Fake Palindromes (drabble set)
Mini fanfiction, this is just totally fic spam I'm sorry.
Title: Fake Palindromes
Fandom: Hanna Is Not a Boys Name
Rating: R for sexual themes
Pairing: Zombie/Hanna
Summary: Silly drabbles that try to be important :B
"Fake Palindromes" is a song by Andrew Bird that will make this story make a SHITLOAD more sense if you listen to it first.
I:
Red hair pops out from underneath dingy white sheets like a phoenix; I smile and rustle his hair, murmuring a soft ‘good morning’ and watch him squirm and stretch. I tried to get used to his scars-each night was different. Sometimes I could ignore the way his skin was pulled across his chest like too little butter over a piece of toast. And other times I couldn’t. This time I try, and kiss him on the cheek {I take a moment to notice that his skin is especially warm from sleep}. Each morning is a new memory. He tells me how he notices for the first time how wide my hands are and spends a good five minutes putting his hands on mine and shouting about their size. As he brushes lips blossomed with life and blood and love across my cold knuckles I hold him tight. Because it’s easier to be selfish and keep him than let him find someone whose heart can still beat.
II:
Knee high socks are not a normal part of his wardrobe. As he lets dark jeans fall onto the ground, I take only the slightest of notice-there are more important things to worry about. I grip his ankles and watch red lips twitch, bawdy eyelashes flutter and as he puts his head upon the hard counter, hair frames into a halo. I press cold kisses to a pale, bared neck and feel him writhe {this is the best part, as I recall from previous experiences between the two of us}. My hand is still gripped on his calf, keeping his legs spread and I press down a little to pull myself closer {this is when I notice it}. He flinches, only a little, and hides it very well, rolling his back to make it seem as if it was natural arousal. I look at where my hand is, and pull down his socks. Bruises colour slender legs, spotting across ankles. I look to where my hands have been-yellow splatters of discoloured skin {discoloured like my own skin} are beginning to surface. He tells me it’s fine and that he bruises easily. I kiss the bruise where my palm was, below his knee, and disentangle myself from his dingy kitchen counter.
III:
Legs crossed, lights dimmed, dark eyes yearning for a taste of something I don’t have. He’s got old handcuffs -- some he’s been meaning to use -- and blood in his eyes. Lips curl into a smile I didn’t know he could form {he’s wearing red lipstick, I realize in amusement and quiet wonder}, and I take his cue when he shifts slightly and his shoulders straighten, striped shirt rustling -- he was wearing trousers earlier, I’m sure. He takes the tie, pulls it closer, drags me to him, and I wonder why I ever left the house when legs, once again in those knee-high socks, wrap around my waist. I’m careful {even if I’m just a monster that walks the earth, I’d never admit it to him} as I hold his hips and take him to the couch where it’s more comfortable. He doesn’t stop kissing me even when I handcuff his wrists behind his back-he smiles. He tells me he’ll get me back; sooner than now, we’ll get together; tie my wrists with leather, one of these days. And I’m absolutely fine with this {I smile back}.
IV:
Jesus, don’t you know-don’t you know that you could have died? Whiskey-flied voices cry to the night, crying to the stars about monsters {Jesus, don’t you know that you should’ve died?} and I can’t hear them. Blood gone from your eyes, what has tried swapping your blood with formaldehyde, handing you to Death, pushing you off the end? Jesus, don’t you know? You could’ve /died/. I try not to think about death, even if it’s my life now. You’re heavy in my arms. I pass street poles - my dewey-eyed companion, what has tried cradling you in the arms of oblivion? Monsters? {Monsters who walk the earth?} I remember where he lives. I take you to that doctor that smells like formaldehyde and stapled your body back together like a child’s drawing. Jesus, don’t you know that you couldn’t die, that you shouldn’t die?
V:
A paper airplane hits my head; it’s cute, a youthful gesture. I half-expect it to say “do you like me, yes - no” on the inside, but it reads like a singles ad, runs me hot and cold {who knew a zombie needed a rheostat-or was it a thermostat?}.
‘I like long walks and sci-fi movies. We should meet together. I want to get inside your head. You’re about six feet tall... east coast bred? I like it. (:
-HFC’
He’s wearing stripes, I’m wearing plaid - it’s curious how certain fads cling, even when you’re dead. The patterns don’t mix well, but that’s not our place to care. A few hours later, we descend upon a twilight town for long walks and marathons of Star Wars. He falls asleep on my shoulder in bed after Episode V. I hold him tight. Because it’s easier to be selfish and keep him than let him find someone whose heart can still beat.
Title: Fake Palindromes
Fandom: Hanna Is Not a Boys Name
Rating: R for sexual themes
Pairing: Zombie/Hanna
Summary: Silly drabbles that try to be important :B
"Fake Palindromes" is a song by Andrew Bird that will make this story make a SHITLOAD more sense if you listen to it first.
I:
Red hair pops out from underneath dingy white sheets like a phoenix; I smile and rustle his hair, murmuring a soft ‘good morning’ and watch him squirm and stretch. I tried to get used to his scars-each night was different. Sometimes I could ignore the way his skin was pulled across his chest like too little butter over a piece of toast. And other times I couldn’t. This time I try, and kiss him on the cheek {I take a moment to notice that his skin is especially warm from sleep}. Each morning is a new memory. He tells me how he notices for the first time how wide my hands are and spends a good five minutes putting his hands on mine and shouting about their size. As he brushes lips blossomed with life and blood and love across my cold knuckles I hold him tight. Because it’s easier to be selfish and keep him than let him find someone whose heart can still beat.
II:
Knee high socks are not a normal part of his wardrobe. As he lets dark jeans fall onto the ground, I take only the slightest of notice-there are more important things to worry about. I grip his ankles and watch red lips twitch, bawdy eyelashes flutter and as he puts his head upon the hard counter, hair frames into a halo. I press cold kisses to a pale, bared neck and feel him writhe {this is the best part, as I recall from previous experiences between the two of us}. My hand is still gripped on his calf, keeping his legs spread and I press down a little to pull myself closer {this is when I notice it}. He flinches, only a little, and hides it very well, rolling his back to make it seem as if it was natural arousal. I look at where my hand is, and pull down his socks. Bruises colour slender legs, spotting across ankles. I look to where my hands have been-yellow splatters of discoloured skin {discoloured like my own skin} are beginning to surface. He tells me it’s fine and that he bruises easily. I kiss the bruise where my palm was, below his knee, and disentangle myself from his dingy kitchen counter.
III:
Legs crossed, lights dimmed, dark eyes yearning for a taste of something I don’t have. He’s got old handcuffs -- some he’s been meaning to use -- and blood in his eyes. Lips curl into a smile I didn’t know he could form {he’s wearing red lipstick, I realize in amusement and quiet wonder}, and I take his cue when he shifts slightly and his shoulders straighten, striped shirt rustling -- he was wearing trousers earlier, I’m sure. He takes the tie, pulls it closer, drags me to him, and I wonder why I ever left the house when legs, once again in those knee-high socks, wrap around my waist. I’m careful {even if I’m just a monster that walks the earth, I’d never admit it to him} as I hold his hips and take him to the couch where it’s more comfortable. He doesn’t stop kissing me even when I handcuff his wrists behind his back-he smiles. He tells me he’ll get me back; sooner than now, we’ll get together; tie my wrists with leather, one of these days. And I’m absolutely fine with this {I smile back}.
IV:
Jesus, don’t you know-don’t you know that you could have died? Whiskey-flied voices cry to the night, crying to the stars about monsters {Jesus, don’t you know that you should’ve died?} and I can’t hear them. Blood gone from your eyes, what has tried swapping your blood with formaldehyde, handing you to Death, pushing you off the end? Jesus, don’t you know? You could’ve /died/. I try not to think about death, even if it’s my life now. You’re heavy in my arms. I pass street poles - my dewey-eyed companion, what has tried cradling you in the arms of oblivion? Monsters? {Monsters who walk the earth?} I remember where he lives. I take you to that doctor that smells like formaldehyde and stapled your body back together like a child’s drawing. Jesus, don’t you know that you couldn’t die, that you shouldn’t die?
V:
A paper airplane hits my head; it’s cute, a youthful gesture. I half-expect it to say “do you like me, yes - no” on the inside, but it reads like a singles ad, runs me hot and cold {who knew a zombie needed a rheostat-or was it a thermostat?}.
‘I like long walks and sci-fi movies. We should meet together. I want to get inside your head. You’re about six feet tall... east coast bred? I like it. (:
-HFC’
He’s wearing stripes, I’m wearing plaid - it’s curious how certain fads cling, even when you’re dead. The patterns don’t mix well, but that’s not our place to care. A few hours later, we descend upon a twilight town for long walks and marathons of Star Wars. He falls asleep on my shoulder in bed after Episode V. I hold him tight. Because it’s easier to be selfish and keep him than let him find someone whose heart can still beat.