bars keeping the inferno trapped inside. So much warmth, but it won’t be like this forever. It’ll die out eventually, and leave them to the late autumn elements. But for now, it’s as close as they’d have to a blanket. They can barely tell they’re naked from how numb they feel.

There’s so much dust down here. So much they can’t even gag. Everything Yellow touches is coated in that powdery scent of death, they’re sure it’s already been covering them too even before now. They can’t bring themselves to gag anymore, spitting out mouthfuls that get trapped in their teeth, in their gums, under their tongue. It has the texture of sand, and the gritty pellets are in the air and filling their lungs. The only thing hiding the taste is the blood.

. . .No footsteps. Is he?. . .

Kris waits a while to try and pull themselves up. Conserving every ounce of energy. Praying that this shitty game will just end before they have to try. Over soon. They’ve been good. Something as small as this can’t keep them here for that long, right? They’re imagining that he just took a walk around the woods and he’ll be back in any second now.

. . .I’ll apologize.

It’s easy to try and plot something when it’s all they can do. There’s no chance of being able to move from this spot for a while, so all they can do is plan the perfect words to get out of this. The enby’s head is spinning, shards of glass embedded in their scalp like a glossy crown, learning to press the tips of uneven nails inside to worm out the largest pieces. Discarded red shards stacked messily in a pile at the edge of their radius of existence. What’s left of their everything is this compact ring around their head that marks the little space their unwieldy arms could explore. 

Their head hurts in a way that stays even when the rest of the glass is removed. A pain nestled in their brain. They’d be surprised if they didn’t have a concussion. 

For as narrow as their world was before, it’s only been shrunk down further. It wouldn’t be the first time, though. At the hospital, they remember being locked up for a few weeks while they “stabilized”, that little room with its white sheets and pawprint plastered gowns. . . Their arm was bandaged up then, as it is now. To say it’s anything similar to then would be a lie, but it’s easy for the enby to rationalize that this wouldn’t be too bad. For however long this lasts. A few days to themselves, at worst. A few days to lick their wounds and wallow. But it won’t be anyway, he wouldn't just. . . 

 . . .They feel at their bare chest next, finding a warpath’s worth of bruises and sores forming over where there was once pale skin. The cauterized flesh of their shoulder broke open during the scuffle, it marks the spot where the most blood is trickling from neck-down. Bumpy skin with various pore-sized holes beaten into it to let everything seep out. 

Maybe it could be worse. It could always be worse. They aren’t going to be bleeding out anytime soon, unless they’re uniquely lucky. Not that it doesn’t feel like a good solution to their problems right now. What else are they supposed to fucking do anymore?. . . 

Out of all the spots they initially examine on their ruined facade, their ankle is the one they dreaded the most. That stupid injury that's numb one minute and stinging the next. But. . . They can’t feel it at all now. Neither pain nor numbness, only pulsing into a hard prickling when Kris bumps the ball of their foot against the joint. 

The skin is bulged out, a bumpy, hard mass of bone pressing from within.  Sharp ridges like splintered wood, spreading to the rest of the mangled joint and its still-connected nerves.  

Kris spits another mouthful of congealed spit onto the floor, the first time it’s not red since they ended up here. Somehow, it makes them sicker than anything else. It’s at that point that they began losing little pieces of their naive hope, bit by bit. Down here long enough to start healing their various open wounds. . . Keeping track of time is hard, but Kris thinks it should be midday by now. It’s been hours.

. . .? 

Has it been a day yet? Is the sky changing outside? Are there clouds that still travel overhead, even if they don’t see it? There’s no windows down here, no glimpse of the sky, no view into a place that they could use to know that time is still moving forward. 

My head hurts. . . 

Not that much has changed. They already couldn’t tell what day it is, this isn’t much worse. It’ll be *fine*. He’ll come back soon. He’ll be back *soon*.  Just have to hold on and wait. Always so selfish. Always their fault. Always them that makes everything explode. Everything was going fine and they ruined it. They. . . 

When Kris works up the energy to move their arm at last, their first desire, their first goal for what they want from their own body is simple: Twisting their fingers into the still-tight bandages soaked in their dried juices, and wracking the florid skin with much-needed relief. 

Little bits of skin come up with each pull of their wrist. 

Just them and the corpses now. As much a corpse as the rest. 

. . . 

. . .

. . .

DAY TWO 

It’s all gone. When there’s so little you have, it’s hard to fully grasp what happens when you’re left with nothing. Upstairs, it felt like there was so little to keep them sane, so little stimuli that allowed them to give their head some semblance of balance. 

They had it too good versus down here. Only now are they truly understanding that. They always had this problem, especially back home. Not entirely realizing just how much you have until it’s gone. Not realizing that you were a lot luckier than you assumed. 

Already missing that too-short kid’s bed with its warm sheets and welcoming designs. 

Sleep down here comes randomly, and lasts just as sporadically. Kris wakes up to the same pipe filled ceiling, the same concrete floor, the same dusty taste in their mouth, and the same pain in their body. No amount of it ever makes them feel well rested. Nothing changes. Nothing looks different. It just makes time pass. Too weak to move around their little cell, all they can manage is waking up, stretching their joints out a bit more, and passing out again moments later. 

It doesn’t hit them that a day could have passed until the next time they’re forced awake again. Crusty eyes blurring, only able to focus a bit further than their sphere of influence. 

. . .Still here. When did he. . .? 

There’s something waiting for them. A little plate at the bottom step, stained red with meat juice, a little morsel of venison that’s a half cut slab of their usual meal. A glass of water that’s little more than a few teaspoons. It doesn’t look cooked, but it’s sustenance.

Not today, then. They’re not too scared from that, though. It’s just a day. Tomorrow, then? Tomorrow. They’ll apologize tomorrow. That script they have planned is the only thing left in their foggy head. 

This is the hardest part, what they’ve been fearing the most. They’re about as close to healed as they’ll ever be, spending their few waking moments planning the next step.

Crawling is the best the enby can manage. Mimicking the gesture from yesterday to roll themselves back on their side, but flipping over fully this time. Stomach down on the dust, crusty blood coming off in sheets as they drag themselves by one hand and a raised knee. 

“Ow. . .” Moving makes their world spin, their stomach flaring in response to the sudden movements. It’s such a small basement, but it feels like it takes days to get to the staircase. Writhing in dust. Panting from the exertion, from the hunger pings that’ve only intensified from their time upstairs.

 Salivating. A caged dog being fed. No utensils. Too tired to care, too worn down to care, starving for too long to do anything but grab at the raw meat with dusty hands. 

Biting. Gnawing. Only a few bites. Just enough food to keep them alive. Washed down with a meager gulp of water. Their teeth hurt. They might be missing some. Their throat hurts. Like breathing through a cramped tube. It’s lukewarm water. Being made to swallow the dust still clogging their mouth, devouring someone else’s essence. It tastes like ash. It tastes like him. 

. . .They wasted all their energy getting over here. It’s all concrete anyways, so it’s not like Kris really loses anything by dropping back to the floor right here instead. . . At least here it comes with a view up the stairs. No sunlight is allowed to creep through the thick wood, keeping them obscured from the world outside. Sometimes there’s creaking and footsteps just beyond that unyielding veil, but nothing else. 

It’s not too bad down here. The furnace isn’t on, the air is freezing and keeps their skin feeling clammy in a constant cold-sweat. Comfortably cold. It’s nice and quiet down here. The only thing they can hear is their own loathful thoughts. They used to sleep on the floor in the living room sometimes, Asriel curled up around them as a muted movie played on the TV. This is kinda like that. Right? It’s not that much more uncomfortable than that.

This is fine. Kris is fine. It’ll just be a day. Just a day and they’ll apologize.

“I’m sorry.  I was being selfish. I’ll listen more. I”ll listen better. Please just give me another chance. . . Please, Sir. . .” 

The bruises are starting to fester. Purplish black shades turn to a sickly yellowish red. Cuts leaking with something clear that oozed on the outside of the scabs. Every once in a while their lungs feel like they’re on fire, and a cough comes up that splatters blood onto the bottommost steps. Less blood than yesterday. Good Sign. 

“I’m sorry.  I was being selfish. I’ll listen more. I”ll listen better. Please just give me another chance. . . Please, Sir. . .” 

A part of them wonders what he’s doing upstairs. A stranger part of them wonders if he misses them. . . 

My head hurts.

It’s only been an hour, but that’s the longest they can stay awake before the darkness takes them once more. 

. . . 

. . .

. . . 

DAY FOUR 

He forgot about them. That’s it, that’s it. He just forgot to get them. That’s all. It’s just a small thing. Just a day late. A few days late. Kris only has one leg, but they fucking use everything to pull themselves up the stairs. Finally in a position to, finally able to limp their way up the wooden beams, hopping up a step, gripping the railing to make what little progress they can. The steps keep getting higher. Every step they take, another one replaces it. All the aching in their head is getting worse. They can’t put thoughts together anymore. Something is leaking out of their ears. Something is leaking out of their body. Something is leaking out of their mouth. 

*Knock* *Knock* 

When Kris makes it to the door, they give a tentative, polite knock. It’s such a small thing, they shouldn’t be rude about it. Being rude is why they’re down here. Being rude is why everyone hates them. He hates them too now. He was being kind and now they’re ruined. They hate them. “Y-Yellow?. . .” Their speech is woeful. The smallest. The frailest. Haven’t spoken in days. Vocal chords decaying in real time. Crushed. It takes everything in them to speak in more than a warped whisper. Using the door for support to keep themselves steady, clinging to the locked doorknob to stay upright.  

No response. 

* Knock* *Knock* * Knock* *Knock* 

There’s nothing. Is he even here? Maybe he’s out. Maybe he’s not? Maybe. They knock again. And again. And again. Kris’ knuckles feel sore. Knocking louder so he can hear them. Practically punching the door to make sure. It makes the thumping in their head intensify with every hard slap. 

“P-Please- I’ve. . . l-learned my lesson. I was being s-stupid. Please. . . Yellow? . .” Clawing their nails into the wood, digging in, desperate to not lose their footing. Hitting harder. Mangy hair hiding their teary eyes behind a wall of strands. Tears pelting against their feet and the wooden boards. They’re so tired. No amount of sleep helps. No amount of crying helps. Cornered rat struggling below the floorboards. 

*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK*

Their mind is racing, and they can’t stop gagging as the worst case scenarios rush into their mind. What if he’s just going to leave them down here? What if this is it? 

“C-Can you just talk to me?. . . P-Please? Please?. . .” They just want a chance. An opportunity to make amends. To end this quickly. The silence is deafening. It’s crushing them. They just want a sign. . . 

*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* 

*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* 

Everything is worse. It’s all their fault. It’s all their fault. 

My head hurts.

*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* 

*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK*  *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK*

Kris screams in frustration, the final knock on the door coming from their skull pounding into the paneled wood. Sliding down the rough surface, dropping into a curled ball at the base of the door. . . A little stream of wind flows through the crack, a sensation of the outside world. . . 

The closest they’ll get to sunlight for a while. Everything is starting to set in. A bundled weight dragging them down through the murky depths. At least they don’t have to lay in dust up here. . . 

Do I deserve this?. . . 

What is Justice? Kris doesn’t entirely know anymore. They used to believe they had a good moral framework for understanding it, but they’re not so sure anymore. Brain fog isn’t helping. Starvation isn’t helping. If you do something wrong, you get locked up in a cell like this. If you do things that hurt others, you’re hurt in response. Is that Justice?  

Is this Justice?

“I’m sorry. . .” 

. . .

. . .

. . .

DAY SIX

All they want is stimuli. A constant, steady race for something to keep their head together. There’s little things down here they’d never notice before. The walls have a slight grain-y texture like granite. Over ten rusted tools lay on the table in the corner.  There’s eight bars on the iron furnace. There’s fourteen steps on the wooden stairs. They have over forty cuts on their mangled arm. 

They’d love nothing more than to increase that number. Kris didn’t have anything to use, so they made do with what they had at hand. Eyes that are glossy and dilated from the low light, a discarded pile of bandages tossed into the corner of the basement. 

This basement. This shitty basement. Being fed scraps. Their body devours their own muscles and body fat to sustain itself. Were they fed yesterday? Did they eat? They didn’t feel like they ate. If they ate they didn’t remember it. When Kris looks down at themselves, they don’t recognize their own body anymore. It’s all hidden behind a layer of dirt and dust. All they can recognize is the cuts only just beginning to seal themselves shut. 

New cuts are impossible, but they can still fix that. 

Why won’t he just. . . 

Kris slashes their nails over the self harm cuts one by one, trying their hardest to saw the flesh open. Splitting the cuts. Moaning from the way a trickle of blood flows out in uneven pellets. Straightening out the flaws in their slashes with another up-and-down. 

“One at a time. . .” They missed their knife, the little kitchen one he let them keep in their room. If they had a knife, they’d be perfectly fine down here. All that can be done is making do with what is had. Scraping off scabbed tissue, all the chunks of pinkish red slabbing off in sheets. 

This is one of two activities they’ve found of value, one of the few tasks that lets their hands stay busy. This numbs their brain, and the fingers pressing into their crotch make them feel something. Upstairs they didn’t even want to look at themselves down there, but this doesn’t require looking. All they want is to feel it. All they want is the sensations. It’s hard to exactly remember how many times they’ve touched themselves today.

Thirteen. Fourteen now. 

It’s easy to close their eyes and pretend they’re doing it how they would back home. Clumsily pressing their middle and ring finger inside, feeling for a spot that’d get them to the edge the quickest. Not about a good time or a fulfilling experience, just the biological action of masturbation. A method of achieving a consistent rush of endorphins.

They need to take occasional breaks, lest they pass out. The last few days, sleep has become harder and harder. A few minutes. A few hours. Kris fights the loudest of the moans, clamping their lips over one of the largest of the cuts, suckling at the metallic taste that could barely refresh their parched throat. Thrusting their fingers in harder, rutting into their palm, leaking all over the dusty pile that’s the closest they have to a bed. 

Filthy. Every inch of their skin is filthy. As close to looking like a corpse as they’d ever be before the grave. Their head aches constantly. Strained eyes squeezed shut, a slow pace that’s the least chaotic they’d ever accomplish. . . 

When Kris finishes, it’s underwhelming.  There’s very little left to come out, very little beyond a trickle of slick that’s soaked up by the dust under their malnourished thighs. A week ago they were already struggling to keep an ounce of fat on any spot of them, and it’s just an impossibility. . .  

Kris slobbers as they free the open wound out of their mouth, tongue still tasting of copper. Cradling their mutilated arm close, not stopping their constant humps, trying to get anymore pleasure out of themselves. 

Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. . . 

. . .

. . .  

. . .

DAY TWELVE

This room is getting smaller. This room is getting smaller. Kris keeps measuring it and they swear it’s been getting an inch smaller everyday. In a few day’s it’ll get so tight that they can’t move their limbs. In a few days it’ll get so tight their eyes popped out of their skull. In a few days it’ll get so tight they’ll be a mushed pile of bone and gore with a soul in the middle of it. It’ll be coffin sized soon. 

SOUL. The red SOUL clutched tight in their grasp. That shiny, beautiful little tumor that sucked their life essence away, that stole so much of their life but blessed them with so much in response. It hates them, but it loves what it gets from them, and what their face gives to the world. 

“. . .Say something.” It won’t talk back, no matter how hard they try to get it to. A while ago they’d love nothing more than to get it to shut up for good, now they crave even a single word.  A single utterance. A single *Order*. Anything. Anything. Just to make them know they aren’t alone. 

Kris doesn’t get anything from the little glowing mass. All the parasite does is keep glowing in a pulsing of red light. The enby wraps their skeletal fingers around its metaphorical neck, squeezing it harder. Too weak to actually hurt it in their current state, too weak to actually hurt it in general as they slowly died without it nuzzled deep inside.  

I know it hears me. I know. I know. 

At first they’re mad, staring down at that bundle that comprised the core of their being. Strangling it with all their force. Trying to coax it into giving them even the littlest yelp. Getting nothing in response but the rumbling of microcracks. It’s such a fragile thing. A reflection of their own fragility. . . 

“. . .Aren’t we in this together. . .?” Kris holds the heart close to their forehead, close enough that the red glow is blinding. Feeling the warmth spread over their features, squeezing it tighter, and tighter, and tighter. They’d break far before it would, but a part of them just wants to make it hurt. To make themselves ache through proxy. If they’re suffering, it’s only fair it is too.

It’s just Justice. . . 

Kris shrieks as they drive the SOUL down into the bare concrete. Yelling, spitting, pounding the very thing that comprises their humanity into the dust. Hitting hard, and hard, and hard. Trying to drive it into the ground by its pointed tip like a stake. Rejecting personhood, rejecting kinship, rejecting their everything, a scream that slowly warps into an agonized wail. 

*CRACK*

An achingly loud snap fills the air with that finalmost slam. Any and all rage that the enby is feeling is spooked away into the underbrush as they drop the little red mass through their bloodied fingers. 

“O-Oh. . .” It takes them a second to realize what’s happened, glancing between their dirt-covered hands and the SOUL now pulsating in the dust. . . A little hairline crack runs from the bottom tip all the way to the angled curve. The outer glow of the soul seems to have dimmed, and the brightest of the red light now comes from the inside of that narrow, damaged slit. .  . 

Ah.

Kris is crying before they even know why. Their emotions have been all over the place. They can’t control it anymore. They can’t bring themselves to anymore.  So soft in how they clutch their demon tightly, cradling that leech that they hated more than anything so tenderly. 

It’d steal everything that composed them if given the chance, and yet they still felt fucking awful for daring to harm it. It wouldn't be the first time they have, the SOUL was plenty aware of that back home. But here, it felt especially foul. They didn’t want to put it back in. They didn’t feel like they deserved it.  

Snot runs down their sniffling nostrils, doing little to wash away the crusty bits of yellowish bile and mucus still caked there. They stopped caring days ago. They stopped caring years ago. 

It didn’t, though. Maybe that’s a part of why they hated it so much. It appreciated their life more than they did, what their life could be, and what they wanted it to be. . . 

“. . .I’m sorry. I’m sorry. . .” A phrase whispered so softly in the same way they’ve whispered it so frequently recently, meaning it more sincerely every time it’s uttered. So much to be sorry for, so few who want to accept it.  

Would it care enough to?

The crack is so small, but it leaks with a luminous fluid with a pinkish tint. Like blood flow from an open wound, it glows in the dark of the basement and covers their hands in a glow that burns their skin. . . 

Liquid. Fluid. Something like water. They’re so parched, in a constant state of dehydration. Always so close to the edge. Lips dry and cracked, skin powdery and white. So fucking thirsty. . . 

. . .Kris tentatively dips their finger into that crack, eyes still watery, heart still remorseful as they pool a little drop of the plasma. . . 

What’s another thing to apologize for in this world?

They place that little dollop right on their tongue. . .  

It tastes like pure light, it tastes like themselves. It burns going down, leaving their throat feeling prickly and singed. Nerve damage. The liquid fighting them every step down their gullet. Their stomach aches, and they gag on the feeling that stays on their tongue. That refuses to leave. 

. . .Kris dips their finger back in. Better than nothing. . . 

. . .

. . .

. . . 

DAY EIGHTEEN 

THEY’RE SO HUNGRY, they’re so hungry, they’re so fucking hungry. The meals are getting smaller, the walls are getting smaller, their hands are getting smaller, their hands are getting further away every time they look at them. Kris licks the plate after every meal to try and get *Something*, *anything*, but it’s never enough. 

There’s little insects that sometimes creep in from cracks in the basement walls. Little crickets. Little, fat crickets. Little crickets. They’re called cave crickets. Kris used to catch them late at night in the backyard, these freakish things with long legs and fatty bodies. 

They chirp, and they sing, and they mock them with their every utterance. Creeping over the ground, creeping over their skin, being able to come and go freely. Why do they get to leave and they don’t? Why should they get to fucking starve while they don’t? 

My head hurts

Kris has to wait until they’ve crept close to catch them. Staying as still as a corpse. Not moving an inch. Letting the creeping insect creep over their flesh to examine the rotted body. Creeping antennas twitching in curiosity. Creeping over their leg and biting at little mites that travel freely over them too. Symbiosis. 

They have to try their hardest to grab one. The first dozen tries they get away with ease. Too creeping. Too jumpy. Too quick. Their crippled body doesn’t allow it. Learning has to happen or they’ll expire. Against the clock, against their body, snatching the little cricket close in their cupped hands. 

The creeping bug writhes and bites at their palm, but it’s too weak to break skin. It’s weak. It’s weak, and they’re weak, and it’s weaker. Kris squeezes the creeping cricket *firmly*, just enough pressure to feel it stop resisting. 

Protein. Meat. 

Kris holds the little creeping corpse by one of its elongated legs. No hesitation comes from what they want, they can’t taste anything but blood anymore. They cram themselves into the smallest corner they can find, keeping their food closeby, slipping the bug into their teeth, biting a large chunk of its outer shell. 

It’s crunchy and hard, leaking with a gooey yellow that oozes from their lips. It tastes earthy, with hints of soil and a meaty tang. Only a few bites are needed to swallow the whole cricket down. 

Only a few hundred more of those, and they’ll be satiated. Kris doesn’t bother wiping the mess from their lips, there’s enough of their blood anyway. What’s more?. . .

Food is rarer and rarer. It used to be everyday, now it feels like a coin toss. Desperate. So desperate. It’s hard to count how little they weigh. The act of inhaling hurts. The act of moving hurts. Their ribs ache. Their skin is just a tight, thin layer of mesh spread over a carapace of bone. Moving is hard. Eating is hard. 

After a certain point, they run out of options. Starved for choice, starved for food, they have one last source that feels like their own plea for survival. All they can focus on is getting to the next hour. They’d bash someone’s fucking head in with a rock if it meant they’d get a morsel of food. They’d do awful things for a drop of water. As much an animal as the crickets they consume. A creeping thing, creeping along the ground with one leg dragged behind them.

My head hurts

Biological matter is food, right? If it’s living, or once had been, it’s food. What can be devoured is food. What can fit in their mouth is food. Whatever is within the range of their creeping hands is edible. . . 

Dust. What is Dust, if not the remnant of something once living? What is a corpse, if not something that can be devoured? Is all food not corpse? 

Kris scoops up some of the dust in their palm, squeezing it tight, compacting it into a patty of biomass. Who did this once belong to? Is there a name behind that miscellaneous pile of gray ash? Multiple names, perhaps. That little girl, and that happy family, and all the faces that were now discarded slag in a mass grave.  

It’s a smell that Kris is the most fond with of anything down here. He reeked of it. They reeked of it. The only thing that changes by consuming it is taking it deep inside, stripping it of what’s valuable and rejecting the rest. 

Actually eating it is the difficult part. How does a corpse eat a corpse? There’s only one way that they can really find that works: craning their crooked neck to the stone sky, hands in a mock-prayer, gently baring their bloodied, cracked lips. Sprinkling the powdery pellets into their ready mouth, retching while gulping down spoonfuls worth of the bitterness.  

Extremely hard to swallow. Their throat fights against them every step of the way. Nausea. Sickness. Nausea. Fighting back a choke, scooping up another handful, regretting this already but not able to stop themselves anymore. Forcing down more. And more. And more. 

Sometimes, it all gets clumped up in their windpipe, clenching their throat to make it all go back down smooth. There's so much dust. It’s in their bloodstream and their insides and lungs and skin and flesh and hair and teeth and gums and fingernails and toenails and-  

Another mouthful. It doesn’t taste of anything. It doesn’t have calories. It doesn’t have protein. It’s something to fill empty space in a spot that’s getting smaller and smaller and smaller. 

My head hurts

They didn’t feel better, even after cramming an urns worth of dust in their unending maw. . .   

Their stomach grumbles, demanding more. . . Only able to abate its wants and needs. 

Kris curls their broken leg under their body, and reluctantly scoops up another handful.

. . .

. . .

. . .  

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . . 

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . . 

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . . 

DAY FOUR THOUSAND  

Kris is having a dream. Kris is in an operating room, with two vials on a table. Kris is chained to the paneled floor. Kris is being watched by dozens of prodding, lurid eyes from the vast dark that surrounds it. Kris is naked beyond a gaping black hole dripping ink from their chest. Kris is shaking as they take the two vials in their hands. Kris is reading the two symbols on each. Kris is recognizing chemical formulas on both. Kris is ordered by a voice from the shadows to mix both chemicals together. Kris is understanding what the symbols mean. Kris is comprehending what will happen if they mix the two noxious substances together. Kris is trembling and begging to not do it. Kris is smelling ammonia from on, and bleach from the other. Kris is told they must proceed with the experiment. Kris is told they have no choices otherwise. Kris is only able to do as they’re told. Kris is only able to process that there’s no getting out of this. Kris is holding the two vials closer as judging sneers fill the audience. Kris is holding their breath as they slowly, slowly, slowly tilt the two vials. Kris is listening to them laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh while toxic fumes bellow from the tubes. Kris is choking on their own lungs, feeling the flesh inside liquidate, feeling their eyes melting, feeling their skin burning to an uneven char. Kris is watching as a flood of black fluid gushes from the hole in their chest, flooding out of them like a corks being pulled. Kris is choking. Kris is choking. Kris is choking. Kris is out of options. Kris is out of choices. Kris is. Kris. is. 

Kris can’t tell when they're awake anymore, but they’re still screaming. 

DAY TEN 

The room is only the size of a stamp. Kris can see the little insects covering every wall. Kris tries to bite at them and claw at them and devour them like the crickets but the little insects slip through their hands. Kris can’t touch them. Kris can see them warp into elongated creatures in front of them. Kris sees limbs grow from nothing. There’s these things all over every visible surface of the room where there once was concrete. Biting them back and draining them of their blood. They’re whispering to them in voices like the abyss itself. Angelic. Angels in the walls with their black wings that oozed with ink and bile and blood. Their fat little bodies get bigger as they pull everything that comprises Kris out like they’re scavenging on a cadaver festing in the sunlight. 

Kris has eaten beetles and flies and crickets and dust and fabric, but never those strange creatures.

They get mad at them for entertaining the idea of eating them. Whispering all their worst fears back at them. Reminding them that it’s their fault they’re here.  It’s their fault. This was all their fault. They’re going to die down here and it’s their fault. They’re going to DIE DOWN HERE AND IT’S THEIR FAULT.  THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE.

DAY NINETY THOUSAND 

THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE.

DAY THIRTY 

THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. 

DAY FIVE

THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE.

DAY FIVE MILLION EIGHT HUNDRED AND TEN THOUSAND AND FOUR SIX

THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE.

THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE.

DAY TEN HUNDRED TWELVE MILLION EIGHTY SEVEN

THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE. THEY’RE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE.

DAY ONE TEN THOUNAD NILLION THIRTY BIX EIGHT LILLION 

T H E Y R E 

DAY FEN ZHOUSAND END ZIXTY VEVEN 

G O I N G 

DAY ILEVEN TRIBBION THIRMTY NILE ION

T O 

DAY ???

D I E  

DAY ?????

D O W N

DAY ????????

H E R E. 

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . .

. . . 

I don't know anymore.

 Kris doesn’t open their eyes much anymore. The world around them in the waking realm is just as dark anyways. Being cognitively aware was a state of agony in itself. In all those probing, pinching, stroking parts and limbs and hands that tugged on them when their eyes flicker open. New horrors. New warping, creeping things. Black shapes like tears in reality. Where the shadows end and they begin is impossible to see. It’s a spectrum. They’re neither one nor the other. 

They’ve been dead for a long time, before coming to this cabin and this basement. Everything that comprised their life had been stolen away, and the festing mass that’s left over is just ready for the vultures. 

Today, tomorrow, whatever hour, it all felt different right now. The next time Kris peeks at the horrors that had become their everything, the creatures living in the walls were gone, instead replaced by someone familiar to them. Standing amongst the shadows, directly under the lightbulb, was a darkner. . . 

“R-R. . .?” Forgotten how to form words, forgotten higher brain functions that’ve been eaten away at by exertion. Crawling out of a puddle of their own putrid filth, to get a better look at the boy now standing over them. 

Eventually, they’re finally able to form one single word:

“Ralsei?. . .” It creaked and ground out like vacant sounds from a decaying carcass. 

It’s him. Just as flawless as always, pretty pristine white fur and well-groomed robe not showing a drop of the grime that surrounds him. Bright greens that burnt Kris’ colorshot pupils, pink horns that the enby was so deplorably jealous of. Horns that they’d love to have in another life. His circular glasses didn’t reflect any of the light, he was but a ghost that had crept into Kris’ vision.

“"Ralsei"” smiles, baring a pair of curved fangs as he flashes them a wink of pink. A halo of light illuminating a golden glow over his, a paw held out to the eroded animal below. 

“Oh, hey Kris!” His delighted voice sounds as similar as the one Kris pictures mentally. Not like they remember entirely. Like he’s speaking through a filter. “Are you doing alright? You look a little sick.” Giggling all cutely, his skirt doesn’t flow in the basement’s cold winds. Only fluttering like frosted cloth as he kneeled closer to them.

Reaching out to the illuminated darkner, Kris isn’t able to make contact with it before the darkner takes a single step back. Just a few inches past their sphere of influence. Too far for what’s left of their energy to take them. The act of breathing alone is killing them. Movement would only drag them closer to death.  

“How’re. . . here. . .?” Kris is beyond comprehending their environment. Beyond a point where the world is much more than profane thoughts and gnashing teeth, anything that didn’t benefit survival has been discarded along the way. They can’t understand. They won’t understand. 

"Ralsei" fills in the blanks for them, a chunk of their psyche, the ego to their ID. 

“Oh! I’m not Ralsei, silly!” He manically explains with a wave of his paw, giggling in between his words, swaying like one of those plastic hula figures. “I’m a simulacrum of "Ralsei" your brain made to stop you from going insane! You’re very special and loved, you know that, right? I think you should lay back down, Kris.” His tone never leaves that permanent chipperness, not as he reveals his nature, not as he puffs them with surface-level flatteries. 

Okay. . . Okay. 

. . .They’re disappointed, but their life is nothing but disappointments. This is about as sweet one as any, about as close as they’d ever get to help. Accepting the false comfort with open arms, Kris lays back down onto the concrete, trying to get comfortable. “Ralsei” is with them as a retainer, kneeling down beside their head, his skirt scruffing through dust, but growing no dirtier. 

“Ralsei” pets paws with stubby, curled claws through the enby’s clumpy hair. They don’t feel anything, but if they imagine it’s real hard enough, they can almost get the sensation. A garbled memory of sincere contact.

“There, there. . . Just imagine you’re on a big, fluffy bed. Very soft sheets. . . A huge bed! With really, really padded pillows. You’re nice and safe. Maybe someone you care about is there! Can you picture it?” He tenderly whispers, a whisper that’s not much more than what Kris can hear. Kris tries their hardest to trudge their way through so many vines and roots to imagine it, they try very, very, very hard. The deeper they get into their little fantasy, the easier it is to stay in that delusion. 

Serene. Letting the hunger pains be numbed. Letting their mind wander. Letting it find a new place to stay. Somewhere nicer. Somewhere better.  It’s all quilted yarn and puffy stuffing and loving yarns. They can barely feel the reddish sores on their back, the deep cuts from skin being ground against rock.

“Don’t know if. . . do this anymore, Ralsei. . .” Kris hears him giggling as they force out that hesitant complaint. They can’t tell if it’s in response to them. They just want more. Attention. Stimulation.  Everything he’s willing to give, and more.

“Hey, hey. Don’t worry about that. You’re somewhere very, very safe! Are you hungry? Want a *cake*?” His voice is getting blurrier as they talk. Whatever lies holding him together can only keep the illusion alive for so long. Kris nods feverishly, not able to drool anymore at the image given there’s no moisture left to dribble out. 

Though, he doesn’t actually respond. The enby waits a few minutes, but neither an action nor an answer ever arrives. After a while he suddenly laughs all flamboyantly, but it doesn’t feel in response to anything. Just a stock sound. 

It just makes them more anxious. Harder to grasp for air. Swallowing around the bile in their throat that tastes like death and crickets. 

“Just. . . All too much. . .  I don’t know. . . what to do. . .”  They’re at the end of the line and they don’t know where this goes from here. Everything upstairs felt like good memories versus this. Never leaving. Never getting out. Going to die down here. 

Kris’ eyes go open again for the second time tonight, and “Ralsei” is staring right down at them. Staring. Staring. Pink into their bloodshot, veiny red. He hums a familiar tune he holds a single fluffy finger out, the enby following it like a mutt while he moves it from their peripherals to and fro. It’s more like a speaker than a real noise. Crackling. Mesmerizing. 

“Kris. . . You’re in a bad situation here. You’re not gonna get out of this if you don’t work for it, you know?” He smiles too wide. Stretching the fluff of his face out and exposing gums. “It’s like. . . going to the doctor. It’s not fun, but you gotta do it so you get better! I’m thinking. . . Maybe you should just do what he wants, Kris.” It comes out of nowhere, but comes with the same loving, encouraging tone as before. Very gentle. Very loving. So easy with it that it’s like it doesn’t make their indented stomach convulse. Bile is in their throat again, lubricating it with a slick, awful taste. 

“W-What?. . .” Some of it’s real confusion, some of it’s not. Can barely tell what’s happening anymore. Can barely understand his words to begin with. Especially with how lightly he’s talking, how the darkner makes the idea sound second nature. 

“Ralsei” traces a paw over the heart on his robe, circling it purposely. Tapping the center of the black spot like a heartbeat. He stays smiling. He never stops smiling.

“Look, hey. I know it’s uncomfortable, but a lot of things in life are! That’s a part of fate. Sometimes, you need to just let it happen. Who knows! Maybe something good might come of it.” Something is melting in his voice as he continues, breaking under the weight of its own illusion. Not that it’s noticeable by Kris, it’s all as real as the world could be right now. 

“Don’t know. . . how I can. . .” They’re taking the words so seriously, yet it’s all in their head. Might as well be talking to a mirror’s reflection. Just another part of them. . . And it won’t stop fucking smiling. 

The darkner’s paw grips into his neon robe, kneading the stitched emblem until the black heart’s shape is warped beyond comprehension. Kris can hear the singing of the crickets while he explains. 

“So much of the bad stuff that’s happened here is ‘cause you’ve been disobedient, yeah? Wouldn’ it make sense to just let that go? It might not *feel* nice, but you’ll get home much, much sooner! That is what you want, isn't’ it?” It all made sense, but they wished it didn’t. It’s thoughts they’ve suffered with for weeks now. The taste of chocolate, and all the good things that came from listening. They could almost talk to him at the end there. 

Kris can’t keep the tears away, only being choked by the strings of fate that’ve bound them from birth. 

“I have. . . I have. . .” Childish sounds. Childish whining. Childish. Childish. Too many excuses. It’s been so *hard* to try and find a balance between obeying and losing themselves. Down here, all they’re doing is losing themselves. “Ralsei” amuses their whining with a simple answer:

“If you were listenin’, yah wouldn’ be down here right now.” That remark, that cold remark uttered in the same happy voice, is all it takes to break down what’s left of Kris’ walls. Last straw. Camel’s back. Their eyes losing what little shade of color is left in them, and a little bit of their SOUL staying buried in that basement. 

. . .Kris doesn’t respond. They know it’s right. They know they haven’t been giving in entirely. They know they’ve been trying so, so, so much to keep what they can. They know he’s right. They wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.

“Here, yah know what I think? I think. . . The next time he comes to get you, try your hardest this time. He’s not gonna let you die, he’s wasted way too much time on you too!” As Ralsei explains, the enby tries to do what he had just done on their own chest. Tracing rigor mortis’d fingers over the crusted fleshwound where their SOUL is. Feeling at the distant heartbeat within, and feeling comfort in what they have to do. “You say exactly what he wants to hear. You do what he wants to see. Anything that puts a wall between this basement and you, you’ll do. Doesn’ that sound great, Kris?” It’s a poisoned pill that Kris is too miserable to spit out. Crammed in their maw and forced down with a palm over their snout. They’ll believe anything if it comes with a nice enough voice and a morsel of food. 

For a moment, they think about him. Everything that happened upstairs. Everything that left them how they are now. A nostalgia came with it that had once been reserved for their most cherished memories. They’d do anything to get that back. Anything. . . 

“I. . . I’ll try. . . Promise. . .Promise. . .” What other choice do they have? What other choice did they ever have? When Kris goes to reach out to the darkner, he doesn’t take a step back this time. Instead, he lets their hands make contact at last. Pristine, perfect fur on ratty, dirt-soaked skin. His hand is a fair bit larger than Kris’ own, enough for their digits to snugly fit inside. 

Just this once tonight, they feel him for the first time. “Ralsei” never stops smiling. 

“. . .Good idea! I care about yah a whole lot, Red. You know that?” 

It’s been days, and days, and hours, and weeks since Kris has smiled. Only now does a smile spread over them, but it doesn’t reach their empty eyes that wished they were in a better place and a better time. The smile doesn’t leave their face for the rest of the night, only a single thought repeats over, and over, and over again like a broken record:

Everything is going to be okay. 

. . .

. . .

. . . 

Chapter Text

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 DAY THIRTY

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DAY TWO HUNDRED

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DAY NINETY

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DAY SEVENTY ONE

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DAY FIVE

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DAY EIGHT

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DAY SEVEN

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DAY FOUR THOUSAND

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Day Twenty Eight.

Kris feels like they’re drowning when the cold splash of water strikes their curled body. It *aches* the bedsores that line the backs of their shoulder blades and limbs, a slow flow of pus dripping from the freshest ones that's washed away in the downpour. They don’t understand what’s happening, keeping themselves curled facedown. Too scared to move, writhing like a beached fish in their bed of dust. 

Mmn. . .Mmng?. . .Mnnnnn. . . 

They don’t move even when a second wave of water soon joins the first, doing little to wash away the blood and dirt with how caked in it is. Maybe if they’re especially lucky they’ll fucking drown when the water gets high enough to fill their lungs. Maybe all those little insects that have   vanished into cracks in the walls will drown too. Maybe it’ll all be okay after they finally kick the bucket. 

Not so lucky, or maybe just too fortunate after all. Something is touching their hair. Something is touching them. It's like fire on their skin when it’s been scrubbed freshly clean of a layer of flesh from constant contact with the concrete. A housand needles in their skin stabbing when they’re flipped stomach up. . . to find a figure standing over them. 

Do they know who?. . .

Poncho, red. Cowboy hat with a gold emblem. Scruffy face with a lovable smile. Longjohns. Leather straps. Everything starts flooding back in all at once, that there was a time before this basement, that something exists beyond that door that felt like the end of the universe. 

Yellow is beaming, but there’s a weird look to it, like it’s forced. A pained expression that betrayed a different feeling under the brink of it. They’re far too gone to try to comprehend what it could be, though.

“Hey, Red.” He tenderly sing-songs, talking like he could kill them with a too loud tone. “There yah are~. Heh, was worried you weren’ gonna wake up for a sec’ there, lil’ lady. . .” There’s a genuine worry there, one that even they could hear. Kneeling down at their side, a hand is held out to them to test their waters. Welcoming them to grab it. . . 

Kris doesn’t move. Kris doesn’t react. Kris just stares up at him with empty, droopy red eyes so bloodshot you can see a web of veins that pulsed with their soul’s beating. 

Kris doesn’t speak a word. Kris can’t bring themselves to view this as anything more than another mocking apparition of a past they’ll never return to. 

. . .Yellow awkwardly lowers his hand back to his side, there’s an unlit cigar pushed between his yellowed teeth that he takes phantom puffs of. 

“Mmm. Might’ve. .  .” He steps back from their pile, pacing back and forth, mumbling brief things to himself. . . Occasionally, he snipes brief glances back at them, but they’re still staring at the spot where he had been standing. His yellowed teeth bite into the cigar enough to split the tobacco leaf holding it together, running a hand through his own greasy hair slowly. . . It’s long. Was it always this long? It looked so luscious versus the beehive of tangles and knots that comprised their own dirty hair. Drops of their own blood are staining it, but blood is the closest thing they own to clothes.  

“. . .” Kris shifts around, trying to find a spot where the dozens of ulcers don’t hurt too bad. Too bad. All they have is pain anymore. The sensory information of his presence feels ready to burn away their remaining synapses. An especially convincing hallucination. 

Eventually, he’s back with them, unfolding the curled fabric of his poncho, taking it in both hands. Holding it out to Kris like a blanket with another forced grin. 

“Don’ wanna sound sappy, but I’ve really missed yah.” He admits earnestly, squatting down at their side, using the poncho to wipe away some of the dirt hiding their features. “I was thinkin’ about gettin’ yah a week ago, but. . . Heh, still pissed as fuck then, honestly. Maybe should’ve. . .” That last bit is whispered to himself more than them, though they can barely understand what he means in general. They don’t really entirely remember why they’re down here. Something bad they did? Something they have to make up for. Something terrible, right? It must have been with how terrible this has been, with how every minute of their life has been endless torment for the past eight hundred years. 

They really must be a really, really terrible person. That’s all they can think about as he wraps the poncho around them, earning a raspy groan from the sensation of scratchy fabric on their open wounds. Blacking in and out. Seconds from fading as the feeling of all those wounds being teased overwhelms their senses. 

“-ey, don’ pass out on me, now. We gotta have a big boy talk, yeah?” He couldn’t help that even if he tries, their eyes rolling back in their head from the simplest of contact. There’s a strong theory in their mind that this is all a weird dream, that they’ll return to the basement’s usual emptiness soon enough. The first dream they’ve had in forever that’s not endless reminders of how worthless they are. 

Might as well roll with it until they wake up, then. 

  “. . .” Words form on their vocal chords, but they’re too corroded to vocalize. Like trying to breathe through a coffee stirrer. Shriveled up like a body that’s already long dead, it takes no effort for him to lift them from the dust, their whole world swaying as they the urge to vomit. More than they’ve moved in trillions of centuries.  

“Feelin’ a lot lighter.” He testingly weighs them, rocking them against his chest like you’d rock a baby. Earning a whimper as their skeletal hands wrap around his longjohns for support, nails a couple curled inches long digging into it to keep themselves steady. “Yah know. . . what was that about give, and take? I think I took a whole lot more outta yah then I really meant to, no foolin’”. That weak explanation comes as he walks with them in his grasp, inspecting the sorry state of the basement around them. . . 

The smell of piss was nauseating, but they’ve gotten used to it. Dozens of scratch marks cover the walls, but she can’t really remember if they’re from them or not. There’s a lot less dust than there was when he last looked down here, but it’s all miniscule details. All that really matters now is the big boy talk that comes next, Yellow dropping down on the bottom step with Kris still curled in his lap. 

“Now, let’s have a real quick chit-chat! About all that shit that happened. Yah ready?” He clearly wanted an answer for that, but it won’t be coming anytime soon. . . Their best attempt at answering just comes out like a dusty speaker spitting out static. 

A vague memory of what happened last time they did this *almost* comes to mind, but it’s too buried under brain fog to fully manifest. . . 

Kris gives him *something* at the very least, trying to remember basic social interaction in real time. She’s forcing out a nod that hurt their bone-thin neck to perform. 

. . .Yellow’s features curl into frustration for a second, but he’s impressively quick to bury it down. Back to that forced smile, instead. Convincing enough in their current state. 

“. . .Maybe yah need a bit of time first. I’ll make this real brief.” That’s a lot more understanding than they’d expect. Or, was he always that way? The exact details are too abstracted together for her to fully grasp. This might all still be a dream anyways, so who can really say. 

The cowboy rubs at their scalp while he talks, feeling for the various small scabs that once marked where glass shards were embedded. Testing his own handiwork with traces, connecting the dots injury by injury.

“. . I won’t hide my words behind false kindness. A part of me wanted to kill you after what happened, if I may be honest.” He explains so coldly, turning his attention next to the rows of cuts on their arms next. Line by line, inch by inch. “I’ve had many weeks to ponder your stupid mistake, and I questioned if any of this was really worth it. If I could even fix a halfbreed that’s been this soiled by its lineage.” His words go in one ear and out the other for the enby, they can only focus on so much sensory information at once. The threat doesn’t even register versus their “mistake”. What led to them being down here. It's all their fault. All her fault. All. . . 

“I had thought about creeping downstairs and executing you in the spot where so many of those you’d consider kin had once kneeled. In the way one would execute any faithless dog. Is that not Justice as I’ve inflicted in the past? Is it not the fate I’ve given so many others?. . . Is that not what I should do?. . .” Hesitation pervades what he says, trying to convince himself more than anything. This wasn’t fully about them. Even they could sense that in their ruined state.

. . .With the tenderest moment of the day so far, he presses down on their ankle, the joint now permanently twisted in a slanted angle. Reddish and swollen, but “healed”.  As healed as it’ll ever be on its own, the joint especially visible with how little meat is left on their body. Like a twisted tree stump of bone buried under the flesh, dirt and blood is all that’s keeping it hidden.

. . .He breathes in, and sighs. Holding his temper. Dropping weeks worth of weight, laying his troubles by the river. 

“. . . But, well. . .” With a cough, he clears his throat. They wish they were so fortunate, their own tastes like metal and rot. “. . .I forgive yah. That’s it. All I gotta say. Let’s just leave this on the ol’ cattle road, yeah? . . Just never do somethin’ like that ever again. I won’t hold back next time.” He sounds charitable, but if this is meant to be a charity, it feels straight from Heaven. A permanent pain in Kris’ body is a constant reminder of what happens if they mess up again, the buzzing *things* in their head leaving nothing but obedience to be found.  

Kris nods again. Slower this time, to not hurt themselves. They feel like a doll made of straw and paper held together with childish stitches, about ready to fall apart as he hoists them up in the air again. Yellow grins wider at that, all the feelings that came from that expression were as blurred as the memories were.

“I think yah owed a lil’ reminder of what comes with listenin’, Lil’ Lady. Let’s start over.”. Complete redo, *my treat*.” It feels like they’re about to die when he reaches the threshold of the basement door. Open wide with blinding light beaming in from outside, the secondhand sunlight glows enough to sear their retinas. . .  

The enby grabs onto him tighter, squinting to lessen the burning, yellowed crusty gunk stuck in the corners of both make the act uncomfortable. He’s quick to spot it at least, draping a bit of the poncho’s edge over their face like you’d tie a blindfold.

“Don’t want yah goin’ blind on me! Already crippled enough with that gimp ankle.” He snickers at his own comment, they’re giving him nothing to work with anyways. 

Did they always have that? It feels as recognizable as their skin and tissue. Maybe. Maybe forever. Maybe always. Maybe. Maybe. It twitches whenever he moves them too hard, but it's probably the part of them that hurts the least.

Kris just. . . nods. It’s the only gesture they can really remember right now. That’s almost an appropriate response. Through the crossweaved fabric of the poncho, little bits of light creep through to remind them of the outside world they’ve finally stepped into. . . 

A brave new world that felt completely foreign to them, as foreign as who they really are. Lost details they’ll regain in time. . . 

In time. 

. . .

Bathroom. Their shared bathroom. All stained white tiling and scattered memories. If the enby looked close enough, they can see red stains in the porcelain that reminded them of happy times. All the pretty cutting marks on their arms had long sealed, minus the few that remained festering with pus from an ever-present infection. Plenty of cuts naturally obtained from the basement too, a lot less pretty than their own handiwork. 

It’s not a very clean bathroom, not that they had any frame of reference to call to, but it’s practically spotless versus themselves. They’re all filth, their skin is filth, their cuts are soiled black with dust and debris, their hair matted to an extent that seemed impossible to undo. The soles of their feet were practically pitch black, as solid as rock with the painfully thick calluses that comprised them.  

Their skin is practically the same shade of pale as the white panels, their eyes flickering between invisible attackers and Yellow’s supportive face. Watching for the little bugs that seemed ready to pester them once more if her guard is down. . . 

“‘Fore anything else, yah need a wash. Smell like a barnyard right now.” It doesn’t feel mocking. It’s just the state of affairs. There’s not a lot of malice in his tone as he says it. . . It reminds them of something. Was he always this nice? It has to be. It’s not often someone changs in that way, even after decades have passed. 

Kris only now realizes they’re naked. They’ve grown so used to this state being their status quo, the thought slips their mind as quickly as any other. No clothes exist for him to strip, but they can’t bring themselves to cover their exposed parts. With how little they weigh, with how rotted they’ve become, it’s not like there’s anything of value left to hide. All that’s left is tits as flat as a mans and a crotch that’s indistinguishable from the skin around it. 

Before the water comes though, a bottle of liquor is pulled out instead. She doesn’t think this is his usual brand, they remember the aroma of whiskey and the fat body of a brown bottle instead of the thin, clear one he’s pulled out. It’s all wrapped in blue and gold packaging that. . . Kris can’t make out the brand with how blurry their vision is, but the smell is as nauseating as it is powerful when he uncaps the lid. There’s no flavor to catch a hint of, just pure, unrefined alcohol that he “tests” by taking a small sip. 

Whatever it is, it’s enough to knock even him on his ass. The man is weakly coughing, pounding his chest to help it go down smoother.

“Y-Yeah, that'll do real nice. . .” He titters the bottle closer like he contemplates another taste, but a curled nose stops him from indulging. They’re too disoriented from leaving their basement to understand what’s about to happen. Not fully grasping it even when he’s kneeling at their side, encouraging them to turn to the wall with a firm hold on one shoulder.

“. . .?” Kris winces at the contact, the bedsores hurting from the open air enough without his unprepped contact. Leaking pustules pop from his touch, only now do they begin to have suspicions when the bottle’s tip is held close to the vast layer of bubbles that covered their back.   

“This is gonna sting like hell, Red. Plenty aware o’ that already, know from experience.” He admits in a forewarning, keeping Kris upright with a hand on her neck. Tender enough to not remind them of strangulation, hard enough to make sure they can’t wiggle away. “Yah ready? I’ll count down from three. . .” He can’t have always been like this. It feels impossible. Do they really have any reason to doubt it, though? This is only feeling more and more like a dream.

It might be a dream, but the pain that comes when he spills that mysterious liquor on their wounds is very, very real. The moment it makes contact with his skin, it *burns* like pure acid, all the water clear liquid leaking over each of the pustules, wetting their back while the liquor leaks down the drain. 

In an instant they’re back to life, a corpse’s last twitches when they try their hardest to scream. When that’s too hard, the tears come in their place, the enby sobbing louder than she’s ever sobbed before, twitching in a mock-seizure that shook them raw. He’s shushing them with massaging touches on their throat and gentle whispers, but it does nothing to stop them from writhing in place and wondering what’s going on. They don’t *understand*. They don’t *understand*. They don’t-

Next comes their limbs, a bit quicker this time to make them stop crying so fucking hard. They’d be biting and clawing how a corned animal would if they could move their body at all, instead he has free range to lift each arm to give them a healthy splash. 

The enby coughs on their last attempt at a scream, spitups of blood splattering over the shower, red dots suspended in gooey mucus. They don’t know why he reacts how he does from that, grunting and rubbing leathery fingers into their neck to help them swallow some of it down. . . Usually there’s a lot more. It’s been a nice day. 

“Shhh. Sshhh. . . Almost over. Yah bein’ very brave. . .” He whispers it low, even though they’re pretty sure it’s just them. There’s few other things that exist in this world beyond them and all those little insects. The last thing he gives attention to is the thick patch of blisters on both of their thighs, everything is too much. All that pain sends their senses into overdrive, worse stinging and burning than they’ve felt in years upon years upon years upon- 

. . . 

Kris doesn’t know when they wake up, but they’re still in the shower when they regain consciousness. Is it common for someone to wake up to a dream? They’re starting to wonder if this is one. It has to be with how wonderful the feeling of lukewarm water on their puffy skin is, the tiling below them practically dyed black with how much dirt is running off into the drain.

“-ike washin’ a blowup doll, limp as hell. . .'' Yellow is muttering to himself as he works, but she only catches the last bits of it. They’re sitting slack in his lap, he can’t bring himself to care that his clothes are getting wet in the shower’s downpour. The same burning sensation as whatever he spilled on them lingers, but it's more a passive burn than a constant sting. A feeling of warmth is fresh on their skin, warm enough to bring some life to their stiff joints and sore bones. It feels like all the parts are popping and unwinding for the first time in so long. .  . 

He has a little sponge that he scrubs into their skin, giving a lot of attention to every part with how dirty they were. One arm wrapped around their waist to keep them close, the other making sure not a spot of the filth is left by the time he’s done. 

It’s. . . nice. It’s divine. They don’t try to stop themselves from nestling deeper into the padded skin they’re posed in. If they try their hardest, they can move their limbs enough to tentatively grab at the leather strap on his thigh, using it to keep themselves steady on him. Hard to see anything with how much wet hair is in their face, but they can hear his amused laugh at that. 

“Aren’ you just *sweet*. This coulda all been a lot easier if you were always this easygoin’.” He’s referring to events that Kris barely recalls anymore, but they still know he’s right. The memories fade, but the sensations, the feelings, never fully go away. Kris just nods to encourage him to keep going. Kris nods again to show they agree. They’re going to bash their fucking brains in against the basement wall if he stops now. 

Ralsei’s words are still burned into their brain when so much else has left. Using all the energy they’ve built up being out of their hole, they strum at the leather strap when he’s in a spot that especially hurts. Two tugs. Two tugs for the concrete slashes on their spine, two tugs for the cracked soles of their feet, two tugs for their knees that are practically exposed muscle.

At some point, the sponge is replaced by a pink bar of soap that smells faintly of rose petals and cherry blossoms. He used it to scrub at their most sensitive parts, ones that needed the most care. His lurid, rubbing touch making fresh contact with their breasts, with those supple areas, trembling, convulsing wetness joining the water dripping down their legs and crotch. 

They leak like a faucet anymore from their quivering parts. The barest of contact on their folds sends trembles down their full body, it’s the only proper source of stimuli they’ve had for so long. It’s very well trained, and very obvious with how slick leaks from them with every scrub on their engorged bits.  

. . .As the human is giving extra attention to their tilted neck, they spot a knife sitting at the edge of a table, next to an empty garbage bin. Placed right to the edge, practically tittering on the brink, close enough that it’s within Kris’ reach. . .  

It’s a pretty knife. They wish they had it in the basement, it’d have made everything a lot nicer. Give them an easy way out. Kris loses interest in the blade after he uncaps a fresh tube of shampoo, a similar rosy pink scent to the soap. A fresh bottle, yet to be opened. The floral, flowery scent is enough to soothe their nerves, to soothe a strange feeling that came with looking at that knife. . . 

Kris closes their eyes, trying to just focus on the touch, on him scrubbing the shampoo in with his fingertips. . . 

He’s humming a little tune to himself as he works. A children’s rhyme, one that keeps them soothed and sedated. She lets her arm go limp, just letting him finish up in peace.  

They find themselves humming along to it, not enough notes to really sound like much of anything, just small accentuations to his own. One note for every ten of his. 

The warm water makes them feel near ready to melt. 

nice. . . dream. . . nice. . . dream. . . nice. . . dream. . .

. . .

Bedroom. It’s all soft padding and soft sheets and soft colors in here. Puffy stuffed animals in lovely colors. Sheets with adorable patterns. A strong contrast to the stone and concrete they’ve grown accustomed to. He’s draping them on the bed like they’re just another one of the sheets, still not trusting them enough to walk on their own right now. All clean and spotless, glossy skin that smelled of flowers and girly aromas. A corpse laid bare on its open casket, primed and prettied for the grave. 

It’s kind of lovely here. Trickles of light flutter through the dirty windows through bristled leaves, the chirping of birds and the singing of locusts. The ceiling is full of wooden beams with tiny bits of light flickering through them that brought the last warmths of. . .  

They don’t remember what season it is. It doesn’t feel very hot. It doesn’t feel very cold, either. . . But their skin doesn’t feel much right now. All the overstimuli is slowly fading, until all that’s left is a comfortable numbness. A permanent whistling is in her ears as Kris watches him unfold a bundle of fresh clothes. They’ve forgotten what the feeling of clothes is like, they’ve forgotten what having clean skin is like. Slowly, they rub their fingers over their palm to feel the sensation of smoothness. . . They’re so smooth like this. Smooth skin. Soft Skin. Soft. All floral. Floral and Soft. 

“I gotcha somethin’, darlin’.” Yellow happily notes with a puppy’s excitement as he holds the bundle of fabric out: It’s a dress. A flowy dress with a long skirt that puffs out at the bottom in ruffles. It’s a pink shade, similar to the one on the rosy shampoo bottle, a pastel with a repeating pattern of darker and lighter pink flower petals. The sleeves are just short and thin spaghetti strings, a heart-shaped neck with two rounded cups. . .Though, that’s not all he has. 

Kris feels like a dress-up doll when he sits them up slowly, kneeling by the bedside to work a set of tight, white panties up their bone-thin legs. Sliding them up until they’re comfortably snug at their bony waist, slipping a finger into the waistband to test it with a *snap*. . . 

It smelled new. Looked new, too. Smelled like a store. Did he. . .?

Maybe he was this nice. Maybe. Maybe. Something about that thought made them feel sick still. Only more so when his touch stays in that spot for a second too long, tracing down the band until his palm rests over where their crotch would be. . . 

He smirks wolfishly when he gives it a testing cup, pressing into the parts inside. Watching their limp joints freeze in place, their mouth hanging open at the touch. . .A single pant is all they can manage. All he can milk out of them as he rubs at his thighs in a familiar gesture. . . 

They recognized that much. He’s done is so many times before. 

Seconds later, he’s moving on right after like nothing happened, a bra this time in the same pure white color. It’s too big in their current state, but it’s probably too big for their chest in general. They’re simply sitting with a docile look and a mouth still agape as he grunts in annoyance at the various hooks that connect the two halves of it.  

“Fuckin’- girly shit, can’ even- come the fuck on, come on- stupid shit.” Just as he hooks one around, it comes undone when he’s hooking the other above it. Sliding back down their back, the human growls loudly. “Fuck you- fuck- don’ make me look like a fag-” It takes a couple minutes of playing with it to eventually hook them on. Standing up at his full height, he claps his hands together in victory, the golden glow of his SOUL flickering through his chest for a couple seconds. 

There’s a mirror across the room, they can see themselves inside it. The face that stares back at them from its clean reflection is one they can’t recognize. This outfit, these parts, this attire. Hair still knotty and ruined, but features different to the ones they’ve grown to expect. . . 

They’re nice clothes. They fit okay. It’s not offensive. It’s all alright. It’s better than blood and dirt. They keep a constant watch on their own reflection while the human helps them slide the dress on last, the pink fabric parachuting over them with a flutter of wind. Fits perfectly, even with their size-too-big bra. The skirt lands right at the middle of their knees, a healthy amount of skin left, with how light they are right now it feels like the dress is half their weight. Silky fabric. Soft fabric. Somehow softer than their skin is. The bra helps frame her femininely, to make up for how they looked like a skeletal corpse. . . 

It helps. He’s helping. Right? The feeling of clothes on their skin feels foreign and strange, too constricting, even with how soft it is. It’ll take a while to get used to it again.

“Heh, we already know you’re real good at the next part, darlin’. . .” He’s picking them up and dropping them right in front of the mirror, so they can stare with buggy eyes and a drooling mouth at it as he works. 

“. . .” Kris nods in agreement, watching him work the familiar pink brush through their rat’s nest of hair. It’s a lot harder than it usually would be. He has to grunt and pull with all his might to loosen the knots, a golf ball’s worth of hair coming out with each fierce pull. Yellow discards them in a pile at the mirror’s frame, taking it nice and slow.

Kris doesn’t know who they’re looking at. All the details of the visage staring back at them were lost to time. It’ll come back slowly. . . But they feel empty for now. Just a doll that anything can be put into. That anything can be filled with.

It’s a pretty dress. They can’t manage to lie. It only fits them more when their hair is finally nice and neat, only one last detail needed to fully freshen them up from centuries of rotting. 

They’re good at this part too. Holding perfectly still while Yellow’s shiny knife is unsheathed from its holster. . . 

Not a lot of hair is taken off, but he’s quick to slash it neat once more, to keep their eyes open to the world. The windows to their empty soul that accepts whatever you give it. . . 

“There we go. There’s my girl~.” He’s practically gushing with praise, cooing and fawning with touches all over their dress. They’re in no position to argue against it. Maybe a part of them just feels nice having someone talk to them beyond those cruel voices in their skull.

Maybe he wasn’t this nice, but they should enjoy it while it lasts. 

. . .There’s a smile on their features, but they didn’t feel it spread. The same smile that didn’t reach their eyes that set them on this path. They hope Ralsei would be proud right now. 

She hopes she doesn’t wake up from this dream. 

. . .

Kitchen. There was another part before this, wasn’t there? Kris can’t really remember, it’s a whole lifetime of memories ago. They spot a pan having already been set on the stove to cook, whatever's inside having had all morning to cool. A porcelain plate is already set up on the sturdy wooden table with rows of slashed lines into it. 

Kris feels like they want to vomit before the foods even crossed their lips, but they’ve felt that way all morning. Permanent starvation keeps them in a permanent state of foggy exhaustion, they can count the amount of times they’ve vomited in the previous weeks more than the amount of times they’ve eaten. 

The enby is dropped into the first chair, the same one they had been in when. . .  

If Kris looks very, very, very close on the table, they can spot tiny blood droplets that he must have missed. They’re so small that anyone would be forgiven for not seeing them, but it reminded them of something terrible. Something terrible they did to deserve what had happened to them. It had to have been especially awful, right? 

Maybe. Maybe. They regain enough of their strength to trace a limp-wristed finger over those bloodied spots, trying to gain information from them for what that terrible thing was. Still too worthless to move on their own, it’ll take days to get to that point again. For now, Yellow seems plenty happy to do most of the hard things for them. Such a sweetheart like that. 

He’s been sweet all morning. It almost makes them dread when that ends. He’s sitting on the table, dropping the pot’s contents onto the plate. . . 

. . .Eggs. A little burnt. Sausage. A lot burnt. Seasoned with way too much pepper. A glass of plain water to join it, filled to the rim. It’s not very appetizing looking, but in their current state it has their mouth already watering. More food than they’ve eaten at once in so long. Yellow seems proud of his handiwork as he gently forces the fork into their clammy hands.

“Haven’ cooked in a real long while, but hell! Think I did a damn good job. So go ahead, dig in.” He sneaks a bite off an edge of the sausage, grinding the greasy meat between his canines, showing them it’s not poisoned at least.

The moment that Yellow lets go of the fork, it instantly drops from the enby’s hand. Kris is staring at it for a minute before they realize it's happened, the cowboy simply chuckling and forcing it back into their hand again. . . Only for it to instantly fall back down again. Kris stares at it like it’s going to grow legs and walk away. 

Yellow sighs, picking it up with one hand and taking their head in his other. Tilting their neck back by a few notches, their mouth is hanging open enough for him to push a fork's worth of egg and sausage into their waiting maw.  It’s hard to get much of the taste when it still reeks of blood and dust in their pores, in their sinuses. 

Water comes next, small sips. He holds the cup to their lips and spills it down, their throat convulsing to swallow it down. Subconscious gestures that’re as biological as breathing or blinking. Sometimes, he waits a couple moments to let their stomach settle, just stirring at the food with the fork’s prongs. Can’t eat too much for too long. Their body needs time to adjust to food again. 

Kris starts helping a bit, to make this go smoother. They’re too excited by a fresh meal to try and act aloof. When he brings the fork up loaded with food, they testingly open their jaw by a bit, trying to close it around the waiting bite. It’s hard to fully do it when their joints feel sore and bloated, but they at least try enough to stop drool from dripping all over the wooden table. 

“Mmmm. Hmmm.” Yellows humming to himself as he dips a finger in a dollop of drool on the table, swirling it over his fingertip. He doesn’t break eye contact when he pops it in his mouth, smiling fiendishly at their confused look. 

Confused is all they really have to their face anyways. They aren’t entirely sure about him, or what he’s doing. . . 

Only more unsure when his sleeve falls down, revealing a row of soiled bandages wrapped neatly around his forearm. Similar to how it was on their arm so many eons prior, the sight of it fills them with an intense need. 

In the middle of the human feeding them a few more bites, sneaking a few for himself, Kris feels their hands moving without her influence. Small and unwieldy movements, a rickety doll held up by strings along, touching at those rows of blood-soaked bandages. 

He stops feeding them when they make contact. Instead, watching the enby trace along the lines of the bandaging, following the rows like railroad tracks, until they end at the wrapping at his wrist. They don’t really think this is socially okay, but who really knows. It’s what they’d want for someone to do to them, so he must want it, right? 

. . .Yellow slowly pulls their hand away, using the edge of his nail to unfurl the knotted bandages. Discarding them to the corner of the table, he holds it out further to them so they can see the actual wounds. . . 

“I’ve been real busy the last few weeks.” He explains vaguely, not really giving them enough details to work with. Maybe he didn’t want them to know. “Yah know what they say, Red!” The wounds below are a series of thicker cuts run horizontally along his arm in uneven tiger stripes. They seemed fresh enough to be just scabbing over, Kris feeling textures and contours to the bumpy red layer over them. . . 

The teen is still touching the bare wounds when he gets a morbid look suddenly. His drab red eyes seemed to glow with an aura, the yellowed beaming of his soul heightening as he looked off past them, past the cabin, past the woods, off to somewhere else. It’s a fond look. Remembering good memories. Good times. 

“Idle hands are the Devil’s Playthings.” 

/ / / 

ONE WEEK AGO. . . 

/ / / 

It’s always so empty in Town around this time of the night. The dog is plenty aware parking in the shadier parts outside the Shopping District isn’t the safest choice, but it saves them twenty dollars worth of fees. When you’re going out all day to spend and spend, it’s as good a choice as any to take advantage of. He’s carrying a couple paper bags in both his fluffy white paws, his wife in her designer coat with its glossy red leather carrying about twice as many. Her chest is puffed out from a growing winter coat, barking out happy words of praise for a day well spent. They’d have been home a few hours ago if they didn’t stop at the cafe, but they always loved the outskirts of Town at night anyways. Scenic with a lovely view of well-painted street art and graffiti, not too dangerous either. . . 

The dog would complain, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a bad shopaholic habit too. If he’s going to spend money on her all day, buying something for himself is *always* a good idea. There’s a cool, crisp chill to the air that he fights off by buttoning up the neck of his puffy bomber jacket, nestling into its authentic fur.

He doesn’t plan to take any detours, until a detour finds him. As the pair are walking past a secluded, dark alley, they hear a voice calling out from within. A voice that betrayed absolute panic and fear: “HELP, H-HELP. . .” over and over. It sounds weak, and faint. . .  Someone injured, or even worse. 

The dog and his wife freeze at the alley’s threshold. The desperation is palpable. His wife is the first one to show true concern beyond stopping in place. 

“I-It sounds like someone is in trouble.” She’s already stepping into the alley before her husband can even begin to talk her out of it. Too good-natured like that. The dog can’t grab her in time to pull her back. 

“Dear, are you sure? This isn’t-” His yapping accomplishes nothing, she’s already springing to the rescue. He’d be heartless to admit he’s not worried, but they’re late enough as is.

Reluctantly, the dog steps into the alley, quickly catching up with his wife within. The voice is getting louder, and louder, but sounding just as panicked. Genuine fear. Begging for help. All it takes is a corner, and another corner, and a turn, and they’re at the source of the sound. . . 

A body is sprawled out on the cold, wet concrete. All bare skin and flesh, the familiar appearance of a human. A ripped open flannel shirt and shredded jeans is all he has, brown hair spilled out over his face. . . he’s absolutely soaked in blood. It’s all over his chest, it’s hard to tell, but some thicker spots on the stomach make it look like pierce wounds. . . They think? The dog knows little about human biology, that was many years ago in school, all that matters is blood equals bad and there’s plenty. 

“H-Help. . . P-Please. . . O-Oh god. . . Someone h-help. . .” Tears are soaked in the human’s red eyes, clutching at his own chest, at the spots where the blood seemed thickest. 

His wife is the first to rush over to his side, kneeling close, not caring about getting her pretty outfit dirty. It’s not like she can’t buy another one tomorrow anyways.

“O-Oh Angel, it’s okay, it’s alright. . .” She’s panicked, but trying to soothe him. At least until he can get help, pushing a fluffy paw through his hair and helping him brace the wound at his stomach.  “H-Honey, help me move him. . .” She’s gently gripping him under his arms, trying to lift him up carefully. Earning a pained, loud groan from the injured human. 

The dog is quick to help, dropping his bags to the alley’s dirty ground. 

“Let’s just get him to the street, we’ll call 911 after. . .” He gives her the gameplan in a frantic tone, joining her at her side, holding that frail body up by the shoulder opposite to hers. He’s very light, like most humans are. 

Timed at once, the two fluffy monsters are lifting him up, his blood staining their puffy white fur with drops of red. His legs hang limp below them as they pull him to their full height. 

“O-Ohh, thank you- t-thank you. . .” He sobs out in pain, letting his head hang low, a tone that was muddy and seemed quickly fading. 

. . .When the dog looks down at the figure just as they begin walking, he swings his head back up slowly to face him again. 

There’s a smile a mile wide on his features, his eyes glowing in the dark blackness of the alley. A bright, otherworldly red. 

“I’m eternally grateful.” 

*CRUNCH*

*SNAP* 

The dog finds the positions soon swapped. A swing as fast as a whip crack strikes him in the jaw, he feels it *pop* as he collapses to the concrete. If he looks over from his blurry eyed look to the ground, he can see his wife in a similar position. He’s groaning in pain, but she’s crying and clutching at a spot at the center of her forehead. . . 

It’s not enough to keep him down, but by the time he goes to fight back, to stand up, he hears a loud *Click*. As he swings his paw up, there’s the shiny barrel of a revolver aimed at his wife.

“Stand up, and your bitch gets hollow-point in her skull. Sound good, cuz?” His voice lacks the pain and discomfort it once had, now just as cold as the early winter air. A slight accent to it, one hand on the gun, the other wiping at the blood on his chest. . . There’s no wounds below. Just thick, congealed blood sticky over them in a mockery of injuries. The source of it becomes clear when he mockingly rolls his sleeve up a few inches to show rows of cuts that lined it, still leaking with oozing red. A stupid trick. He feels stupid for falling for it. 

“Okay- okay. You don’t have to be unreasonable, what do you want?” Life is all give and take, and the dog is plenty aware of the take aspect here. Compliance is how you report these things to the police. Objects can be replaced. He can afford it. 

It’s hard to fight the terror in his tone, still. The human’s cheshire smile grows, pushing the tip of the metal barrel into his trembling wife’s white fur. . . His paws curl watching her shrivel up in a fetal curl. 

“Good doggy! Yah get how this works.” Mocking praise, ones that only make his boil more. The human holds his palm out expectedly. “Stand and deliver. Wallet. Phone. . . Oh hell, car keys too, why the hell not.” The gun’s barrel doesn’t leave his wife’s head until the dog complies, reaching into his jacket slowly for all the objects requested. His fancy leather wallet, his work phone that’s a few years out-of-date, his current year phone, and at last a set of jangly car keys with a little puffy keychain of a cat on the end of it. A gift from her.

Each is crammed into the human’s pocket, though, not before he slides the wallet open to check its contents. Flipping over the bundles of bills that practically spill out with how many there are within. He whistles fondly, the tip of his tongue poking out in amusement. 

“Oh~, couple hundred, wow. Yah an important mutt? Only buy the premium kibble and flea collars?” He’s sneering like he’s trying to get a reaction out of the dog. All that comes out is embarrassment and shame, the dog’s tail hanging limp at the ground between his legs. . . 

“M-My car is in a parking lot down the street. . . Outside that old warehouse. . .” Everything he needs to know to leave them alone. He’d like to think he’s good at this, for as much as that matters. Already paid off that car anyways, silver linings. . . 

The human finally pulls the gun away, a reward for listening so well. Though, his wife still doesn’t move. The wallet joins the keys and phone before long. All he’s missing is the clicker. 

“. . .That’s a real purdy coat your bitch has there. Yah know, I think I want that too.”  He steps back enough to let her do as she’s told, but she doesn’t move. Too terrified to, her long tail flat and stiff like a corpse. . . 

He’s not forgiving of this, she’s not as good a listener as her husband. A work boot snaps down on the top of her tail, earning a loud screech as the tears start up again. Another click of his revolver motivates the dog to move for her: he’s quick to strip his own coat off first, throwing the bomber jacket onto the wet concrete. It’s hard to pull away the jacket on his wife when she’s so curled up to do it neatly, but he’s barking at her to listen as he strips that fancy red jacket she loves right away. . . Throwing it over to the human right after, feeling like a great weight is off his shoulders. This’ll be over soon. Right? 

“W-We can go now, right? . .”  Hopeful pleading. Hoping for the best. That’s all he can do right now. . . 

If only it was that simple. 

. . .The human never stopped smiling. Not for even a second. The shiny revolver’s barrel is away from his wife, and returns to the dog himself. . . 

“Of course. Free to go. . . And yah know what? I’ll give you a treat too .”

*BANG* 

*BANG* 

Chapter Text

Everyone needs to come back to earth eventually. Though, Kris wonders if it’s more going up. It’s hard to tell anymore. Are they buried deep in the mud, to an extent that they can’t unburden themselves, or are they so high in the sky that nothing short of falling to the earth screaming can satiate them?. . .

Their mind returns slowly, in fragmented pieces. Small parts of who they are that they scrambled to cling to. The first day after they left the basement, they’re bedridden at best. At the worst of moments, they’re a shell staring dead-eyed at the ceiling in terror.

Learning to be a person again comes gradually. Half the day is spent in bed with occasional trips from Yellow to give them basic necessities. Time passes infrequently. Time passes in leaps and in strides. It’s hard to tell if they’ve really passed out, or if they’re simply fading into the background. He moves without their input, in frame-by-frame flashes. 

One minute they’re in the bedroom, the next they’re in the kitchen, the next they’re in the living room. Yellow talks frequently, but the words don’t stick mentally. He tells them about how he’s been keeping busy, what he’s been doing since they were imprisoned. He says it's only been a few weeks, but that can’t be. It’s been so, so, so long. The thought of it just being a few weeks makes them feel ready to slit their wrists in shame. 

Talking is hard. When the sun finally sets in the sky outside, Kris lays cold in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, practicing to regain bits of humanity. Talking is human. That’s been drilled into their head enough to internalize it, even with everything else they’ve lost. Taking it vowel by vowel, sound after sound. Their vocal cords need exercise like any other muscle. 

“Ah. . . Be. . . .Ssssc. . . .Ddz. . . Eeah. . .Eff. . . Gheh. . A-Aaa. . .B-B-mmmmmnnnm. . .” It feels like learning to talk again, how they originally learned so late versus others back home. Others were already talking for years by the time they did more than point and stare and babble. Back to step one. Back to stage one. How are they supposed to learn it all on their own again?

This room is really okay, but it feels painfully small when they’re alone. It felt so fine when he was here with them, here to support them in their recovery, but. . . 

Now it’s like the walls are closing in on them. Like the throbbing heartbeat of a great creature digesting them in its stomach. Confined. If they let their guard down they risk allowing themselves to be swallowed up and melted into worthless biomass. . . 

It’s too dark here. It’s too dark. It’s too lonely. It reminds them of the worst days in the basement. Kris tugs and pulls at the covers to hide themselves below, curling within a cocoon of padded, childish fabric to stay safe. There’s eyes in the windows staring at them as they lay in bed, waiting for a moment to strike. Dozens of translucent, creeping things in every corner of the moon-lit room. 

Kris struggles to sleep, even with all the blessings granted to them. They must be so ungrateful. It makes sense, with how terrible they knew they already were. Maybe this is what they deserve for all the ways they’ve hurt others.  

They need a new knife. If the enby asks especially nice, maybe they’ll get a new one from Yellow when their body is sturdy enough to hold it on their own. It’ll be perfect. . . 

The thought of it helps them settle down. Kris thinks about tracing a long blade of steel over their forearm, digging the tip into the flesh, and running a vertical slit from one wrist to the next. Feeling the blood leak out of their veins as each is slit open by the polished edge. To make up for everything they’ve done to everyone. 

It’s a beautiful thought. Enough to encourage them to force their eyes shut, humming a small tune to herself slowly. His tune, that tune that felt strangely comforting everytime he mumbled it to himself.

If they’re especially lucky, they might get a proper night of rest. . . 

If they’re lucky. . . 

If they’re lucky. . . 

If they’re. . . 

If they’re. . . 

If. . . 

If. . . 

. . . 

Kris feels the luscious purple grass between their greaves, fluttering the tips of their fingers over the longest stalks testingly. As much as they found this entire Dark World thing aggravating, it’s hard to say they’re not having *some* fun here, even if most of it’s been under duress. . . 

That demon in their SOUL might be the one pulling the strings, but there’s no reason they can’t enjoy it too. The enby is resting under the sugary oak of a candy tree, leaning their head into the reddish purple bark, able to just reach up and grab one of the various candies hanging from it and take a big bite. 

The winds in the Dark World feel strange, like it just goes right through them. As cold as the darkness itself. Although. . . there’s a comfort in that? They’ve always preferred a cool day like this back home. Like autumn with Arlsei at the pumpkin patch, the cool wind through their hair, their whole family together at once. 

“. . .Wow, this sucks.” They happily say to no one in particular, using the tip of their sword to trace patterns into the technicolor soil. Dragging the blade over the ground until a large “K” is shaped in the ripped up grass. An ambient song flutters in the air, one that they can’t entirely tell is coming from the world itself, or their head. This place has its own air to it, that much is undeniable. 

It’s strange to say, but a part of them doesn’t want to go back home for a while. They have to eventually, but it’s kind of nice here. It makes all of everything feel so distant. 

Boring. Perfectly boring. Terribly, wonderfully boring. Free from the constant pains of their everyday life for a couple brief, glorious moments. They’re so distracted by the thought, they don’t even notice the two figures approaching from further down the field until they’re right in front of them. 

“Hi Kris!” The first one blared out, the familiar shape of Rliaes’ neon green robe filling their vision. Fluttering in the Dark World’s winds, he bends down low to flash them a warm face with beaming eyes. With a tip of his floppy hat, he steps aside to let the second figure talk. 

“Just like you to wander off on your own and not tell us.” Isseu grumbles with a flick of her claws, picking one through her sharp teeth to wipe at a bit of gummy candy stuck inside. Her axe is out right now in the opposite hand. Probably was off clobbering a darkner somewhere, knowing her. Though, that doesn’t explain the large stick that Airlse is holding in his own paws. It’s a big one matching the colors of the crimson trees from earlier, thicker at the end with a knotty bit like a club. 

“Oh, hey. . . I just had to rest.” They go to stand up, ready to return to their journey, but a boot on their chest stops them dead in their tracks. The tip of Sesiu’s boot pushes into the metal chestplate covering their black bodysuit, lodging them between it and the candy tree. She looks at the darkner next to her, and smiles with yellow fangs. She gives a supportive nod, and he gives one right back.

“So! Hey, Kris. I know we’ve been having fun on this journey together, but. . .” He sounds sympathetic as he taps the stick into his opposite paw, sighing in a way that sounded extremely fake. Like this was just an absolute tragedy. “Esius and I have been talking. We’ve been trying really hard to put up with you, it’s just so hard with how little you mean to us. We just enjoy each other’s company a lot more, you know? So we decided it’d be a lot better for everyone here if we beat you to death.” It’s explained in the same chipper voice that you’d use to praise someone for a job well done, which only made the words sound more confusing. More painfully disorienting. 

“I- what?” It has to be a joke, a really morbid one for him, but a joke anyways. Right?. . .

Their confidence in that fades when Suesi doesn’t laugh, just shrugging her shoulders in agreement, raising her axe high overhead. The blunt end is turned to face Kris’ trembling body, flat and heavy like a sledgehammer. 

“Yeah, you’ve been kinda useless this whole time. I’ll get home a lot quicker without you. Not like anyone's gonna miss you. Family won’t give a shit if you die here all alone.” In the middle of her chilling words Kris tries to scramble out from the foot on their chest, but a simple ounce more of pressure pins them right back down. Reials sighs in disappointment, shaking his head sadly, joining the lightner in raising his own tool up. 

“Please don’t make this harder than it has to be, Kris. . . We’ll make it quick!”  Reassuring words, but ones that just made the enby struggle harder, the lizard’s grasp too firm to break. No amount of struggling and wrestling frees them, their hands desperately clinging to the boot on their chest as Elrasi gives them one last smile. 

The stick is brought down right on their cheek, an instant splatter of red across their blue skin marking the first blow of the night. His swings are light and clumsy, nothing like Ssiue’s own which hit them like a cannon. 

A swing with all the force her muscles can manage strikes them directly on the crown, an instant indent cracking into the bluish hair that shattered the skull within. They can feel parts and bits of their bones scattering over the purplish grass, globs of blood staining the tree behind them in the shape of a halo. 

Kris brings their hands up, but the thin gauntlets do little to numb the onslaught of strikes, metal and wood slapping and crashing into their back and chest and arms. Joints shatter and crack with the strongest of Uiess’ swings, while Arlsei’s own tenderize them with bruises and cuts. More insult to the extreme injury. 

“S-Stop- p-please- p-p-” Kris sobs into their metal-lined palms, feeling the grip on their head weakening when their arms are bent at a rough angle. In a position they couldn’t usually bend them to. Twisted up how you’d twist a pretzel, limbs bound rough, arm backwards over their spine, knees crippled at the joint to make sure they can’t crawl away.  

“This is fun! Shame we can’t do this again after they’re dead.” The darkner gleefully says as he kicks at their shattered knee with the heel of his paw, watching the bones break below the skin with every rub. He giggles effeminately when they squeal in response.

“Better enjoy it while we can, then. . .” She snickers as she lines up a massive golf swing, tapping the end of her axe against the spot where their skull is most weak. Large clumps of their hair are scattered over the grass, revealing bare tissue with the faintest hint of bone. 

Rlaeis “ooh’s” and “aww’s” as she winds back the swing. . . and with a gush of force that splits the air, brings it right down. 

*CRSCH*

They can feel their *brains* flying across the field in meaty chunks while the darkner gives a delighted clap, the monster pumping a bicep in a triumphant showboat. 

Their eyes are just rolling in the back of their head when they look over to see something white laying in the tallgrass. In the purple grass they had once been laying in, in the spot they had just ran fingers over minutes prior, lay something like a shard, slathered in blood.

Kris can only manage one last scream when they realize it’s a piece of their skull. 

Their eyes are just rolling in the back of their head when they look over to see something white laying in the tallgrass. In the grass tamount of twitching and seizing frees them, their hands desperately clinging to the boot on their chest as Elrasi gives them.Wow, this sucks.” They happily say to no one in particular, using the tip of their sword to trace patterns into the technicolor soil. Dragging the blade over the ground until a large “K” forms shaped in the ripped up grass. An ambient tone flutters in the air, one that they can’t entirely tell is coming from the woris feels the luscious purple grass between their greaves, fluttering the tips of their fingers over the longest stalks testingly. As much as they found this entireir eyes are justn the back of their head when they look over to see something white laying in the tallgrass. In the grass tamount over the ground until a large “K” forms shaped in the ripped up grass. An ambient tone flutters in the air, one that e blade over the ground until a large “K” forms shaped in the ripped up grass. An ambient tone flutters in the air, one that they can’t entirely tell is coming from the woris feels the luscious purple grass between their greaves, fging the blade over the ground until a large “K” forms shaped in the ripped up grass. An ambient tone flutters in the air, one that they can’t entirely tell is coming from the woris feels the luscious purple grass betweluttering the tips of their fingers over the longest stalks testingly. As much as they founging the blade over the ground until a large “K” forms shaped in the ripped up grass. An ambient tone flutters in the air, one that they can’t entirely tell is coming from the woris feels the luscious purple grass betwe “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” “K” 

Kris is sitting in a chair, in a black voice of nothingness. A single spotlight in the center illuminates them, with a second spotlight across the hall where another figure sat. Blue skin in a black bodysuit with a multicolored scarf over it, eyes covered by long locks of hair. . . 

It’s them. How they are in the Dark World, at least. A sword and shield hanging at their sides, the other Kris doesn’t stay seated, pacing to and fro around the thin circle that comprises their whole world. Kris feels too terrified to try and stand up themselves. For reasons they can’t explain, the thought of standing felt linked with death. 

“Kris” only turns their gaze to the other enby when they make the mistake of creaking in the wooden chair, attracting its attention at last. The figure stiffening straight and turning to face them with a face etched with hate. 

“. . .This is all your fault. You could have just gone to school. You could have walked your regular route. You could have just told him no. You could have just left. But you didn't. Did you? Did you? Did you?” It’s not their voice. It’s not anyone’s voice. All it knows and is is malice and anger. Everything they want to despise made manifest in a tone. 

“I’m. . . I’m sorry. . .”  They can’t begin to understand who they’re even apologizing to. Self-conscious guilt for ruining their own life. All memories they won’t remember when they wake up anyways. The wounds of the brain can’t lick themselves. 

“If you were sorry, you’d have tried anything. If you were sorry, you’d have did anything. If you were sorry, you would have died on your feet instead of living on your knees. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you.” Accusatory, a judge’s tone, with the swing of an invisible gavel. Everything they knew was true, and more. 

The shadows separating them seem to part, a path of glowing twilight connecting the two halves of themselves. When “Kris” drags itself from its own circle to the other enby’s own, Kris can spot a strange slit that runs straight down the center of its chest. . . It’s like a seam. Stitched through the fabric, and into the flesh under the skintight suit. Little wiggling black lines writhe out of the hole, desperate to free themselves. Desperate.  

“You’ve lost faith. You’ve lost yourself. You’ve lost. You’ve lost. You’ve l o s t.” The simulacrum digs both hands into that fleshy slit, neck twisting at an otherworldly angle as they begin ripping it open with tugs and pulls. After every rip, a crunch like breaking bones fills the void, more of those writhing insectoid legs popping out from the space inside. They grow in Kris’ gaze, writhing into thousands of spindly, multi-jointed parts that shoot out of their chest cavity, the second Kris collapsing into a ball of flesh and clothes. 

They’ve lost. 

“Mmn- Mkmph?!” Kris is underwater: impossibly large, empty crimson water stretches out for miles around them. Little bubbles of air flutter up from somewhere too foggy to see the bottom of. If it even has a bottom. Only a soft beam of light marks that anything may be beyond, a glow that Kris struggles to pull themselves towards. Their lungs are derived from oxygen, they can feel their body aching as they swallow down another mouthful of the reddish fluid. It’s not water. It burns going down like battery acid, stinging every inch of their bloodied gums, every gulp feeling like it melts their insides. It tastes like that substance that oozed from the SOUL they sustained themselves on for many, many days. 

A gush of blood oozes from their mouth with every gulp, a trail of red marking where they’ve gone in the blisteringly hot ocean. All bodies of water must someday end, and it’s not long before Kris slams into a sudden, invisible wall. No more escape. No more sanctuary. The wall they pounded into is a shiny layer of glass with a hexagonal pattern spread over, a vast pattern too large to make out. 

 Kris writhes and pounds their fists into the glass, but no amount of stressing will ever break it. They’re a small, insignificant thing trapped in an everlasting scarlett. Trapped in something larger than they could ever be. 

If Kris looks into the emptiness outside, they can barely spot what they’re trapped within: a giant heart. The very shape of their SOUL, the very shape of his, constructed of pure crystal, filled with everything that comprised their very being. 

No choice but to drown in everything that comprised them, nothing left in their lungs but acidic plasma. After every cough, a new spurt of red fills the water, until all that sweet crimson is dyed bloodied red. 

The enby curls hands over their head protectively, and- 

“Dude, are you falling asleep already? Class just started.” K only gets a few minutes of rest before she’s woken up by a scaly hand on her shoulder. It’s weird for class to start at midnight, but they still haven’t fixed the windows which remained barren of any glass. The purple monster smiles with a mouth lacking any teeth, only a constant, steady gush of black bile that pours out of it and onto K’s desk, waterfalling onto the floor. It’s already up to her ankles and burning and burning and burning and rotting her feet off, but that’s okay. Her green dress with twin yellow stripes goes up to her knees anyways  She goes to run run a finger through her pig-tailed hair, but her hands move independently of her will. Stretching far into the ceiling, silver strings the thickness of a guitar’s are pierced into the flesh on her hands, an unseen force swinging them to and fro haphazardly. But that’s okay. But that’s okay. One of their hands is forced to clumsily grip at the thin body of a pencil, their fingers curling around it compulsively. 

A puppet can only play along when it’s the only option available. 

Class doesn’t have a teacher teacher today. Class is empty beyond a few scattered faces. Deer. Bird. Her. Lizard. 

“When does the test start?” K asks as she begins scribbling incoherent lines onto the paper, symbols, emblems, someone’s name, someone else’s name. She feels her tendons snapping and straining as she drags the pencil straight down to doodle a cartoon heart. Some of her wants to put a letter in the middle of it, but no fitting one comes to mind that doesn’t make her want to blow her fucking brains out. 

The deer shrugs, a chittering insect with black limbs and fluffy fur in the process of forcing itself out of her eye as she neatly folds her papers. She doesn’t seem to mind. Everything is alright. 

“You already missed it. But maybe a new one will new one if you miss it enough the test. Right?” She’s speaking calmly while cramming the tip of her metal pen into the flat flesh of her eyelid to free the writhing thing that wants wants out. Its body grows with every inch it squeezes out of her bulging eye. 

K nods knowingly, drawing a smaller smaller heart inside the bigger one. 

“Can I copy your notes?” She tries to get input from the bird opposite to them, but he hasn’t been in this world for many suns and moons. Festering rot is visible under the outer layer of his desaturated feathers. Face down on the desk, wings limp at his sides, he’s more hung chicken than fresh bluejay. His pencil rolls off the desk and lands in the increasingly high black gunk gunk.

“Yeah, that's a good point.” She watches the strings holding her up jingle up towards the ceiling, pencil still in her grasp. Both are held straight like a crucified corpse, the lizard leaning down until the tip of her curved, squishy snout is against her nose. When she goes to speak again, more of that black liquid begins oozing from the tops of her fingernails, some of her nails popping off and scattering over their doodle-filled paper. 

“It’s dark outside. Have you ever thought about killing yourself again? Like how you did when you were a preteen. I think it might be beneficial to your mental health. I’ve tried it a couple times today, but haven’t really found a method that works. I’ve tried hanging and cutting and shooting and asphyxiation and hanging and cutting and cutting and cutting and cutting and.” The flow of liquids from her body intensifies until she’s completely covered by the black gunk. Every inch of her pores and her clothes and her snout is soaked until she’s little more than an oversized congealed mass of slime that soon sinks down into the increasingly high flood. The only thing to mark where she had once been is loose clawnails clawnails and bubbles at the surface. 

K feels their limbs moving on their own as the pencil is aimed at where a major artery would be. She’s always tried to ignore this artery whenever she’d torment torment herself, but this time is different. Like clockwork, the arm is raised as high as it can go with a click, click of the string’s silver.

“Oh, I don’t think she ever thinks about anything about her except what she isn’t. Silly mistake, honestly. She’s silly. Silly girl. Is it hot in here?” Noelle retches around her words, gagging gagging on them before arching her back down towards the floor. Her neck seems to snap and twist, her stomach bulging out from under the christmas-y fabric of her vest as one last retch spews out contaminants. Thousands of those little bugs that writhed out of her eye leek from her mouth and throat, with black wings like a butterflies and long, chitinous bodies akin to a centipede. They chitter and sing a song more beautiful than they’ve ever heard as they crawl over the desks and swim through the murky black that was now up to their knees. The bugs seem to grow and shrink before K’s gaze, encouraging her to do the deed. Encouraging her to  finish what must be done.  

“Oh, hey! It’s been a while.” A voice is behind her, one she’s petrified to look at.

There’s paws over her back. White, fluffy paws massaging her shoulders, goading the strings that strained her arm with all it has. 

“Wow, you’ve been doing good! I think he’s really liking everything you’re doing now. See, isn’t it so easy when you play along? You’ve been such a good girl today. . .” The fluffy paws clamp over the sides of her cracked skull, rubbing at her temples which pulsed with a dozen heartbeats a second. A ringing ringing in her ears as the arm thrusts up and down by an inch like a countdown. Three. 

“But, you should know what happens if you start acting up again. It’d be such a shame to ruin all this progress! You’ll understand soon enough. Pain is growth. Pain comes with pleasure. You’ve been reborn in pain, nestled in its womb. It’s exciting! I’m really excited.” The darkner seems to guide the strings, like the two are singular halves of one count. When he taps down on the girl’s skull, the strings count down once more with a twitch. Two. 

“I am the way into the suffering city. Through me the way into eternal pain, I am the way that runs through the lost. You understand! Even if you don’t know yet! It’ll be better this way from now on.” He talks like no one, whatever being he is has evolved beyond the hallucination that once plagued her. The words were familiar, something they recalled from school. K’s breathing intensifies as she tugs back against the strings, only ripping more of them out of her arms. Blood drips from the increasingly open wounds, mixing with the insect-filled black bile.

“Justice urges my High Architect. Divine Authority created me, the highest wisdom, and the primal love. This isn’t going to hurt too bad! It’s not real. It’s everything outside that’ll ache. You’ll get that soon. You’ll be hearing from me again soon. Think of this as. . . an evaluation. From yourself, to you. .. Oh, and. Clench your teeth!” He giggles as he lays one last tap on the girl’s skull, she can still feel the wounds from when it was broken. It aches with a pain that feels too real to be fake. How can any of this be fake?  One.

What comes next has to be real. 

K can only scream as the string swings down like a guillotine, landing directly in the center of their wrist in an artery with a splash of blood that blinds them. The last sound they hear is one last pitched giggle from the figure over their shoulder, pleased with them, pleased with everything they’ve become. 

. . .

Kris wakes up still screaming. Their vocal cords are too mangled to do talking, but screaming is viscerally easy. The pain feels still real and still fresh on their skin as they tumble in their cocoon of blankets, a full-volume wail, swiping around them for invisible insects digging into her skin. All the energy they’ve gained from resting is spent tumbling off the bed, landing hard on the carpeted flooring, fighting at the blanket tying their limbs up in its rustled fabric. 

It all still feels *real*, they can’t tell if they’re awake anymore, they can’t tell if they’re about to die. They’re hyperventilating into the childish blanket when the door to their room suddenly swings open with a *POUND*.

“Oh come the *fuck* on, it’s fuckin’ midnight. What's wrong now, huh?” They can’t see him, but they can hear Yellow’s demanding tone when he steps into the room. It only makes them flinch, slashing harder to try to protect themselves. Only hyperventilating harder when they feel restricting hands over them, pulling the blanket away and clamping down on their shoulders. He’s undressed, only a pair of simple trousers, a golden glow angrily pulsing through his chest-hole in annoyance. The man is pushing a knee into their stomach to stop them from moving anymore, the enby still screaming until all that’s left in them gives up.

“Stop- I said stop squirmin’. Shoulda known yah would’ve. . .” Halfway through the words, he seems to swap on a dime. Like he’s suddenly remembering something under the blur of tiredness, something he forces himself to perform. “Rgh, forgot about- hmph.” He’s muttering to himself again, Kris is too freaked out to care anyways.

In an instant, he goes quiet. A bit of the anger is still visible, but he’s only human. Simple labored breathing as he lets them tire themselves out. Giving them an unconvincing, supportive smirk like the one from yesterday.

They can still feel the creeping insects all over the room, but no amount of tensing frees them from the constant weight atop them. It almost feels nice somehow.  It’s heavy pressure, but a supportive one. He’s not putting all his weight on them like he has in the past. Just enough to stop them from moving, one hand clamped over their mouth to stop more annoying sounds. 

“Through your nose, Red.” He orders softly, not like they had much choice in the matter now anyways. All they can manage is inhaling rapidly through her nostrils, trying to focus on that when all other bodily functions are too hard. He seems to calm down as they do, the anger plastered over his features slowly fading back into a hazy tiredness. 

Kris can barely see his skin in the pale glow of the moon, but they swear there’s more marks on his arm opposite to the one that’s still wrapped in bandages. It reminds them of better times, their own heartbeat slowing as the one in his chest matches their pace.Their SOULs seemed to strike in tandem. 

They’re pointing with a trembling hand towards the corner of the room, where an especially dark shadow sits like a figure watching their every move. . . There’s many of those little figures in the room, mixed in amidst the insects and the shadowy creatures that climbed the walls and the ceiling. But that one is the tallest. 

. . .He stares over at that spot, seems to know to an extent what the issue is here. It’s hard to judge them for this when he’s the reason they’ve been so ruined. 

“. . .Let's get you back to bed. There ain’ nothin’ there, Lil Lady.” He’s so certain, but they’re unconvinced. Those things have been their reality for so long in the basement, how could they possibly be fake? Kris can’t take their eyes off that spot as he hoists them up in a bridal carry, dropping them onto her bed. Ungrateful. Given so much and they can’t help but soil everything gifted to them. What’s wrong with them?

They’re still questioning what’s wrong with themselves when Yellow vanishes for a second, back to his own room. Some of them are wondering if he’s even going to come back. He’s been nothing but nice all day and they still feel a terror when he’s here, and a terror when he’s gone. They aren’t built to be alone anymore. Every moment of isolation feels like it’ll never end. It fills them with a dread that’s unlike anything they’ve ever felt. He needs to come back. 

Kris rubs at the spot where the pencil had pierced their arm. Where the strings had once been stabbed inside. With a lack of sensory feeling, the pain of the dream feels fresh still. As real as anything else is. When the dreams are as coherent as the real world, the lines are vague and blurry anymore. 

A familiar sound of steady footsteps lets them know he’s not going to just leave them be. They didn’t deserve it, but he still returns, and he’s not empty-handed this time. . . 

He has a guitar.  

It looks strangely familiar for reasons Kris can’t put to thought. Maybe it’s just because all wooden guitars looked like that, with a glossy body and a bright hickory frame. Whatever it reminded them of, this one is far more worn: scratched with memories of a long road, roughed up in some spots, chipped in others. A second hole is broken into the side of the big one, the only part of it that seemed fresh is the strings. Shiny and silver, like the ones from their dream. 

“Don’ take my kindness for weakness. I don’ want yah gettin’ rewarded for this childish shit, but hell. You’ve been behavin’ yourself as right as a whistle today, so I’ll help yah out a lil’. . .”  He fidgets with one of the tuners while he talks, giving the matching string a strum to test its sound. It’s twisted a couple more notches clockwise, the sound a little less pitched when he strums it once again. They don’t really know what it’s meant to sound like, but both tunes work wonders for their brain as he settles down onto the bed beside them. 

The child-sized bed creaks and groans when he settles in, leaning on the short headboard, resting the guitar over his lap. One leg hangs over the edge of the bed swinging up and down, while the other curls around Kris’ own, like interlocked fingers. 

“. . .?” Kris tentatively reaches a hand out to feel at the guitar’s patchy wooden texture, feeling the vibrations of it through their palm as he plays another single note. Good sensations. Good feelings. Good stimuli. They keep a hand resting on it while they try to force themselves to relax. 

“I’ve traveled a whole lotta roads, and this ol’ girl was with me for all of ‘em. . .” He explains in a low tone, clearly interested in them getting to bed as quickly as possible. Can’t shut himself up though when he loves the sound of his own voice too much. “Slept under bridges, by the rivers, in alleys and in the wilds. Nobody to keep lil’ ol’ me company but this beaut’.” He’s got a care that’s foreign to how he usually is in how he handles that guitar, like how he did his knife and his gun. Holding it in a firm but careful grasp, positioning his fingers in just the right spot for a chord. 

It’s. . . clumsy. His fingers struggle to keep in the same spot for too long, or to swap between the strings that deftly. A bit too slow to the draw in how he strums lower down, a unique sound to its beat with that second hole ripped into it. He struggles to keep the tune consistent, swearing to himself when it takes a second to steady his motions.

“Fuckin’ tremors, need some booze, or a smoke. . .Give me a sec’.” He occasionally flicks his gaze to Kris, expecting to see judgment everytime he looks back. Motivating him to get his shit together, adjusting the guitar on his lap, sitting up a bit more this time. The cowboy slips a finger in his mouth, licking over the tip before returning it to the strings. 

Kris nods in confidence, encouraging him to continue. Anything to keep him here for a second longer. He’d be quick to give up without it. They’ve forgotten so much, but that’s one note that’s fresh on their brain. 

Walking on eggshells comes natural when they’re so frail. The vibrations alone are plenty nice to feel, vibrant and booming on their skin. 

This time, he takes it slower. Relearning muscle memories. You never really forget after you learn, do you? If only they were so lucky. Basic actions feel as hard as learning new skills entirely. Basic memories. Basic feelings. It hurts to remember how worthless they’ve become. 

“. . .I was your age when this one came out.” Is the last whispered remark he makes before he begins playing properly, finally confident enough to start. They don’t know how old that would be anyways. 

. . .Still clumsy, but far smoother. Clearing his throat with a mucus-y cough, a slow, melancholy song soon resonates through the dimly lit room of the cabin. At first he begins by humming to himself in tune to the beat, shifting his fingers through the chords as he strummed along. Leaning his head on the wooden headboard, he’s looking up towards the ceiling, not keeping an eye on the strings anymore. 

“He said, "I'll love you till I die". . .♫” The sudden singing could’ve made them jolt awake if they weren’t so fucking tired. It’s more strained than his playing is, but he sounds into it. . .“She told ‘em, "You'd forget in time". . .♫” He whispers it lower than he spoke, maybe to help them sleep, maybe out of self-consciousness. Who can really say?. . . 

It’s pretty, though. A long time ago, Kris remembered someone they knew who used to play the guitar. Was it a family member? Or, maybe something similar. . . A deer, maybe. They’d probably never remember, so the thought is discarded into the wastebin of their mind. All that exists right now is him, and her. They feel themselves practically melting into the blankets, all the warmth they felt this morning finally coming back again. 

Hard to feel any shame or regret right now. Hard to stop themselves from nestling against his side, letting their skull *plap* against the wood to feel the vibrations better. Kris curls up with all the energy left, the feeling of skin on skin as foreign as the feeling of clothes on clothes. All they have on right now is the panties and bra, the dress hung on a hook from the door. His body is so warm, and padded with the slightest hint of fat. 

“As the years we- slowly went by, she still preyed upon his mind. . .♫'' They wonder why he chose this song. They wonder if he meant anything by it. It feels impossible to read between those lines, it feels impossible to see anything beyond the dull-neutrality of his face. No emotions to it. Nothing Kris can identify. He plays with the hollowness of someone who saw nothing in the lyrics beyond words and sounds. . . And yet, occasionally, he glances down at them, to see how they look. He hesitates for just a second before continuing on, a wrong note echoing through the cabin. Swearing to himself again. 

“He kept her picture on the wall, went half crazy now ‘n then. . .♫” He doesn’t break eye contact this time as he plays, red into red, his expression faltering to the briefest of smiles. A twitch that he’s quick to revert to neutrality. “But he still loved her through ‘em all. . . Hopin’ she'd come back again. . .” A game of chicken soon forms, but Kris is the first one to break. The enby’s eyes falter, all the tension feels like it’s slowly, slowly coming off them. Like someone popping a knife into the various knots in their back and spine and breaking the locks open.

All the black, creeping things don’t seem so close now. The notes seemed to scare them off, or maybe they’re not willing to attack when there’s two of them. About the safest they’ve felt ever since they’ve become held up in that place of concrete and rust and metal bolts. 

Drool drips from their open, cracked lips slowly, their legs hitching up, going as limp as the doll she’s been turned into. A big plume of her hair is draped over the bare skin of his chest, obscuring it in a veil of blackish brown, tufts getting shifted around with every sway of the guitar’s long body. 

“Kept some letters by his bed, dated nineteen sixty’two. . .♫'' A similar hesitation shifts upon his tone at that, but they’re almost out by the time he reaches that point. He plays slower, and slower, a nursery rhyme soon forming from it. Made to knock them out quicker. 

By the time he’s giving one last strum, one last jingle of the metal strings, they’re tittering over the line of consciousness. Fading in and out, brief words breaking that threshold of awareness. 

“He had underlined in red. . .every single. . .” With one last strum, and one last spoken line, he cuts himself off. He must’ve spotted she’s out already, or at least looked out.  

Kris is limp and floppy while he unwinds himself from her, the numbed sound of the guitar hitting the carpet filling the room. Still here, for now. A pressure at the edge of the bed marks where he still sits, kneeling at their side, they feel the phantom touch of fingers through their hair. 

He’s still humming the tune he’d been playing before. He waits a while before anything else happens. A couple minutes turning into many minutes when he finally speaks up again.

“. . .You make it so hard to pretend to be nice, Red.” He’s talking to himself now, no hint of his usual accent in those words that bled through the veil. No use for it right now. “It was hard before, and it’s only harder now. Why do you have to make it so, so fucking hard?” The man’s fingers trace over the side of their skull, until it lands where their temple would be. He taps in that spot in the same place that the spectral being from their dreams had touched, stroking circles to make sure they stay out this time. 

“. . .Wish you would’ve just made this easier. Lost so much progress with that shit you pulled. . .Now I'm just stuck with some low functioning brat. . .” When their body writhes under his touch, he gives a rough purr to ease them down. Slowly settling down like their heartbeat is. “. . .And yet I still try. Heh. PerhapsI just like a challenge. . .” His hands wander lower, uncaring of how awake they are or aren’t when it lands over where their crotch is. It’s moist. Wet to the touch, but they hadn’t really noticed when that happened. Is that recent?. . .

It only gets more wet from his contact, their legs curling up under them like a dead spider. 

“. . .Perhaps I just like having you around, honestly. Perhaps I deserve that for everything I’ve done to rid this world of scum and filth. *Perhaps* I deserve this.” He’s rutting his palm into their parts through the thin, crumpled fabric of the panties with every word, watching them drift in and out of sleep compulsively. Rutting up from the blankets and down into the bedding. 

“It’s so hard to do all this on my own. It’s so hard to put up with something like you.” He works faster, a malice bleeding through him as he digs his nails into the soiled fabric. Just got those, and now they’re all messy. They reeked of her now. “Halfbreeded. Born of revulsion and degeneracy. When I first laid eyes on you, I felt a deep sickness. Now I can’t feel more than pity. Isn’t that just asinine?” The words are spoken aloud, but they’re meant for his own mind alone. No one more, no one less. Maybe he doesn’t mind if they sneak a peek when it doesn’t change anything. His pace picks up, he teases at the flesh with scratches that send waves through her.  He grips into their parts with the full spread of his palm, pumping with quick constant jerks of his wrist. Kris convulses, barely conscious, only able to process the stimuli alone. 

“. . .Perhaps remaining here is just my own stay of execution.” With a last sight, he *slaps* down on that spot he’s been teasing with pressure. Their body seizes up like it’s ready to rise up off the bed and through the ceiling, the base of their spine arching up by an inch, their knees wobbling as a spurt of slick gushes through the white cloth. More than they’ve leaked in so, so long. Well-trained parts. Staining the childish patterns of pink animals with their juices, their body locking up like a vice for a second before going fully slack. . . 

Slacker than before. Some of the tensions felt so far away in the fogginess. It’s hard to feel much of anything right now, that comfortable numbness that came with having themselves teased and emptied. Comfortable. At rest. This is nice. This is nice. . . 

Already ready to pass out, it’s impossible to stay awake even if they wanted to. . . 

As they finally break that shell of consciousness, a deep snicker fills the silent room. A wild cat’s tone with a feral dog’s growl. 

“That was my first idea. Maybe I should’ve skipped the guitar.” An amusement is audible even now as something is pressed against their lips. Something that tasted faintly of salt slipped through the threshold of their lips. 

“. . .Get some rest, Red.” That’s all that’s meant for them, and it’s all that stays in their mind when all else is gone. The man’s heavy footsteps make their way from the room, growing lighter, and lighter, and lighter, until they vanish. . . 

And so do they, tumbling into slumber at last. 

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Kris is in a lovely field. A lovely field with luscious golden wheat that stretched as far as the eye could see. It’s as shiny as metal, and as beautiful as anything they’ve ever beheld. Their dress is the same lovely shade of gold with the same lovely aura that surrounded it. Their eyes are a lovely shade of gold in the lovely lake of gold that they dip their fingertips into, pooling together a bit in their golden skin to hold up to their golden lips. 

The taste is like liquid nirvana, lovely and warm and lovely. Kris encounters a lovely sheep with lovely golden fur, hung by a golden rope from a golden tree with golden leaves with lovely heart-shaped leaves. Kris takes shelter below the lovely tree where a lovely picnic blanket sits waiting for them in a checkerboard white and gold pattern. The same pattern as their lovely gold dress that went below their feet and spilled around them like a wedding dress.

They're waiting amongst the gold, a drip of liquid gold dripping from the hung sheep’s neck that they suckle off with the same love as they sipped the lake’s water. It tastes just the same, just as lovely, if not more. They lap for drops and drips of the lovely liquid as they wait. A lovely gift just for them. 

Every minute that passes under the golden tree, another sheep’s lovely body hangs from the tree in a cloud of golden flies that Kris said hi to with every pass. Lovely golden insects that sung with a lovely chorus, nothing like those festering black bugs. A song of love and divinity and rebirth. 

It’s not long before a golden figure emerges from the tall grass, wearing long, regal golden attire with ribbons and laces and frills. A tall, golden hat with a lovely heart in the center of it. A golden cloak bellows off his shoulders that trailed off for a couple dozen feet through the wheat field. It ends where the lovely lake began. He drips with liquid gold. 

With the motions of a doll moving in stop-motion, the golden figure with its face lacking in facial features bows down low with his knee. The hat with its wide brim is held to his chest, and a hand is offered out to them on their lovely picnic blanket stained with droplets of lovely golden blood.  

Just as Kris is about to take the hand, the world flashes into a bright white glow before either makes contact with the other’s fingertips.  

They don't dream of anything more that night, but the golden stays in their head all the while. 

Kris didn't dream of anything that night.

. . .

. . .

. . . 

Chapter Text

Kris loses track of how many days have passed since they’ve been “freed”. Any perception of time they had left after so long in this cabin is entirely gone now. All that’s left is mental decay. The sun and moon give no input of anything at all when hours can feel like days one moment, and seconds the next. Time is fluid, and indecipherable. 

Progress is even more impossible to accurately judge. When they’ve started from such a low place, how big can any win really be?. . .

There’s a shiny, metal knife on the kitchen table: a paring knife with a stubby, short tip. The lightest knife in the drawer, the one easiest to handle for any activity you’d want. She’s able to stay upright on her own for the first time this week, slacking on their elbows, looking over at the cowboy sitting right beside them. 

“Now, let’s try this shit again, alright? And I want yah to really, really give it the full buck. Sounds real easy, right Red?” So easy, he makes it sound stupidly easy.  He makes everything they’re relearning sound so fucking easy, like they can manage if they just put more heart into it. All it does is make them feel more miserable when they inevitably fail. It’s their fault that they keep failing. 

Kris nods, swallowing a throat full of bile as she gives it their all. 

“K-Kay. . .”  Shallow, malformed words are the most they can manage recently. Baby steps in the right direction, but still baby steps. This entire exercise is just baby steps meant to push her in the right direction. A pile of half-smoked cigars is sweltering in an ashtray at the cowboy’s side, one crammed between his frustrated lips. His fingers continually tap-tap against the table expectedly, like a teacher watching a student fail and fail and fail.  

Yellow gives them a courage-inspiring smile, flicking a pound of ash off the cigar’s tip, smearing the fat tip into the ceramic. Not taking his eyes off Kris for a second as the enby slowly uncurls their spongy-jointed hand. The knife calls to them with a siren song, motivating them to grip at the black plastic handle. . . 

“There we go. Pick it on up.” He orders next, sounding more tired than any other emotion. Taking another cigar from the pile of them stored on his lap in a wooden box, popping it in between gritted teeth. A steel zippo fills the morning glow with a red flame as he lights the tip, replacing the previous before it’s fully finished. 

Kris nods, making sure their joints remain locked around the sturdy handle. Maybe if they do good enough, they’ll get a treat at the end of this. A treat that only that lovely blade can deliver to them, one they were salivating at the thought of. It’s been so long since they’ve severed their flesh from itself. The scars are starting to fade, and the last of the infected wounds are little more than dark scabs. 

“Pig. . .Ub. . .” They repeat it back slowly, internalizing the order. Making sure it won’t leave their mind as quickly as so many other things have. Pick up the knife. Pick up the knife. Pick up the knife.  

Pick up the knife. 

Their hand shakes, struggling to support the minuscule weight. The further up they raise it, the more it wobbles. A couple inches at a time before it’s held off the table at last. Multiple days have passed before they’ve been able to manage this much, and it’ll be long before they manage anything more.

Baby steps. They’ve both grown increasingly tired of baby steps. Only so much patience can be afforded to a broken toy, and only so much self-doubt can be given before they find death the easiest option. They’d cram that pairing knife into their throat if they could. If they weren’t too much of a coward to kill themselves.

“. . .Now, was that so damn hard?” Yellow smiles more earnestly now, though drenched in a layer of exhaustion that’s been constant recently. Deep bags are under eyes that almost seem as dark as theirs. It’s hard to take care of a new pet when it can’t take care of itself. 

“. . .G-Gut?. . .Gut?. . .” Kris looks up at him with desire, nodding excitedly. Quick, rapid gestures, popping their lips open twice, tapping the knife against the table by the tip twice. . .Two for yes, like they first established early on.  

Yellow arches his shoulders back, leaning into the chair, patting at the cigar box purposely. He takes a long huff of the cigar, holding it in his throat for a minute straight before puffing a noxious cloud into the air. The cabin is practically full of smoke at this point, pooling at the ceiling, it makes it increasingly hard to breathe.  

“Of course, Lil’ Lady. I’m just gon’ rest my eyes for a short while. . .” He pushes his hat lower to block the sun out, still keeping a steady gaze on the enby from under the crumpled brim. This has been hard on everyone, they suppose. Their fault he’s stressed. Their fault when he gets bored and puts a bullet in their brain. Why hasn’t he yet? Kris would have. Kris would have if they were the one with the gun. So why hasn’t he? 

Kris’ movements are chaotic as they struggle to steady the knife. Resting on their elbow, they tilt their wrist up towards the smoky ceiling, letting the blade fall to the skin with no resistance. Keeping it there is easy, but doing much more is the tough part. They’re resting it over a veiny spot where a purple one bulged out from below.

The enby’s grip weakens and trembles when they try to push down, fingers loosening, the blade dragged down *slowly*. Too slow in their current state, not enough pressure to do more than leave a red mark. No blood, no sweet sting of adrenaline, nothing but failure. Kris bleats and mewls indignantly, trying again with a bit more force. With a shaking hand, they leave it up above the same spot, dropping it tip-down this time. 

Just as worthless an attempt, harmlessly bouncing off their pale, taut skin. They’ve yet to gain any weight the last few days, but they feel like they’re a stable corpse instead of an actively rotting one. A weak bundle of bones completely unable to break skin, desperate to do *anything* as they continually trace the blade back and forth. Sawing to no avail. Getting more and more and more upset with every second between them and a sweet release. 

“J-J-jus won. . .” They weep out through soon teary eyes, all those terrible feelings near ready to consume them. Bottled up to the point it’s soon to explode. Cracks form in their foundation as they kick at the paneled floor, pounding their elbows into the wood childishly.

Yellow doesn’t get long to relax before he’s shooting up in his chair again, the sound he makes betraying disappointment more than anger. A discouraged sigh that felt ready to shatter their SOUL into pieces. All their own insecurities are reflected back at them with no shielding.

“Alright, alright. We don’ need that tantrum shit again. Not encouragin’ this anymore.” He watches them flinch in terror when he moves closer to them, eyes bulging out, a prey animal’s stance. Still idly sawing into their arm with no damage done.  “You’re gonna try *harder*. We ain’ wastin’ weeks with you in this state. Can you do that for me, Sweetie?” That same soft smile is back at that, though the quivers of his body and the darkness in his eyes makes its falseness clear. His shoulders are forward and strained, his hands shaking around the cigar box angrily.

. . .And yet, it works, though. In too much of a state to do more than lap at those sickly sweet mockeries of kindness. It’s enough to condition them to feel more at ease, lowering the knife still clutched in their stiff grasp. 

“Good girl. Don’- don’ take it too personally now, you’ve been a real doll. Yah know that?” Yellow drowns them in praise, but the exhaustion in his voice just seems to grow with every attempt. Trying his hardest all for no effort, and no progress. Reaching his breaking point. “Just give it to me, I’ll cut a few for yah mys-” He’s too quick to try and reach for the blade, the enby’s still bloodshot and frantic when his hand gets close. 

Reflexive motions. No thought went into it, no concerns, no feelings. A kicked dog lashing out before it realizes who it’s biting. With a frantic flail, the blade is swung in a frenzy right at his arm. It makes contact, but they’re the ones who are shrieking after. They’re still slashing at the air, Yellow quick to pin their hand down in one fluid *slam*.  

“Rghh.” His growl sounds barely human, especially so in his tired state. A snarl of disdain when he brings his forearm up to reveal a thin slash through the longjohns. . . Kris can spot bare skin for only a moment before a trickle of blood leaks from within.  

. . .Yellow eyes are glowing. Narrow, tiny pinpricks of red, as narrow as a laser pointer’s beam. He doesn't free up Kris’ hand, he doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t even move.

They’re still crying, but it’s hard to tell if it’s from the failed cutting, or from him. The regret comes in waves that only build as they watch more blood leak from the wound they’ve caused.

“I. . . s-orryy. . .” The enby sniffles out pathetically, hand twitching around the knife pinned to the table. It’s just like them to hurt someone trying to help them. That’s all they’ve been able to do in their life, that’s all they’ve done here. All they can manage is hurting others. 

Why else would she be here? 

The man copies a gesture they’ve done so many times before, and just nods. 

“. . .I know, Red. I know.” A blank voice. Lacking anything substantial at all, just dull words. They almost sound how Kris does when they’re sick of talking. He made it so, so clear how sick he is of all this. He doesn’t even begin to pretend to hide it, the enby feeling more and more remorseful at every ounce of discontent he’s gifted them.

It hurts more than the pain does, somehow. Pain is easy. Pain is a pathway they’ve long trotted, and long journeyed upon. When they’ve become disjointed with humanity, it’s emotional torment that is a knife through their very being. 

 . . .They’re still sobbing when he frees their hand at last, knowing they’ll drop it obediently right after. 

Through moisty eyes, they can spot him reaching for something in his pocket. A familiar jingle of pills clattering around in a bottle is all the proof they need for what he’s fished out of it. 

That bottle. Has he always taken as many out of it as he has been? He drops three or four in his palm, quickly gulping them down without water. The bottle seems just as full as the first time they had seen it, whenever that was. Whenever it was that they first witnessed him consuming whatever is within. Something about rabbits floats in the vault of their mind.

Kris can’t really remember all that long ago, when they can barely remember why they ended up in this cabin to begin with.  

Maybe someday they’ll get a chance to ask him directly. Maybe if they survive long enough to. 

They can’t take their eyes off that little bottle as he slips it back into his pocket. It’s not the first time they’ve seen it today, and it won’t be the last.  

Baby Steps.

. . .

. . .

. . . 

Kris flicks the knife over their knuckles, watching it smoothly slide from bony joint to bony joint before clambering down to the kitchen table. It bounces a couple times on impact, the enby catching it in her palm smoothly.

“Hmm. . .” They copy a little gesture of his, licking over the tip of their ring finger before trying again. This time, they manage flicking it twice before it lands back in the same spot as before. Back to square one, but what’s different there, really? That’s how everything has gone. 

She’s developed that little habit as a stim, to continue honing her muscle memory. Physical therapy for the mind, physical therapy for the soul, physical therapy in itself. It’s all they can really do while the sword of damocles hangs constantly over them. 

Sink or swim is the name of the game, it’s what drives them to get their shit together before they aren’t able to anymore. Quicker progress than they have been making. Quicker progress than she used to be able to afford. It’s all getting easier, but their memory isn’t yet. 

They’ve put on a few pounds in the last while, enough to slather their skin in an ounce of padding. Still dangerously underweight, but that’s a given. Pound by pound, meal by meal. It comes slowly so they don’t vomit it all back up.

“. . .Smells. Nice. . .” They say with a thick slur that seems to haunt their words. A deep lisp that made many of their words more indecipherable than not. Small, stable sentence fragments are their best bet. . . Something feminine is in their words that they can’t really remember being there originally. Maybe it’s just the lisp. They can’t find themselves caring either way. They hope it’s just the lisp. 

Yellow is across the kitchen making breakfast, a savory smelling slurry of yellowish slurry cooking in the same pan he made everything in. He has a bit more of a spring in his step than he has the last week or so, but that’s not saying much. There’s still a tiredness clear in his features as he stirs at the gloppy food with a big spoon. 

“Well, ain’ you just polite this mornin’?” He snickers, giving the metal spoon a playful flip, though a slower one then his usual flourishes. . . Maybe they’re both recovering right now. “It’s uh- it’s grits. It’s like maize and that typa’ stuff. Thought I’d try somethin’ a lil’ different. Yah sleep well, darlin’?” Some semblance of a normality is slowly returning, enough that he almost sounds authentically happy again. Good progress. They’ll be back to discussing horror movies in no time. Right?

. . .Right?

Hurts to see him sad. . . Hurts to see him. . . Hurts. . .

All their motions are still clumsy. Moving is easy now, it’s being any degree of fluid with it that’s still near impossible. Baby steps. Maybe they’ll be able to walk soon. Their eyes grow sullen and desolate. 

“. . .No. . .” They admit in a low tone, scared how he’ll react to that. So much progress, but nowhere close to where they once were. Little fragments of those creeping things still linger around them even now.

They come and go with time. The night is always the worst. Sleep is plagued by night terrors that refuse to leave them be. She can’t get them out of her head. She avoids sleep whenever she can. She tries her hardest to leave it all be. . .  

She can’t really sleep alone, without aid.  

The human takes the grits off the burner, letting them cool by the stove’s side as he nods along to their loathing remarks. 

“Yah know, didn’t we talk about tryin’ harder?” He questions firmly, grabbing a handful of grits with his dirty fingers, shoving a hot glob of it into the corner of his mouth. Tapping his foot against the counter as they chat, expecting an answer. Knowing Kris has no issue giving one in their current state. Only so much coddling can be given right now. No more babying. 

“Just. . . hard. . .” They curl into the fabric of their pink dress, using it as a safety blanket. It hugs them all in the right spots, the pastel colors framing their body in ways that felt strange. All hips and chest, the smallest bit more in that spot that had once been entirely flat. . . “Won’t leave. . . head. . .” No matter what they do, all those worst thoughts and worst fears refuse to go away. Little softnesses and little kindnesses can only fight the darkness away for so long. Digging her fingers into her hair and tugging at the long strands, ripping out bits that fall to the kitchen floor in pieces. 

It’s longer, it has to be longer. The pieces come up in pieces that curl around themselves like knotted rope. Only a couple are allowed to be torn out before he’s back at her side with a defeated look to his features. . . 

“. . .Red, you know why you’re here. So I can fix yah, right?” He talks in a pondering tone as he manhandles a glob of grits into their mouth too. Forcefeeding it past their lips, resting a thumb on their chin to encourage them to swallow. 

Is that why they’re here? It makes sense, they’re very, very broken. Maybe they *are* here willingly. Or, maybe someone is the reason they’re here? 

“I. . . guess. . .” They speak through the grits in their mouth, all buttery and plush, the vague hint of too-much-salt overpowering it. Bits of their hair are still stuck around their fingers, dropping them down to the floor with the rest. It’s hard to swallow with much ease. 

Yellow nods, kneeling down to their level, resting one hand over theirs. Massaging their palm gently, the other is locked around an object in his pocket. He rubs them enough for the skin to feel warm to the touch. . . 

“I’ve only wanted what's best for yah, right?” Repeated in the same disarming voice as before, a pit of dread building in Kris’ stomach at where he’s going with this. It’s true, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Why would they even be here if it wasn’t.

“I. . . guess. . .” Just the same as before, like with him. They can’t bring themselves to disagree, it feels as true as anything in this world does. He just wants what's best for her. Can it really be that simple? 

“All I want is for yah to be happy. Yah know that? I’ve tried real, real hard for that, but I think I see the problems here, Lil Lady. Brain is just broken up in ways I can’t fix up on all my own. . .” The conclusion finally makes itself clear, the exhaustion of the last few weeks strained over him like a veil. 

. . .He slowly reaches into his pocket, revealing that familiar pill bottle once more. It’s never been more than a couple inches off his body, which makes when he rests it on the table between them even more jarring. Kris can spot the half-empty bundles of pills through the orange translucent plastic, the logo of a pharmacy they didn’t recognize on the lid. Crossed snakes with a cross in the middle. 

“. . .In the old days, in the Wild West of Human Expansion, they’d have all kinds of solutions for your kinda problems. Real, proper ones that’d fix yah brain up good. Before medicine got all soft and coddly cause of them fuckin’ degenerates.” He uncaps the bottle while he rambles, gently taking two of the pills within: whitish brown with cross-tops. Pretty big for pills, but Kris can only guess the dosage.

Medication was a touchy subject. Antidepressants they stopped taking when they got to the worst of their life. After they weren’t made to take them anymore. The hospital can only do so much after they were freed from it. Their parents can only do so much when they barely know how bad it’s been. They don’t think these are antidepressants, though. He seems to know exactly what he’s doing as he uncurls their hand, placing two of those mysterious pills in their palm. 

“I got this prescription off some filthy city monster. Musta been real fucked up with how many refills they got. . . I tell yah, they work real well. I don’ take that many, I got real good self control, but only a couple is all yah need. . . A dab’ll do yah.” He explains so much so knowingly, but never fills them in with what they actually are. They’re at least a bit curious as they gingerly bring them closer up, giving both a testing sniff. No actual scent, but they don’t really know what they expected.

“What. . . are?. . .” They’ve seen him take these dozens of times, but never got a chance to ask. Yellow himself doesn’t seem very aware of that for once, tilting his head and staring over to the bottle’s tempting opening. His fingers idly swirl the pills around as he slides a glass of water over to them. 

“Do I look like a shrink? They make yah feel like you’re walkin’ on heaven, that’s all I really care ‘bout. Everyone needs a way to make their brain mellow out, just like booze and smokes.” He seems so lighthearted about it, but it’d be hard to deny the thought sounded appealing to Kris. Though, for once he seems to realize that was a shitty answer, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. “. . .Don’ look at me like that. Some long ass name I don’t remember, hell if I know. Some typa’ opioid. Strong type.” A very important thing to suddenly drop at the end there, the same uncaring expression as before, crossing his arms as he waits for them to be won over. 

. . .It’s certainly appealing to them. A hesitation is there, but the thought of finally shutting their brain up sounded as sweet as the most delicious wine. It won’t ever leave them alone, it won’t ever shut the fuck up. Layers upon layers upon layers of loathing that were too deep to dig themselves out of organically.
“You. . . sure?. . .” He feels like half their mind at this point. A method of bouncing their thoughts off itself. When they exist so transiently, all they have is him to ground them. Their voice is small and meek, and is easy to tempt down whatever roads he sees fit. A puppet on strings.

“We’ve done plenty already, darlin. Yah wanna shut your head up? This’ll do wonders for that. Once we get that under wraps, we can get back on the ol’ cattle trail again. Once you get used to ‘em. Back to step one, yeah?. . . So go on. Take em. If you can’t, I’ll do it for yah.” It’s a threat blatantly, but it’s a threat in the same way you’d make a child take their medicine. A mockery of consent. The sweetness of doing it themselves versus having it forcefed down their gullet. What he thinks is best for them. 

He doesn’t need to threaten them, though. All Kris needed is that sweet promise to seal their own fate forever. 

Kris is too clumsy still to do two actions at once, sliding the two round tablets over their tongue first. Cupping the glass of water in both hands, they wash it down with a big drink of water. They’re a bit large, so it takes multiple hard gulps to force them down fully. Throat muscles ache still like the rest of them. Already too much talking for today. . .

They don’t feel anything much at first, an ominous snicker from Yellow making what’s about to  happen all the more apparent. What’s about to happen to them is something he’s poignantly familiar with.

“Oh boy howdy, you’ll enjoy this.” He notes with morbid delight, giving their hand another hard squeeze. It’s hard to admit they’ve started enjoying the way he performs contact. Casual, not even bringing attention to it. Touch for the sake of touching them. A constant, present force.

That’s what anyone would ask for in this situation, wouldn’t it be? 

The human’s eyes wander back to the bottle, still open. Still calling to him like a lighthouse in murky waters. He scratches at his own greasy hair, licking his lips with a dirty tongue. Humming a short tune to himself while pondering.

“. . .Oh, what the hell. Bottoms up.” He soon reaches for the bottle, dumping six of the white tablets into his own palm. No water is involved here, he washes the handful down with a shot of his morning whiskey. Slapping his hand into his shoulder, he gives a loud roar of victory, flashing them a wink while he slides the empty shot glass over.

Wordlessly filling it up with the same whiskey bottle, Kris knows what he wants. Their first bonding exercise once more. 

It’s like they never left. 

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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Warmth. 

They’re so warm. 

They’re so, so, so, so, so, so warm. 

It starts as a feeling of euphoric warmth that spreads out from their stomach all the way through their entire very being. It’s all so warm. It’s so warm. It bounces over their numb skin like dozens upon dozens of heated needles prickling through their tissue. A heavy, padded blanket of heat pressing over them that compresses them into the couch. As divine as the world could ever be, and ever will be. 

In a living room, but they don’t remember coming here. They can’t care. It’s all so warm. The sofa’s old cushions hug around them, just a tiny body that pushes the fabric down a tiny amount. Kris giggles for the first time in centuries, shifting around on the couch, that heavy pressure stopping them from pushing themselves an inch off the surface.  

The enby giggles, and giggles. All the dark clouds felt millions of miles away, all those creeping creatures burnt away in the sun’s overpowering glow. What were they even worried about? What even is there to worry about? What even is there to think about, to be, to ponder? Everything is just as it is and as it needs to be. 

Oh, to be nothing at all, and nothing but warm. That’s all they need. That’s all they are. Warm. Warm. Warm.  The world is nothing more than blurred scrambled shapes and colors. There’s a big, big shape coming at them from across the room, plopping down over them with a warm, overpowering presence. 

“‘Oly shit, Red. . .” Yellow gasps out with eyes the size of pennies, his five-o-clock shadow covered in the drool that’s leaking over his dried lips. Their face is wet too, but it’s just as warm over them as the rest of their senses are. Shaking hands are clutching at the sides of their head, squeezing it like he’d pop it if he could. Squeezing enough to earn a wanton moan from their shameless lips. “Sho’ fuckin’ cute like this. Sho’ cute. . .” He shudders with an aggressive *want*, hands shifting from their skull to their cheeks. Squeezing both softly, rubbing them side to side and snickering happily. It’s too silly to not earn a laugh from them, his thumbs popping into their mouth to stretch their brainless smile wider. 

“Red~. Red~. Ohhh god, Red.” He repeats it over and over, the enby feeling their body rut into his compulsively. They want stimuli, they crave it, they need to chase more of that glorious bliss. He’s already hard, they can feel it pressing into their stomach.  He’s already naked, but so are they. They don’t care about it. They don’t know when it happened. This is all they need. This is everything they've ever wanted. 

Euphoria in ideation. Finally healing from years of pain. Delight in its purest form. 

Everything is alright.

He’s leaning them against the sofa’s armrest, slanting their neck back, gripping at a fatty spot on their chest. Digging shaky fingers into the puffy nipple, rubbing at it, twisting at the perkiest part, earning a louder moan in response. Testing, clumsy motions. No better than a teen’s messy first time explorations. Too fucked up to be any degree of deft. Every bit of contact is numbed behind a layer of muffledness, it’s warm, and warm, and overstimulating, and numb all at once. 

Salty moistness leaks over their lips as he struggles to sit up, arching his narrow waist out, pressing the tip of his drooping cock against them. He doesn’t need to force it in, with a playful wink of their twitchy, unevenly lidded eyes they nip forward to take it in their mouth. They barely know or care who this is or why. Pleasure is all they seek. 

No hesitation, no feelings at all to it. It’s so, so, so hot inside. Spongy flesh that filled their small mouth, tongue flattened like their body is, sliding it under the cock side to side. Another leaky spurt of the pre oozing from the tip rewards their efforts. Moving is hard, but this is easy. Their body weighs a trillion pounds, they’re just an overstuffed doll that shifts in response to his motions. The warmth of his heat only intensifies their own, it’s hard to tell whose sweat is staining them, it all smelled of both bodies equally.  

“Jeeshus chrish’. . .” He’s gnawing into his own thumb to hide the panting, a trickle of blood leaking from the spot steadily. They’re panting from the continued pressure, only vibrating around the cock crammed in their mouth.

“Mmmemw. . .Memmmow. . .” Panting his name into him, into his flesh. They tenderly suckle at it, too drowsy to do more than this, lapping an ounce harder in response to his twitches. Bobbing their head by a small amount, the most they can manage.

Their eyes are too wide and too empty, zoning off in different directions to the other, slanting deeper onto his cock. They’re so, so warm. They’re so warm. So warm as it presses at the back of their throat.  There’s no pain or discomfort. There isn’t anything negative at all. Their brain can’t process the idea of it even if they tried. Everything that’s ever been is just here, in this room, with them. With him. Euphoria everlasting, glittering promises that gift them heaven. 

This is as close to heaven as they’ll ever see. 

Warmth. 

“Good girl. . .Good girl. . .Good, good. . .*Good Girl*.” He crows in a warped voice, the words escaping from her, feeling miles away. Only growing closer with those lovely sweetnesses. Luring them in, luring them close.

Yeah, that sounds right. That sound’s right. Right?

She’s a good girl.  

The cock in her maw is gone, wandering somewhere else instead. Somewhere lower. She accepts everything transpiring. Good girl. As he pushes in, his palm presses into the spot above her crotch, over where her womb would be. He presses down, and down, and down onto it, the heat growing into an outright inferno in that sensitive spot. . .

He presses it down harder. He presses it in harder. He weakly slaps at that delicate part until their hole squeezes around him in a delighted convulse. 

Her mouth still tastes like him. Like salt and skin and sweat and everything sweet.

He’s already very, very close. 

Yellow slides his palm up her body, rubbing at the spot between her breasts, *dragging* back down with nails in the thin, pale skin. The pain feels as divine as the pleasure, the pain doesn’t feel like anything but love. It’s all just warmth. She can spot a line of four red marks down her chest like the jagged lines of an animal’s scratch. He wrack’s over her breasts in line upon line upon line. His thrusts are unevenly paced and unevenly forceful. Bracing himself on the couch, he pumps fast and messy like rutting humps one second and slow and deliberate and loving the next. Hair sweaty and soaked to the touch, hanging over his eyes in long, greasy clumps. Chewing on bits of the strands as he arches to the ceiling, gripping two handfuls of their chest to leverage himself deeper. 

“A-Ah- Ah~. . .” She can’t tell if she’s came or not, she can’t tell if she even can. She doesn’t really care. She might have a dozen times already. She can’t care about anything. She can’t feel anything. She can’t do anything more that drool into the padded cushioning with empty eyes and an empty smile.  

His eyes go foggier for a second as he falls forward in dead weight, still inside her, still thrusting as he grips around her head with both arms. Looping knots into her hair, nuzzling a scratchy cheek against their own, planting kiss after kiss on the pre-soaked skin.

“Good like thish’, good, so, so fuckin’- fuck- fuck.” His mumbled words trail off into a slurried mess, incoherent, deranged with a heat that can’t be satiated. She’d lean into the touch if she could move at all. He’s steady and heavy over her body, enough weight to keep her still, warm body hair and skin over her, her moaning features obscured to the world by long locks of his dark brown hair. 

Warmth. Warmth. Warmth. 

A feeling like liquid fire fills her insides, spreading out from her crotch over her in a second wave of warmth. It stays constant and intense at the source, where her parts are. The something shoved deep inside her pulses like a heartbeat, giving one last *hard* clench, the human over her making a death-rattle as he finishes. . . 

He goes fully slack eight after that. Tongue lolling out of his mouth, still inside her, collapsed and limp.

“Ohhh, Red. . .” He whispers it so tenderly in their ear, eyes twitching and mostly-closed, giving a couple last thrusts to milk what pleasure is left to milk. Her meeting his thrusts to see if they can earn anything else more for them both. 

The warmth grows into an overpowering heat, too overwhelming to continue. Too much to stay up. Too much all at once, all inside her. Lovely, lovely ecstasy. Heaven’s touch inside of her, and inside of her SOUL. 

As her eyes roll back in her head, when she can feel herself nesting into the neck next to her face, something loving forms in her mind, but. . . 

It never seems to leave her lips before she’s overtaken by a deep sleep. The last thing she feels is that warmth growing into a blazing cacophony that risks burning her alive.

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Kris wakes up still on the couch, but they barely remember how they got there. Everything feels cold, and clammy, and ruptured. There’s a stinging pain in their stomach that they can’t entirely put to words. An agonizing, consistent want for something. Something that felt ready to burst them open if not satiated. 

It’s not that uncomfortable, but it’s clearly there. They’re splayed out, staring up at the ceiling. Missing their dress, still sticky and slick from the aftermath. It feels like they’re leaking all over the soiled couch’s cushioning. 

He’s still out, snoring in gutted pig sniffles. Occasionally, his body seizes up, clutching at the enby in his grasp like they’re an overgrown stuffed animal. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s having a bad dream. The skin contact feels revolting on their sweaty, soggy frame. So, so tired. Burnt-out entirely, emptied of all the feelings they once seeked. 

Their skin feels itchy. They’re very, very very cold. Why are they so. . .? 

They remember the pill bottle only now. Their skin feels itchy. 

Soon, they’re trembling as much as he is. 

They’re very, very cold. 

Their skin feels itchy. 

. . .I'm not coming back from this. Am I. . .? 

Somehow, a big part of them can’t even care at that thought. 

Their skin feels itchy. 

What’s the point in worrying? It’s not like everything isn’t already hopeless. It’s not like they aren’t already doomed. It’s not like. . . 

They’re very, very cold. Their skin feels itchy. They’re going to ask him for more when he wakes up from his drugged-haze. 

It’s all they can afford to do anymore. 

It’s all they want anymore.

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Chapter Text

O N E  M O N T H  L A T E R,  S O M E W H E R E  E L S E. . .

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Chapter Text