ffff.
TITLE: Control.
FANDOM: DOGS: Bullets & Carnage.
PAIRING: Heine Rammsteiner/Giovanni. YEAH YOU READ THAT RIGHT.
RATING: PG-13 - R?
WARNINGS/SUMMARY: Written just because I've been wanting to write a Giovanni + Heine fic where Heine was actually somewhat in control of the situation. :| NO PORN THIS TIME. Warning for language.
One beat, two beat, three beat, and he swore that his heart was going to stop, that it was going to fumble and falter right in his chest, and he thought, fuck, and he thought, I got this, and he thought, I'll make you so goddamn sorry you motherfucker, and that was all it took to have the situation spiraling out of control.
Because that was how it always started, right.
It started with a little tick, with a little bit of twisted sickness that settled right in his gut, that worked its way up past his belly to spread warmly to his lungs and throat. It started with a cold shiver that brushed up casually over his spine, that drove right into the middle of his back, that whispered he's here, you know, that had him turning slowly on his heel to come face to face with all perfect white teeth and all perfect fucking irony. It figured. It fucking figured.
Heine didn't lose his temper. Heine never lost his temper unless he needed to, unless it benefited him to, unless he just stopped and forgot how to control himself, forgot how to be human for one fucking second, and oh god. ( Oh god, the devil whispered back, and he dug his fingers into his palm, remembered to count, needed to count and think and pause and stop had to stop needed to fucking stop why wasn't he stopping. ) He didn't remember how it'd gotten to this point. He didn't remember how he'd gotten Giovanni chained up to the ceiling with his toes barely touching the ground, with his clothes and his jacket ripped in places, with blood seeping from every part of his body, and fuck.
His fingers tightened around his Mauser, and the chains clinked together as he brought the cool metal up, as he pressed the hilt of the gun up against his heated forehead. The room was too dark, much darker than it should have been, and Heine wondered why there weren't any fucking windows, wondered if maybe he'd done this on purpose, wondered why everything in his head was a static mess of crumbled nothing that made no sense to him, anyway.
Giovanni's wrists were purpled, bruised, and he was still smiling with his chin tilted back and his eyes fixed on Heine's face.
"You can't do it," was all he said, and it came out on a laugh, on a choked and strangled chuckle that had blood dripping from his lips to splatter down onto the cement stretched beneath his toes.
"Shut the fuck up."
The cool of the steel slid down away from his forehead, and he brushed his finger over the trigger, flicked red eyes back up to focus on that horrible fucking smile and on the one that possessed it. And it was funny, maybe, that Giovanni still managed to laugh like everything was a big fucking joke, even if he'd just gotten the shit beaten out of him and even if Heine had one loaded gun in his hand. And it was funny, maybe, that Giovanni still managed to do all that shit like it didn't matter what sort of fucked he was, and it was even funnier that it was probably because he was right.
He was right, and Heine still had that gun, and Heine was still looking at him like he didn't know what to do, like he was stuck in some sort of limbo that he just couldn't get out of, and Giovanni smiled smugly because he knew. He fucking knew.
And Heine wanted to kill him more for it.
"Have you gone soft, Heine? Is that what it is?"
It'd have been easy.
"Forever the favorite, and yet you can't even kill me. How disappointing."
It'd have been easy, and it wouldn't have taken more than a second to aim the gun right at his head, to press it against his temple and pull the trigger until his blood sprayed pink and brown and red. It'd have been easy, and then he could have gone back to whatever the hell it was he had been doing before, could go back to not thinking about this shit in his sleep, to not tossing and turning at night because Giovanni was that one little constant reminder that he just couldn't get rid of.
Giovanni laughed again, except it sounded a bit more forced this time, a little more wounded, and Heine's fingers trembled and quaked around his Mauser. It'd have been easy, and it wouldn't have taken more than a second, and why the fuck wasn't his arm raising, and why was it stuck to his side, and why did his entire body feel like weighted lead, and. Giovanni was laughing, like he always was, always fucking laughing, and Heine couldn't take it, couldn't handle it, was drowning and suffocating and the room was too dark and it reminded him too much of the nightmares he'd have rather forgotten.
He was going to die there, he thought. He was going to die there with Giovanni chained up and laughing in the background. He was going to die.
Except.
Except then the gun wasn't in his hand anymore, had fallen and clattered down to the ground beneath him. Except then he was moving forward, with his feet scraping along the ground as he went. Except then his hands were drifting down Giovanni's sides, with his fingers curling around his belt and into his jacket. Except then Giovanni was warm against him, and Heine was tilting his chin, was pressing his mouth over the other's and working his lips open with his own.
Except then Giovanni tasted like the Underground and obedience, and Heine was dragging his hips forward, was ignoring the small hiss of surprise and pain as Giovanni's wrists were yanked roughly in their cuffs. Except then he couldn't fucking stop, couldn't stop because he'd never been able to, and his fingers slid up over his spine, and Giovanni's own fingers were gripping absently at the chains above his head.
Heine dragged his lips over the curve of his jaw, trailed spots of dark blood along his cheek until he found the shell of his ear.
"Maybe you're right," he murmured softly, and his fingers had moved back down, were jerking his hips flush against own, and he paused for half a second when the other let out a strangled gasp in response.
Heine thought, shit, and the devil agreed with him this time, and Heine thought it was a little ironic how the devil sounded just like Giovanni.
"Or maybe I'm waiting for the day where I can fuck you up just as much as I fucked you up that time when we were kids. Yeah, you remember that?"
Heine's fingers had somehow gotten themselves tangled in strands of blonde stained with muddied red, and he ignored the guilty wrench in the bottom of his stomach that scolded him silently, that told him that all of this was his fault, anyway, that this would have never happened if he hadn't --
Giovanni was tense and stiff against him now, and Heine's fingers relaxed in the material of his jacket as he tilted his chin down until it barely brushed against the other's shoulder. Giovanni was tense and stiff, and his expression, that amused smile on his face, had faltered and faded into a look of unguarded surprise the second the words were out of his mouth.
( Thank God for small victories. )
"Good dog. Stay."
One beat, two beat, three beat, and he had to remind himself that he had never been a good person to begin with, had to look away when Giovanni snarled at him, when he lost that mask of calculated calm to lash out at him when he turned on his heel to walk away.
One beat, two beat, and he definitely didn't need to remind himself that he still hadn't finished him off.
( Thank God for -- )
One beat, and the door slammed shut behind him.
( -- absolutely nothing. )
FANDOM: DOGS: Bullets & Carnage.
PAIRING: Heine Rammsteiner/Giovanni. YEAH YOU READ THAT RIGHT.
RATING: PG-13 - R?
WARNINGS/SUMMARY: Written just because I've been wanting to write a Giovanni + Heine fic where Heine was actually somewhat in control of the situation. :| NO PORN THIS TIME. Warning for language.
One beat, two beat, three beat, and he swore that his heart was going to stop, that it was going to fumble and falter right in his chest, and he thought, fuck, and he thought, I got this, and he thought, I'll make you so goddamn sorry you motherfucker, and that was all it took to have the situation spiraling out of control.
Because that was how it always started, right.
It started with a little tick, with a little bit of twisted sickness that settled right in his gut, that worked its way up past his belly to spread warmly to his lungs and throat. It started with a cold shiver that brushed up casually over his spine, that drove right into the middle of his back, that whispered he's here, you know, that had him turning slowly on his heel to come face to face with all perfect white teeth and all perfect fucking irony. It figured. It fucking figured.
Heine didn't lose his temper. Heine never lost his temper unless he needed to, unless it benefited him to, unless he just stopped and forgot how to control himself, forgot how to be human for one fucking second, and oh god. ( Oh god, the devil whispered back, and he dug his fingers into his palm, remembered to count, needed to count and think and pause and stop had to stop needed to fucking stop why wasn't he stopping. ) He didn't remember how it'd gotten to this point. He didn't remember how he'd gotten Giovanni chained up to the ceiling with his toes barely touching the ground, with his clothes and his jacket ripped in places, with blood seeping from every part of his body, and fuck.
His fingers tightened around his Mauser, and the chains clinked together as he brought the cool metal up, as he pressed the hilt of the gun up against his heated forehead. The room was too dark, much darker than it should have been, and Heine wondered why there weren't any fucking windows, wondered if maybe he'd done this on purpose, wondered why everything in his head was a static mess of crumbled nothing that made no sense to him, anyway.
Giovanni's wrists were purpled, bruised, and he was still smiling with his chin tilted back and his eyes fixed on Heine's face.
"You can't do it," was all he said, and it came out on a laugh, on a choked and strangled chuckle that had blood dripping from his lips to splatter down onto the cement stretched beneath his toes.
"Shut the fuck up."
The cool of the steel slid down away from his forehead, and he brushed his finger over the trigger, flicked red eyes back up to focus on that horrible fucking smile and on the one that possessed it. And it was funny, maybe, that Giovanni still managed to laugh like everything was a big fucking joke, even if he'd just gotten the shit beaten out of him and even if Heine had one loaded gun in his hand. And it was funny, maybe, that Giovanni still managed to do all that shit like it didn't matter what sort of fucked he was, and it was even funnier that it was probably because he was right.
He was right, and Heine still had that gun, and Heine was still looking at him like he didn't know what to do, like he was stuck in some sort of limbo that he just couldn't get out of, and Giovanni smiled smugly because he knew. He fucking knew.
And Heine wanted to kill him more for it.
"Have you gone soft, Heine? Is that what it is?"
It'd have been easy.
"Forever the favorite, and yet you can't even kill me. How disappointing."
It'd have been easy, and it wouldn't have taken more than a second to aim the gun right at his head, to press it against his temple and pull the trigger until his blood sprayed pink and brown and red. It'd have been easy, and then he could have gone back to whatever the hell it was he had been doing before, could go back to not thinking about this shit in his sleep, to not tossing and turning at night because Giovanni was that one little constant reminder that he just couldn't get rid of.
Giovanni laughed again, except it sounded a bit more forced this time, a little more wounded, and Heine's fingers trembled and quaked around his Mauser. It'd have been easy, and it wouldn't have taken more than a second, and why the fuck wasn't his arm raising, and why was it stuck to his side, and why did his entire body feel like weighted lead, and. Giovanni was laughing, like he always was, always fucking laughing, and Heine couldn't take it, couldn't handle it, was drowning and suffocating and the room was too dark and it reminded him too much of the nightmares he'd have rather forgotten.
He was going to die there, he thought. He was going to die there with Giovanni chained up and laughing in the background. He was going to die.
Except.
Except then the gun wasn't in his hand anymore, had fallen and clattered down to the ground beneath him. Except then he was moving forward, with his feet scraping along the ground as he went. Except then his hands were drifting down Giovanni's sides, with his fingers curling around his belt and into his jacket. Except then Giovanni was warm against him, and Heine was tilting his chin, was pressing his mouth over the other's and working his lips open with his own.
Except then Giovanni tasted like the Underground and obedience, and Heine was dragging his hips forward, was ignoring the small hiss of surprise and pain as Giovanni's wrists were yanked roughly in their cuffs. Except then he couldn't fucking stop, couldn't stop because he'd never been able to, and his fingers slid up over his spine, and Giovanni's own fingers were gripping absently at the chains above his head.
Heine dragged his lips over the curve of his jaw, trailed spots of dark blood along his cheek until he found the shell of his ear.
"Maybe you're right," he murmured softly, and his fingers had moved back down, were jerking his hips flush against own, and he paused for half a second when the other let out a strangled gasp in response.
Heine thought, shit, and the devil agreed with him this time, and Heine thought it was a little ironic how the devil sounded just like Giovanni.
"Or maybe I'm waiting for the day where I can fuck you up just as much as I fucked you up that time when we were kids. Yeah, you remember that?"
Heine's fingers had somehow gotten themselves tangled in strands of blonde stained with muddied red, and he ignored the guilty wrench in the bottom of his stomach that scolded him silently, that told him that all of this was his fault, anyway, that this would have never happened if he hadn't --
Giovanni was tense and stiff against him now, and Heine's fingers relaxed in the material of his jacket as he tilted his chin down until it barely brushed against the other's shoulder. Giovanni was tense and stiff, and his expression, that amused smile on his face, had faltered and faded into a look of unguarded surprise the second the words were out of his mouth.
( Thank God for small victories. )
"Good dog. Stay."
One beat, two beat, three beat, and he had to remind himself that he had never been a good person to begin with, had to look away when Giovanni snarled at him, when he lost that mask of calculated calm to lash out at him when he turned on his heel to walk away.
One beat, two beat, and he definitely didn't need to remind himself that he still hadn't finished him off.
( Thank God for -- )
One beat, and the door slammed shut behind him.
( -- absolutely nothing. )