#3 Post-coital: Body and Soul
Title: Body and soul
Prompt #3: Post-coital
Author: macavitykitsune
Pairing: Gonou/Kanan
Rating: M. Strong M, for reasons listed below.
Warnings: Mindfuckery. Dark thoughts. Non-con. Suicide. Character death. Yes, I am on a regular roll tonight, why do you ask?
Time: 50 minutes, 10 for planning. None for editing, so excuse any errors.
Words: 820
Summary: Kanan wasn’t the only one who knew what rape was like - and the forms it could take.
A/N: beats the darkest I’ve written before by a long shot. Also - I played with the form of the prompt a lot, since said post-coital moment is only a flashback, but I hope this fits the prompt.
He thinks, sometimes, that Kanan isn’t - wasn’t, he reminds himself, wasn’t - the only one who was violated.
The irony of their lives makes the literature critic in him laugh, and that laughter seems a little insane, but who is he to measure and by what standard. So he listens, instead, to that insidious, rasping voice in his mind that murmurs
and you lost yourself for her
and forces him to listen to all the things he detests.
Father and son, sister and brother. A life destroyed inside the jail
(if she was sane if she was right if she hadn’t already snapped but he can’t consider that and hadn’t she looked so beautiful and smiled so bright as bright as steel in her belly)
a life destroyed outside of it. Rape of the body, rape of the soul. They had experienced both, the most cruel mirror of all the mirrors that make him keep his hair short and look in glass as little as he can because if he looks just so he can see her face in his and that is when he aches for claws and fangs and vines to differentiate dead from living, human from youkai, purity from taint.
Rape of the body - hers - madness piercing her every thought in tormenting parallel. He shudders away from the idea but his mind goes back to it, stubborn, uncontrollable, testing and weighing each thought that must have gone through her - the creeping, gradual fray, fade, dissolve of her mind. As she lay under him
(or did he leave when he was done did he lie next to her did he fall asleep next to her broken body could he have been so sure that she could only turn a blade against herself?)
he can imagine her every sensation.
Imagine them so well, because he knows it himself.
Transformation, he has heard it called, transmogrification, rebirth, revival. Such pure words for such an ugly heresy, killing each cell in his body, an obscene thing swarming out of his scar like rage trapped in his throat his eyes his hands, the change sweeping over him, a million deaths in an eyeblink, and then the feel of newness within him.
He can hear her thoughts, can feel the calm insanity of certainty that that phantom seed bloomed within her womb crawling over her skin and soaking into her bones until it became holy conviction, gospel truth like the cross she wore on her throat
(that protected nothing that saved nothing but was she nothing, to be saved?)
dictating all action and thought forevermore (but forever never lasts as long as anyone says it will, he knows that). Dawning like a blood moon in her mind, through the one and a half months it took him to find her, racing desperate miles, drenching himself in the blood she was carrying inside her.
Strangely enough, his journey to find her is lost to him, broken memories blurred in black and crimson, and it begins with the cell, with Chin Iisou, with death and death and death entwined with life and life and life. Always with the cell, where the remnants of his sanity were destroyed, where he knew for the first time in his life helplessness, that purity of surrender to the inevitability of purposelessness. Watching her die, he dies with her, with that child which Is Not or Will Never Be, he still does not know which. Rape of the soul, so sweetly she smiled as she inflicted on him the hell of her own existence. Rape of the body, so calm he looked as he cut his arm and bled over him, baptism of hellfire and claws so long and elegant on his fingers.
He knows
(never thinks it aloud, never, never, not even to himself, not even silently, not even, but it crawls under his thoughts like a poisonous insect)
that he would have killed her had she survived. For the sin of
(leaving him alone making him worthless killing herself killing him)
her death, in his unlimited unhinged state, he would have gladly killed her again, and that hate crawls in him to this day, unacknowledged and omnipotent in the darkest realms of his mind, sharp-edged like talons or teeth, slithering in the vacuum between thoughts like so many vines. Hate, fiery and pure as fire is, though fed on the filth of the earth, that she, in the end, inflicted upon him what had been inflicted upon her, that she raped him as she’d been raped and left him in the afterglow of death, left him with life
(if this is life if this is living)
and chose not to survive it.
Rape of the body, rape of the soul.
Kanan wasn’t the only one who was violated.
There are times when he wishes
(and those wishes are the most forbidden of all)
that he had never let her.
Prompt #3: Post-coital
Author: macavitykitsune
Pairing: Gonou/Kanan
Rating: M. Strong M, for reasons listed below.
Warnings: Mindfuckery. Dark thoughts. Non-con. Suicide. Character death. Yes, I am on a regular roll tonight, why do you ask?
Time: 50 minutes, 10 for planning. None for editing, so excuse any errors.
Words: 820
Summary: Kanan wasn’t the only one who knew what rape was like - and the forms it could take.
A/N: beats the darkest I’ve written before by a long shot. Also - I played with the form of the prompt a lot, since said post-coital moment is only a flashback, but I hope this fits the prompt.
He thinks, sometimes, that Kanan isn’t - wasn’t, he reminds himself, wasn’t - the only one who was violated.
The irony of their lives makes the literature critic in him laugh, and that laughter seems a little insane, but who is he to measure and by what standard. So he listens, instead, to that insidious, rasping voice in his mind that murmurs
and you lost yourself for her
and forces him to listen to all the things he detests.
Father and son, sister and brother. A life destroyed inside the jail
(if she was sane if she was right if she hadn’t already snapped but he can’t consider that and hadn’t she looked so beautiful and smiled so bright as bright as steel in her belly)
a life destroyed outside of it. Rape of the body, rape of the soul. They had experienced both, the most cruel mirror of all the mirrors that make him keep his hair short and look in glass as little as he can because if he looks just so he can see her face in his and that is when he aches for claws and fangs and vines to differentiate dead from living, human from youkai, purity from taint.
Rape of the body - hers - madness piercing her every thought in tormenting parallel. He shudders away from the idea but his mind goes back to it, stubborn, uncontrollable, testing and weighing each thought that must have gone through her - the creeping, gradual fray, fade, dissolve of her mind. As she lay under him
(or did he leave when he was done did he lie next to her did he fall asleep next to her broken body could he have been so sure that she could only turn a blade against herself?)
he can imagine her every sensation.
Imagine them so well, because he knows it himself.
Transformation, he has heard it called, transmogrification, rebirth, revival. Such pure words for such an ugly heresy, killing each cell in his body, an obscene thing swarming out of his scar like rage trapped in his throat his eyes his hands, the change sweeping over him, a million deaths in an eyeblink, and then the feel of newness within him.
He can hear her thoughts, can feel the calm insanity of certainty that that phantom seed bloomed within her womb crawling over her skin and soaking into her bones until it became holy conviction, gospel truth like the cross she wore on her throat
(that protected nothing that saved nothing but was she nothing, to be saved?)
dictating all action and thought forevermore (but forever never lasts as long as anyone says it will, he knows that). Dawning like a blood moon in her mind, through the one and a half months it took him to find her, racing desperate miles, drenching himself in the blood she was carrying inside her.
Strangely enough, his journey to find her is lost to him, broken memories blurred in black and crimson, and it begins with the cell, with Chin Iisou, with death and death and death entwined with life and life and life. Always with the cell, where the remnants of his sanity were destroyed, where he knew for the first time in his life helplessness, that purity of surrender to the inevitability of purposelessness. Watching her die, he dies with her, with that child which Is Not or Will Never Be, he still does not know which. Rape of the soul, so sweetly she smiled as she inflicted on him the hell of her own existence. Rape of the body, so calm he looked as he cut his arm and bled over him, baptism of hellfire and claws so long and elegant on his fingers.
He knows
(never thinks it aloud, never, never, not even to himself, not even silently, not even, but it crawls under his thoughts like a poisonous insect)
that he would have killed her had she survived. For the sin of
(leaving him alone making him worthless killing herself killing him)
her death, in his unlimited unhinged state, he would have gladly killed her again, and that hate crawls in him to this day, unacknowledged and omnipotent in the darkest realms of his mind, sharp-edged like talons or teeth, slithering in the vacuum between thoughts like so many vines. Hate, fiery and pure as fire is, though fed on the filth of the earth, that she, in the end, inflicted upon him what had been inflicted upon her, that she raped him as she’d been raped and left him in the afterglow of death, left him with life
(if this is life if this is living)
and chose not to survive it.
Rape of the body, rape of the soul.
Kanan wasn’t the only one who was violated.
There are times when he wishes
(and those wishes are the most forbidden of all)
that he had never let her.