[FANFIC] Like Pinning Butterflies (Ten)
Title: Like Pinning Butterflies (Ten)
Author: ienvy
Fandom: South Park
Pairing: Craig/Tweek
Rating: NC-17 (just to be safe, no smut but plenty of violence)
Summary: Craig Tucker is sick. And Craig Tucker is madly, irrevocably obsessed with Tweek Tweak.
Warnings: This story is NOT for those who are easily disturbed or upset. This story is intended to be very morbid and macabre and will contain subjects that most of the population find upsetting. In case you're wondering, these subjects will be along the lines of: stalking, torture, morbid/macabre love, death, suicide, rape and so on, so forth.
Notes: This was inspired/based off of 'The Horror of Our Love' by Ludo.
A/N: Remember I appreciate every little comment~ comment if you hate it, love it or just want it to end already~ We're close to the end, dears, don't you worry.
Directory of Chapters
“As I sweat and crush you.
And I hold your beating chambers
Until they beat no more.
You die like angels sing.”
---
Kenny’s home is less of a home but more like a shack. Opened and empty cupboards, piles and dishes, dirty counters, stained green carpeting, ripping upholstery.. its all falling to bits around them, but it remains the only safe place. Kenny’s father is gone, blame the alcohol abuse, and his mother exhibits an amount of sorrowful love, trying her best to display how eager she is to be loved in return. She doesn’t ask any questions when the four of them stumble in - Tweek hobbling uneasily on one leg. Kyle and Stan muttering beneath their breath, her own son covered in blood. And all covered in a layer of ash, bringing a wave of smoke with them into her sloppy home - No, she leaves them be, brings mugs of hot chocolate, though for months thereafter, she will question her choice that night to retrain from calling the cops or the hospital. No, she leaves them be and is on her way to her night shift at the gas station. For now, they are safe.
Tweek’s leg is outstretched on Kenny’s bed while Kyle rolls up his pants and examines it. Stan stis beside him, watching and waiting. Kenny paces at Tweek’s side, eyeing the impossible angle that pale leg is bent at, guilt chewing his nails down to little stubs.
“We should’ve found him sooner.” Kenny finally says, shattering that fragile silence.
“Kenny, don’t-“
“No, this didn’t have to happen!” Kenny says, stopping, glaring down at that leg, defying its tangibility. “This didn’t have to fucking happen.”
“We tried, dude. It’s not like we had a GPS or something to find him, we did our best.” Stan stands, irritated, defensive.
At least we found him in one piece.
Their words dip in and out of Tweek’s conscious, words and sentences that mean something, surely, but he just can’t put them together right now. Not yet. He just stares at Kenny, at his parka, at that blood. It’s so bright. Curious that Stan and Kyle haven’t pointed it out yet, he glances to their arguing faces. Everything seems to slow down. Kyle’s talking as he wraps up his leg, Stan is shaking his head. Neither of them notice all that blood. Curiouser and curiouser. He twists his neck back to gaze at all that blood, watches and imagines he can see it drying, crusting over, another stain for the collection.
“Where’s it from?”
He must’ve interrupted something important, because all three turn to stare at him. They must not have heard him.
“What’s all that blood from?”
On cue, Kyle and Stan and Kenny look to the parka, stare at it with the same resolve before they return to their tasks. The argument dies. Kenny shrugs off his parka, tosses it to the ground and sits on a chair, morose. Tweek opens his mouth to ask again, but Kenny interjects before he can even speak.
“It’s from Craig.”
Tweek waits for a further explanation, but no such sustenance leave Kenny’s mouth, making him wonder: Had Kenny killed Craig? Gotten rid of all those nasty little problems just like that? He thinks little more of this. The pain killers send him back down beneath a few layers of consciousness.
Those in the room remain on silent guard, alert and protective. Tweek sleeps.
---
Craig’s battered body lays in the wooded ditch, dead eyes gazing eternally at the stars, blood pools melting little craters into the snow. No one would miss him, not really. That’s not the motivation that captures him safely from death’s clutches. No, what drags Craig back from hell’s gate is the idea, unfathomable as it is, that Tweek was no longer his, that Tweek had escaped.
He pulls himself up like a corpse from its grave, dead leaves and blood clinging to his clothes, bruises shining in the dark. He eyes the shard of glass protruding from his side, Kenny’s crude choice of a weapon. Touches the spot on his cheek where Kenny had cut him open, leaving a smile permanently etched into his face. He fingers his neck, feels that long gash, not quite deep enough.
For now though, he resolves as he limps down along the back road where Kenny had chosen to dump his body, without checking his pulse properly, for now… for now, Tweek will be his.
It’s a strange wonder what a human body can really endure. The body, really, is only a physical tether, mentally a person can train themselves to withstand anything. Craig was one of those people, so dead inside that hardly anything on the outside really worked.
Kyle, Stan, Kenny and Tweek were not the same.
---
It’s a strange wonder how heavily one can sleep when properly drugged.
When Tweek wakes up, he feels alone. The lights are off. There’s a drip coming from the bathroom adjacent to Kenny’s room and though he lays there, trembling with terror, he finally pushes himself up to his feet (or foot) and hops to the room.
Unsure fingers scramble along the wall for a light before, finally, they reach it and flick it on. In front of him is a simple sink, cupboard and medicine cabinet trio. A welcoming normalcy. He hops over to the sink and presses down on the faucet. The dripping remains. Confused, he turns to the shower curtain and after a carefully amount of slow maneuvering, reaches it without difficulty and flings it back. Immediately, he regrets that he did. A dozen or so cockroaches scatter in the reveal, dive down the drain and after a moment of disgust, he presses hard on the faucet, ending the infuriating noise and his mission. With a sigh, he goes to exit, pausing only briefly enough that the mirror truly catches his gaze.
In the light flooding from the bathroom into Kenny’s room, Tweek spots a ceiling tile askew. A very odd thing to note, but it’s hard not to when there’s a pale, dead face staring out at you. Tweek spins around, his breath catching in his throat as he teeters back to the bedroom, gazing up at the ceiling, waiting for that face to disappear, to melt away into a hidden stash of pornos. It never does. The closer Tweek gets, the more and more it looks like Kyle. The mouth opens, it takes in a sharp breath of air and Tweek jumps back, scream stuck in his throat. He falls to the ground, trips over the arm protruding from beneath the bed, gripping his ankle.
Stan’s face is framed by bed ruffles, his mouth opening and closing but only blood and bile leaving it. All he can do is take in a handful of final breaths before he chokes on his own blood and dies. Tweek wants to scream, but he only jumps to his foot and hobbles to the door, desperate for escape. When he tugs at the handle, it swings open and forcefully knocks him off his feet.
Kenny’s body is swinging heavily against it, a rope constructed of barbed wire wrapped round his neck, keeping him suspended over the ground. His eyes are gone. Bloody holes in his head. His lips are sewn sloppily shut and his ears sporting large metal stakes, pierced through his eardrums. His hands are mostly intact, save for the fingers. Each finger has a gaping hole at each of the joints, suggesting that they had been removed so very delicately.
Tweek retches, nothing comes up. He grasps at the door handle, the overwhelming stench of blood driving him blindly into the hallway. As he straightens up, gathering up his shattered resolve, he sees Craig, standing at the end of the hall, framed by an aura of red light. He must be in hell.
Tweek thinks Craig is smiling at first. Until he realizes that that smile is only the best work of an amateur surgeon, carved into his face.
“I love you, Tweek.”
Tweek shakes his head, silent sobs rock his body. He takes a step back.
“Yes, I do…” Craig takes a step forward, in the light he looks so much like a monster, like something not real, not really at all.
Tweek sobs harder. The tears must be all spent up already, because his cheeks are dry.
“I really, really do.”
Craig’s movements are slow-slow enough to escape from. But Tweek is so tired. So tired of running, of living in constant fear. So tired of waiting to be rescued or to be killed. So tired of living. This cannot be living, whatever this is. So he trembles. He waits for the final time for the inevitable that he has been waiting all this time for.
Craig presses his hand to Tweek’s cheek, he’s always smiling now. He looks so happy, even as he says, “There must be something wrong with your heart.” Tweek’s eyes flutter open to gaze at him, his lips twisting down into a sad, trembling frown.
Craig’s hand hovers over his chest, settles right above his heart. Slowly, his nails dig down and grip onto flesh and shirt. “For you to not love me back, there must be something wrong.”
The nearly childlike logic of this statement forces Tweek’s heart into a panic, its desperate beatings against his chest dragging a smile, a genuine smile, onto Craig’s face.
“It’s ok.” The scalpel slides up paired with a rag. “I’m going to make everything all better.”
Author: ienvy
Fandom: South Park
Pairing: Craig/Tweek
Rating: NC-17 (just to be safe, no smut but plenty of violence)
Summary: Craig Tucker is sick. And Craig Tucker is madly, irrevocably obsessed with Tweek Tweak.
Warnings: This story is NOT for those who are easily disturbed or upset. This story is intended to be very morbid and macabre and will contain subjects that most of the population find upsetting. In case you're wondering, these subjects will be along the lines of: stalking, torture, morbid/macabre love, death, suicide, rape and so on, so forth.
Notes: This was inspired/based off of 'The Horror of Our Love' by Ludo.
A/N: Remember I appreciate every little comment~ comment if you hate it, love it or just want it to end already~ We're close to the end, dears, don't you worry.
Directory of Chapters
“As I sweat and crush you.
And I hold your beating chambers
Until they beat no more.
You die like angels sing.”
---
Kenny’s home is less of a home but more like a shack. Opened and empty cupboards, piles and dishes, dirty counters, stained green carpeting, ripping upholstery.. its all falling to bits around them, but it remains the only safe place. Kenny’s father is gone, blame the alcohol abuse, and his mother exhibits an amount of sorrowful love, trying her best to display how eager she is to be loved in return. She doesn’t ask any questions when the four of them stumble in - Tweek hobbling uneasily on one leg. Kyle and Stan muttering beneath their breath, her own son covered in blood. And all covered in a layer of ash, bringing a wave of smoke with them into her sloppy home - No, she leaves them be, brings mugs of hot chocolate, though for months thereafter, she will question her choice that night to retrain from calling the cops or the hospital. No, she leaves them be and is on her way to her night shift at the gas station. For now, they are safe.
Tweek’s leg is outstretched on Kenny’s bed while Kyle rolls up his pants and examines it. Stan stis beside him, watching and waiting. Kenny paces at Tweek’s side, eyeing the impossible angle that pale leg is bent at, guilt chewing his nails down to little stubs.
“We should’ve found him sooner.” Kenny finally says, shattering that fragile silence.
“Kenny, don’t-“
“No, this didn’t have to happen!” Kenny says, stopping, glaring down at that leg, defying its tangibility. “This didn’t have to fucking happen.”
“We tried, dude. It’s not like we had a GPS or something to find him, we did our best.” Stan stands, irritated, defensive.
At least we found him in one piece.
Their words dip in and out of Tweek’s conscious, words and sentences that mean something, surely, but he just can’t put them together right now. Not yet. He just stares at Kenny, at his parka, at that blood. It’s so bright. Curious that Stan and Kyle haven’t pointed it out yet, he glances to their arguing faces. Everything seems to slow down. Kyle’s talking as he wraps up his leg, Stan is shaking his head. Neither of them notice all that blood. Curiouser and curiouser. He twists his neck back to gaze at all that blood, watches and imagines he can see it drying, crusting over, another stain for the collection.
“Where’s it from?”
He must’ve interrupted something important, because all three turn to stare at him. They must not have heard him.
“What’s all that blood from?”
On cue, Kyle and Stan and Kenny look to the parka, stare at it with the same resolve before they return to their tasks. The argument dies. Kenny shrugs off his parka, tosses it to the ground and sits on a chair, morose. Tweek opens his mouth to ask again, but Kenny interjects before he can even speak.
“It’s from Craig.”
Tweek waits for a further explanation, but no such sustenance leave Kenny’s mouth, making him wonder: Had Kenny killed Craig? Gotten rid of all those nasty little problems just like that? He thinks little more of this. The pain killers send him back down beneath a few layers of consciousness.
Those in the room remain on silent guard, alert and protective. Tweek sleeps.
---
Craig’s battered body lays in the wooded ditch, dead eyes gazing eternally at the stars, blood pools melting little craters into the snow. No one would miss him, not really. That’s not the motivation that captures him safely from death’s clutches. No, what drags Craig back from hell’s gate is the idea, unfathomable as it is, that Tweek was no longer his, that Tweek had escaped.
He pulls himself up like a corpse from its grave, dead leaves and blood clinging to his clothes, bruises shining in the dark. He eyes the shard of glass protruding from his side, Kenny’s crude choice of a weapon. Touches the spot on his cheek where Kenny had cut him open, leaving a smile permanently etched into his face. He fingers his neck, feels that long gash, not quite deep enough.
For now though, he resolves as he limps down along the back road where Kenny had chosen to dump his body, without checking his pulse properly, for now… for now, Tweek will be his.
It’s a strange wonder what a human body can really endure. The body, really, is only a physical tether, mentally a person can train themselves to withstand anything. Craig was one of those people, so dead inside that hardly anything on the outside really worked.
Kyle, Stan, Kenny and Tweek were not the same.
---
It’s a strange wonder how heavily one can sleep when properly drugged.
When Tweek wakes up, he feels alone. The lights are off. There’s a drip coming from the bathroom adjacent to Kenny’s room and though he lays there, trembling with terror, he finally pushes himself up to his feet (or foot) and hops to the room.
Unsure fingers scramble along the wall for a light before, finally, they reach it and flick it on. In front of him is a simple sink, cupboard and medicine cabinet trio. A welcoming normalcy. He hops over to the sink and presses down on the faucet. The dripping remains. Confused, he turns to the shower curtain and after a carefully amount of slow maneuvering, reaches it without difficulty and flings it back. Immediately, he regrets that he did. A dozen or so cockroaches scatter in the reveal, dive down the drain and after a moment of disgust, he presses hard on the faucet, ending the infuriating noise and his mission. With a sigh, he goes to exit, pausing only briefly enough that the mirror truly catches his gaze.
In the light flooding from the bathroom into Kenny’s room, Tweek spots a ceiling tile askew. A very odd thing to note, but it’s hard not to when there’s a pale, dead face staring out at you. Tweek spins around, his breath catching in his throat as he teeters back to the bedroom, gazing up at the ceiling, waiting for that face to disappear, to melt away into a hidden stash of pornos. It never does. The closer Tweek gets, the more and more it looks like Kyle. The mouth opens, it takes in a sharp breath of air and Tweek jumps back, scream stuck in his throat. He falls to the ground, trips over the arm protruding from beneath the bed, gripping his ankle.
Stan’s face is framed by bed ruffles, his mouth opening and closing but only blood and bile leaving it. All he can do is take in a handful of final breaths before he chokes on his own blood and dies. Tweek wants to scream, but he only jumps to his foot and hobbles to the door, desperate for escape. When he tugs at the handle, it swings open and forcefully knocks him off his feet.
Kenny’s body is swinging heavily against it, a rope constructed of barbed wire wrapped round his neck, keeping him suspended over the ground. His eyes are gone. Bloody holes in his head. His lips are sewn sloppily shut and his ears sporting large metal stakes, pierced through his eardrums. His hands are mostly intact, save for the fingers. Each finger has a gaping hole at each of the joints, suggesting that they had been removed so very delicately.
Tweek retches, nothing comes up. He grasps at the door handle, the overwhelming stench of blood driving him blindly into the hallway. As he straightens up, gathering up his shattered resolve, he sees Craig, standing at the end of the hall, framed by an aura of red light. He must be in hell.
Tweek thinks Craig is smiling at first. Until he realizes that that smile is only the best work of an amateur surgeon, carved into his face.
“I love you, Tweek.”
Tweek shakes his head, silent sobs rock his body. He takes a step back.
“Yes, I do…” Craig takes a step forward, in the light he looks so much like a monster, like something not real, not really at all.
Tweek sobs harder. The tears must be all spent up already, because his cheeks are dry.
“I really, really do.”
Craig’s movements are slow-slow enough to escape from. But Tweek is so tired. So tired of running, of living in constant fear. So tired of waiting to be rescued or to be killed. So tired of living. This cannot be living, whatever this is. So he trembles. He waits for the final time for the inevitable that he has been waiting all this time for.
Craig presses his hand to Tweek’s cheek, he’s always smiling now. He looks so happy, even as he says, “There must be something wrong with your heart.” Tweek’s eyes flutter open to gaze at him, his lips twisting down into a sad, trembling frown.
Craig’s hand hovers over his chest, settles right above his heart. Slowly, his nails dig down and grip onto flesh and shirt. “For you to not love me back, there must be something wrong.”
The nearly childlike logic of this statement forces Tweek’s heart into a panic, its desperate beatings against his chest dragging a smile, a genuine smile, onto Craig’s face.
“It’s ok.” The scalpel slides up paired with a rag. “I’m going to make everything all better.”