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koukaaa-descent · 3 months

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ITELL ME MORE ABOUT BRACKEN AND MASKED QUEER PLATONIC RELATIONSHIP PLEASE. OR DRAW IT . BEGGINF FRIEND I NEED TO SEE .NEED TO KNOW WHAT IS THEIR DYNAMIC TELL ME HOW THEY FEEL

(CAN I ASK WHOS FRONTING I NEED TO FROTH ABOUT THIS AND USE THE RIGHT REFERRAL )

Everythjgn... Beneath The Cut. Prepare Thyself.

Both are dead. Both are alive. Both can die, and both are immortal. (holdon I need to write this in story format or else nothing I Mean will come across.,) (tgis was written in one sitting while my brain was mush I Hope that explains. Things)

The corpse is beautiful. The body is warm in its lap, the thick material of the Mask's host's covering hardly disguising the shifting of flesh beneath. An intricate man-made second skin. It does not yet know what to do with the face peering up at it.

There is light, drifting through the ceiling. It catches on the edges of the Mask, stark and wonderful. It curls a hand around infinitely fragile flesh, heedless to the rustle of its own foliage as it dares to settle into this place, where it fits as perfectly as it always has. A human hand reaches up and cradles its jaw, its clumsy thumb gliding smoothly over the edge of its beak. It could open its jaws and do something terrible. It does not.

Time is impossibly long. It is also impossibly short. It has been a mere two weeks, and, already, the Mask is falling apart yet again. The sickly scent of rot is more than welcome by this point. It has known the other and has kept its corpses for long enough to desire such vile things, seeking the scent of rot whenever it is lost in the winding, empty halls. A home to return to.

Another stroke. The Mask accidentally pierces itself with the tip of its beak. Blood spills, thick and black. Beautiful. It cranes its head downward, gently shaking the curious, bleeding hand away. The hand settles, instead, in the soft foliage just beginning to grow around the width of its shoulders. A hitched sound, soft and gurgling. A sharp clatter of delight, the Mask trembling around the edges in its tired wonder, despite this being nothing new to it. The hard material of its beak clicks against the white surface of the Mask, lightly tapping against it. Affection, soft and warm. Foreign. The glow of its eyes reflects back at itself.

It is going to die. The Mask, too, is going to die. They are both going to die. Luck will not last forever; one day, the Mask will be found by another, and it will lose the other forever. One day, it itself will meet its own fate, by either blade or bullets. Hiding away as they both do now is the only respite. They can not hide forever.

Warmth. Warmth against the soft expanse of its bared throat. A hand—the Mask's hand—gentle. Gentle. It is a wonder that a rotting thing remembers tenderness.

It stares up at its monster. The body fires slow, delayed responses, nerves trembling before the enormous thing, instinctually still beneath stark white eyes. The fear devours the body, strange and dissonant. The Mask smiles, smiles, and smiles, partly because it is all it can do. Mostly because it is what it wants to do.

Its creature is gentle. It has to be. Otherwise, the Mask's host will crumble and fall apart beneath its claws. They two have done this a thousand times before. One is always dying in the arms of the other. Only one is lucky enough to live past death. It is so happy; it has its head in its oldest friend's lap. To die with it is a gift.

A hand, softened with decay, frail against the monster's throat. Its monster is warm. It is comforting.

A foreign thought. Five more minutes. But five minutes is hardly enough. It will never be enough.

The tips of the monster's claws hook carefully beneath the edges of the Mask, familiar with this routine. It's smiling. It's glad.

It is pulled from its host. It goes willingly. The host's hand sags away from its beasts throat.

Then, after drawling moments of lingering wakefulness spent impossibly warm within large, clawed hands; a dream.

It is a very lovely dream. In it, its monster holds it close, forever and ever. Until the end of time, until it is devoured by death. Until it, too, falls asleep, and dreams a very lovely dream.

(In it, it is holding the Mask, bathed in sunlight. The dream goes on and into an eternity that the eye can not see.)

#lethal company #lethal company masked #lethal company bracken #koukart #queer platonic relationship #yea so you know what i mean when i say qpp life partners #this may or may not slightly tie into my masked hc post #(the masks leaving themselves in warm places when the host is too rotted to continue using)#this was written Really quickly because i HAD to get this out of my brain #excuse any typos or weird sentences:#rrurgrrhrhr #kokadrafts

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