Snippies!
Just because I have nothing better to do at 2AM. Here are two snippets I wrote about Zettai! (V-Star's webcomic, if you didn't know. She's on my friends list if you want to get to know her)
These stories have no spoilers except... no. No spoilers. Anything occuring in these stories ARE PURELY FICTIONAL AND HAVE NO CANON ABOUT THEM. So don't go thinking NOTHING. ^^*
I am LJ snippeting them because... well because I can damnit.
First:
A trail of crimson tears leads from the sidewalk to the door. It is not her door. She has no door. Slowly, with a part of her sleeve that isnt red, she turns the handle.
Its bright in the room. White light shines on the worn couch, on the sickly green carpet, on the sleeping form. Her body freezes, eyebrows furrow before she realizes oh-
he waited up.
He waited up for her. Its obvious. There is a bowl of what used to be warm water
with a rag, a First-Aid kit and refreshments. Chips and water. His hand is on the phone because he thinks he might be able to reach her. He has no way, no idea and still he
hopes maybe he can reach her.
Cold wind races up her spine but it doesnt cause the chill.
With hands that arent shaking because she doesnt shake, she closes the door.
Shes dirty. Shes in his house and shes dirty. Not from brown earth but from human life. It stains her, coats her skin and saturates her clothes.
Her weapons are heavy and she notices that there is a towel laid down on the floor near the door. A blue towel, beach size. Perfect to fit whatever artillery she had.
That hurt.
Carefully, she removes everything on her person. There is a lot but it fits. He knew. He knew perfectly. Even with the weapons gone she is still bloody.
Still deadly. Still deadly. Fatal. Poison.
Her footsteps leave depressions in the carpet. The green and red make black and its kinda funny. All right. Not funny. Its not funny that blood and love make black. She knows exactly where the shower is.
They have fucked in the shower.
It was pleasant. She had him up against the tiled wall and loved the slick noises his skin made against them. Theyd nearly broken the glass. It was funny. She was screwing someone and they had laughed during sex. It was fun. It was enjoyable. It wasnt just a way to get off. She didnt want to take a shower now.
Water streamed clear. Why was water blue other places but clear out of a faucet? That was where the populace cleaned themselves. They needed purity. Needed to refresh their purity. Their false purity. Her water shouldve been blue.
It almost hurt, the water. Streaming over her skin and into the cuts that wouldve made her flinch if she wasnt herself. But she was. She didnt flinch. She just rubbed them until they stopped bleeding.
His drain was plugged.
The water was red. Crimson. Scarlet. Sang.
Her feet moved through it; it wasnt thick. Her hair was heavy. The water streamed
down her face and she was glad because it meant she didnt have to acknowledge the
tears. Because they didnt exist. She didnt cry. She just didnt.
Must have been a long time because the comforting warmth it soon turned cold.
And that was better. She deserved the cold. She deserved to be thrown out, cast aside,
abandoned, and left behind. The water was cold.
And that was better.
Guilt got to her. The water bill might be high and she couldnt impose that on
him. Of all the things to feel guilt for. Lives meant nothing; they were worthless and had
been used incorrectly by their possessors but his money he earned. He earned that month
with sweat and brainpower. She wouldnt take that from him. Slowly, she turns the
shower off and watches the water trickle away. Since the drain is clogged the water will
leave a pink ring. Shell clean it later. Would not leave him with a ringed bathtub.
Ringed with the blood she shed.
Why did this happen? When she walked back into the room he was in, she froze. She just
stared at him.
He was not beautiful. She had seen beautiful, fucked beautiful, and killed beautiful.
He was not beautiful.
But
There was a certain light about him. His hair has green highlights; dark green the
color of forests and secrets. She likes that green a lot, better than the misty green of a
certain foe. His eyes are violet and dont make him look like a pussy. How can violet
eyes the color of irises in spring make a guy look sexy and not gay? She didnt think
about the logistics of it all. Those werent her specialties.
God he was weak. The only strong things about him were his hands and libido. And if she
even looked at him more than necessary, he was going to be difficult as hell to keep
alive.
At least he wasnt stupid and constantly getting himself into bad situations. Lois
Lane always sucked at that aspect.
She was still frozen. She was naked but that was easy. The frozen bothered her. Why?
Why did the sight of him freeze her? Gritting her teeth, she moves a foot forward and
finds that it is easy to move once its broken. Easy. Its all easy.
The towel doesnt match the couch, plaid marring with solid. She sits and starts
dismantling the First-Aid kit. There is a large gash across her right hand and it is
difficult. Doesnt really matter though. Shes managed before the First-Aid kits
and shell manage without them.
"Here, let me help." Her hands are hovering over the box. Blood drips and
spatters on the table. One drop.
Two.
Three.
A puddle.
"No. I got it." Shed shoulder him roughly but she could never do that.
Not to him.
"Just let me help." He says it softly, gently. And she doesnt
want that. She doesnt want him to be anything other than rough angry and hurting
because then she wont have to pretend to be harsh with him. She wont have to
pretend.
Hes holding her hand softly, swabbing away any debris that may have contaminated
her. Ha. Hed need a bigger piece of cloth than that. It is strange that he
doesnt acknowledge her lack of clothes. Doesnt he realize that is her weapon?
Her words are sore and her hands are broken; it is only her curves that will defend her
now.
"You waited for me." She tries to be cold. She is better with metal.
He smiles a little, immersed in healing her skin. "I know you told me not to
but-"
And she attacks him with her mouth because she cant stand him being so soft with
her, making her fragile and breakable. It is the roughness that will keep her away, the
roughness that wont make her shatter.
"No wait." Hes resisting and he smiles again and she hates its
power. "Just let me get you fixed, okay? You shouldnt be doing anything like
that. You look like you really got beat up tonight."
A last attempt. "Im naked."
"I know." He bites his lip as he concentrates on peeling away the slick
surface from the sticky side of the bandage. He doesnt even care. God she wants to
get away from him. Why couldnt he have stayed asleep?
"Youre dysfunctional." At this he glances up, waggling eyebrows. It
isnt funny because only old people do that.
"I function very well, as you ought to know. Now hold still and Ill get this
one by your ribs." She has breasts there but he seems to have forgotten. He is
sidestepping all her tricks and she knows that her bloodied weapons are so close. So
close. "All finished. Now, Im going to stay on the couch and you go to my
room "
She wasnt listening anymore. Instead, he led her blinding through doors, naked
and cold. The bed cover was soft, like he was, soft and soft and so soft.
A trail of crimson beads followed them.
His fingers were bleeding and she didnt know why but he took them away from her
demanding hands. For him being so fucking weak he really was pushing her around. When he
checked in on her ten minutes later, like he was her mother, he sat down on the bed.
"Come on, you need sleep. Just lay down," he did so, pushing her shoulders
and pulling on the blanket at the edge of the bed. "See? And then you just sleep for
a while."
He is leaving. "I killed someone tonight."
He pauses in the doorway, only a shadow framed in white. The chest rises, it falls.
And when he tucks her arm around her waist, she pretends that it wasnt her voice
that called him back. It was his silly sentiment that made him think she really gave a
shit about him. Because she didnt. She could kill him just as easily as the rest of
those nameless faces that beheld her silver.
Crimson feathers her lies into a face that wont be erased. She cant slash
it.
And she pretends, because thats all she can really do.
Rated R because of SEX, DIALOGUE, LANGUAGE. A Taisha/Shijaku pairing. She returns from work only to discover things are more complicated at home.
And my second Zettai! fic:
There are many things he finds pleasant.
It is the soft feathery texture of hair or the rubbery slick of wet skin. Most of them
are touches because that is what he likes to use. His sense of touch. The smell sense does
not do much good because of the paste smeared beneath his nose. It blocks the malodorous
scents floating about. And the sight is equally unattractive for there isnt anything
within the confines of sight that will remain so. Beauty will fade and the bright sunlight
will die in red streaks. But there is always the touch, always the feel of things whether
they be physical or those crush of emotions inside you, where you forget things
arent supposed to touch.
He is clutching to his chest the prized possession. It is his dolly. His dolly has
wonderfully vibrant hair, bursting so than any ordinary color an artist could inflict or
nature could aspire. Hates that someone would try to take that color away but it
isnt the color that attracts him so. It has never been the fucking color. It was
that feel. Silk but not because silk was a word, silk had a meaning and he was anything
but meaning. The feel of his hair was goodness and purity and all things red. The dolly
should be entirely red. That was his color: red. RED. The clothes were tattered and worn
from too much coddling; he wreaked too much hand smothering onto those clothes that were
harsh. Why did the dolly have clothes? The skin was best. Skin of dolphin flesh and
rubbery but warm. Oh how that warmth seeps into the being of his liver and his gallbladder
and those asinine organs that crave the heat of a person other than its owner. And if that
skin were soft it could be a bed of roses. Yellow roses. Yellow meant infidelity.
Things turned sour after that. Because the object he held should be coated in yellow,
drenched and poured and damnit why did things have to be taken away from him? But it
wasnt the dollys fault no no no, wasnt the fault. it wasnt. but
you shouldnt touch someone elses things. That was bad that was a very bad
thing you shouldnt touch someone elses things.
Shouldntthatwasbadshouldnttouchotherthingsshouldtouch
Gently, he rocked back and forth. The river crashes up near him and the body in his
arms is so very cold. The bystanders are crying out, pointing, whispering. They point and
stare and point and whisper and why the fuck cant anyone do anything.
His hand strokes his toy, his possession his his HIS HIS!! They shouldnt have
touched his belonging. Because then bad things had to happen. They just had to.
The sense of touch was really the only sense you could rely on. The skin turned cold
after being in the water too long and the stench of rotting would make you vomit and the
sight of blue blue skin along with that blue blue hair would make you cry.
So he just sat there with eyes closed and refusing to kiss because taste would be the
worst. And he felt.
Because you shouldnt touch things that arent yours.
Because then bad things happen.
Rated R because of VIOLENCE LANGUAGE and DISTURBING CONTENT. a Hideyori/Tatsuya pairing. ultimately, we all are jealous. no one wants other people touching their things.
Damn that second one is FREAKING disturbing. I love it. AHAH!
P.S. Paige? People from school? If you are reading this TURN BACK! TURN BACK BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!!!
These stories have no spoilers except... no. No spoilers. Anything occuring in these stories ARE PURELY FICTIONAL AND HAVE NO CANON ABOUT THEM. So don't go thinking NOTHING. ^^*
I am LJ snippeting them because... well because I can damnit.
First:
A trail of crimson tears leads from the sidewalk to the door. It is not her door. She has no door. Slowly, with a part of her sleeve that isnt red, she turns the handle.
Its bright in the room. White light shines on the worn couch, on the sickly green carpet, on the sleeping form. Her body freezes, eyebrows furrow before she realizes oh-
he waited up.
He waited up for her. Its obvious. There is a bowl of what used to be warm water
with a rag, a First-Aid kit and refreshments. Chips and water. His hand is on the phone because he thinks he might be able to reach her. He has no way, no idea and still he
hopes maybe he can reach her.
Cold wind races up her spine but it doesnt cause the chill.
With hands that arent shaking because she doesnt shake, she closes the door.
Shes dirty. Shes in his house and shes dirty. Not from brown earth but from human life. It stains her, coats her skin and saturates her clothes.
Her weapons are heavy and she notices that there is a towel laid down on the floor near the door. A blue towel, beach size. Perfect to fit whatever artillery she had.
That hurt.
Carefully, she removes everything on her person. There is a lot but it fits. He knew. He knew perfectly. Even with the weapons gone she is still bloody.
Still deadly. Still deadly. Fatal. Poison.
Her footsteps leave depressions in the carpet. The green and red make black and its kinda funny. All right. Not funny. Its not funny that blood and love make black. She knows exactly where the shower is.
They have fucked in the shower.
It was pleasant. She had him up against the tiled wall and loved the slick noises his skin made against them. Theyd nearly broken the glass. It was funny. She was screwing someone and they had laughed during sex. It was fun. It was enjoyable. It wasnt just a way to get off. She didnt want to take a shower now.
Water streamed clear. Why was water blue other places but clear out of a faucet? That was where the populace cleaned themselves. They needed purity. Needed to refresh their purity. Their false purity. Her water shouldve been blue.
It almost hurt, the water. Streaming over her skin and into the cuts that wouldve made her flinch if she wasnt herself. But she was. She didnt flinch. She just rubbed them until they stopped bleeding.
His drain was plugged.
The water was red. Crimson. Scarlet. Sang.
Her feet moved through it; it wasnt thick. Her hair was heavy. The water streamed
down her face and she was glad because it meant she didnt have to acknowledge the
tears. Because they didnt exist. She didnt cry. She just didnt.
Must have been a long time because the comforting warmth it soon turned cold.
And that was better. She deserved the cold. She deserved to be thrown out, cast aside,
abandoned, and left behind. The water was cold.
And that was better.
Guilt got to her. The water bill might be high and she couldnt impose that on
him. Of all the things to feel guilt for. Lives meant nothing; they were worthless and had
been used incorrectly by their possessors but his money he earned. He earned that month
with sweat and brainpower. She wouldnt take that from him. Slowly, she turns the
shower off and watches the water trickle away. Since the drain is clogged the water will
leave a pink ring. Shell clean it later. Would not leave him with a ringed bathtub.
Ringed with the blood she shed.
Why did this happen? When she walked back into the room he was in, she froze. She just
stared at him.
He was not beautiful. She had seen beautiful, fucked beautiful, and killed beautiful.
He was not beautiful.
But
There was a certain light about him. His hair has green highlights; dark green the
color of forests and secrets. She likes that green a lot, better than the misty green of a
certain foe. His eyes are violet and dont make him look like a pussy. How can violet
eyes the color of irises in spring make a guy look sexy and not gay? She didnt think
about the logistics of it all. Those werent her specialties.
God he was weak. The only strong things about him were his hands and libido. And if she
even looked at him more than necessary, he was going to be difficult as hell to keep
alive.
At least he wasnt stupid and constantly getting himself into bad situations. Lois
Lane always sucked at that aspect.
She was still frozen. She was naked but that was easy. The frozen bothered her. Why?
Why did the sight of him freeze her? Gritting her teeth, she moves a foot forward and
finds that it is easy to move once its broken. Easy. Its all easy.
The towel doesnt match the couch, plaid marring with solid. She sits and starts
dismantling the First-Aid kit. There is a large gash across her right hand and it is
difficult. Doesnt really matter though. Shes managed before the First-Aid kits
and shell manage without them.
"Here, let me help." Her hands are hovering over the box. Blood drips and
spatters on the table. One drop.
Two.
Three.
A puddle.
"No. I got it." Shed shoulder him roughly but she could never do that.
Not to him.
"Just let me help." He says it softly, gently. And she doesnt
want that. She doesnt want him to be anything other than rough angry and hurting
because then she wont have to pretend to be harsh with him. She wont have to
pretend.
Hes holding her hand softly, swabbing away any debris that may have contaminated
her. Ha. Hed need a bigger piece of cloth than that. It is strange that he
doesnt acknowledge her lack of clothes. Doesnt he realize that is her weapon?
Her words are sore and her hands are broken; it is only her curves that will defend her
now.
"You waited for me." She tries to be cold. She is better with metal.
He smiles a little, immersed in healing her skin. "I know you told me not to
but-"
And she attacks him with her mouth because she cant stand him being so soft with
her, making her fragile and breakable. It is the roughness that will keep her away, the
roughness that wont make her shatter.
"No wait." Hes resisting and he smiles again and she hates its
power. "Just let me get you fixed, okay? You shouldnt be doing anything like
that. You look like you really got beat up tonight."
A last attempt. "Im naked."
"I know." He bites his lip as he concentrates on peeling away the slick
surface from the sticky side of the bandage. He doesnt even care. God she wants to
get away from him. Why couldnt he have stayed asleep?
"Youre dysfunctional." At this he glances up, waggling eyebrows. It
isnt funny because only old people do that.
"I function very well, as you ought to know. Now hold still and Ill get this
one by your ribs." She has breasts there but he seems to have forgotten. He is
sidestepping all her tricks and she knows that her bloodied weapons are so close. So
close. "All finished. Now, Im going to stay on the couch and you go to my
room "
She wasnt listening anymore. Instead, he led her blinding through doors, naked
and cold. The bed cover was soft, like he was, soft and soft and so soft.
A trail of crimson beads followed them.
His fingers were bleeding and she didnt know why but he took them away from her
demanding hands. For him being so fucking weak he really was pushing her around. When he
checked in on her ten minutes later, like he was her mother, he sat down on the bed.
"Come on, you need sleep. Just lay down," he did so, pushing her shoulders
and pulling on the blanket at the edge of the bed. "See? And then you just sleep for
a while."
He is leaving. "I killed someone tonight."
He pauses in the doorway, only a shadow framed in white. The chest rises, it falls.
And when he tucks her arm around her waist, she pretends that it wasnt her voice
that called him back. It was his silly sentiment that made him think she really gave a
shit about him. Because she didnt. She could kill him just as easily as the rest of
those nameless faces that beheld her silver.
Crimson feathers her lies into a face that wont be erased. She cant slash
it.
And she pretends, because thats all she can really do.
Rated R because of SEX, DIALOGUE, LANGUAGE. A Taisha/Shijaku pairing. She returns from work only to discover things are more complicated at home.
And my second Zettai! fic:
There are many things he finds pleasant.
It is the soft feathery texture of hair or the rubbery slick of wet skin. Most of them
are touches because that is what he likes to use. His sense of touch. The smell sense does
not do much good because of the paste smeared beneath his nose. It blocks the malodorous
scents floating about. And the sight is equally unattractive for there isnt anything
within the confines of sight that will remain so. Beauty will fade and the bright sunlight
will die in red streaks. But there is always the touch, always the feel of things whether
they be physical or those crush of emotions inside you, where you forget things
arent supposed to touch.
He is clutching to his chest the prized possession. It is his dolly. His dolly has
wonderfully vibrant hair, bursting so than any ordinary color an artist could inflict or
nature could aspire. Hates that someone would try to take that color away but it
isnt the color that attracts him so. It has never been the fucking color. It was
that feel. Silk but not because silk was a word, silk had a meaning and he was anything
but meaning. The feel of his hair was goodness and purity and all things red. The dolly
should be entirely red. That was his color: red. RED. The clothes were tattered and worn
from too much coddling; he wreaked too much hand smothering onto those clothes that were
harsh. Why did the dolly have clothes? The skin was best. Skin of dolphin flesh and
rubbery but warm. Oh how that warmth seeps into the being of his liver and his gallbladder
and those asinine organs that crave the heat of a person other than its owner. And if that
skin were soft it could be a bed of roses. Yellow roses. Yellow meant infidelity.
Things turned sour after that. Because the object he held should be coated in yellow,
drenched and poured and damnit why did things have to be taken away from him? But it
wasnt the dollys fault no no no, wasnt the fault. it wasnt. but
you shouldnt touch someone elses things. That was bad that was a very bad
thing you shouldnt touch someone elses things.
Shouldntthatwasbadshouldnttouchotherthingsshouldtouch
Gently, he rocked back and forth. The river crashes up near him and the body in his
arms is so very cold. The bystanders are crying out, pointing, whispering. They point and
stare and point and whisper and why the fuck cant anyone do anything.
His hand strokes his toy, his possession his his HIS HIS!! They shouldnt have
touched his belonging. Because then bad things had to happen. They just had to.
The sense of touch was really the only sense you could rely on. The skin turned cold
after being in the water too long and the stench of rotting would make you vomit and the
sight of blue blue skin along with that blue blue hair would make you cry.
So he just sat there with eyes closed and refusing to kiss because taste would be the
worst. And he felt.
Because you shouldnt touch things that arent yours.
Because then bad things happen.
Rated R because of VIOLENCE LANGUAGE and DISTURBING CONTENT. a Hideyori/Tatsuya pairing. ultimately, we all are jealous. no one wants other people touching their things.
Damn that second one is FREAKING disturbing. I love it. AHAH!
P.S. Paige? People from school? If you are reading this TURN BACK! TURN BACK BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!!!