𝙵𝙻𝙴𝚂𝙷𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙴𝚁;

[kotttagare]

Moved to @fleshtak3r !!

[kotttagare]

@fleshtak3r is the new blog! go follow your favorite cannibal gravedigger over there 🖤

[kotttagare]

@fleshtak3r is the new blog! go follow your favorite cannibal gravedigger over there 🖤

[acidcorrodes]

"You're not?" He questions, somehow having a hard time fully trusting that Oliver is, in fact, not upset. "I'll be okay, promise," He repeats in a futile attempt to make the other, and himself, believe it.

That question lands like an anvil, however, making him feel seven kinds of uncomfortable. That he doesn't want to talk about. That he cannot excuse away as easily. That is not a matter for explaining today, he decides. Not today. "Don't know." The dry response leaves his lips feeble, begging not to be questioned further. "I don't want to make you worry."

As for Lisbeth, she's managed to peek curiously into the room, door ajar, wanting to make sure everything's okay. "Friend," she confirms in a small voice, not really wanting to interrupt but knowing it's a complicated topic to explain, seeing as Dmitry himself has only found out himself today. "I'll explain, promise. I'll wait," she adds, waiting for Oliver's confirmation before leaving.

[kotttagare]

arms tighten subconsciously around the other in a protective embrace as he thinks quietly, gnawing at his lip in concentration before he realizes it is in fact due time for him to say something and his duty not to make it about food, judging by the tightlipped response he'd coaxed out of dmitry with his question. he runs a hand through dmitry's hair and hums in thought ⸻ "upset with you for what, hm ? a bad day ?" he knows it's more than that, of course, knows the situation is not a simple case of a head cold or something he can fix; in fact, oliver's awareness of just how helpless he is to fix this for dmitry is keen, but he also knows it isn't the other's fault. and thus, he's here to do something, anything that might make the situation a little less dire. "would you drink some tea, at least?" he asks quietly. "i can make you something warm to drink, if you're not hungry."

[acidcorrodes]

Dmitry curls up instinctively against Oliver, protected by the warm embrace. That alone reassures him that he's not in trouble, however much he knows Oliver sounds worried like he's never heard him worry before. The measured way in which Oliver delivers the questions is also appreciated. Any more than one at a time would have been too much at once. He's tired enough he hasn't changed out of the oversized t-shirt and flannel pants he slept in last night, and moving from where he is seems insurmountable.

He considers carefully how to answer the question, not quite finding the words for it right away. Eventually, though, he manages to put together an answer. "I'm okay," he reassures Oliver, not quite truthful but not really a lie either. "I uh... didn't know how to tell you. I know I should have." He thinks some more, clinging to Oliver in fear that the other will somehow leave. "I'm bipolar, it uh... just happens sometimes. Don't think it's been this bad in a good while."

[kotttagare]

"hey, hey," he soothes preemptively as the apologetic murmurs of what he should already know about spill from d's lips, having already forgiven any potential sins before they've even been confessed. when the truth of the matter finally comes forth, he goes quiet and thoughtful for a long moment, arms looped around the other's small frame. that word : bipolar, among a sea of others, he's heard applied to his brother, william, though he isn't quite certain which aspects of bill's struggles are with what. all he knows is that it's currently responsible both for the fearful look in dmitry's eyes and the fact that he is but a shell of himself. oliver swallows his own helplessness in the scenario and puts on a strong front. "i'm not upset with you, i'm not upset at all, okay?" he insists quietly, tightening his arms around dmitry in an unthinking, protective gesture and shaking his head. "i'm right here, right here with you, and it's okay. when's the last time you ate, love. . . ? your. . . friend, out there, she is worrying for you. i am worrying for you."

[acidcorrodes]

Lisbeth nods, drying the tears off her face though they keep coming. She shows Oliver where to go but decides to give them privacy, sitting instead on the floor against a wall, restless but feeling less alone now.

When Oliver sits, Dmitry takes notice but doesn't say anything. He's not expecting the visit, has no idea Lisbeth had called him at all, but it comforts him regardless. He glances at Oliver once he hears him speak and sighs, feeling the weight of shame at the situation, and guilt at not having given the other any warning whatsoever about it.

"I don't suppose I can convince you I'll be okay, can I?" He asks in a near-monotone whisper, a far cry from his typically more musical manner of speech. "I'm sorry."

[kotttagare]

that voice scarcely sounds like it belongs to the dmitry he knows, and though he is practically overflowing with questions just now, he can't bring himself to sort them through to words, overcome with worry and confusion; he glances back at the door where the diminutive girl did not follow, but leaves the subject momentarily, more pressing things at play. "do not be," he chides softly and quietly, moving carefully to mold around him and look him over while holding him close like a thing that might shatter if held too tightly, "do not be sorry, angel. i just. . . what's happened? are you alright?" one question at a time, so as not to overwhelm, this one the most important next to 'who is in your house?', which will simply have to wait until he's satisfied that dmitry is safe and sound adjacent at least.

[acidcorrodes]

The young woman, short and delicate, quickly opens the door as Oliver knocks. It's the fastest she could get to it and still be reasonably not weird, but in reality she had heard him coming from rather far. She can smell the alcohol on him too, and that strange, distinctly non-human scent he has and which has grown to be familiar and even comforting to her. Bright green eyes, recognizable if Oliver were to pay that much attention, look up at the much, much taller man as she nearly drags him in and closes the door for privacy.

"I'm so sorry, I hope I didn't scare you too much, I just—" she pauses and points to the gun as she spots it. "Ditch that, not necessary." Her tone is serious, insistent. Still, she continues. "I didn't know what to do, he gets like that but not usually this bad and usually I can nudge him out of bed so he'll at least drink water and eat something but I've been trying all day and he won't and I'm scared, he worries me and I don't know how to help so I thought... Maybe if you try, maybe he'll listen? If not... At least keep company. He needs that. I need that." As she speaks, tears run freely down her face. The desperation is real this time, so much so that she fails to realize she hasn't provided any context on who she is or what exactly is going on with Dmitry. Oliver is, to her after all, well-known enough for the reliance on him to come naturally.

[kotttagare]

there will be time to investigate who the girl is later, a thought that is catalogued into the sidelines of his brain. it doesn't matter immediately, more pressing issues at play when the dark haired girl describes dmitry's current state. he doesn't know her, doesn't know precisely what is going on, but he has resolved to be helpful, all the same. "hey, hey," he soothes the stranger, making his way inside the apartment, one hand on her shoulder, ducking down to assuage the height discrepancy between them, "it's okay, älskling. it's okay. just. . . let me see him, hm?" he hopes, anyway. making his way into the darkened apartment, he finds the bedroom easily, dmitry walled up inside it like a tomb. lisbeth momentarily forgotten out of desperation and urgency, he takes a seat on the bed next to d's small, curled up frame. this.... he decides, looking over him in this state ... is not good. "änglapojke," he murmurs, stroking the hair back from the other's face and feeling a sense of dread at that faraway look in his eyes, "it's me, it's oliver."

[acidcorrodes]

Lisbeth the cat is, properly speaking, not really a cat after all. This would have surprised Dmitry to learn, had he been in any state to be surprised whatsoever, but the truth is he isn't. In fact, that is precisely the reason that after all this time, Lisbeth has finally revealed herself to him like this. She knows he gets down sometimes, she's a keen observer and she lives with, and for, the guy as his familiar. Today, though, she is truly concerned and she's feeling quite distressed about it.

Fuck it.

She grabs Dmitry's phone and unlocks it, having seen the other do this a million tomes over. She's not a stranger to technology, even if smaller details escape her. The world from the point of view of a cat is, after all, a little different. The messaging app is easy for her to find, however, and she can spell. It helps that touch screen keyboards are laid out completely openly, unlike older phones with number-pad text input. She finds Oliver quickly at the top of the message threads list —not that it's too long— and types out a quick message to him.

come over he needs help. will explain when u get here -L

Message sent.

She fully expects Oliver to heed to those words, she just also hopes he'll be able to understand quickly that she is that Lisbeth when she explains. At the very least, he can keep them both company. Anxious, she paces back and forth, alternating between watching the door, checking the phone, and eyeing Dmitry to make sure everything's okay.

[ @kotttagare ]

[kotttagare]

if there are others to worry about outside himself, the selfish boy does not realize as much, halfway into a bottle by early afternoon when his phone dings with notification. he stares at the text, from dmitry's number but otherwise signed as from L, a plea that help is needed. stumbling through, it's all the prompt he needs to get his jacket and take place on his bike, making his way to the other's place to see what the hell is going on, nerves wracked and alive with curiosity and worst case scenarios. by the time he arrives, gun tucked into his waistband as he's not entirely sure who this L is, his hands are shaking when they knock on the door. "it's oliver," he calls out through the door, still knocking, nervous and haggard from the midday drinking.

[acidcorrodes]

Dmitry allows Oliver's touch, the corners of his lips upturning ever so slightly at the nickname he's been given. He's decided he loves hearing it out loud, because it's a word given in love and kindness. He reaches to touch Oliver's face, too, caressing his cheek with a saddened expression as he nods in answer to the question. He would like to lie, to reassure the other that he hasn't suffered, that he is not damaged, but he cannot bring himself to do that. Instead, he tells the truth and hopes not to shatter Oliver's heart with it.

"You saw... It wasn't pretty," he begins speaking, still barely above a whisper. It feels wrong to him to speak louder than that. "I won't describe to you in detail what it felt like, because you saw and I'm sure... It's hard enough like that. It was painful, yes. Perhaps more so than it looks."

He looks at the other silently for a moment, taking in his features, thinking it absurd that he should be so lucky as to live to have met Ollie, absurd that he is somehow deserving of such gentle a soul, of that sea of green to gaze at eternally. Tears begin to well in his eyes and he fights the urge to hide even that, feeling perhaps more exposed than when he had realized Oliver had seen him dead.

He adds one more detail, though, a small remedy to sorrow, the only kind truth in that death. "It wasn't painful the whole time. Towards the end, it faded away. I was barely conscious then, but there was a moment when it suddenly wasn't so bad anymore and I thought... It could have been worse. I remember there was so much blood, though, before that, and that never stops making me feel dreadful when it happens."

[kotttagare]

oliver shudders slightly under the pleasant, gentle caress of the other's hand against his face; he doesn't deserve to be touched so gently, he knows this, but he is greedy for it, leaning into his hand, soft sigh escaping his lips. they could be discussing the end of the world and he'd still selfishly be soaking in the uncomplicated affection, something so foreign and new to him, something dmitry offers like a proverbial olive branch, tethering him to the here and now. "you don't need to feel guilty for that," he tells him quietly, voice barely breaking the threshold of a whisper, "the end makes messes of us all, i suppose. " he traces a calloused fingertip along dmitry's jawline and smiles sadly, rueful hue slipping into his expression. "you came back, and that is what is important. i can't imagine not knowing you now."

[acidcorrodes]

"Спасибо," he thanks Oliver in a whisper, accepting the bottle and having a generous sip, which he takes the time to really taste before swallowing. It burns, but he finds it more grounding than unpleasant. The taste, he decides, is acceptable too. He wasn't lying when he said even gas station lighter-fluid vodka was stuff he'd willingly drink, but a good vodka's always a treat, and this one's good. He'd perhaps been to hasty to drink it earlier to realize that, though.

Oliver returns and Dmitry accepts the towel with a nod. He meticulously cleans off the red, finger by finger, bit by bit, focusing on the texture of the soft, fluffy terrycloth. It helps him, to keep his mind on something like that rather than on what he was thinking of earlier. He notices Oliver has planted himself farther this time and decides that this won't do. Instead, he scoots closer to establish he wants the closeness. It's not Oliver's fault he's had a rough past. It's not Oliver's fault how unexpectedly some memories like to burst right through the surface.

He lifts his gaze back to Oliver, watching as those lips form the words while he speaks about the victim, the one whose blood was all over the gentle giant. He understands the reasons for eliminating someone so awful and nods, reaching again, like he'd been wanting to do earlier, to touch him. Light fingers trace the ink that covers Oliver's body while Dmitry repeats, "Some people deserve to die." He still sounds distant, trying to force himself back to reality as subtly as he can, but he also realizes it's too late now that Oliver has seen him wander away like that.

He weighs the options, eventually electing to be honest about what happened. The alternative seems to be to alienate someone he wants to keep as close as possible, and that's not acceptable. "The blood, I... wasn't expecting it to, but it reminded me of when I died," he explains quietly, hoping Oliver will accept that truth.

[kotttagare]

eyes are wide and boyishly shocked when dmitry intentionally eats up that modicum of space he’d left out of sheer politeness, the tiniest sliver of hope coming to mind that perhaps it really wasn’t him, wasn’t a personal affront that had disappeared the other inside himself for a moment. he swallows hard when clean, bloodless fingertips begin to trace the patchwork of his tattoos in a gesture so intimate and void of rush or lust that he could almost weep from the gentleness of it. has he ever been touched so kindly, so softly? if he has, he has no memory of it.

“i am sorry you had to remember something like that, änglapojke,” he says with a frown, reaching out inch by inch to card dark hair away from the other’s face while eyeing his expression like a scared dog asking permission to come closer, to know that the touch is warranted and willed. “was it… suppose like, painful?”

[kotttagare]

[acidcorrodes]

Dmitry can't help but to notice Oliver's openness in answering the questions despite the subject matter and how difficult it must be for the Swede to discuss it. The way he goes out of his way to reassure Dmitry that he would never hurt him, that he'd sooner suffer than harm him, speaks directly to one of the most carefully-guarded vulnerabilities Dmitry has, and crushes it effortlessly. The ever-present fear of unwanted touch and trampled boundaries disappears, without Oliver having even been privvy to the knowledge that it was there at all to begin with. He may have been speaking about people-eating, but somehow, Dmitry gets the impression that the reassurance extends far beyond that.

"How often do you eat?" He asks curiously, hazel eyes wandering away from Oliver's face to his exposed torso, cataloguing the tattoos there now like he'd done earlier with Oliver's forearm. "Nilsson," he whispers. The name sounds familiar, though he can't quite place where he's heard it before. It's certainly unusual for that region, though. Very Swedish. He lets go of Oliver's hand, instinctively, though carefully in case the other wishes to stop him, reaching to run his fingers lightly over the blackletter calligraphy that brands him.

It is only now that Dmitry seems to become aware of the blood on his own hands, now dried and cakey as it starts to flake off where it's thicker. A strange sort of expression works its way onto his face, like he wasn't expecting that to be there and like he's been yanked towards an unpleasant thought as he looks at his own hands, open palms, bony fingers outstretched as he lingers on it. Then he softly rests his hands on his lap, closing his eyes for a second to dismiss the thought before opening them again. He glances around quietly before landing back at the vodka. He considers drinking some more before he remembers that Oliver's right there. "Sorry," he apologizes, looking back at the other. "It's not you; I'm okay."

[kotttagare]

the moment of gentleness is so short lived, barely long enough for oliver's name to pass through the other's lips, but he is not surprised when it doesn't last. it wasn't built to, couldn't logically. though dmitry protests, oliver swallows up the blame for the paled expression on his face, the way he visibly goes elsewhere for a moment before returning. green eyes clock the way hazel hues land on the liquor bottle and the least he can do is pass the balm to ease the friction in this exchange. no manual for what to do when you find out someone is a monster, after all. "here, drink," he says as he proffers the bottle in dmitry's direction, putting a little space between them as he rises to his feet momentarily, quiet but thoughtful, trying to will his mind out of the dark where it is already counting whatever this is with the other in the past tense - it had been nice, knowing someone so soft and gentle, for instance. when he returns, it's with towel in hand, damp and being offered to dmitry to clean his red stained hands as oliver sinks back down on the floor next to him, albeit a little further away this time, and reaches for his turn to kiss the mouth of the bottle. "it was someone who had to be dealt with," he echoes their shared understanding of the concept from before, trying somewhere between subtly and desperately to pardon his way out of hell. "someone who was hurting people. girls, at the club. among other things."

[kotttagare]

VISUAL STUDY : 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖕𝖆𝖈𝕶

[acidcorrodes]

Dmitry gazes into jade green, placing a hand over Oliver's to hold it there along his jaw, not wanting him to pull away. No, he wants to keep the closeness. He feels inexplicably safe and wanted there, and it matters. He does notice the guilty look, however, and hears the seriousness in the words, like Oliver is treading carefully on the topic, like it's important and risky at the same time. He feels the roughness of Oliver's hands and doesn't mind it.

He considers the words carefully, suddenly feeling the vulnerability he perhaps should have felt earlier, when he was faced with blood, when he was given the word — kötttagare. He's half-dead anyway, not afraid, but he knows —and he feels, now— the monster could rip his flesh apart right there, right then, if he really wanted to. No, not monster. Just like himself, helpless to the fact. Friend.

Possibly the most dangerous question he could come up with suddenly spills from his lips, out his mouth, like the blood that's no longer there on Oliver's, like a broken dam. "Do I tempt you? Is it hard to hold back?"

[kotttagare]

mild surprise registers on oliver's expression when dmitry stills his hand against his cheek; he did not expect acceptance, least of all kindness, after being exposed so thoroughly for something horrific. it must help some that d is neither really living nor dead but some secret third option that oliver has mostly stopped trying to wrap his head around because it doesn't matter much, anyway. they both are what they are, for better or worse, and when he sees curiosity instead of revulsion in the other's eyes, he resolves to soldier through the conversation at hand. "not as much as you might think, not that way," he answers the question honestly. he is a sated dog, not a hungry one, which makes always for better loyalty to the code. hungry dogs are never loyal, and so oliver makes sure he is rarely hungry. "i'd eat my own hand before i touched you, anyways."

[simoneashley]

Bill Skarsgård as Eric The Crow (2024)

[acidcorrodes]

Dmitry hears Oliver's words and suddenly understands the previous, desperate request for him not to run away and the insistent assertion that he would never be hurt by Oliver. He kisses Oliver's hand softly and then turns to face him. "It's nice not having to hide from you," he replies. In a way, they are the same: an aberration of humanity, for better or for worse, clinging insistently to that which makes them people.

He wants so badly to promise he'll never go away, to reassure Ollie that he'll never have to see him dead again, that he'll stay forever, but he doesn't want to lie either. He resolves in secret to always come back to him no matter what. Dmitry marks that promise to Oliver with a kiss, telltale in that it's a little deeper, a little more serious and emotional than it would seem it should be, though it's not something he lets the other in on. The threat of cannibalism doesn't faze him, that much is certain.

[kotttagare]

as philosophical as oliver is, there are a great many things he chooses daily not to question, for better or worse. one of those such things is the depth of the kiss from the other, the trusting way he kisses the monster he's just discovered on the mouth that had only moments before been bloodied. it should go against every instinct dmitry has, is certainly a far cry from the revilement oliver had planned for when he laid bare the truth of what he is. he doesn't really subscribe to the idea of a god, per se, but he's mentally thanking something for being on his side with this particular scenario when he returns that kiss, inked digits resting along dmitry's jaw. his gaze is serious and a touch guilt laden when he pulls back. "i would never hurt you," he echoes his former words with more context this go around, calloused hands more suited to digging graves than caressing soft skin still cupping his face gently, as though he might splinter and shatter were oliver to be too rough. "not ever. i can control myself quite well."

[acidcorrodes]

"Walking's fine," he nods, accepting the offer. Before they leave to the bar, though, he glances around like he's looking for something. He seems to spot it in the corner of the alley, by the dumpster. "Котенка!" he says toward the darkness, in a friendly voice. A small rustling is heard but nothing else happens. He waits a moment before calling again, this time with more urgency. "Люша!" This time, the rustling stops and a small, black and white cat with bright green eyes emerges from the darkness.

The cat walks right up to Dmitry, behind him and then through his legs to sit at his feet, tail displaying friendly caution as she observes the stranger curiously. She meows and he picks her up, holding her close. "We're going with him," he says to her. "It'll be fine, c'mon." Then he sets her down again and nods to the taller man to indicate they can go. "That's my cat, Lisbeth."

[kotttagare]

under any other circumstances, oliver would be at least enthused to greet the four legged friend that slinks between the other's ankles, always a fan of animals when not preoccupied with living dead people and pondering the tenuousness of his grip on reality. all the same, he greets her with a nod, leaning down to offer his hand to the feline to smell in greeting. so there is a cat involved; why not? considering the pair of the people in tow, she is probably the least strange thing about the scene. once they begin their walk, his hands find his pockets again, nervous tick that brings some small comfort to the paled and slightly overwhelmed man who himself is too sober for this. "what is your poison?" he asks to make basic conversation as they make their way closer to the destination. "what suppose like, do you drink?"