The sound of painted wooden clubs scraping along the ground is the loudest thing in your universe, outside of the sound of the blood from your own pulse rushing in your ears, and every miniscule breath you dare to take. In an involuntary twitch, your jeans make an unholy amount of noise, the half-dried blood rubbing against itself from where you slipped and discovered the bodies earlier.
You don't know how Gamzee hasn't managed to hear your rasping, shallow, sobbing breaths by now. He calls out into the hallway, searching for you, calling your name and various nicknames he's come up with for you. He's saved you for last. Your attempts to render yourself invisible in this corner, under this table, are pitiful. You're curled up as far as possible, grabbing your own knees, trying to cease your terrified shaking.
The sound of yourself swallowing hard is the loudest thing you've ever heard. You bite down the urge to retch.
You're not sure if Gamzee heard it or not, but he enters the room. Blood drips off the club as he holds it up to brace himself against the doorframe. He calls for you gently, his eyes crazed, runs them over the spartan room, and spots you.
He squats low in front of the table you're huddling under, cooing at you, using phrases that would've been comforting in any other circumstances. "Hey, Karbro, what'cha doing motherfuckin' hiding all in the corner like that?"
He reaches out for your hand, and you cling to your own knees with bruising force, letting out an involuntary whimper of distress.
"You don't gotta be motherfuckin' scared of me, brother, c'mon, I'm all motherfuckin' tired out and wanna get some Karbro cuddles on." His tone is a bitter mockery of the clown's normally carefree tones. You flinch without meaning to and it draws a mad smile from him.
He picks the table right off the goddamn ground and set it off to the side with a strength you hadn't known he possessed and advances towards you. You throw yourself uselessly against the wall with a force that makes the edges of your vision go dark for a moment and your throat release an agonized screech, before you squeeze your eyes shut and tangle your hands in your hair.
"I made me some bitchtits motherfuckin' murals we should go see once you're all up and done cryin'." he says, almost gently, and you feel cold fingers tracing down the length of your hand, which remains, clutching at your hair.
He moves his hand down to your face, smearing the tears dripping down your face from your gross terrified sobbing, and gently, gently, he coaxes your face up to look up at him, your throat closing and causing your diaphragm to spasm with repressed sobs and tiny gasps.
"Don't motherfuckin' worry, little buddy." he says when you look up at him, "I'm not up and gonna motherfuckin' paint anything with you."
His fingers shift and before your terrified think-pan can react, he's got his hand around your throat, with bruising force, and your throat decides to try to work, leaving you gasping and silently sobbing, your eyes stringing afresh with tears, both shed and unshed, "It's gonna be bitchtits from now on with just you and motherfuckin' me, Karbro."
His voice carries on, but you can't tell what he's saying.
It's the last thing you hear before your vision darkens, and you try to push him away, but your limbs are all so heavy, the darkness ebbing away your resolve, and you're no match for his high-blood strength anyway, and the void of unconciousness claims you.
The next thing you're aware of is Gamzee's distinctly lanky form pressed up against you, enveloping most of your body, all pointy elbows and bony knees. It's clear from the soft
breath brushing past your neck that he's cuddled up against your back, spooning you. You try to raise your head, and it's harder than it should be.
A distinctive soreness around your neck brings everything rushing back at once.
Gamzee killed everyone.
Gamzee killed everyone and then came after you.
Screaming, your panic rising, you nearly throw yourself off Gamzee's sleeping form, trying to scramble away, but only succeeding in eating the dirt as you struggle to coordinate your uncooperative limbs.
The realization that your arms are tied behind your back, your legs at the ankles, sends you spiraling even further into hysteria, and you hear your own breaths coming out rasping and harsh, and no matter how heavily you breathe, your lungs aren't doing their job, you need air.
Gamzee smiles at you, almost affectionately, almost like he didn't murder all of your friends and then strangle you while you were too scared to move.
"What's motherfuckin' up, my brother?" You punctuate his statement with an involuntary whimper, "I was just tryin' to get some motherfuckin' Karbro cuddles on. Been up this whole time makin' all these motherfuckin' miracles." he gestures toward the walls boxing you in, and you follow his gaze to the grotesque murals he's smeared across the walls in everyone's blood, slightly blurred from your own red-tinged tears.
Bile rises in your throat, and you almost fail to bite down the urge to retch.
His normal, dopey, lazy smile returns as he makes his way towards you and tries to envelop you in his arms, and doesn't flag as you flinch away and squirm against the embrace.
He shooshes you, sobbing hysterically, paps your face, comforting you even though he's the cause of every scrap of distress you're feeling. When he goes to lift you up, you swallow hard, and freeze. Too terrified to stop him, you allow yourself to be carried back to the pile.
When you're set down, Gamzee wraps his long arms around you and hold you close to his chest, almost delicately, as if he's afraid he's going to break you, one hand running softly through your hair, and you can almost believe you're wrapped in the calming embrace of your moirail, except you're staring at the macabre paintings on the walls and the fact that your arms are still tied uncomfortably behind your back, and the fact that each time his hand makes its way down your spine,it's goes down just a little too low for comfort.
You spend four hours watching your friends' blood drip down the walls, too terrified to move, before Gamzee wakes up again.
When he comes to, you don't notice until he plants a soft kiss against the junction between your neck and shoulder, and you jump. He mistakes your yelp of surprise for a shiver of anticipation, and you manage you get out half of his name before he's pressing another, further up, and before you know it, he's kissed his way up your neck, chuckling at your strangled whimper when he runs his lips across the bruises left by his fingers.
"Don't be all motherfuckin' up and worrying, Karbro, it's gonna be all just you and me from now on. None of those other motherfuckers getting all in our motherfuckin' way."
You release a whine, half sob and half pitiful wail and try to stretch your neck to hide your face in the pile as he runs his hand up your side, from your hip, then underneath your shirt, the pads of his fingers brushing across your sensitive grub scars. He chuckles again, deep in his chest, and you can feel it resonate where he's pressed against you.
The sound breaks your fragile composure and you try to squirm away from him, pushing as far as you can away from him, which turns out not to be very far, considering your hands are tied behind your back and your ankles are together. Frantically, you try to scramble out of his grip.
You don't even make it two feet.
Your fruitless struggling set him off again.
"Oh no you don't, motherfucker."
He grabs you and forces, slams you back up against his body. Runs one hand up your thigh, the other up your shirt, dragging across the sensitive skin of your bare stomach and chest. He presses his pelvis against your ass, where you can feel his already-unsheathed bluge squirming against you.
There's absolutely nothing you can do.
"Gamzee, please! Stop!" You beg. You sob. Hot, reddish tears run down your face, squeezed out from between your mostly-closed eyelids. He slides his hand down your pants anyway, rubbing your sheath, coaxing your bulge out against without your consent.
Then your face is in the pile, your ass in the air. He roughly shoves two fingers into your nook, dry, and the pain of the intrusion makes your vision white out for a moment.
"P-please... Stop! Gamzee! Oh god..." You have no idea what you're saying. You just want the pain to stop. Your voice is a pathetic, crackling whine.
"Don't motherfucking tell me what to do," he growls, violently grinding his bulge against your ass. He practically rips your pants off, retracting his fingers from your nook so quickly that his claws scrape the inside. "You're motherfucking mine."
And then he's pushing into you without mercy. The material that his bulge is producing means it burns less than his fingers, but your nook is still in pain, stretched beyond its limits and still stinging from Gamzee's harsh movements.
There are no words coming out of your mouth anymore. It's all silent screams and whining sobs. Your wailing sounds like someone else, as he viciously moves inside of you, sinking his teeth into your shoulder so hard that you feel the skin break. He doesn't even pull out when he comes, forces you to come with his hand wrapped around your bulge.
Uses you as his bucket. Growls "Mine."
He finally pulls out after he's finished, and you slump onto the pile, and he circles you once, twice, three times, looking down his nose at your come-soaked body, the most malicious, possessive smirk across his face, accented by his fake smiling clown makeup. He reaches down- you flinch- and dips his fingers in his purple genetic material.
Uses it to paint your face with something you can't see, but you're willing to bet is one of his trademark emotes with the smiley face and the nose.
"You're mine, motherfucker."
He coats his hand in your genetic material, vibrantly red and slightly transparent, and begins adding to his 'murals' on the walls, indiscriminate lines of color in no real identifiable designs, and oh god he's painting with your cum. You watch him, shirt hiked up to your chest, pants still around your knees, bunched around the ropes tying your ankles together.
You choke a little, your breath hitching as you shake with the cold and the fear. He leaves after he appears to finish adding to his paintings. You start to struggle against your bonds the moment he's out of sight, fruitlessly. If anything, your squirming and pulling only makes the ropes feel tighter. You can't even drag yourself onto the pile from the floor.
It feel like an eternity, and at the same time, no time at all before he wanders back into the room, his madness apparently satisfied for the moment, carrying a bowl of water and a clean towel.
He dips the towel, and begins wiping down your body, tenderly, as if he wasn't the one who inflicted the cuts and scratches and bite marks on your body, as if it wasn't his own genetic material he was wiping off your skin and out of your nook. Once he finishes he tugs your pants up and helps you tug your shirt back down, giving you some illusion of dignity even though his and your combined genetic material is seeping into your jeans, and your clothes are still smeared with blood from earlier.
Gamzee pulls you down onto himself and you burst into tears. He paps you gently, his claws barely touching your skin, pressing light kisses to your forehead and hair until your gross sobbing is reduced to uneven hiccups, the stream of tears reduced to a wetness around your eyes that he wipes away, making crooning noises and sooshing sounds.
"It's alright Karbro, ain't nothing gonna motherfuckin' up and hurt you now, I got you." he soothes, pressing his lips against you in a line from your temples and down your cheekbones, then shakes his head regretfully. "All the others, bro. They were gonna motherfuckin' up and take you from me. They were all plotting to. I finally got my motherfuckin' understand on about it. They're much better all up and on the motherfuckin' walls, huh?"
He waves one of his long, scrawny arms up toward the ceiling, swaying it as if to indicate the space all around us. He plants a kiss on your cheek, then one on the side of your mouth, then nuzzles his face into the space between your jawline and your neck, purring.
"Ain't no one gonna come between us now," comes his own muffled response to the rhetorical question he posed that you hadn't dared to answer. You're not sure if talking would set him off again. You look down at him, your eyes red-rimmed and your face blotchy. The gentle smile that crosses his face when he looks up at you almost sends you back into hysteria. You manage not to panic. He looks at you and tugs you close to his chest, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling deeply. "You're so motherfuckin' adorable, Karbro."
With that, he passes out once again, but not before mumbling “Could up and cuddle you like this for motherfuckin' ever...” into you hair.
He naps. You spend the vast majority of that nap awake, terrified, the sound of his light snoring and rusty purr filling your ears and his breathing gently tickling your hair. You don't know what to expect from him. It'd be so much easier to deal with if he'd just stick to something. You could hate him easily if he would be inclined to simply be a bastard and treat you like he did when he forced you down earlier. It's so much harder because of how damn pitiful he was after, almost like he's sorry. Almost like he cares. Almost like your
He wakes up as Gamzee, all soft kisses and light touches and paps and sooshes and running his long fingers through your hair. His gentle touches awaken you, and for a moment, you forget where you are and what went on, what's happening, because he soothes you so well that you end up purring, and he returns it, a deep, rumbling noise from deep in his chest, coaxing you to relax further. His fingers tracing nonsense patterns on the back of your neck encourage every muscle in your body to relax and unwind.
“Hey, Karbro,” he whispers, and turns your limp, boneless body onto your back.
You feel the rough tug of the ropes wrapped around your wrists and ankles.
Just like the last time, you attempt to catapault yourself from the pile, but the attempt fails. Last time it was because you were bound. This time is because you're sore in all the wrong places and he's already got you on your back, and all you end up doing is ineffectually flailing and slamming your forehead into his bony shoulder in your panic.
He paps your face gently, shooshing and making soothing noises in the back of his throat, purring and nuzzling and forcing you body to relax despite your mind's protests. Your eyes spill over with tears when he starts running one of his thumbs up and down your cheek. He purrs at you as you start sobbing, and you shrink into his shoulder, burying your face in his shirt and soaking the fabric in your tears and snot and drool from your gross crying.
“Ssssh...” he puts his arms around you and holds you close, “It's alright, Karbro...” he runs his claws through your hair, “Ain't nobody gonna get you now.” and he keeps his arms wrapped around you until you're exhausted and your sobbing is reduced to uneven, hiccuping breaths.
When you manage to calm down enough to look up at him, he's looking down at you with the sweetest, most contented smile on his face, like you're the center of his entire world, like the moons decided to rise and set on your very shoulders. It's almost too much, and it makes some strong, unfamiliar feeling well up in your chest, and you have to look away.
He huffs in amusement and plants a bunch a silly, giggly kisses on your hair and face and you squirm underneath him, until he stops and stares directly into your eyes. Your eyes go wide as his just barely purple-tinted eyes meet yours, half-lidded and smouldering, and slowly closing as he gets closer and closer to you face.
At the last minute, you turn your head, and instead of meeting your mouth, his lips meet the skin of your jawline, and you realize a moment too late that you've bared your neck to him. You feel him smiling lightly against your neck then trailing his teeth down it lightly and it hits you that he's taken it as a sign of submission, that you're baring your neck to him as you giving in to his authority. You're not entirely sure you're not at this point. Your body relaxes on impulse from his teeth, going limp in a way that might've kept you alive if this had been a fight. His grip loosens, and he reaches down.
In, as he would put it, a miracle, he unbinds your ankles from each other, sliding between your thighs to align his bony hips with yours, and slips one hand in to hold your hipbone.
While your ankles practically sing with joy from having the chafed skin free from its bonds, with his highblood strength, you know you're hopelessly pinned. He nips at your collarbone where your shirt collar has been hopelessly stretched out and you whine involuntarily.
His hand on your hip pushes your shirt up, and the other snakes underneath you to lift your upper body, and you find your torso bare, your shirt tangled up behind you where it's caught in the rope still binding your wrists despite your ankles being free. You feel his bulge beginning to unsheath itself as he presses his groin against you, pressing his mouth, lips, tongue and teeth against your neck and chest anywhere he can reach, gentle and alarming. You remain as relaxed as you can, that having gotten your ankles free.
“My cute little Karbro...” He says, smiling that affectionate smile as if you're the most amazing thing he's ever seen again, “You're being so good for me...”
He rolls over and pulls you up onto him, sliding his fingers through your hair until his hand cups the back of your head and he eases your head down, slowly but firmly, until your lips are touching, and he's kissing you, the same way he brought your head down, deeply, but almost lazily, as if he's got all the time in the world to spending kissing you and if he was your matesprit it'd be warm and sweet and lush.
But he's not your matesprit.
His hands wander down to your hips, pulling you in close, and you can't help but chirp when his bulge presses against your sheath and nook even through the confines of both your pants and his, and a little bit of panic wells up in your chest, your blood-pusher trying to make its way into your throat.
“Y-you're not gonna hurt me, right?” you stutter, trying to ease your panic in his assurance somehow. His eyes widen and he looks up at you, taking your appearance in. “You-you said I was your b-best friend, you w-wouldn't hurt your best friend, r-right?” you try again, stuttering even harder than before, the words coming out as fast as you can say them.
In your own ears, your voice sounds shaky and pathetic, absolutely fucking terrified.
Apparently that was the worst thing you could possibly say, because the minutes it seems to register in his mind, you're on your knees, face in the pile, his face twisted in rage, violence radiating from every single one of his pores, the slow, content idiot of a moment before completely wiped out by the monster that Gamzee becomes if you're not able to pap him back into a pacified stupor.
He grabs a handful of your hair and yanks your head back, sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your neck until his fangs break the skin, and you scream. Even his earlier actions didn't result in as much pain as his teeth in your neck, and you know exactly what he's doing. If this were Alternia, no one would dare touch you after you'd been marked this way.
Not unless they were willing to tangle with the troll who had given it to you.
You remember the implications of this kind of mark extremely well. In Alternia, this would be a sign that you'd been claimed. That you were taken, and anyone wishing to challenge that would have to deal with whoever had given you that mark, because they wanted you all to themselves.
It would've been a sign that whomever wanted to make a move on you had better be ready to deal with highblood rage.
It'd be a sign that you'd been dominated.
That you'd been humiliated.
If this had been Alternia, it would've been a sign that either a highblood had claimed you as their cute little lowblood toy, or your quadrant partners had balls of steel.
This is not Alternia.
Here, on this meteor, as Gamzee falls into a violent rage, not only is it a sign that you'd failed as his moirail, it's also a sign that you'd been unable to control him even outside of your moiraillegence. You didn't even fight back. The biological instincts behind the bite make you go limp.
He licks the blood away, and the soreness around it makes you whimper.
He practically rips your pants off, tearing the fabric with his claws in his haste, trailing other bites along your neck, your sharp inhale drowned out by the sound of the fabric and his low growls. Their message is quite fucking clear. Your stupid whines make it perfectly clear how terrified you are.
He swallows heavily, the sound making his growls stop.
Your body knows what's going to happen. It's not like highbloods staking ownership of other trolls is anything new. Your body prepares for whoever marked you to claim you.
Your nook relaxes, your bulge unsheathing. You're terrified despite this. You're terrified, but not aroused. Your bulge waves around languidly, making room in your body for his.
You can't do anything.
Over a thousand years of trolls has engrained this biological instinct into your very DNA.
He slams his hips into yours and in less than a second, his bulge is lashing inside of you. It hasn't been long since the last time, but the lack of preparation still makes you keen.
The use of the use of your hands is still restricted, and his claws gripping at your hipbones would keep you from retaliating even if you hadn't been limp from his bite. The pressure and the pain and the bite start to make the edges of your vision darken and your pan swim.
He's still growling, loudly, in your ear. This monster is not your moirail any longer. His teeth are still in your neck, though not nearly as hard as before. That first bite was staking his claim. This is reaffirming his possesion.
“Mine.” he removes his teeth from your neck, and it's almost a chant. “Mine.”
You're angry and desperate. You're terrified. You're being held down and violently fucked by a crazy highblood who murdered all your friends and coated the walls in thier blood. You just got marked by that same highblood. You're at the end of your ropes. You just want the pain to stop.
With futility, you whine out a single word, hoping that it'll appease him and he'll make the pain stop.
He comes, hard, still within you, claws drawing blood from his claws on your hips and sinking his teeth into your neck once again, shaking, with a vicious growl. Your genetic bladder empties itself in response, without any input from you.
He flips you back over again, clutching you, purple tears welling up and his eyes, and you feel your blood-pusher determined to make its way up into your throat and you have to pull yourself back from the urge to shoosh and pap him and you hate yourself a little bit more.
Because even after that you still pity him.
He makes the most pathetic face you can imagine. “I'm so sorry, Karbro...” he whispers, although it's not exactly a whisper, and it's still hoarse from the job all his growling did on his protein chute. “They were gonna up and take you away from me.”
He whimpers a little bit, his voice breaking. “Now they can't.” There's something crazy in his eyes that keeps your throat closing up as you try to speak. “Now everybody knows you're mine. Now nobody can take you away from me...”
You are Karkat Vantas, and there's not a sliver of hope for you.