12 Sentence Challenge
Author: foxflare
Rating: PG-R
Warning(s): Slash, language, crack. . .cannibalism?
Characters: Written for the kaze_shuu community, so. . .Kazeshini and Shuuhei, obvs, with tiny asides of Renji and Suzumushi.
Disclaimer: I own no part of Cl2(aq) + H2O(l) ↔ 2H+(aq) + Cl-(aq) + ClO-(aq). Kubo Tite-sama whitens and brightens all.
Notes: See what I mean? My ass, consider it bitten. I'd been blocked all evening, crashed early, then woke up out of a dead sleep at half-past 1 owing to the inspirational equivalent of an alarm clock. Go figure. Been playing with these ever since, in between the odd 20-minute catnap.
P.S.: This is my Kaze/Shuu/Kensei anthem. ♥ The fucking lyrics.
1. Tattoos
While it had been more than few blue moons since the last time Kazeshini's arid realm had been quenched by a single salty drop of the stuff, he knew what fucking rain was -- hell, there'd been a time he'd been practically drowning in the shit -- and this shit, black as midnight oil and falling from clouds of soot, melting the jagged crystal columns into the powdery flats that were becoming less and less so with every wet patter like the spat juice from a plug of god's chewing tobacco, this shit wasn't it -- and what was worse, where it landed on the burnt brick-red of his beautiful fur, it wasn't fucking coming off.
2. Sharp
Sometimes, when his strokes were angled just so, and the reflection of the whetstone in the steel glittered like a breeze stirring an ocean of obsidian sand, Shuuhei swore he could feel his sword shiver in his hands.
3. Drunk [AU]
It had been lust at first sight, and the moment Shuuhei first mounted his baby, hugged the sleek burgundy-black body between his distressed denim-clad thighs, twisted his fists around supple rubber grips and heard the intoxicating purr of the engine, he knew, with soul-deep certainty, that the Kazeshini GR69 was destined to be his.
4. Ambush
He'd always thought the sharp, strange twinges of hunger he'd felt whenever his eyes had fallen upon Suzumushi's deliciously diaphanous form had been pangs of acute desire; now, straddling the metamorphosed bitch's back at his master's command, with her wings fluttering weakly against his weight, sounding crisp, like foil, and his mouth full of a gray delicacy that would stalk his dreams with its terrible flavor for quite possibly years to come, Kazeshini realized with sudden and remarkable clarity that no, they really hadn't.
5. Edge
The rough, grating sound of sharp nails scoring patterns of pleasure into hard wood underlined the cloud of breathless groans building up like a thunderhead above his master's futon as Kazeshini's back arched and his wiry limbs strained against his bandages wrapped tight around the posts nailed in at every corner of the mattress -- so close, he was so fucking close his toes were curling, his fucking hair was curling, and if his cocksucker of a wielder (and oh thank fuck he was) took any more of his sweet ass (so goddamn sweet) time to push him off that precipice, he was gonna remind the sadistic son of a bitch just how else he could release inside other people's heads--
6. Trust
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours. . .your back, dumbass -- does that perverted tattoo go all the way to your fucking brain?"
7. Bandages
Kazeshini knew intimately the injurious depth of his master's self-loathing: it was evident in every binding layer of the wrappings, blackened by the dried blood and grime of countless decades, that confined his glorious form like a mummy mired in a malignant peat bog of shame; but he'd be damned if he ever spilled his guts on the matter to the fucking pussy who put him there -- and not, he silently swore to himself, because he couldn't bear to risk ripping the scabs off the wounds.
8. Fear
White foam flecked his gums as he ranted and raved with rabid fervor, cursing a streak as blue as an ocean he never saw anymore, until even his eyes had to gather the slack when his tongue cramped up and his throat grew raw and his lungs dried out like beached fucking dolphins with the furious shrieks beneath which his terrified sobs cowered like fugitives under warped and dusty floorboards of righteous indignation.
9. Hair
Shuuhei gritted his teeth in aggravation and swallowed down a disgusted growl as he wrenched the wire hanger from the drain, its hooked end coated with a slimy clod of what looked to be a combination of reddish-black seaweed and porcupine quills -- a far cry from the kind of "dirty" he thought he'd been signing on for when he'd accepted the spirit's invitation to join him in Shuuhei's private bath.
10. Chains
It wasn't empty space that spanned the gap between them: it was a goddamn mountain range, and over the years, from twin peaks sheered into sharp points by the howling gusts of a lonely wind, each watched the other grow smaller and smaller in the ever-widening distance, more and more walled off by steep crags of mutual misunderstanding and revulsion that seemed to spring eternally anew, until -- upon the death of the blind mole who had burrowed his way under Shuuhei's skin and kicked up the soil that had become that first hill -- they found themselves standing united once again, back-to-back in the unseen but inevitable conclusion of a continental divide: its rejoining in a collision of the sides opposite the split.
11. Scars
"Why couldn't you have graduated with simple fucking pockmarks, like every other whiny adolescent dork," Kazeshini said, smearing the greasy pads of his fingertips along the ridges that striped the starboard side of his wielder's inked but otherwise unblemished face -- said, and didn't ask, because it wasn't a question; it was an apology.
12. Pretty Boy*
Kazeshini's eye twitched at the repetitive chords that were his wielder's "comfort zone" with that abominable instrument ("folk music," Kazeshini's furry black ass, unless said "folk" were all of the type to enjoy sucking dried kitsune balls), and his ears slanted back at the off-key caterwauling that accompanied it courtesy of the big redheaded lummox on the other side of the campfire (fuck, where was the blond castrato when he was actually necessary?); at "some will rob you with a six-gun, and some with a fountain pen," he couldn't fucking stand it anymore -- his teeth were set so far on edge they were about to dive right out of his fucking skull, and damned if every single one of them didn't sing gleeful backup to Kazeshini's cackle when he snatched the guitar out of Shuuhei's hands and busted its hollow body (and there was his excuse right there, in the unlikely event he would need one: instinct) against a tattooed face that somehow made raunchy numbers and rippling scars look hellishly appealing in comparison.
*"The Ballad of Pretty Boy Floyd" by Woodie Guthrie.
Rating: PG-R
Warning(s): Slash, language, crack. . .cannibalism?
Characters: Written for the kaze_shuu community, so. . .Kazeshini and Shuuhei, obvs, with tiny asides of Renji and Suzumushi.
Disclaimer: I own no part of Cl2(aq) + H2O(l) ↔ 2H+(aq) + Cl-(aq) + ClO-(aq). Kubo Tite-sama whitens and brightens all.
Notes: See what I mean? My ass, consider it bitten. I'd been blocked all evening, crashed early, then woke up out of a dead sleep at half-past 1 owing to the inspirational equivalent of an alarm clock. Go figure. Been playing with these ever since, in between the odd 20-minute catnap.
P.S.: This is my Kaze/Shuu/Kensei anthem. ♥ The fucking lyrics.
1. Tattoos
While it had been more than few blue moons since the last time Kazeshini's arid realm had been quenched by a single salty drop of the stuff, he knew what fucking rain was -- hell, there'd been a time he'd been practically drowning in the shit -- and this shit, black as midnight oil and falling from clouds of soot, melting the jagged crystal columns into the powdery flats that were becoming less and less so with every wet patter like the spat juice from a plug of god's chewing tobacco, this shit wasn't it -- and what was worse, where it landed on the burnt brick-red of his beautiful fur, it wasn't fucking coming off.
2. Sharp
Sometimes, when his strokes were angled just so, and the reflection of the whetstone in the steel glittered like a breeze stirring an ocean of obsidian sand, Shuuhei swore he could feel his sword shiver in his hands.
3. Drunk [AU]
It had been lust at first sight, and the moment Shuuhei first mounted his baby, hugged the sleek burgundy-black body between his distressed denim-clad thighs, twisted his fists around supple rubber grips and heard the intoxicating purr of the engine, he knew, with soul-deep certainty, that the Kazeshini GR69 was destined to be his.
4. Ambush
He'd always thought the sharp, strange twinges of hunger he'd felt whenever his eyes had fallen upon Suzumushi's deliciously diaphanous form had been pangs of acute desire; now, straddling the metamorphosed bitch's back at his master's command, with her wings fluttering weakly against his weight, sounding crisp, like foil, and his mouth full of a gray delicacy that would stalk his dreams with its terrible flavor for quite possibly years to come, Kazeshini realized with sudden and remarkable clarity that no, they really hadn't.
5. Edge
The rough, grating sound of sharp nails scoring patterns of pleasure into hard wood underlined the cloud of breathless groans building up like a thunderhead above his master's futon as Kazeshini's back arched and his wiry limbs strained against his bandages wrapped tight around the posts nailed in at every corner of the mattress -- so close, he was so fucking close his toes were curling, his fucking hair was curling, and if his cocksucker of a wielder (and oh thank fuck he was) took any more of his sweet ass (so goddamn sweet) time to push him off that precipice, he was gonna remind the sadistic son of a bitch just how else he could release inside other people's heads--
6. Trust
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours. . .your back, dumbass -- does that perverted tattoo go all the way to your fucking brain?"
7. Bandages
Kazeshini knew intimately the injurious depth of his master's self-loathing: it was evident in every binding layer of the wrappings, blackened by the dried blood and grime of countless decades, that confined his glorious form like a mummy mired in a malignant peat bog of shame; but he'd be damned if he ever spilled his guts on the matter to the fucking pussy who put him there -- and not, he silently swore to himself, because he couldn't bear to risk ripping the scabs off the wounds.
8. Fear
White foam flecked his gums as he ranted and raved with rabid fervor, cursing a streak as blue as an ocean he never saw anymore, until even his eyes had to gather the slack when his tongue cramped up and his throat grew raw and his lungs dried out like beached fucking dolphins with the furious shrieks beneath which his terrified sobs cowered like fugitives under warped and dusty floorboards of righteous indignation.
9. Hair
Shuuhei gritted his teeth in aggravation and swallowed down a disgusted growl as he wrenched the wire hanger from the drain, its hooked end coated with a slimy clod of what looked to be a combination of reddish-black seaweed and porcupine quills -- a far cry from the kind of "dirty" he thought he'd been signing on for when he'd accepted the spirit's invitation to join him in Shuuhei's private bath.
10. Chains
It wasn't empty space that spanned the gap between them: it was a goddamn mountain range, and over the years, from twin peaks sheered into sharp points by the howling gusts of a lonely wind, each watched the other grow smaller and smaller in the ever-widening distance, more and more walled off by steep crags of mutual misunderstanding and revulsion that seemed to spring eternally anew, until -- upon the death of the blind mole who had burrowed his way under Shuuhei's skin and kicked up the soil that had become that first hill -- they found themselves standing united once again, back-to-back in the unseen but inevitable conclusion of a continental divide: its rejoining in a collision of the sides opposite the split.
11. Scars
"Why couldn't you have graduated with simple fucking pockmarks, like every other whiny adolescent dork," Kazeshini said, smearing the greasy pads of his fingertips along the ridges that striped the starboard side of his wielder's inked but otherwise unblemished face -- said, and didn't ask, because it wasn't a question; it was an apology.
12. Pretty Boy*
Kazeshini's eye twitched at the repetitive chords that were his wielder's "comfort zone" with that abominable instrument ("folk music," Kazeshini's furry black ass, unless said "folk" were all of the type to enjoy sucking dried kitsune balls), and his ears slanted back at the off-key caterwauling that accompanied it courtesy of the big redheaded lummox on the other side of the campfire (fuck, where was the blond castrato when he was actually necessary?); at "some will rob you with a six-gun, and some with a fountain pen," he couldn't fucking stand it anymore -- his teeth were set so far on edge they were about to dive right out of his fucking skull, and damned if every single one of them didn't sing gleeful backup to Kazeshini's cackle when he snatched the guitar out of Shuuhei's hands and busted its hollow body (and there was his excuse right there, in the unlikely event he would need one: instinct) against a tattooed face that somehow made raunchy numbers and rippling scars look hellishly appealing in comparison.
*"The Ballad of Pretty Boy Floyd" by Woodie Guthrie.