Chapter 1: teeth
Chapter Text
as with everything, there is a stillness.
a moment where the sky is inked black, no stars, no moon serving as a bright light. a moment where everything stops; birds quiet and deer freeze.
then it is gone.
a pair of hands roughly prying lips apart, cold metal invading the mouth and banging against a tooth. a wince, a plier latching hard against a tooth. it is so intense the tooth cracks, caves in, just a little. for just a moment.
it's not a stillness this time, but more an anticipation. a thick, horrific anticipation. the stomach curdles, heart squeezing. a slight wiggle of the pliers. a countdown.
then,
the pain.
the harsh pull, a hand pressed on the lower teeth to ease accsess. a sickening cracking is heard inside the head. a screech, horrified but weak and frail, escapes the throat as the pulling- yanking- continues for seconds more until the root is ripped out and the cold metal leaves.
blood, dammed by the tooth, invades the mouth, harsh metal. it drips down the chin as the tooth is in the line of sight, bloodied and pearly. a sick laugh. a harsh squeezing of the stomach as bile (no food for a few days) shoots up and flies out of the mouth into the lap. blood joins, dripping with sticky saliva. there is no attempt at dignity here.
blood, saliva, and tears drip down onto the lap. eyes close. not death, unfortunately. a deep breath.
then your lips are pried and metal invades your mouth again.
Chapter 2: hands
Summary:
tw for noncon but i guess you saw it coming haha
Notes:
dedicated to mcfaggot himself, norman
love u bitch
Chapter Text
it breathes. “no.”
it is soft, small, but the message is clear. but at the same time, it comes out of the mouth and it feels wrong, curdling like sour milk. in truth, it means nothing, not anymore. it was said loudly, earlier, but it has gotten softer and softer, absolving it of all meaning. it is not unheard, but ignored.
the taste of fingertips fills its mouth, sour and wretched. in theory, it could bite down. there is no need to submit; they are not bound to anything. it could use its limbs and yank and pull and be free.
none of that happens. rather, it lets it happen, the fingers going to the back of its throat as a sick little game, laughing at the gag and sputter, sticky saliva brimming up.
there is also nothing stopping it from resisting now, as its clothes are tugged off and the sheer coolness of the air causing goosebumps to rise on its skin. it is aware of this, and feels the rush of guilt up their throat so severe it fears it all may rush out the mouth, but it does not. rather, tears blur its vision, feeling a sob at the back of its throat. that is what it resists, choking it back, struggling to stay present and not get wrapped up in the misery of it all. the endless submission, the lack of resistance, the way it just lets things happen.
surprisingly warm hands touch it. it breathes again, but no words come out.
Chapter 3: wolves
Summary:
its 2 a.m. so thats why. not just for one thing but all of this
Notes:
ok so i was goin thru bestgore like i do and there was this video of a guy who slit his wrists and bled EVERYWHERE and he was pacing around and saying stuff like "look at this!" and "isn't that fucking funny?" or smth to that effect so inspiration struck after YEARS,
so :3c
Chapter Text
the wolves are hungry, eternally. they wait forever, in their packs, waiting and waiting with their sharp teeth, and all they can do is wait for a while until the time comes.
he lays on the floor, writing around like an injured bug because honestly, that's what he is. his blood is all over the floor- some splattered on the walls, too, for good measure.
he's grabbed by the hair, and is slammed a few times into the laminate floor. no big deal. it doesn't matter.
"isn't this fucking funny?"
he'd laugh, but all that would come up is blood, and he just doesn't have the energy. so he just rests his cheek onto the bloodied floor, and waits and waits and waits.
as he waits, he runs his hand, slowly now, over the floor and aknowledges that this is his blood and he is dying and he is himself, despite how he wishes he wasn't. he wishes he was in another place, maybe in the woods, because the wolves would hunt him and eat him slowly, so he feels their sharp teeth.
but that'd be a different kind of pain than this, because this is sadness and humilation and desperation and rage, and wolves sting and burn and bite.
but as he feels a heel press against his spine, cracking the bones, he is relieved.
in the woods, the wolves howl, doomed to wait with their sharp teeth forever.