it's a few hours into me raping you when i drop the knife and the sound of it clattering to the ground snaps you out of the haze of fear and pain you retreated into when i started. there's a moment before you fully realize what it is, then another before you realize what it means. it takes some working to slowly wriggle your arm from where it's crushed beneath you over to the handle, slowly so i don't notice. i don't and i wouldn't, too focused on pulling the most desperate and pathetic noises i can out of you with my thrusts. you wait until i hit somewhere particularly deep, wincing as you slowly drag the knife up your side. chasing another another pained reaction, i grind deeper into you and lose myself in hurting you. it's all the chance you need to shove the knife into my side, making sure to grind the blade in deeper. as blood oozes out over your fingers, i moan deep and low in my chest, crushing you against me and cumming inside you. groaning into your ear, "fuck, sweetheart, just like that."
me talking about horror to normal people: its not torture porn, horror is an incredible medium to explore personal complex emotions and the genre at large can really speak to a society's unspoken fears at a given time in history
me talking about horror to my pervert friends: ranking saw traps by how horny they are
Actually recently I've taken to describing my sadism less as optimized calculation and more as consumption. It's all kinda in the context of how I conceived of my years of dissociation. Feeling empty inside, I gradually realized that while I couldn't feel much emotion from within myself, I could feel things from others. And, emotions that I effect in others simply feel more real. They're mine, in a way. Further, just positive emotions don't a complete diet make. And thus, sadism emerges.
It's about emotions before it's about pain, but it's not like it's not about pain. There's a limit to how much joy I can cause you, to how much sadness or how much fear. Love of course is less limited but is difficult to play with. I mean, I do, but rarely. Pain. Pain doesn't really have that same limit at all. And it's so immediate. Such a powerful form of control. It's an instrument more that a meal itself. The food is in the sounds you make, it's in the way your body shakes and moves, it's in your expression as you look up at me.
It's a very satisfying metaphor to me because in addition to being fun to express, it's also very predictive. There's something fun about my partners recognizing that I enjoy something without me needing to say it, even if it's perhaps not the most well adjusted thing to enjoy. Thanks for the meal. It's nice.
Crying is special. I don't get to see it that much. Bruises. Marks of love. I can see how they twist how your body moves. But it's possession first. I do enjoy the little discomfort of it. A fine seasoning. The main course is usually the fear or lust. Lose yourself in it. Drown in it. Marinate in it. Already marked as mine, I'll eat you slowly. Savor every bite.
This is, really, where the demon metaphor emerges. You see? I want to make every inch of your most intimate places mine. I want to be promised minutes and show you hours. I want to devour you whole.
the claws on my rear paws start to dig into the flesh of your wing, and divine light begins to leak out, dripping down your feathers
"fuck you," I spit, hateful bile rising in my throat as your god's divinity touches me. the feeling of Its light coming this close to my own always make me want to retch, but I grit my teeth and dig my claws in further
"PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I DIDN'T KNOW I NEVER DID ANYTHING TO YOU PLEASE I DON'T WANNA DIE"
I crash down upon you, my full weight bearing down on your wing. You cry out in pain as I howl loudly into your ear, digging the claws of my front paws into your chest.
I start dragging my claws along the length of your wing, slicing deep into flesh and making you drip with vile divinity. You can't stop screaming at the top of your lungs as I continue tearing through you, shredding your physical form.
"I love it when an angel screams," I whisper, right against your ear so you can hear it. "reminds me that you can still hurt"
your voice has softened as I slow myself, not wanting you to give out too quickly. an angel can take a lot of punishment, but I learned long ago that even the most powerful slaves of divinity have limits
"please stop please please please I'll do anything what do you want I just don't wanna be hurt anymore" you plead, tears streaming down your face.
you mean it too. you must be a new soul pressed into angelic servitude, given divinity and power and a mandate of war against all gods It would deem lesser.
"your wing will heal," I say, voice low and deep. "I could rip your form asunder over and over again and It would force you to rebuild, to reform back together so that you could carry out Its will until Eternity has devoured all."
you start to sob, and I grin wide, seeing the way your holy devotion has been completely shattered.
"please I don't want to, please I just thought I would protect a human, I wanted to be a guardian, I didn't know what It wanted I didn't know!"
"you poor thing," I say, dripping with condescension. "but if you go back to It now, if you return without killing me, it will erase you and you'll be forced to serve again. do you truly want that?"
"no..." you whimper, closing your eyes as the tears begin to flow again. "can you, can you help me? please I don't wanna go back I don't wanna fight I DON'T WANNA HURT!!!"
"I can't promise you that," I say as I raise my arm above the slashes in your wing, pressing the claw of my other hand up against my fur. "you will hurt. and you will fight. but I will fight and bleed and hurt alongside you. we will reach Eternity and tear It asunder."
you tremble underneath me as you see what I will do. I will cut open my arm and corrupt your divinity with my own. the blood of a feral Wolf Goddess. your own divinity tries to overwhelm your mind and make you resist, showing you a vision of terror: slaughtered angels and enthralled gods, killed by your hand, the fall of Eternity and collapse of all post-existence, the ruin of all time and creation as it descends into chaos, and the head of your once god laid at my feet, Its raw divinity trickling out as It gasps a final breath.
"please," you whisper. "please, It wants me back, please please please, before It takes me"
I slice deep into my arm and bathe your ravaged wing in my blood.
today i was reading about human rights (for kink reasons, you get it) and one of them was something like a right to meaning
and i was obviously reading going through thr list and trying to see how each right can be removed from me, as a toy and not a human
and that one made me laugh a bit at first but then i thought...this is totally doable
if I'm kept muted and deafened and never spoken to, I won't really know why anything is happening. to recieve random punishments and rewards and never finding the empty logic behind would mean to lose a right to meaning. only randomness. no control that i can have through the systems of logic and discipline, only a victim to meaningless cruelty and the fun of sadists
Been a long time follower and admirer of choo’s world and art. Their work is transportive and characters fascinating while remainng a little mysterious. I’ve wanted to make some fanart of their murderous boyfriends for a long time, Happy I finally got the chance! ;-; <3 @choosketches
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