Dead Dove Do Eat

“██.” The word comes out strangled, barely making it past his lips. His mouth ought to be dry. It would be more characteristic of the dread gripping his heart.

But when ██ inhales, and the artery in his neck presses against his skin and flutters along with his heartbeat, all Michael can think of is that it is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

If he bit down, it would be disastrous. Not only would he destroy that wonderful rhythm, his friend, he has to remember that this is his friend--

Michael grinds his teeth, willing them to lock together. The tension in his back is wound tighter than a spring. A lapse in concentration and he’s sure it would all release into a single terrible moment. One of his arms trembles with the effort.

His hands flex, trying and failing to grind ██’s shoulders into the ground. Stupid. Stupid mistake. The only change is the prick of his claws digging into his skin. Even the tiny beads of blood are overwhelming to his nose. It‘s not enough.

Michael focuses on the shake of his arm. Willing it to be still is infinitely preferable to paying attention to the maddening beat of ██’s heart. He knows this is a losing battle. The gnawing of his gut is more persistent than his will. But he can’t, he can’t… He can’t move. If he moves? His body will simply snap ██ up on its own. He can’t do that, he can’t lose his friend like that--

██ murmurs something. Michael drags his eyes up to his face, despairing over how excruciating that action alone is. Focus. He’s. Saying something.

The expression ██ wears is inscrutable. Maybe if Michael had more presence of mind, he would wonder why he doesn’t look more frightened. Why his voice remains so even.

“... for the thigh instead.” ██ says. “Please just not the throat.”

Yes. Right. Michael swallows. The hunger burns at the back of his throat, pale and cold and dizzy. It tastes like static. Least he can do. Listen.

Stiffly, he lifts a hand from ██’s shoulder. It hurts to even think about. Has he even tried? Did his hand move? He finds it back there again, and Michael whines with the struggle to get somewhere new. Agony. He can’t give up on eating like this-- fuck. That’s not what’s happening here. He has to-- he has to move. He has to. His claws dig into the ground, fingers curling into the earth as it crunches it into gravel.

No. Nonono. No, no, he can’t even-- he can tell his body hates the idea, that even trying is agony, that its so convinced moving even an inch away from him is giving up on what would fix this stupid gnawing hunger, but he can’t, ██ asked, if he can’t save him he can at least listen--

An apology is perched on his tongue, but he fears the moment he opens his mouth he’ll find his teeth buried in ██’s collar.

He can’t save him.

But he has to do something. If he can’t-- no biting, he’d drain him dry and there’d be no time and no rescue and then-- if he can’t bite then, then…

If he can…

Oh. It’s so simple. The clarity washes over him all at once, relaxing every muscle. The internal storm is smoothed over into a mere ripple. He’s going to fix this, and everything will be alright. ██ closes his eyes, and Michael is assured he sees it too.

He has the single thought of ‘Please no,’ before he yanks ██ up towards his mouth and presses his head hard against the roof of his throat.

The taste on his tongue is heaven.

He swallows, and the way his throat stretches to accommodate makes him want to cry. The body trapped in his hold twitches, in surprise maybe, then relaxes.

The weight pressed against his palate isn’t enough. It's not enough. There’s still so much more, he can drown this dizziness in blood and be full, finally full. It's better than that, he can have everything, everything, everything, no waste, no leftovers, it all belongs to him.

The stinging hunger reminds him he still has to put it inside him. There’s no time to be careful, there’s no point. Savoring this is useless he’s hungry now and he needs it he needs it he needs it—

Michael pins the body’s limp arms to its sides and practically shoves it down his throat. His fangs rip through fabric, scraping frantically against skin. The meager taste of blood is so good his heart might sing. Anything to get that internal roaring to stop.

The weight becomes odd to handle, and he has to lift in order to keep gulping it down. So close. A heartbeat patters inside his throat.

Distantly, he wonders why there’s no struggling. His claws grip around what must be a leg, yet it does not kick.

Then he feels something push into his stomach.

The relief is cataclysmic. All thoughts are abandoned as Michael pulls it deeper, desperate to replace the terrible emptiness. It slips down his throat like a prayer. Then it is squeezed into his core, shifted around until it's forced to fold in on itself. All at once the empty space runs out. Electricity thrills up his spine. Now the weight is forced to push against the inside of his body, making new room. His stomach rumbles as it wakes up, realizing it has something to do.

Michael swallows thickly. Far too soon is the rest of it sliding past his lips, leaving his jaws to click shut against empty air. Another moment, and it passes his gullet entirely. His stomach greets it with searching, eager pressure, groaning loudly.

Michael whimpers, and tears spring to his eyes.

“Fuck,” He sighs. The pain is gone. There remains only the dull want for satisfaction, pulsing as it begins work. He feels movement against his insides as everything settles into place. Right where it should be.

“Fuck!” He repeats, giggling with manic relief. It crashes over him in waves, collapsing his stress like so many grains of sand. ”There, good, that’s so good, finally… I’m, you taste good, so good, thank youthankyou thank you, please, feel good…”

His lap feels heavy with a weight that's not his own. It should be warm. This feels dissonant, out of place. Ought to be warm. But he’s full, and that’s what matters. His tail curls around the curve of his belly, and Michael follows suit. The outlines of a body press against his skin. His hands press back, smoothing over the contours in quiet awe. The concave dread has been replaced by a tight pressure, pushing back against him through weight and mass alone.

That’s… ██? That’s ██. He doesn’t struggle, for whatever reason. It wouldn’t matter if he did. He’s not getting out.

A dim revulsion shudders at the thought. But everything else glows.

It’s the best thing he’s ever goddamn felt.

“Please stay,” Michael mumbles. “M’sorry, I’m sorry, need you… need this, I… don’t go.”

He can’t lose this. If he loses this, if he— he can’t go back to that hollowness. No. He needs to keep this feeling, this ecstatic fullness, feel that future satiation.

He wants to sleep… he’s been up on so little energy for too long, because there was food… right there, just right of reach. Torturous. But now he… Oh. He has food. He can sleep.

He can… sleep.

”Ah…” Michael sighs, and topples over. His eyes droop closed. Everything is quiet save for the rumble of oncoming digestion.

Though no memory is encoded, sensation continues. His senses are hazy. They are filtered through unconsciousness, discarded and unimportant. Everything is still and quiet. There is little warmth to be found. The only activity is from within his own body.

That is important. It requires little processing power, but it has the full scope of his nigh nonexistent attention. It grinds against every hard edge, trying to mold limbs into more acceptable shapes. Constant, endless work.

Occasionally, there is foreign movement. A shift, as the organ’s lone occupant is jostled into a new position. The gentle press of a chest as it breathes, a heart pumping within it. Sometimes, a hand running over the soft folds of muscle. Signs of life. Intoxicating things. Energy to be processed.

For a long while, nothing much changes.

Hours churn by.

His core feels vaguely warm, leeching every drop of energy it can knead out. Perhaps the only active part of his entire body. Everything else has been guided into stasis, waiting for when it can spare the output. More work to be done.

There is a flutter beneath Michael’s skin, as the body inside discovers it can’t move as well anymore. The pressure has eased, the contents no longer so firm. A deep growl rolls by, the sound more liquid than it was before. Everything is softer.

Eventually, all movement ceases, save the subtle bump of a heartbeat. Warmth blossoms through his body. It’s rolled across every fold, pressed deep into the creases of his stomach. It spreads into his cells, working deep into his tissue. Heat. Blessed heat. For once, Michael’s sleep is content.

…

… ?

Michael blinks awake. For a hazy moment, he has no idea where he is.

There’s a heavy warmth inside his body, melted into him like butter. Dazed, Michael feels… content. How odd. He’s tempted to sleep again, relaxed by the casual fullness— then he wonders why he’s full, and the cold realization crashes into him.

██.

Michael sits up so fast the air whistles. He feels something press against his thighs that really shouldn’t be there. Warm, warm, he shouldn’t be warm he’s not allowed to--

“Shit,” He hisses. Is ██ even alive? Fuck. Fuck. He’s got to get him out, he has to fix this, he can’t have, he can’t, he has to-- What has he done?

He can feel it as his stomach churns, kicking up a chorus of burbles and groans. A shiver travels down his spine, forcing his tail to flick.

… Oh.

Oh, oh god. He really wants that to have been caused by fear. Everything would be so much easier it was. Fuck, what is WRONG with him? He can’t even panic correctly because the back of his mind keeps insisting everything is fine if he’s full and warm like this, there’s no danger because everything’s quiet and he’s not starving anymore and-- and, and… ██ might be dead because of him.

Shame washes over him, hot and heavy. It brings along the prickling unease of disgust, wriggling under his skin.

Michael retches. He pitches forward, coughing. Liquid bubbles up his throat, splattering on the ground. Wrong, wrong, wrong, that’s not him-- there’s a film coating his mouth, dribbling past his lips in thick droplets. It tastes too much like meat and iron. The texture is all wrong. Inconsistent. It’s slick, far too slick, and he doesn’t want to think about it--

Something catches in his throat, and Michael cringes as he reaches in to drag it out. It snags on his fangs, and he winces, desperately hoping that this is fabric, not flesh. With his taste overwhelmed by blood, he has no way to tell. The texture doesn’t help. It’s pulpy, falling apart in his fingers. He drops it, vaguely hoping it wasn’t something crucial. The wet splat makes him flinch.

Still not ██. The name catches on his teeth, same as the stretch of possible flesh. Fuck. It didn’t occur to him til now, but… is ██ even… solid?

Michael sits there for a moment, staring into nothing. Slowly, hesitantly, he raises his hand. Presses it into his gut. His claws sink through flesh, and dread starts to vice his heart. Too little resistance. Please be wrong? Please, please prove him wrong… his claws slide, prodding, hoping.

Wait. There. A firm outline beneath his fingers, buried in thick liquid. Then it slips away from him, and Michael loses track of it. He yanks his hand away as if burned.

… not… as solid as he’d hoped, but…

Michael puts his face in his hands and groans. As much as he loathes this, it… it feels fantastic. For once he’s full, really full, satiated and fuzzy warm. The weight in his stomach is so goddamn nice. It’s fucking revolting.

Okay. Fuck. Even if he can’t be decent and stop finding this enjoyable, somehow, he still needs to get ██ the hell out.

Michael leans over, cupping the bottom of his belly. Up and out. Simple. But not easy. He has to fight himself just to hack ██ up into his throat, struggling against the urge to consider it a loss. Then all at once he slips free, and Michael scrambles to catch him as gently as he can. All this and then he fucking drops him?? No. Michael sets ██ down with all the care he can manage.

The relief is so edifying his head swims. There. Good. Michael is abruptly sobered by the gnawing regret in his core, upset to have its promised meal torn away from it. He just wishes it’d shut up. For good measure, he shuffles away from ██ until there’s healthy space between them.

Wait. In his mouth. Something came off of ██. Michael can feel it still, resting on his tongue like a lead weight. What? What the hell does he do with this?? No, no, he… His face is too wet. When did that happen? Michael rubs at his eyes, immediately regretting it as streaks of blood are left behind on his cheeks, mingling with the tears.

His stomach isn’t as empty as it should be. There remains a soft, warm satisfaction in his bones, happy to whet its appetite on blood and flesh. It continues to mull over what it still has left. When he moves his arms, they brush unexpectedly against the new swell of his middle, and just the reminder of what he’s stolen makes him want to empty himself out. ██ didn’t deserve this, he… it wouldn’t put him back together, though, would it?

But Michael doesn’t deserve to feel good about this. He doesn’t deserve to feel warm, or full, or… He stares at the mess on the ground. The chunks and pulp, the red smear that isn’t entirely blood. It’s too thin here, too thick there.

He stares absently at the person in the center of it all. If there's signs of life, they’re drowned in the way his vision swims and head rings.

… Barely a person, now. Michael doesn’t dare look too long, afraid to see how much is left attached to ██’s thin frame. His mouth tastes vaguely acrid. Overwhelmingly like blood.

What does he do now? Does he… what point would there be to get rid of everything else inside him? It’s not like it would help ██. It’d… be a waste. A waste of what he went through. It’d waste ██.

… Had he already wasted ██'s life, taking what’s left of him out like this? Is he already dead?

For half a second, Michael considers swallowing him again. He snarls. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He looks down at his hands, and the movement sends tears rolling off his face to patter uselessly into his open palms. Blood dries on his fingers, pooling into the webbing, caking into the undersides of his scales. The urge to lick them clean is so natural that it makes him want to laugh at the casual monstrosity of it all. How dare he? Can’t even have basic respect for his friend…

His tongue presses that lump of flesh against the roof of his mouth. Teases it between his teeth. Unable to decide if he ought to spit it out.