In any case, the ratings for this fic go through the roof. Violence, morbidity, sex, rape, squick, bloodplay, hinted pedophilia, language ... it has pretty much everything in it. Read at your own risk.
Ah, and, spoilers all the way up to Chapter 22.
And a little bird flitters before him, all wide-eyed curiosity and hollow little worm-finding eyes. It doesn’t matter by now if they’re maggots -- maggots are delicious, too. Anything to fill this little birdie’s tummy (except rice, rice would make him explode and he doesn’t want that -- no, not yet, it’s too soon, it’s too fucking soon). Oh, he looks so lost and so sick, so fallen out of his nest and out of his wind and … and he would like to see him fall out of his mind too because he’s such a beautiful disaster, such a lovely complex of carnage and brutality, with eyes so shrunken-in he can see right back into his skull and realize there’s nothing there but sickness and black and death tastes like the chevalier.
A little birdie flitters before him, stretches his wings out and they turn as black as night, as thin as ink along the edges and he can only think that blood looks so beautiful when it’s splattered across feathers, dripping and sinning and sinking into the little wispy fibers.
This bird wants to eat with the others, it really does -- but it’s so much better than that, it’s so much more. He’s gonna make it more; he’s gonna make him more. Owls feast on rats, didn’t you know. They seek out the vermin in the middle of the night, the ones that scuttle around on the ground floor and try to pilfer all the secrets from the cold, dead ground. Rats are great at finding evidence, the tombs of dead men and mummified remains and the splatter of entrails and the deep, dark groan of earth as catacombs swallow the dead down deeper. The bowels of hell are such sweet salvation for a
He’s going to make his own into a killer. He’s already halfway there, with his Lady-Owl on the chopping block (oh, that was a tasteless joke, wasn’t it?) and his Baby-Owl only half a figment of his imagination. And he would say half because two-thirds of "owl" is just "ow" and he’s sure Rokuro could figure it out statistically somehow. That’s what he does, after all: he sits on his branch and calculates and figures out little percentages and tries to get them to equal zero.
But Zero isn’t as interesting as the simple equation Owl offers him. Much less the offer returned.
"Join the Undertakers, Owl."
Oh, shock on such a Wise Bird’s face (♪ Wise Bird, Wise Bird~ ♪) it makes his spine shiver. Now all it takes is to awaken some memories, open a little locket with no song and --
a scream deafens throughout the compound, pouring into every corner and nook and cranny until the sounds just overflow and the only thing louder is the other sound of a young boy slapping a Girl In White across the cheek for doing exactly what she’s supposed to be doing. acemen will all die, too, because that is the way of salvation.
Something inside the Pretty Bird just snaps, gets rent asunder and lost in the chaos of falling limbs and his only chance at hope.
"Let’s End This Brutally," Genkaku finally purrs, his voice a low octave of seduction that even a Super Monk shouldn’t be able to possess, and Nagi wonders why something inside of him begins coiling. It’s not the same as it always is, though, it’s not blood winding up inside of him, tight and stringy around the hard crystal of a heart (because we’re all a little hard here, somewhere). It’s something he hasn’t experienced in a long time, and the last time … well …
It got him nothing but heartache. It got him nothing but immature dreams of hope and freedom, of spreading his wings and flying away. All that got taken away from the shirtless man in front of him who’s unzipping those too-tight leather pants while slender little fingers strum a single note on a guitar that even Jimi Hendrix would be a little afraid to burn.
Something coils in him, and his eyes just keep going colder and colder, rolling back until he’s staring at the ceiling with his chin angled down towards the ground. The rings on Genkaku’s fingers are cold and shock him a little, making eyelashes flutter and frost with tears.
But they aren’t the tears of a Bird who can’t hunt at night anymore. It’s a beautiful release.
"「 Give Me Salvation. 」"
And Nagi obliges, his lips loose and open like a hinge and his body limp and wounded. His stump of a left arm just hangs there, even as his tormentor-now-liberator touches it in the most erotic way he’s ever seen, ever felt, fingers digging in and stroking it, bringing blood to the surface. Those digits go to the Monk’s mouth, a tongue darting out while singing, burning, eviscerating eyes stay on him. He grunts, and it seems like there’s disapproval in that reaction. So he opts for something more extreme. That hinge-mouth is pried open by bloodied fingers, testing the depths and warmth of tissue, of copper and iron already within the orifice, of just how much taste and wonder they can get inside that pleasure. This is my Redemption, he thinks for a moment before he gets a real look at the Rocker’s eyes, and it’s then he knows there is no such thing as deliverance in eyes as dark as coal like that.
He tries to think of the bell charm but it slips is mind as easily as Genkaku’s cock slips into his mouth.
A cough and rejection. The Super Monk grimaces like the mad hatter who spilt his tea, staining his best cravat.
"What?" he spits.
"「 Bitter. 」"
And the returned laugh is maniacal and bursts through the room like a sonic boom (and somewhere on the other side of the penitentiary, someone is making a sonic boom and Nagi finds it all very amusing in the end with a hole in his gut and his arms folded like it’s a goddamned funeral -- and, hey, maybe it is), ringing through his ears louder and more draining than a stupid little girl’s charms trying to save him from SANITY.
"Just like Candy!" Buddhist finally exclaims as he catches his breath, but it’s about to be taken again because Owl will do anything to shut him the fuck up, stop that atrocious laughter, you fucking parasite. So he takes him in his mouth, tongue teasing around his head and his possessor seems to relax a little at that, gazing down at those increasingly lunatic eyes with something of surprise and interest in his own. Embers are there, sparking and lighting up in his loins and this is even better than the plans he has for those two sluts who are going to come trouncing through here any minute.
(Didn’t you know? All Super Monks are just a touch precognitive.)
So he slips back and takes his seat on those cushioned leather chairs, and thinks, this is the Reward for Madness. Because that’s all the Undertakers really are: grave-robbers, grave-makers who have gone a little too insane and gotten a profit off of it, whether or not it’s monetary. Delicious, he thinks, admiring his own neck without a collar, without that kind of poison pumping into his veins, just a different kind, a kind that’s a little off and a little wrong and completely rotten and maybe a little sacred, too.
"Ahh," comes the happy little sigh as he watches Owl suck him off, and -- hey, while he’s thinking about that collar …
He pulls the man’s scarf off almost violently and it seems to make him stop, make him pause to consider if this is really what he wants, as confusion boils up in those insane little eyes. After a moment of still-doll silence, Genkaku says, "Calm the fuck down, you can have it back when you’re done," and all seems to be right with the world again. His pleasure is seen to at once, almost eagerly, the calloused pads of the Owl’s fingers wrapping around him almost lovingly as that stern jaw separates to take his head in, tongue flicking out ravenously like the thirsty and dirty man who first found holy water.
O Buddha, why … Why did you decide that death should be "painful" without experiencing it yourself?
A Monk’s eyes watch everything, you see. From the pallor and youthful flesh of a boy desiring to be a priest (and that’s the freshest of them all, after all -- before it’s really tainted, still new and pure), to that of the aging man’s, tough and leathery and so wisewisewise. But Genkaku has remained so young despite all his wisdom, the knowledge he most certainly has without so many years of practice.
We’re all mad here.
He watches Nagi’s throat, the scars from his donation to the proctor after losing a battle (and guess who it was to?). He can imagine the wounds real and flesh and blood, opening with each deep suck slithering closer and closer to the back of his throat. He looks down and sees that machination, condemned thing, that allows the man to talk in that robotic voice that will never utter a sound of pain or pleasure and he thinks, damn that’s a waste. He wonders if this is how the Priests of that Temple felt when they were touching him in his own youth, if this is what they tasted when they licked open wounds and held his hands beneath their foot and even groaned and climaxed weakly inside of a little boy who never squirmed and only sighed.
He sighs again. That isn’t what gets him off, but that thing Owl’s doing, that thing with the teeth, dragging along the underside of his cock, along the veins and all the way down to his base certainly gets a reaction out of him that’s more like a moan. Long fingers go into that hair, that thick ratty hair that clumps and curls with humidity and blood and he can’t stop thinking about that scar on his neck or the way the skin clumps and ripples around that little voice box (literally).
He touches the hardened skin, and he hisses as he clutches onto his Pretty Little Birdie’s head, thrusting deep and coming violently as he has one final thought of --
If that wound on his neck were fresh, would his cock slip more inside of his throat? Would the pulled-back flesh get hooked on the edge of his cock as he pushes in and pulls back and just makes that wound all the deeper.
"Silence is Death. Peace Is Death."
Nagi slurps almost horrendously, sucking it all down, as Genkaku watches that throat move again and realizes he’s been gripping that stump so hard his whole hand is soaked with blood and he can feel the porous bone cutting into him.
"「 Death Is Sex. 」" comes the mechanical wiring voice again, and only after his orgasm does he actually realize it’s really fucking annoying.
"Hehn. Couldn’t have said it better myself … Owl."
And then, brutally, like the sound of a shotgun bullet fueled by blood and maggots;
"I LOVED YOU. But if you’re gonna go back to being a hypocrite that saves no one … then I’ll give you salvation."
And so close, so goddamn close that he can motherfucking taste it on his lips until …
"「 I’M YOUR GUIDE TO HELL. 」"