Ramblloyd possessive/murder drabble.
So, news flash: I'm kind of a freak freak, but it's only since coming to tumblr that I've tried to embrace that to its fullest.
I'm, like, big into Indigo Park, and you know, I write, so I thought I might throw some words onto a page to help fuel my rampant obsession with the most unhealthy false realities the likes of which would have me excommunicated from the church promptly.
I came up with this monstrosity about Lloyd fantasizing about murdering Rambley in the most carnal, animalistic expression of desire I could feasibly depict while being demonstrably sleep-deprived. Last night, I got two hours of sleep, and a few hours ago, I got three.
This short drabble came out of my head immediately after waking up both times. You can blame some jackass(/pos) I found on this hellsite for inadvertently—but absolutely intentionally—filling my head with these thoughts. Check out @rexcake because it'd be rude not to tag them for doing this to me.
It's pretty much predicated on my tired-ass reasoning that Rambley's Railroad is, like, the main attraction or something, and it goes past all his friends and their attractions so they can all spout off cutesy lines to each other and whatnot while people watch. Like in the game, but with the actual mascots. Fill in how they look in your head; I'm too tired to write a fifteen-thousand word setpiece for this 700 word drabble.
I'd come up with something better and more nuanced, and this is definitely just a drabble—i'm so fucking tired and I wrote this in like a combined hour—but still, I like it, and I think some of the other freaks on here will like it, too.
So, here you go! Trigger warning: weirdos only!
--------------- ~Slight gore warning~ ---------------
Every day, like clockwork, he comes around the bend at the helm of his pretty little pink train-on-rails, black-furred cheeks split wide in an adorably pointy smile if he’s not chattering animatedly about trains this and trains that to all the adoring young gazes in the cars behind him.
If only they knew. If only he knew.
How your gaze lingers, far longer than the script demands.
How your heart begins to beat off-key, syncopation blossoming as all the most fetid things within rise to the surface.
You can hardly keep yourself from slurring the script, counting him in to the applause of your illustrious theatre of grand affairs as his train slows down to let the kids get an eyeful. Spectators gawk and cheer at your proud stature, arms spread wide in a greeting as the halls echo with the warm tones of your booming dialect.
You can see him roll his eyes through the glare of the stage light, hiding his frown from the audience by turning to fiddle with his train's dials and whistles. It’s not part of the show; you know he’d just as soon kick the engine and skip your part of the ride altogether.
Thoughts of him barreling down the track, peaking shrieks and cries of gasping terror filling the railway as you throw every last ounce of yourself into giving feverish chase on all fours fill your head without warning.
Your next line comes out too rough; the throaty thrum of a snarl rises on the edge of a guttural growl, and you can see the shiver crawl up his spine by the way his striped tail curls and he straightens to hide it.
How would he look, clutched in the flexing grip of your mighty paws? Would he whimper? Cry? Perhaps he’d berate you as he always does, crossing those too delicate black-and-gray arms with a splay of his so biteable triangle ears back, pretending like it’s all a part of the show and you’d let him go any second now.
Not the show. Nobody could ever know how you feel—what you’d do to him.
So you let him go, waving him off to the sound of a toot toot just as you always do and giving a bow to your rapt public before the curtains fall over the stage with a gentle shiff, leaving you in the darkness all your own.
Motionless and still, chest heaving with exerted pants from a chase not given, eyes wide with deathly focus from a hunt not pursued. Your micless paw still unsheathed with unblooded claws—wide, toothy smile still taintlessly white.
How you’d love to, though. How you’d cherish the memory of feeling his last breath flutter against your lips, stained fangs still dirtied with torn tendons and chips of bone fragments from when your jaws had gone crunch through his thigh. His whimpers of pain into your mouth so nearly as delicious as he was.
Nearly too sweet to stomach; a moment too final to ever let come to pass. Feeling every inch of his smooth, silken fur darken with sticky crimson; his paws still desperately trying to push you away even as his life left him with every choked murmur, and as you raked your gore-spattered claws across his back. Tearing the most precious thing in the world to ribbons just because you can, because he was finally yours.
So much smaller; so much more delicate. You could eclipse him in a single bound, snuff him out with a squeeze like a stuffed animal too full of cotton. It’d be so easy, and it’d be so pure. You were made for each other—the predator and the prey. You want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything; more than the stage, more than the crowds, and far—far more than wealth or fame or adulation.
You need him. You need to have him, and hold him, and devour him until there was nothing left because that was the only way he could truly be yours. No one else’s; entirely, utterly, yours.
But not yet. Not too soon, and not while anyone else could see.
For now, and for as long as there were eyes upon you, you would wait.
Wait for the day the hunt might finally begin.
And he would be all yours.
