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TEST DRIVE MEME 002
⚰︎ ⍢ ⌲ ⍚ TEST DRIVE MEME:
Welcome to RUBILYKSKOYE — a dark, horror-smut game where player choices will drive a mod-run storyline about the world and its NPCs. This test drive meme provides a medley of prompts evoking the game's general tone.
THESE THREADS CAN BE GAME CANON if both players are accepted into the game and agree to it. However, if players who'd prefer to start fresh are welcome to reuse these prompts in their own personal logs upon acceptance into the communities. Note: the universal test drive arrival prompt will not be repeated on the coming event log, but players are welcome to reuse the prompt.
CONTENT WARNINGS for this game include: monsters, body horror, dub-con, non-con, religion, blood/violence, and marking/branding, loss of autonomy/self, and mental influences. This log additionally has warnings for: nudity, spiders, character death, and references to children in proximity to sexual situations.
If you have QUESTIONS about the test drive prompts, please ask HERE. Questions about the game itself or the general setting should be directed to the FAQ.
FAQ ✧ SETTING ✧ CALENDAR ✧ RESERVES ✧ APPLICATIONS
THESE THREADS CAN BE GAME CANON if both players are accepted into the game and agree to it. However, if players who'd prefer to start fresh are welcome to reuse these prompts in their own personal logs upon acceptance into the communities. Note: the universal test drive arrival prompt will not be repeated on the coming event log, but players are welcome to reuse the prompt.
CONTENT WARNINGS for this game include: monsters, body horror, dub-con, non-con, religion, blood/violence, and marking/branding, loss of autonomy/self, and mental influences. This log additionally has warnings for: nudity, spiders, character death, and references to children in proximity to sexual situations.
If you have QUESTIONS about the test drive prompts, please ask HERE. Questions about the game itself or the general setting should be directed to the FAQ.
IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE
The chirping of partridges in the treetops rouses you. Light barely filters through the canopy, just enough to suggest daylight. By the time it reaches the forest floor, the light has taken on a sickly green. You lie amongst the frost-covered mosses and ferns, the frozen soil cold and just a little damp on your bare skin. Wherever you were before this moment, whatever you were doing or wearing, when you awaken in this forest, you find yourself naked and helpless as the day you were born. As you sit up and get your bearings, aside from a brief wave of disoriented nausea, you seem to be no worse for wear than you last remember.
You seem to be alone. The gnarled oaks and moss suggest no sign of civilization or sentient life. Just flickers of movement from curious squirrels or brave lizards emerging from a temporary retreat from the wintry weather. With your feet under you, and you'll find the wood is filled with berry bushes and nut trees, though much of the fruit has been picked clean. The freshwater stream that runs north-south, populated by both poisonous toads and delicious crawdads, is running actively again as the weather warms back up from the recent snowstorm.
As you explore, you may run into others with stories just like yours. Some may have already formed clumsy nudist groups, others may still be processing their confusion, with no memory of how they got here. Now is a good time to overcome any hang-ups you have about modesty; it's going to be a long hike, and the weather isn't quite amenable to your lack of.
Turn your back to the darker, shadowy parts of the forest and eventually the glow of manmade lights and the curve of a dirt road may come into view. At the edge of the wood, you'll find a town surrounded by a fifty-foot wall of beige stone. The only entrance is an iron gate positioned on the southern edge. When you arrive, the gate is already open, welcoming people inside.
This quaint, historic town of five-thousand has cobbled street and signs lit by gas lamp. Wooden shutters protect otherwise open-air windows on the buildings, which are all under three stories with gabled roofs. A number of businesses hug the main street — a clockmaker, a cobbler, a grocer — while residential homes sprawl outwards towards the wall. At the far end of the main street, visible about a mile to the north now that the trees and the enormous wall is out of the way, sits a castle with three towers.
When you enter, the streets are full of people, but despite any efforts on your part to hide or make excuses, they don't seem offended by your nakedness. Even families with children don't gawk or look twice. Those determined to find proper clothing regardless will find that modern clothing stores aren't available — the closest this town has is a tailor's shop and a stand in the central marketplace selling scarves and blankets.
breaking and entering
If you intend to have your character break into someone's house or yard to steal some of their clean laundry, please review the info about game laws on the FAQ and give the mods a heads up HERE.
Fortunately, the people of the town are very generous! Anyone who ask the locals will be directed to the boarding house for both clothes and a place to stay. Accessible through an embellished iron garden gate and obscured by hanging plants, trees, and vines, beyond an overgrown yard in the residential sprawl of the town is a bright-red door, which opens to a spacious cottage of several stories. Parts of the house still bear the dust of disuse, gathered on various furnishings — bedding, sofas, curtains, wooden tables. However, it's already full of people! Anyone who's already appeared in the village just as you did today lives here. Once inside, you may notice patchwork repairs have been made, and some scorch marks still linger from a recent fire, and some furniture is still lying around in splinters.
Tonight, a few of the townspeople will help out with the new arrivals. They stock the kitchen and prepare a communal dinner of parsnips, pheasant, and squash. During dinner, they (and those outsiders who've already begun to settle) sit down at the enormous wooden dining room table and help orient the newcomers and answer their questions.
finding roommates
Don't spend too much time in the dining room going for seconds, though. You'll want to claim a bedroom quickly because each one only has two full-size beds, and there aren't enough spaces for everyone. The last people upstairs will need to double up to squeeze in. Roommates will not be mod-assigned; players should coordinate directly with one another to determine their living arrangements.
Get a good night's rest. By the light of day, locals will help get the new arrivals set up on the coal stove with breakfast. You may notice they're dressed in a way you would almost call normal — at least, in a manner befitting 19th century Eastern Europe. As you find your way around town to get your bearings, folks are eager to help you find a place to apply your skills so you can contribute to your new home.
writer's block?
If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try: naked hiking, acquiring clothing or other inventory items, asking questions at dinner/orientation, or staking your claim on a bedroom!
OFFERINGS FOR ULANTI
The festival starts in the middle of the night, when the sun and the children are safely tucked into bed. The streets come alive with dancing locals, their faces painted red and purple and black and yellow. They all wear revealing clothing that, to your sensibilities, may seem sexually suggestive. Some individuals openly expose their breasts and nipples, while some others may incidentally reveal when they turn around to tend to their errands that their dress is backless — entirely! market stands and kind neighbors will gladly provide clothing befitting the occasion to anyone who asks.Notably, the locals' choice of clothes reveal a mark on their bodies. An astute person will notice that there are four varieties — and a very astute (
In addition to dancing and the lighting of any number of candles, you may stumble upon fighting rings inspired by Terry Silver's basement club, where the locals brawl until they're bloody and unable to move. Elsewhere, amongst the performance of a number of erotic dancers, you might come upon a face you recognize — naked and collared and caged, tongue pressed to the bars to taste anyone who'll stop and give them a little attention.
Temporary night market food stands offer various forms of alcoholic beverages and sweet and savory street food in suggestive shapes — sausages, popsicles, flowering cupcakes. many of them represent hedonistic indulgences and displays of wealth that the town usually does not seem to possess. This bounty, they attribute to the Duchess' patronage — and much of it is dosed with herbs and additives that enhance the sexual appetites and aggression in any who consume them.
Another kind of temporary stand has been erected — while new arrivals may at first mistake these for some kind of bathroom, it becomes apparent upon entry that they are partitioned stalls with gloryholes drilled between them. Some stalls are closed with an anonymous stranger waiting inside for someone to push a part of themselves through the hole to be lavished with mystery touches; others are fully unoccupied, should your character wish to lock themselves in and wait on the small wooden stool for a partner to offer themselves.
Anyone native to Rubilykskoye will take the time to answer questions about the festival of Ulanti, which functions as a way to purge their bad energy ("zadza") and sate their inner beasts ("duchozweirz"). They encourage characters to join the festivities — which range from staged sexual performances to sadism and masochism designed to feed the desire for violence. all appetites are welcome here, and there are only two rules: (1) stay away from the unmarked, which refers to the locals' prepubescent children; (2) hold nothing back.
writer's block?
If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try entering the fighting rings, watching or joining a live sex performance, or eating some aphro food (deliberately or otherwise)!
the fathomless dark of pajak wood
At the outer edges of the forest, shadows grow long and the air grows thick. Though the sun never grows warm red-gold with sunset, the wood darkens. Birdsong is replaced by the click of mandibles and the skitter of many legs. Anyone who ventures out this way will soon find it difficult to see before them, even in the middle of the day — eventually, even the brightest magical light source or darkvision cannot stretch further than a few inches. In the void, the air feels heavy, as if it were not air at all but some more solid mass. Almost like liquid-smoke, it presses down upon you. Slowing your movements. Characters who push too far into the void may stop being able to move at all, and find themselves given over to insanity if they collapse, unable to draw themselves out. This is just one of many dangers.
Monsters thrive this far out. Huge, blood-red spiders the size of hunting dogs drop from the treetops. In addition to their venomous bite, which contains a fast-acting paralytic, these creatures are clever: they attempt to use their webbing to entangle any trespassers, binding limbs together or to trees. If you're unfortunate to become fully cocooned, you don't have long before this forest will be the last thing you see.
In addition to the spiders, you may come across the sharp-toothed furred yetis that emerged during the snowstorm, still looking for a meal. Each one hunts alone, a fifteen-foot-tall shambling creature that drips black ooze and super-chills the air around it until your skin feels tight and icy. If it gets the drop on you, you're likely to be its dinner. It has emerged from a long summer hibernation to enjoy the colder weather, and it's starving.
Those who seem lucky enough not to run afoul of the monsters here are in for a worse fate. The void can play tricks on your senses. As madness sets in and you lose all sense of direction, you may also lose control of your body — what is that steers your hands to turn against your friends? Why does it sound like your own voice whispering?
In the fog, you may also hear the voices of those familiar to you — people you know from the town, or people whom you know with almost perfect certainty aren't here. these figments may recreate unhappy memories or force trespassers to hallucinate their worst nightmares. Nothing is as it seems in the void, and when you swing at these figments, desperate to silence them, it might not be a figment at all, but a friend in the flesh trying to help you. By the time you see their true face, it could be too late to stop yourself.
writer's block?
If you're struggling to pick a way to engage the prompts, try fighting a monster, hallucinating your worst nightmares, and/or attacking a friend or stranger!
HIDING INSIDE EACH OF US
Uh oh spaghetti-os.
The marks worn by all residents of Rubilykskoye aren't just cool body art, as it turns out. The town is full of rumors, whispered in shadows and over candles of a starving creature hiding in the dark corners of your chest. Feed your inner beast, they say, before it finds a way to feed itself.
Alas, its emergence is inevitable — sooner or later, the horrible things that happen here pile up and make someone repulsed by the idea of human contact. Someone holds themselves back, bites their tongue, or simply does not believe the stories. Today, for one reason or another, that creature is coming out. Someone hasn't been keeping it sated.
Symptoms escalate over weeks, from monstrous irritability to full-blown body horror transformation, where people physically shed their human forms and evolve into the monsters this place made them. Once a person becomes something more (or less) than human there's only one way to go back — sate the beast.
The baker, Nile Yoren, is a likable, middle-aged woman who can fill any request — wheat, rye, even nut breads. She boasts that her sourdough starter belonged to her grandmother. Today, when you enter her shop — to help out or to get a muffin or a bag of rolls — something is off. Her smiling face isn't behind the counter.
Around the back wall, you hear the crackling of the oven. But when you call, she doesn't come out. You have to go back and look for her. What you find is not just the oven crackling, but nile herself — twisted into an incandescent monster of human flame, the flickers of dark orange light like a face howling in agony amidst the yellows and reds and whites. Before you can scramble away, the creature lunges at you. Defend yourself or flee, or her inner beast will be feeding itself on you.
(There are other monsters lurking in every townsperson — feel free to invent your own npc monsters and scenarios!)
The marks worn by all residents of Rubilykskoye aren't just cool body art, as it turns out. The town is full of rumors, whispered in shadows and over candles of a starving creature hiding in the dark corners of your chest. Feed your inner beast, they say, before it finds a way to feed itself.
Alas, its emergence is inevitable — sooner or later, the horrible things that happen here pile up and make someone repulsed by the idea of human contact. Someone holds themselves back, bites their tongue, or simply does not believe the stories. Today, for one reason or another, that creature is coming out. Someone hasn't been keeping it sated.
Symptoms escalate over weeks, from monstrous irritability to full-blown body horror transformation, where people physically shed their human forms and evolve into the monsters this place made them. Once a person becomes something more (or less) than human there's only one way to go back — sate the beast.
someone else transforms
The baker, Nile Yoren, is a likable, middle-aged woman who can fill any request — wheat, rye, even nut breads. She boasts that her sourdough starter belonged to her grandmother. Today, when you enter her shop — to help out or to get a muffin or a bag of rolls — something is off. Her smiling face isn't behind the counter. Around the back wall, you hear the crackling of the oven. But when you call, she doesn't come out. You have to go back and look for her. What you find is not just the oven crackling, but nile herself — twisted into an incandescent monster of human flame, the flickers of dark orange light like a face howling in agony amidst the yellows and reds and whites. Before you can scramble away, the creature lunges at you. Defend yourself or flee, or her inner beast will be feeding itself on you.
(There are other monsters lurking in every townsperson — feel free to invent your own npc monsters and scenarios!)
you waited too long
At first, as you hide yourself from your darker impulses, a subtle itch develops under your skin. An irritability that makes you snap at the person who bumps into you on the stairs because all those fleeting emotions that you've been repressing bubble to the surface. Every dark thought you've had about being here, all the fears of never getting home, of being surrounded by ticking time bombs, the anxiety of wondering who you might hurt or what relationships you might betray by doing what you have to do. The anger. Oh, the anger.
Maybe you shut yourself in your room or run into the woods to hide away, but there's only so much you can do to deny the itch that grows into hunger like a spark catching and growing to wildfire. Someone comes to check on you. That knock on the door or crunch of leaves in the wood that fills you with dread at what you might do and hope that you will be sated.
As claws and fangs and scales and spines and fur grow and your body transforms with a sickening crunch of bones and peeling of skin, so do your appetites. If you won't sate them, you'll lose yourself to your beastly impulses sooner or later, mauling friends and taking your fill. Is it better or worse if only your claws get inside of them?
Maybe you shut yourself in your room or run into the woods to hide away, but there's only so much you can do to deny the itch that grows into hunger like a spark catching and growing to wildfire. Someone comes to check on you. That knock on the door or crunch of leaves in the wood that fills you with dread at what you might do and hope that you will be sated.
As claws and fangs and scales and spines and fur grow and your body transforms with a sickening crunch of bones and peeling of skin, so do your appetites. If you won't sate them, you'll lose yourself to your beastly impulses sooner or later, mauling friends and taking your fill. Is it better or worse if only your claws get inside of them?
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His teeth dig in again, to break skin, maul him bloody, then pause and lift away, harmlessly.
"You first, John." But he says John the same pornographic, arousal-static way he'd say slut, the same way he'd say you fucking whore. With a sideways slant of his chin, he offers John his throat for the guillotine, soft and fluttery, corded muscle squeezing in on a hummingbird pulse. "Put your fuckin' teeth in me."
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He pulls Danny closer by the nape, arches his own neck forward, mouth to the throat like some kind of vampiric horror. But then, working on evil instinct, he presses a soft kiss to the pulse, another one right after, poisonous affection up the line of his neck to his jaw, where he sucks a little mark.
"You wanna hurt?" he offers, right by his ear, a touch amused. "You're such a nasty boy. Careful who you offer your throat to in this place, someone might just tear it out."
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"Fuck you." Venom spackles his throat, ugly fangs falling short of their mark as his chest trembles, strangling his voice between his teeth like John's strangling his cock. "Fuck you." He drives into him with a punishing sharp rut of his hips, one slick slide out and right back in, ragdolling John's body up the brick. Try again. Say please. Kneel, you irreverent bitch. "Fuck you, put your teeth in me, please."
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Only because he doesn't need to. He doesn't even need another point of contact — Danny's meat is joined to his at the hips, and from there John extends his divine will, curls mental fingers around his lungs and heart and throat, the sweet wet throb of his body going through its mortal motions.
There's a sudden spray of blood, and Danny will feel the dizziness of his blood gushing all over the two of them instead of going on to the brain where it's needed. It's a precise, gory wound, and John plays his nervous system like a keyboard, sending bright pain all the way down his spine to his balls.
It's healed before he can scream, every last drop of blood just a pink mist returning home, the skin sealed, the artery repaired, not even a scar to show for the minor surgery. He's showing off. John's eyes are hooded, cheeks a little flushed, licking his lower lip to catch a speck he missed — deliberately, wanting to taste him, that vital thalergic essence. He's throbbing in Danny's hand, agonisingly close and still trying to play it cool.
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His boots scrape gravel, fighting for traction as his knees bend, threatening to buckle. Even after the confetti explosion of blood disappears, the aftershock ricochets into every synapse in his brain, tiny electrical impulses that zap a live wire path down to his balls, rippling the muscles in his thighs and abdomen. There's nothing else to show for it, he realizes then, delirious and mournful. He giveth; he taketh away.
Danny chases John's tongue and the last traces of his blood into his mouth, a watery moan vibrating his teeth. His heels dig in, rocking his weight back into John and gripping an ass cheek in one clenched hand, to spread him wide for the wild, deep buck of his cock into his hot little hole, his tight convulsing cunt, this nasty fucking slut and his eyes like black oblivion. How could he not cum, hilted flush in his insides? Danny wrings John's dick through filling him, fist over cockhead, hitching hips like he wants to breed him with it, slack-jawed and open-mouthed panting against his temple. Come on, come on, sweetheart, cum for him.
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He meets Danny's gaze again, reaches between them, fists Danny's cock like he's entitled to it, just a few strokes to enjoy the shape and heat of him, the cruel kick of overstimulation — and maybe to keep him occupied for a second. It's still appealingly fat, and John is still full of bad decisions, digging a thumbnail into the frenulum as he considers if he wants to go down on his knees and clean it up. But no, that seems like it would just be rewarding bad behaviour, and after one last squeeze he lets go and looks around for where the fuck he left the bedsheet-like cloth that passes for his clothes.
"Gonna tell me your name now?" he asks, like it's an inconvenience rather than the first step in an unwinding plan to add this guy to his growing little collection of shithead humans.
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He could go again, but he usually can. What's itching in his blood now is a sharper, toothier need. He follows John's roaming gaze, spots his toga first in a crumpled pile near the wall and hooks it with his toe.
"Maybe," he replies flatly. He folds John's clothes into halves, corner to corner, then into quarters. Holds it out to him, just out of reach. "You gonna ask me nicely for it?"
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"No," he admits, and his smile is friendly but his eyes are empty, nothing behind them. "Just thought you might like me to know it." Might want to stand out from all the other nameless folks he's messed around with tonight.
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"I'm not sure I want you to know anything about me, actually." Only to be contrary, only because he gave his name to something like John once before and sold his soul for it. There's nothing in him left to give, no piece of this pretty little disobedient body that hasn't been pulped dry. He retreats, one backstep, two, toward the mouth of the alley. "Thanks for the fuck, though. You really do have a sweet little cunt."
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See you 'round, kitten.
After that... well, he would be happy to forget about whatever the fuck that was between them. What happens at the festival stays at the festival, etc. John participates as part of his attempt to maintain good relations with the town, but the next day goes back to his regular routine — he shares a room and a bed with Dr House but seems to have a handful of other intimate friends. Does a bunch of odd jobs around the town, peeling potatoes, running messages, friendly with most of the local population. Spends half a day giving some other new arrival an orientation tour. Just a nice wholesome guy who loves to help out, right?
Right.
He's really good, too, has a lot more experience in this act than Danny does. And people are helpful in return, willing to pass on whatever they know about the new guy with the tattoos and the pretty face, so if Danny's stalking him he'll find out quickly that John's getting pretty fucking nosy in return.
Catch him chilling in Danny's room, dressed in a very normal pants and a rust-coloured henley-like shirt, tossing a bone knife into the air by the blade and catching it, humming an old eighties Smiths song to himself.
no subject
Danny, in return, tracks what little information he can glean from John's habits from a safe, convenient distance of plausible deniability, which is maybe why he doesn't realize he's been sleuthed out and sniffed down until he finds him in his room.
There's only a small dent in his step as he hooks the door on his ankle and closes it behind him, three-quarters of a bread roll stuffed between his teeth. His eyes skitter from his face to his knife. Wherever John is seated, Danny drags a chair opposite him, flips it around and throws his leg over like he'd mount a horse or person, straddling the back of it. All black, head to toe, squeezed into a different set of tight trousers and his boots laced the way his old man taught him. Beneath his bed: a half-woven basket made of inner tree bark, threaded together the way his mama taught him. The wood was carved into thin, flexible strips for him, by a hunter who he hadn't been able to talk into parting with his knife.
A folded slip of dirty fabric sits on top, cushioning a silver ring he'd taken off a different man whose throat he'd fucked and belly he'd fed after leaving John in the alley. A little crow's nest.
He finishes his roll, licks his fingers clean and dusts the crumbs from his spread-wide thighs, then extends his hand toward John, palm up.
"Can I see?"
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"What will you give me for it?" he asks, since the hunter had made it clear Danny wanted one, so he's come here expecting this. "Your name, obviously, and my clothes back... maybe throw in a blowjob to sweeten the deal."
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"I'd suck your dick for a decent pair of jeans, let alone a fucking knife," he says, because it's true. He misses his black denim, his durable leathers from the fog. The mask, a little. He misses his name not mattering to anyone. He rocks forward onto the chair's rickety back legs; his heels scuff the floor as he slides his boots neatly, toe-to-toe, toward John's feet. Cutting distance. Prodding boundaries.
With an upward jerk of his chin, dark brows bouncing once: "Your shit's under the bed. Be my guest."
no subject
[ John slides off the bed and onto his knees with casual ease, reaching under until his fingers snag on bark, and he pulls out the basket, still talking: ]
But I'm seeing the girl who works at the tailors, so maybe I can hook you up.
[ Which explains why his own clothes are nice, fashionable and tailored and not overly slutty unlike a lot of what new arrivals get given. Lottie does a very good job of dressing him pretty.
The woven basket is interesting, and so is the ring that falls back when he lifts the toga; the one that guy said Danny stole. Interesting. John examines it a moment, considering what it means, why he'd take it, before he just takes his cloth and will probably push the rest back under the bed, assuming Danny hasn't interrupted him by now. ]
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his pinky hooks in the collar of his shirt, pulling it back for a peek inside at the lovely, strong planes of his back. his unmarked skin, as if danny hadn't mercilessly railed him into a brick wall not so long ago.
huh. )
Why would you do that? ( oh, he knows why, or at least the why he's angling for people to think. he's seen john schmoozing plenty around the city. that's a nice young man. he lifts his pinky, allowing john's collar to drop. )
no subject
You're new, I know. But people share stuff here. Help each other out.
[ He's watching the point of his own knife, tasting the power in the threat of it. Not that he needed a blade to slit Danny's throat in the alley. ]
Plus you're cute. When you're not mouthing off.
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unhurriedly, ) This doesn't really feel like you helping, no offense.
( this feels like taking. )
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I mean, no worries, if you're not into it, you're not into it.
[ The blade, the head games, the threat, the help. He has the air of a man who's been deeply disappointed but is trying to be cavalier about it. ]
no subject
I didn't say I wasn't into it.
( his fingertips graze john's as he takes the knife and flips it from hilt to blade, the unfamiliar weight tested in a single roll through his palm. airy, lighter than stainless steel, but the edges honed to cutting, razor mean. bone? )
But I already know what'll happen if you stick that shit into me. ( glorious pain. glorious death, repeat ad infinitum. he taps the bevel flush to john's collar and flicks the tip beneath the fabric, shimmying over his throat to kiss his pulse. ) What happens if I stick it into you?
no subject
Right there? Carotid artery? Big blood spray. I'd probably scream, unless you cut my vocal chords. Go into shock.
[ There's a bored lilt to his voice. ]
Also, you'd lose the knife and the offer for round two with my cunt. Choices, hey?
no subject
his hand stays stock-still near john's throat until he drops it, hooks the knife into his beltloop. )
It's Danny.
no subject
[ He's aware the kid might still stab him, but doesn't let that hold him back from clapping him on the shoulder in easy mateship, squeezing there. (A little burst of dopamine in the kidneys at his touch, flushing slow through Danny's system in positive reinforcement.) ]
I'd be careful who else you point that at. Everyone here's a shit day from turning into something that will rip your throat out, and nobody stays dead.
cw: pretty blasé inner dialogue refs to suicide/self-harm
Yeah, totally, ( he agrees, easy and doe-eyed innocent, like that isn't an enthusiastic incentive to test the truth of that statement later, maybe with john's knife in his own carotid artery. does john know how many throat slits it takes to get to the center of a steady hand and a brain that won't abort the action mid-slice? around one hundred, about ninety-nine more than it takes to do it to someone else. danny thinks he might know. danny thinks he's hiding the whole universe in his fucking eyes. ) Because what kind of fucked up place doesn't let their dead stay dead?
( that's, like, soooo wild.
miraculously, any lingering disappointment still kicking as a result of john not tightening that knife up against his balls and showing him what's what is pulped away under his squeezing hand. he's got nice hands. nicer face, in the midday light. nicer dick, possibly. danny flits a pointed look from his mouth to his crotch. )
You still want a blowie?
no subject
[ His other hand lifting to brush a thumb like a kiss across Danny's lower lip, smiling again. ]
Though I'm not picky.
[ He is, as established, a slut — and he doesn't really have any hard limits. Part of what's drawn him back to Danny is how easily he'd accepted being torn open during sex, like he'd be down if John wanted to cut a hole in him and fuck it. That he's a cocky prick doesn't mitigate the obscene appeal of someone so young and so comfortable with violence. John wants to take him home and give him godlike powers and a world to rule. It's that kind of perversion.
But of course, they're still circling each other, figuring out how to bare their throats safely. He gets that, just as he understands that the cruellest thing he can do is touch Danny's face so softly like this, run hands down his neck to his torso to his hips with a touch like he's beautiful and precious. Courting danger. ]
Didn't get to see much of you last time.
[ An instructive tug at the waistband, implicit command behind the suggestion: strip. ]
no subject
there are other cunts, there are other knives, there are other — gods, there are so many fucking gods, and danny only has so many knees. )
Does this mean I get a second round with your cunt after all?
( talking to talk, because he's going to bite him or fuck him or slice him open belly to balls and gild him in blood if he doesn't cool the boiling in his guts to a low simmer. he strips — boots first, deftly unlaced — and leaves his clothes in an orderly pile on the bed, also methodically made, in tight hospital corners and creaseless edges. his daddy taught him that, too. rack straight, spine like an arrow as he stands in front of john and waits for yet another appraisal, but for all the obscenities this body has endured and inflicted in return he is shockingly clear-skinned. danny can count his scars ( these scars ) on one hand.
prodding again: ) Now you, John.
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cw: self-harm
cw: guro (potentially ongoing)
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cw: internalized homophobia
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cw: (unsuccessful) suicide/self-harm attempt
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