Two extremely gross freewrites!
I did write-or-die tonight, going off prompts from the lovely re-white. She is not to blame for the ickyness.
Both these are Star Trek.
First prompt was "George falls through a singularity and crashes into the Enterprise."
264 words, Kirk + Narada + Kirk's Poor Dead Dad
As if it weren't bad enough, seeing the fucked up altar the Romulans had set up, the charred bodies draped here and there and tattooed post-mortem, the ink sinking down through the sloughing flesh to smudge the bones. As if his father's place of honour hadn't been bad enough: the skeleton arcing carefully over a few struts, the flesh preserved as best they could with potions and chemicals and their ship's-engine ale, pickled like some delicacy or saint's relic.... as if it weren't bad enough that Jim skittered through that sick chapel on his way to find Pike, when he had no time to say a few appropriate words, or to mourn, or even to boggle at the sheer fucking terror of seeing that jerkied rictus scarcely recognizeable from the holos that his mother showed him once.
Jim hurried on from there, telling himself it was some hallucination or holographic mind-fuck and those Romulan bastards, so alien and savage, how could he hope to comprehend....
Never mind that his mother kept a collection of holos on her nightstand in much the same configuration....
He hurried on and didn't grab the single tarnished bit of insignia he wanted, glinting from the dessicated chest, didn't even look twice at it, but still: he recognized it in the new wreckage, when the unknown object collided with Enterprise, slicing between the weak spot in her shields, and Pike sent him down to the ground-zero hanger bay to have a look.
What the fuck kind of universe this is, to make him walk up to his father's corpse twice.
Second prompt was, "Jim is deathly ill." Re provided other details, but I ignored them in favor of this disgusting ridiculousness. I don't even know what warnings to put on this. Beware.
351 words, Jim + his brain, R for gore and questionable metaphors
What is the shiny thing what is that noise what are all these things, the floaty things, where is the ship where is home and his mother and all the other things he knows and wants and likes and remembers. Jim scrubs his face against the floor--yes, it hurts, all scratchy and amoratic like the worst garbage, but for the love of all sweet things it is cold and he loves cold right now. He loves it because it is a different thing, not the throbbing and radiation of all the rest of his body, the pulse of every capillary and its unctuous plasma, the blood-bits kind and the fourth-state-of-matter kind, because he is so sick he must be entering some new form of life. Or is that death. Jim doesn't know. He doesn't know what death is and right now he doesn't know what water is (that stuff trickling down his face is no substitute, but he suckles at it anyway, is he close to eating himself? He is drinking himself. Yes. That is the first step) he knows what cold is but he knows that it keeps going away from him, so he chases it, rolling across the floor after it, calling it sweet names and awful names and wanting it so badly and really, this is not much different from most weekend nights. He chases and chases that cold, scrabbling deeper into the floor for it, and that gives him new liquids to suck up with his lips that hurt. More pieces of him trickling out. So special, more delicious than the sweat, filled with little tendrils of his flesh and spilling out a trail for him to follow to the wounds. The topography of his skin has changed. There is the plasma, roiling like the surface of a nearby sun, all red and ancient, and there are little scraped up bits of himself to nuzzle into. He used to love skin smooth and whole but now there is this, nubbly and inviting, dermal layers flaunting themselves, as insouciant as the lips that lay gratefully upon them.
On a different note, is there aaaaaaaanyone here besides Kel who watches Supernatural? I am writing some fic that no-one wants to read. ;.;
Both these are Star Trek.
First prompt was "George falls through a singularity and crashes into the Enterprise."
264 words, Kirk + Narada + Kirk's Poor Dead Dad
As if it weren't bad enough, seeing the fucked up altar the Romulans had set up, the charred bodies draped here and there and tattooed post-mortem, the ink sinking down through the sloughing flesh to smudge the bones. As if his father's place of honour hadn't been bad enough: the skeleton arcing carefully over a few struts, the flesh preserved as best they could with potions and chemicals and their ship's-engine ale, pickled like some delicacy or saint's relic.... as if it weren't bad enough that Jim skittered through that sick chapel on his way to find Pike, when he had no time to say a few appropriate words, or to mourn, or even to boggle at the sheer fucking terror of seeing that jerkied rictus scarcely recognizeable from the holos that his mother showed him once.
Jim hurried on from there, telling himself it was some hallucination or holographic mind-fuck and those Romulan bastards, so alien and savage, how could he hope to comprehend....
Never mind that his mother kept a collection of holos on her nightstand in much the same configuration....
He hurried on and didn't grab the single tarnished bit of insignia he wanted, glinting from the dessicated chest, didn't even look twice at it, but still: he recognized it in the new wreckage, when the unknown object collided with Enterprise, slicing between the weak spot in her shields, and Pike sent him down to the ground-zero hanger bay to have a look.
What the fuck kind of universe this is, to make him walk up to his father's corpse twice.
Second prompt was, "Jim is deathly ill." Re provided other details, but I ignored them in favor of this disgusting ridiculousness. I don't even know what warnings to put on this. Beware.
351 words, Jim + his brain, R for gore and questionable metaphors
What is the shiny thing what is that noise what are all these things, the floaty things, where is the ship where is home and his mother and all the other things he knows and wants and likes and remembers. Jim scrubs his face against the floor--yes, it hurts, all scratchy and amoratic like the worst garbage, but for the love of all sweet things it is cold and he loves cold right now. He loves it because it is a different thing, not the throbbing and radiation of all the rest of his body, the pulse of every capillary and its unctuous plasma, the blood-bits kind and the fourth-state-of-matter kind, because he is so sick he must be entering some new form of life. Or is that death. Jim doesn't know. He doesn't know what death is and right now he doesn't know what water is (that stuff trickling down his face is no substitute, but he suckles at it anyway, is he close to eating himself? He is drinking himself. Yes. That is the first step) he knows what cold is but he knows that it keeps going away from him, so he chases it, rolling across the floor after it, calling it sweet names and awful names and wanting it so badly and really, this is not much different from most weekend nights. He chases and chases that cold, scrabbling deeper into the floor for it, and that gives him new liquids to suck up with his lips that hurt. More pieces of him trickling out. So special, more delicious than the sweat, filled with little tendrils of his flesh and spilling out a trail for him to follow to the wounds. The topography of his skin has changed. There is the plasma, roiling like the surface of a nearby sun, all red and ancient, and there are little scraped up bits of himself to nuzzle into. He used to love skin smooth and whole but now there is this, nubbly and inviting, dermal layers flaunting themselves, as insouciant as the lips that lay gratefully upon them.
On a different note, is there aaaaaaaanyone here besides Kel who watches Supernatural? I am writing some fic that no-one wants to read. ;.;