[Drabble] Untitled - Aoi/Uruha - [1/1]
Drabble 01
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied smut
Genre: Drama, angst
Disclaimer: the GazettE belong to themselves. This story is entirely fictional.
Synopsis: In which destruction is a beautiful process.
Notes: An experimental drabble on a Monday night.
He could feel the guitarist’s hands bury themselves deep inside his chest, fingers ghosting over each rib and artery. His back arched, knobs snapping together with such force that it made his teeth rattle. The springs creaked underneath their combined weight. Violet sheets tangled around his legs, the soft fabric cold against heated alabaster skin.
He leaned closer, and for a moment their breaths mingled-the closest he could get to kiss those plush lips, taste the flavor of oblivion on his tongue.
Cracked nails raked up his arms, leaving behind trails of red. The sting snapped his mind into focus, and he writhed in the arms holding him there. Hips crashed into his body, whispers of I’m here and it’s okay throbbed in his eardrums. He didn’t want comfort, not with this. It was supposed to hurt, burn, erase-never soothe.
His heart was pounding, loud and clear. His pulse was being pulled out, bit by bit, blood coating his hands and screams tearing apart his mangled throat. His eyes were closing, sepia irises sinking into pitch-black as he shook, legs wrapped around the elder’s body.
The last strands of his sanity were leaving him, and with effort, he opened his eyes-
A pair of hollow eyes, bruised by too many emotions and sleep-deprived nights, stared back.
Author's Note: I've been trying to ease myself back into writing again, and this spawned out of nowhere. It's in serious need of editing, but I'm tired of looking at it, and just decided to post the whole story as it is. Comments and constructive criticism are welcomed. No flames, however.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied smut
Genre: Drama, angst
Disclaimer: the GazettE belong to themselves. This story is entirely fictional.
Synopsis: In which destruction is a beautiful process.
Notes: An experimental drabble on a Monday night.
He could feel the guitarist’s hands bury themselves deep inside his chest, fingers ghosting over each rib and artery. His back arched, knobs snapping together with such force that it made his teeth rattle. The springs creaked underneath their combined weight. Violet sheets tangled around his legs, the soft fabric cold against heated alabaster skin.
He leaned closer, and for a moment their breaths mingled-the closest he could get to kiss those plush lips, taste the flavor of oblivion on his tongue.
Cracked nails raked up his arms, leaving behind trails of red. The sting snapped his mind into focus, and he writhed in the arms holding him there. Hips crashed into his body, whispers of I’m here and it’s okay throbbed in his eardrums. He didn’t want comfort, not with this. It was supposed to hurt, burn, erase-never soothe.
His heart was pounding, loud and clear. His pulse was being pulled out, bit by bit, blood coating his hands and screams tearing apart his mangled throat. His eyes were closing, sepia irises sinking into pitch-black as he shook, legs wrapped around the elder’s body.
The last strands of his sanity were leaving him, and with effort, he opened his eyes-
A pair of hollow eyes, bruised by too many emotions and sleep-deprived nights, stared back.
Author's Note: I've been trying to ease myself back into writing again, and this spawned out of nowhere. It's in serious need of editing, but I'm tired of looking at it, and just decided to post the whole story as it is. Comments and constructive criticism are welcomed. No flames, however.