I've been trying to write through writer's block, and I have some interim results:
Title: Die For You
Fandom: Aegis
Pairing: Izare/Jino
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 534
Beta:
butterflygirl_3 Warnings: Spoilers up to volume 4 of the manga, angst, violent imagery.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: I would die for you. I would kill for you. I would steal for you. I'd do time for you.
Inspired by the song #1 Crush by Garbage
He doesn’t want to touch Jino with his hands. Doesn’t want to lay his bloodstained fingers on Jino’s lips. But he can’t resist. He almost runs his fingers through that familiar disheveled hair, but he stops himself. There’s too much blood. Instead he pulls Jino’s body close, feels his weight and his warmth. He runs a finger down Jino’s smooth cheek.
It leaves a bloody smear.
As far as Jino is concerned, he is dead. Drowned under the weight of an ocean of blood, a sea of screams, a flood of cruelty and brutality. He died a little bit with every bullet he fired, with every splatter of blood on the wall, with every order he followed.
It’s better for Jino if he’s nothing but a nightmare. A phantom. A ghost of enmity and betrayal. Better that Jino never knows the why of his plummet into hell.
It should have been harder. Harder to kill people whose innocence he never questioned. But it’s always been easy. Easy because for him, there is no alternative. He would tear open his own chest and pull out his beating heart if it would save Jino. The lives of people he doesn’t know, people who have what he’ll never have, people who believe in goodness and truth, mean nothing to him.
He supposes that makes him a monster.
He’ll kill strangers. He’ll kill comrades. He’ll kill anyone, anything. There’s so much blood on his hands a little more won’t show. He can taste it in the back of his throat, feel it on his hands, on his body. He bathes in the memory of blood, slips his tongue out to lick it from his lips. He’s become accustomed to the coppery tang.
Filthy bastard.
He’s dirty, sullied, violated. He can feel the rot enveloping his soul, taste insanity in the back of his throat. Jino is the only pure thing he has left. The only light. Incandescence.
Killing comes so easily. So gracefully. Human bodies are horrifically fragile. So easy to destroy. He could kill without blood now, he knows how too. But he never does. He lets it splatter on his clothes, in his hair, on his face. Baptises himself with the spilt remnants of other people’s lives.
He sees Jino’s face in his dreams, not the faces of those he’s killed. Sees Jino’s face in a shifting pool of blood, sees Jino’s horror stark and clear as shards of bone and gore. But that doesn’t matter. Jino is safe. He buys Jino seconds of solace with the blood he sheds. With the life he leads. He piles bodies onto the scales and keeps them from tipping. Weighs corpses against a dove’s feather.
The hate in Jino’s eyes haunts him more than the screams ever will.
He is nothing anymore, nothing but bones and sinew and deadly grace strung together on the chain of an old promise. He will never be released from that vow. He saw to that. Wrote it on a wall in blood and brains and bullets.
He’s heard some people promise to die for love. To kill for love. He wonders if they would recant if they saw him.
Because he already has.
Title: Alone
Fandom: The Tudors
Characters/Pairing: Margaret Tudor, implied Margaret/Charles and Charles/OFC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 322
Beta:
butterflygirl_3 Warnings: Spoilers for S1 of The Tudors, blood and death.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Those who live alone die alone.
She tries to stand tall. But there’s a hand on her spine, bending her in two like a willow tree before the winter wind. She doubles up, retching. She can feel the blood rising, she’s choking on it, vomiting it. She grabs the table, tries to stand, but she can’t. This is a battle she was never going to win. The world is drowning in crimson.
Her vision begins to recede. It hurts, god it hurts, hurts as if someone is tearing her apart at the seams. She can’t stop coughing, choking, gagging. She tries to breathe but she can’t get any air, she’s suffocating in the very thing that should be sustaining her.
For a moment, she can see him. See him in another woman’s arms. See his face transfixed by pleasure as some whore moves beneath him, her greedy fingers in his hair. See his beautiful eyes, his perfect body, his roguish smile.
She reaches for his, tries to touch him, but he can’t see her, can’t feel her. How can he not know? How can he not sense she is dying?
He cries out a name, but it isn’t hers.
She fights against the veil of darkness slipping in front of her eyes, tries to tear it back so she can look on his face one last time. But nights is smothering her day, and she can’t see anymore. The floor is cold. She can feel the blood against her cheek, feel its heat.
She’s blind but she can still see him, glorious in the throes of ecstasy. Le petite mort. Ironic, perhaps, that he knows his moment of pleasurable death as her soul is dragged inch by inch from her body.
She tries to call out his name, but the blood bubbling from her lips chokes her.
It doesn’t matter. Perhaps it’s better this way.
She lived alone, so why should he hold her hand while she dies?
Title: Obsession
Fandom: DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Characters/Pairing: Haine/Badou
Rating: R
Word Count: 343
Beta:
butterflygirl_3 Warnings: Yaoi, cussing, implied rough sex.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: There's a fine line between sex and violence.
Inspired by the Jesus on Extasy song Sometimes.
Haine has a fucking obsession with biting him. Sinking teeth into his throat, his shoulder, the sensitive spot on the back of his neck. He nuzzles, licks, then sinks his teeth home, never quite drawing blood. It hurts, fuck it hurts, but somehow it’s just part of what Haine does to him.
Haine’s a fucking psychopath, but that’s not exactly news. Feral smile, guns and carnage, slender fingers. Talented fingers.
Haine tastes like metal and blood, hot and velvety. He’s not sure when they started this, why they started this, why he’s never stopped it. But he lets Haine shove him hard up against the wall; shred his shirt with one deft movement. He lets Haine kiss him until his lip bleeds, let’s Haine leave scratches down his back.
He suspects Haine likes marking him merely because he’ll never see blueberry bruises on his own skin.
Haine keeps himself on a tight leash. But sometimes Badou senses it fraying. He can smell the insanity on Haine’s skin, feel it in his kisses. He’s rougher, desperate, and sometimes Badou’s genuinely scared that he’s going to lose it, let go of his control and let those nips turn into flesh-tearing bites.
He’s not naïve enough to believe Haine doesn’t like the taste of his blood.
The moonlight spills through the window, painting Haine’s body in soft incandescence and sly grey shadows. Badou pulls him down by the hair, kisses him. Haine whines, snarls.
‘You taste like fucking cigarettes.’
‘You love it.’
You taste like blood.
Badou doesn’t say it, doesn’t say it because he’s an idiot but he’s not that stupid. And because somewhere along the way, he’s gotten a little bit addicted to the taste of Haine. Nicotine keeps him sane, but Haine makes him a little bit mad. Like a narcotic, a psychotic. Rough and hard, filthy and beautiful. He’s not sure what Haine gets out of it, but he’s not going to ask. He knows better than that.
Because Haine tastes of blood, and he suspects he doesn’t want to know whose.