Wavelengths [March 4th] [Othello, Mitsume] [Ororon]
Title :: Wavelengths
Prompt :: March 4th, “you become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed” [31_days]
Pairing :: Othello, Mitsume; Othello/Mitsume and past Othello/Futaba
Rating :: PG-13
Wordcount :: 260
Summary :: “She was untouchable,” he says, so softly and suddenly the words are both slap and caress, and the sheer listlessness in his eyes nearly makes him wonder if he truly did blind him after all, if this is damnation or threat or nothing at all.
“She was untouchable,” he says, so softly and suddenly the words are both slap and caress, and the sheer listlessness in his eyes nearly makes him wonder if he truly did blind him after all, if this is damnation or threat or nothing at all. “Untouchable. No one else would have dared.”
Mitsume doesn’t say a word; he already knows how this story will end. He does not know if his silence is seen as acceptance or antagonisation, but that matters just as little and he does not particularly bother to care.
“And yet I won her - won her, never owned.” He smiles still, the effect an effortless chasm beneath those empty eyes, and his hands squeeze. “No one’s hands mattered but mine, no matter what else was done or said.”
Mitsume lazes back against the sheets, inhaling bloodstains and smoke and the bitter scent of sex; exposing the series of bitemarks and bruises around his throat and touching his fingertips to them as if to suggest that the past returns to us in waves, steadily and steadily and irresistibly until we break.
(Touching me with the hands that slew her cannot absolve you, his gaze blatantly states, and the only response is a flicker in the glance he receives in turn - a determination behind that flat expanse of colour that both turns his gut and makes something in it stir.)
This is an unspoken war, and they both know that the only rule is that being underhanded is the only way to catch hold of one another at all.
Prompt :: March 4th, “you become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed” [31_days]
Pairing :: Othello, Mitsume; Othello/Mitsume and past Othello/Futaba
Rating :: PG-13
Wordcount :: 260
Summary :: “She was untouchable,” he says, so softly and suddenly the words are both slap and caress, and the sheer listlessness in his eyes nearly makes him wonder if he truly did blind him after all, if this is damnation or threat or nothing at all.
“She was untouchable,” he says, so softly and suddenly the words are both slap and caress, and the sheer listlessness in his eyes nearly makes him wonder if he truly did blind him after all, if this is damnation or threat or nothing at all. “Untouchable. No one else would have dared.”
Mitsume doesn’t say a word; he already knows how this story will end. He does not know if his silence is seen as acceptance or antagonisation, but that matters just as little and he does not particularly bother to care.
“And yet I won her - won her, never owned.” He smiles still, the effect an effortless chasm beneath those empty eyes, and his hands squeeze. “No one’s hands mattered but mine, no matter what else was done or said.”
Mitsume lazes back against the sheets, inhaling bloodstains and smoke and the bitter scent of sex; exposing the series of bitemarks and bruises around his throat and touching his fingertips to them as if to suggest that the past returns to us in waves, steadily and steadily and irresistibly until we break.
(Touching me with the hands that slew her cannot absolve you, his gaze blatantly states, and the only response is a flicker in the glance he receives in turn - a determination behind that flat expanse of colour that both turns his gut and makes something in it stir.)
This is an unspoken war, and they both know that the only rule is that being underhanded is the only way to catch hold of one another at all.