Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/544430.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Rose_Lalonde/Dave_Strider
  Character:
      Rose_Lalonde, Dave_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      Body_Horror, Incest, Grimdark, Horrorterrors_-_Freeform, Dom/sub
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-23 Words: 382
****** i can play the strings of your death ******
by typicalAcademic
Summary
     when they kissed now it was nothing like her kisses before. she was a
     sunny day with a downpour, she was the choking empty space and the
     scorching stars. she was terrible to behold, she was like heaven to
     touch.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
He’s never been one for devotion. bodies are bodies, not temples or wonders or
even tombs. He wouldn’t say it aloud in life but now that his eyes have gone
milky white any pretense is gone. The only thing keeping him going is rare
moments of her laughter, garbled and bubbling like murky sludge in a swamp, and
she when tucks him into her arms and whispers Eldritch horror into his mind.
He would not now say that bodies cannot be objects of the divine. Not since he
first saw the Horrorterrors swell around her, felt their creeping,
sensationless prodding at the corners of his psyche, like something in the
corner of his eye.
When they kissed now it was nothing like her kisses before. She was a sunny day
with a downpour, she was the choking empty space and the scorching stars. She
was terrible to behold, she was like heaven to touch.
Sometimes he wants to stop; not stop kissing her, but stop breathing. He can
hear it whispered when they curl up together, not sure if it’s leaving her lips
or in his ear like tiny worms. Would you love more if I was like you, he asks,
face buried in her lap, the only way he can feel small anymore instead of like
all of time is stretching out inside him. Sometimes I wonder if you are tired
of me, he murmurs. Something strokes his hair, it could be her fingertips or
theirs, he’ll never ask. My body is a dead language and you pronounce each word
perfectly, he recites.
She compels him, or they compel him, he’s not sure he makes a distinction
anymore, he follows her suggesting touches with submissive joy, kisses when she
asks him to, bites down hard enough to draw blood if she had any, licks and
sucks and prods inside her until she’s undone, until her swirling darkness
fills him, rewards him, coos over him while he loses himself in overwhelming
nothingness, in her eyes, in her permission, in her commanding will over him.
Afterwards, each time, she wraps him in their inky darkness and coddles him
like an infant, like a baby brother, like a lover. What would Freud say, he
asked once. She grins, and her lips crackle with magic.
End Notes
     written for graveyard smash on lj
     prompt:
     homestuck, dave/rose
     my body's a zombie for you.
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