Chapter Text
“Y-you're hurting me.”
Even the way he sucks in his breath is getting to you. Spinning your head into a fucked up frenzy of blood lust, the desire to see his organs, or lack of, coating the bedroom wall with filth. Lust, the human kind as well, twisting your stomach into knots as you bind his hands with rope.
“Ah- n-no, too tight, please don't t-tie it li-”
You hit him. Hard. Across the cheek.
Of course, he should apologise. He should apologise more. He should apologise for being what he is, and he should thank you for not blowing his head off when you found out in the kitchen.
An argument that you'd almost stopped between him and the bar guy, Yesenin. Upon hearing a verbal dispute break out, expletives, you'd made your way to the kitchen, to find Yesenin with his fist balled up in the coat guy's jumper.
“Let go.” He'd said, as firmly as you'd ever heard him speak.
“You're all the same, fucking freaks. You don't even have to be a visitor to be a fucking freak.”
Whatever had happened didn't even need your intervention, nor the fortune teller's, who had been off to the side just watching them with your neighbour's daughter peering at the men from her arms. The dispute was over almost as soon as you got in, because Yesenin seemed to notice it first.
He'd dropped the poor little bundle of nerves to the floor and recoiled with disgust. “What the fuck is that?”
You'd thought it was a generalised insult, reducing the cold man to his flaws by referring to him as ‘that’, ‘it’, or it was the old man's rather black and white view of the world. ‘It’, ‘that’, the ambiguously feminine and masculine traits the coat guy had. Perhaps he'd beat him a little bit, call him something you wouldn't repeat, but Yesenin took to recoiling his way to behind where the fortune teller and your neighbour's daughter sat together.
What the fuck is that? You'd only glimpsed it as the fabric of the coat guy's jumper had ridden up before he yanked it down and curled in on himself, hands over his head, knees to his chin.
Something you couldn't understand. It caught the other's curiosity too. And the altercation had summoned others to the doorway. You'd looked behind yourself and had seen wireface, the doctor and cashier girl. Sergo, Zoya and you couldn't recall the doctor's name. They'd all stared too, distanced enough to watch this unfold with the grace of leaving if it got ugly.
With the new audience, you didn't care, you'd stepped forward and forced the boy's hands from his hair, his legs from his chest. Splayed out like a corpse, only his chest was heaving, his eyes wild, as you'd put your gun to his forehead.
“D-don't shoot!” His voice was beautiful like that, begging. “Please, p-please don't do it.” Miserable, utterly fucking miserable. He knew he was fucked, and he knew whatever was under his thick jumper was also fucked.
In front of your unconventional housemates, you'd lifted the fabric and revealed the mess beneath. In all your life, you had never seen such a disgusting sight. Perhaps nobody else had either, judging by the mixed silence and mortified gasps.
Where his stomach was meant to be was a fleshly mess. It was like an exposed organ, pulsing and squirming out of sync with the coat guy's ragged breathing. Slightly pink closer to the middle, where it resembled a sex organ more than anything.
In the back of your mind, you'd briefly thought about what it would be like to stick your hand in there. You didn't want to shoot him, not until you'd run some tests.
As the situation defused, albeit into another one entirely, you remember Yesenin standing with you, repulsed, his face scrunched up. Professional curiosity, the doctor had waltzed over, followed by Zoya, the rest of them, all staring at the coat guy's vile body. He wasn't human.
“I know I'm d-disgusting, b-but please don't shoot.” He had sobbed. You realised how much you loved that sound, his breath hitching as he cried. “I can't help it, I didn't w-want to be like this, it's not m-m-my fault.”
And before anyone else could've ripped the gun from your hands and finished the job themselves, you'd dragged the distraught creature out from the kitchen and into your bedroom.
Where you are now. Making sure he was… isolated. Contained. God knows what he is; a visitor? Or something else entirely?
Your morals are flaky these days.
“I'm sorry…” You'd hit him, hadn't you? His lip wobbles before he starts chewing on it for comfort, you assume. “It- it's t-too tight, it hurts.” He whines. You like that sound.
Good. You hope it fucking hurts. God, you're sick. You love it, huh? You're so terribly sick. Ever since you'd let the coat guy in, you'd felt something stirring deep in your body. Feelings, sensations, urges; urges you hadn't experienced for what seemed like an eternity.
You wanted to hurt him. Push his fear and discomfort as far as possible, and this was the perfect excuse. It didn't matter that he was probably, definitely, a visitor. All that mattered was ruining him. You wanted to see him squirm, beg, cry out for mercy, for more, you have no morals. As long as he was underneath you, as long as you had him, it didn't matter what he was. It certainly didn't matter that he had some malformation that seemed to deeply upset him. In fact, you were going to start there. Make him beg.
It didn't matter. He's precious. You're sure of that. He's beautiful, he's divine.
You finish securing his wrists flush with each other, tying the same rope around the edge of the radiator so he could at least sit on the floor and wallow in his misery. He won't be able to stand, nothing useful, you only give him the mercy of slightly loosening the knots. He thanks you, over and over again until you shush him.
“Alright. What's your name?”
The stare he gives you is almost as good as the sounds he makes late at night, whimpering and shivering. But his eyes look so beautiful now, all red and glassy from crying.
What a sick fuck you'd become. You weren't like this before.
Pathetic. Both of you.
“N-Nikita.”
“Nikita?”
He nods.
“Okay, Nikita. This is how it's going to work.” It's better to be upfront. Maybe he's wondering why you didn't shoot him. Perhaps he'll beg for it, in time. You shiver with anticipation. He's right where you want him, the power trip you're on is absolutely intoxicating. Who cares if he's upset? You revel in it. “You're not allowed to leave anymore. Alright?” You're unsure of your own logic. “You're going to stay put in my room, and you're going to behave.” He didn't even hurt anyone. He's innocent, you're at fault for doing this. You're worse. Yesenin is worse for grabbing him like he did, the fortune teller is worse for standing idly by and doing nothing. The doctor, Zoya, Sergo, they did nothing. Nobody stood up for him, did they? What did he even do?
He's not human. You can treat him how you want, right? That's how you'll justify it. He's not human. It's okay if he hates it. Maybe he'll learn to love it, to love you.
How fucking deluded.
“Please, I promise, I- I'll be good.”
You're honestly losing your mind. You're sick.
You pat his cheek, soft under your palm, cold. “That's the spirit.”
Of course, he probably thinks you might just let him be. Lock the door, turn off the lights and let him cry by himself.
No such luck.
You stand to check the lock on the door, for your own sanity, and take that moment to look at Nikita from where you tower over him. His eyes hold your gaze like prey under the threat of gunfire.
Kneeling back down in front of him, you push his jumper up and hold the hem at his mouth. He seems to understand what you want him to do, parting his lips so he can hold the wool between his teeth.
“Good boy.”
You look down at his stomach. It squirms by itself, disconnected from the shuddering breaths that rattle his chest. Now you're alone with him, you can look closely at his insecurity.
It's grotesque. A slightly sunken pit that curves round in a fleshy spiral. Like the intestine, had it been wrapped round itself and layered and fused at different sections. It's the same pallid shade of grey as his skin, albeit a little more sore looking closer to the middle. It draws your eye, your attention, but there really aren't any other words to describe it except ‘disgusting’. It is disgusting.
You want to touch it. Without thinking any harder about the craving you'd had since exposing him earlier, you let your fingers trace the edge where his normal skin meets the warped flesh. It's softer, like an organ. If you had to pick, you'd liken it to the consistency of the innards of an animal.
Nikita whimpers. You look up to see his eyes fixed on you again, his head shaking ‘no’ as your fingers tease the ‘opening’. You wonder if it will hurt him. That excites you as much as the idea of fucking him. Perhaps this will satisfy both areas of intrigue.
You take the hem of his jumper out of his mouth and push it up against his chest.
He stammers. “N-no, please…”
But it's not like he can stop it from happening.
“I'll be gentle. Okay?”
It's not reassurance. From where your hand presses on his chest, you can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage. What a delightful feeling it is. Your heart jumps too.
One finger sinks in alarmingly easily. Nikita practically wheezes. Never felt anything like that before, right?
You don't even let him adjust to the intrusion, pressing another finger in alongside the first. The sound that rips from his throat is the best noise you've ever heard. It seems that words aren't possible right now as Nikita's whole body writhes in agony or pleasure, you can't tell.
All five of your fingers push past the split opening, and soon your whole hand is inside his stomach. It's unbelievably warm within the mess of flesh. It doesn't feel cold like he claims to be. In fact, even his ‘normal’ skin is heating up. At least he'll be warmer, right?
You almost smirk at the thought. In what world was this an act of service? Is it not just your cruelty finally surfacing after being held down like a rabid, frenzied, animal?
Nikita has nothing to say, only able to smush his forehead into the hard metal of the radiator. You see drool rolling down his chin as he whimpers.
His attention snaps back to you when your hand squeezes into a fist inside him. That makes his legs jitter. His whole body goes tense.
“D-don't.” Is all he can stutter out. He sounds so fucking pathetic.
“Shh. Good boy. That's it.”
But you ignore him. ‘Don't’, ‘please’, ‘no’. It all spurs you on. The fog in your head grows thicker and sweeter. In turn, your fingers go deeper, spread wider. Nikita's hands clench into fists.
His eyes roll back as he slams his head back into the radiator, obviously the pain from that impact has nothing on the sensation being wrung out from his grotesque hole. You plunge your hand in deeper, a little way past the wrist, almost enjoying the horrific feeling of being squeezed by an organ that had no name.
His garbled pleas and whimpers sound divine. As you fuck the hole deeper, he breathes even harder, squirming where he's shackled to your radiator. Nikita bites so hard into his lip that it begins to bleed again, reopening the wound he'd given himself yesterday. You watch as he rubs his legs together. Desperate. Fucking pathetic.
The stupid whore is getting off on it. So are you.
You jam your knee between his legs, your kneecap digging into his weeping hard on. Nikita moans, broken.
When you twist your fingers around, curling the digits randomly, then in rhythm, Nikita arches so suddenly that you almost jump back. He shrieks, like you're actually digging around in his organs. Perhaps that's what it feels like. In which case, if that was the truth, then he's even more fucked in the head than you.
“That good?” You lean in close to his ear, and his head immediately crashes into your shoulder, nuzzled into your neck. He's breathing frantically.
Nikita doesn’t say anything that you can clearly make out. It's as if his brain is melting, like there's only slop left in his head. The noises he's making are driving you crazy. That, and the debauched sucking and squelching from his hole are so unbelievably lewd. It's disgusting.
You watch his expression this time as you ease your arm in further. What a beautiful face. His mouth parts but no sound comes out. When it does, however, it's as if he's being strangled.
There's a sickly haze clouding your judgement. You want to fuck him, you're so painfully hard. So is he. But you don't need to sate yourself in such a way. This is better.
You plunge your arm in quickly this time, up to your elbow, ignoring the resistance as you grunt and force yourself deeper.
Nikita screams, and you laugh, because you can't process the bliss either, a sickly, sticky, suffocating lust, one that's squeezing your nerves and starving them of sense.
“Oh m-m-my God-” His voice cracks, his body jerks like he's being electrocuted, or split apart. The heels of his feet grind into the floor, hard bones jittering across the wooden surface. “Th-there! Ah- again-!”
That's it. Beg for it. Fucking beg for it.
Now you like it.
“You're disgusting.” Your own breathing is ragged, you can hear the smirk on your lips as you say it.
“I- I am, I'm disgusting!” He wails, repeating it after you as if his brain can't form its own thoughts right now. That sounds about right.
“You gonna come?”
Between you jamming your arm as far as it will go inside him, and the knee to his crotch, Nikita responds to you but you don't hear it. Your heart is thundering in your ears.
One last twist of your fingers and one last plunge of your arm past the elbow into his repulsive abnormality has the boy panting so hard you briefly think he'll die on you.
Nikita wails as he reaches his orgasm, heaving for breath as he arches his back, coming in his pants like a pitiful virgin as he grinds into your knee.
Through the haze of his comedown, you stutter to your feet and hastily unzip your trousers. You've neglected yourself while focusing on overstimulating the poor boy. You take his jaw in your hand and angle his face towards your dick as it stands, aching, in your hand.
“Open.”
He does so without making a fuss.
What makes you come is the tears running down his cheeks rather than the fact your dick is down his throat.
He looks like a used up whore. A wet patch over his crotch, spit down his chin, his hair completely out of place.
Stumbling back, you land on the edge of the bed. You feel a deep, depraved satisfaction overcome you. That's what you've been driven to; aren't you ashamed? How can you treat someone like that?
Nikita hangs his head down. He shivers, but you're not sure if it's the lack of contact making him cold again or if he's started crying again.
You turn off the lights as you leave. And only as you turn the lock do you hear him sobbing from the other side of the door.
You did that. It feels good.