Burning Down Love [Dangan Ronpa, Touko Fukawa, NC17, violence]
Summary: Touko Fukawa goes to an anime convention to meet her classmate.
Notes: Spoilers for Chapter 2 of Dangan Ronpa. Violence and murder. Special thanks to my wonderful beta.
Fukawa scratches her pen on the corner of the page, trying to get the ink flowing again. It doesn't work, so she presses harder, stabbing a hole through the page. The ink pours out of the nib, staining her hand neon pink.
She's utterly dissatisfied with her newest sex scene. It's very hard to think of artful euphemisms without resorting to crass vulgarities, and she's running out of nature metaphors that she hasn't already used. Most of the paragraphs are slashed out or scribbled over, with comments written in the margins - "rework this", "trite", "ripoff", "NO NO NO" - and she can't think of how to make them anything close to acceptable.
Her mind drifts to her latest crush, Naoji Ishi. He sits a few rows in front of her in class, and hasn't ever given her the time of day, which just makes him more attractive and mysterious. From judicious eavesdropping on his conversations, she's found out that Naoji is a huge fan of video games, and plans to cosplay Sho Minamimoto at the huge convention today.
Fukawa isn't interested in going, even if it allows her a prime opportunity to watch the boy she likes from afar. Why would someone with such perfect skin want to pollute his face with makeup? Why would he want to cover his gorgeous black hair with an unnatural wig? Why would he go to all that trouble just to look like someone from the lowest cultural denominator?
She won't go. She can't go. Going to such a terrible event is the domain of those awful slash fangirls. They're the bane of her life. They're the ones who constantly giggle about how hot a certain character is. The ones who use ungrammatical slang and call themselves "utterly rotten", the ones who don't bother with flowery euphemisms and metaphors, but just write about how someone desperately wants to be fucked. Completely disgusting.
But she can't waste time thinking about events she's not going to and people she hates. She has to rework this for submission. It has to be perfect, or else her editor and her readers will know how worthless she really is, will figure out all the hideous things she's hiding inside.
Her hand goes under her skirt as she rewrites, dancing around the act of sex with gentle allusions to the sea and the ocean breeze. She tries to avoid the thought of how gorgeous Naoji would look, with his eyes glazed with ecstasy, just waiting to be devoured, but it keeps coming up, and she can't help it, she's rubbing herself faster, she can feel the moisture on her fingertips, and -
Fukawa gasps, her thighs trembling, and her eyes flutter shut.
Syo wipes her hand on her skirt, reaches under the table, and picks up a pair of scissors.
-----
Syo taps her foot impatiently, and the handles of her scissors shift in their holster, moving against the side of her thigh, reminding her of their presence.
She's only brought five pairs of scissors today, so she has to make it count. One for the neck, two for the wrists, two for the chest. No room for error.
She can't afford to get distracted by that beautiful crossdressing boy wearing a miniskirt and thigh-highs, or that adorable shota schoolboy clinging to the arm of an older cosplayer. Well, she can afford to sneak a peek as the crossdresser bends down - his butt is as ripe as a peach, mmm, and god, he's actually wearing white panties - but she has to stop herself as her hands stray beneath her skirt. Not yet. Not her target. Naoji's posing for a bunch of fangirls right now, and he won't be leaving that spot for a while.
But waiting, waiting, waiting is soooo boring. It's worse than waiting for the next instalment of that delicious hurt-comfort fanfic she's avidly following, the one with all that glorious manpain. Being right next to all these pretty boys is setting her on edge.
Syo spots a pair of fangirls at a table, selling off their old doujinshi, and she strides towards them, trying to ignore the weight of the holster strapped to her thigh.
"I want something with boys in pain! No, no, no, no, absolutely not that kind," Syo says, as one of them starts rummaging through her stacks of unrequited-love NapplexPine BL doujin. Syo isn't in the mood for blushing boys weeping over their phones. She's in the mood for weeping boys getting vibrators shoved into every orifice. Even the nostrils. Especially the nostrils.
The other girl cocks her head at Syo. "Does it matter which fandom? Or what kind of pain?"
"I'm looking for boys being tortured and screaming in agony! Non-con, dub-con, slavery, snuff! It's all fine as long as they're suffering! It's all good as long as the art makes me burn with passion!"
"I think I have what you're looking for. It's an original story, though." The girl hands Syo a tattered doujin with an R-18 slipcover. Syo glances at it, flips through some of the dog-eared pages, and immediately slams down the exact amount required.
"Do you want a bag for that?"
Syo doesn't bother to dignify that question with an answer. She disappears into the crowd, admiring her new acquisition, running her fingers across the glossy slipcover.
The front cover features a naked boy in a collar, with blood trickling down his collarbone, and tally marks carved into his chest. The boy is weeping in agony, and an unseen person has a deathgrip on one of the boy's wrists.
Syo's tongue darts out as she flips through the pages, and she licks her lips in anticipation.
-----
Syo strides towards Naoji, keeping her footsteps long and slow, swinging her hips as she walks. The hem of her skirt flares up in the breeze, and she twinkles her fingers at him, catching his eye.
She can just hear her heart go doki-doki.
He's away from the cameras of other eager fangirls, and they're near that quiet alley she's been eyeing ever since she got here. He's all hers now, and the thought is just such a turn-on.
"Like, could you..." Syo twirls her braids artfully, coquettishly, letting her tongue peek out from her lips, waving her cell phone at him. "Could you pose in that alley? For my blog? Pleeeeaaase? You'd look so totally hot against that concrete wall!"
"Well, if you insist," Naoji says, giving her a dubious look, and Syo leads him away with promises to email him the completely great photographs. He's so adorably naive. He adjusts his wig and checks his contact lenses, eyeing the surroundings to figure out the best place for him to pose, completely oblivious to anything else.
"Is this pose all right?" Naoji asks, half-leaning against the concrete wall, flexing his arms to show off his bracelets and his faux tattoo, looking away so Syo can capture his best angle.
"It's absolutely, completely, entirely perfect!" Syo proclaims passionately, aiming for his throat with her first strike. The scissors sink into his soft throat, and a warm jet of blood spurts out, all over her glasses and her face. He gurgles in agony, thrashing his limbs in an uncoordinated fashion. He's too ditzy to even realise he's going to die from that wound, too clumsy to properly fight her off, and a frisson of heat runs through Syo's body.
She usually does the throat last, so her boys can whimper and moan and beg for their lives, but she can overlook it in this case. The joy she's getting from watching the blood trickle down his chest is worth cutting the kill short. His double-breasted top is so wet from blood that it's clinging to his skin.
"Hey, hey, stop squirming! I've barely even started yet!" Syo completes her first move, nailing the scissors into the wall with another swift blow. She starts humming the full version of the Okane Ga Nai OP so she can keep track of the time before he bleeds out.
Another stab. Right wrist this time, nice and slow, and she rotates the scissors as they enter his skin. She licks his blood off her fingers, laps it off her wrist - iron keeps the body healthy, and murders keep the soul healthy. Killing someone is just like getting a dose of vitamins.
Naoji is trying to reach for her with his left hand, and it's such a turn-on, he's so needy and desperate for her touch. What a silly, silly boy. What a pervert. To teach him a lesson, she slams the scissors into his left wrist. His face contorts in agony, and his eyes glaze over with pain. He's gurgling sweet nothings to her, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and she wipes it off his face with her thumb.
Chest now, both sides, two pairs of scissors at once. Faster, faster, speed is of the essence here, she's not sure either of them can last much longer.
Syo's busy humming the final verse of the song when Naoji breathes his last, his body going slack against the wall. The scissors hold him up, that's what they're made for, gleaming silver in the fading daylight. He looks utterly gorgeous, all vulnerable and hers. She uses her fingernails to scratch a tally mark on her thigh, a commemoration of her new conquest.
Before his blood cools, she dips the end of one of her pigtails into his open throat wound, swishing it around to make sure it's properly coated, and starts to write on the wall.
"Bloodstain Fever", Syo writes, in dramatic strokes, and it's right, it's a fever, it's making her body hot, making her blood boil, making her toes curl with delight, this warm tingling sensation all over her, and her breaths are coming quicker with every stroke on the dirty concrete wall. As she does the final flourish, Syo thinks about the empty seat in Fukawa's class on Monday.
The countless drafts Fukawa will have to throw away because they're too direct, too pornographic, too violent.
The sheer panic, the sheer hatred that Fukawa will feel when she wakes up and sees Syo's masterpiece hanging on the wall.
Syo shudders with satisfaction, and closes her eyes.
Fukawa opens her eyes, and screams.
Notes: Spoilers for Chapter 2 of Dangan Ronpa. Violence and murder. Special thanks to my wonderful beta.
Fukawa scratches her pen on the corner of the page, trying to get the ink flowing again. It doesn't work, so she presses harder, stabbing a hole through the page. The ink pours out of the nib, staining her hand neon pink.
She's utterly dissatisfied with her newest sex scene. It's very hard to think of artful euphemisms without resorting to crass vulgarities, and she's running out of nature metaphors that she hasn't already used. Most of the paragraphs are slashed out or scribbled over, with comments written in the margins - "rework this", "trite", "ripoff", "NO NO NO" - and she can't think of how to make them anything close to acceptable.
Her mind drifts to her latest crush, Naoji Ishi. He sits a few rows in front of her in class, and hasn't ever given her the time of day, which just makes him more attractive and mysterious. From judicious eavesdropping on his conversations, she's found out that Naoji is a huge fan of video games, and plans to cosplay Sho Minamimoto at the huge convention today.
Fukawa isn't interested in going, even if it allows her a prime opportunity to watch the boy she likes from afar. Why would someone with such perfect skin want to pollute his face with makeup? Why would he want to cover his gorgeous black hair with an unnatural wig? Why would he go to all that trouble just to look like someone from the lowest cultural denominator?
She won't go. She can't go. Going to such a terrible event is the domain of those awful slash fangirls. They're the bane of her life. They're the ones who constantly giggle about how hot a certain character is. The ones who use ungrammatical slang and call themselves "utterly rotten", the ones who don't bother with flowery euphemisms and metaphors, but just write about how someone desperately wants to be fucked. Completely disgusting.
But she can't waste time thinking about events she's not going to and people she hates. She has to rework this for submission. It has to be perfect, or else her editor and her readers will know how worthless she really is, will figure out all the hideous things she's hiding inside.
Her hand goes under her skirt as she rewrites, dancing around the act of sex with gentle allusions to the sea and the ocean breeze. She tries to avoid the thought of how gorgeous Naoji would look, with his eyes glazed with ecstasy, just waiting to be devoured, but it keeps coming up, and she can't help it, she's rubbing herself faster, she can feel the moisture on her fingertips, and -
Fukawa gasps, her thighs trembling, and her eyes flutter shut.
Syo wipes her hand on her skirt, reaches under the table, and picks up a pair of scissors.
-----
Syo taps her foot impatiently, and the handles of her scissors shift in their holster, moving against the side of her thigh, reminding her of their presence.
She's only brought five pairs of scissors today, so she has to make it count. One for the neck, two for the wrists, two for the chest. No room for error.
She can't afford to get distracted by that beautiful crossdressing boy wearing a miniskirt and thigh-highs, or that adorable shota schoolboy clinging to the arm of an older cosplayer. Well, she can afford to sneak a peek as the crossdresser bends down - his butt is as ripe as a peach, mmm, and god, he's actually wearing white panties - but she has to stop herself as her hands stray beneath her skirt. Not yet. Not her target. Naoji's posing for a bunch of fangirls right now, and he won't be leaving that spot for a while.
But waiting, waiting, waiting is soooo boring. It's worse than waiting for the next instalment of that delicious hurt-comfort fanfic she's avidly following, the one with all that glorious manpain. Being right next to all these pretty boys is setting her on edge.
Syo spots a pair of fangirls at a table, selling off their old doujinshi, and she strides towards them, trying to ignore the weight of the holster strapped to her thigh.
"I want something with boys in pain! No, no, no, no, absolutely not that kind," Syo says, as one of them starts rummaging through her stacks of unrequited-love NapplexPine BL doujin. Syo isn't in the mood for blushing boys weeping over their phones. She's in the mood for weeping boys getting vibrators shoved into every orifice. Even the nostrils. Especially the nostrils.
The other girl cocks her head at Syo. "Does it matter which fandom? Or what kind of pain?"
"I'm looking for boys being tortured and screaming in agony! Non-con, dub-con, slavery, snuff! It's all fine as long as they're suffering! It's all good as long as the art makes me burn with passion!"
"I think I have what you're looking for. It's an original story, though." The girl hands Syo a tattered doujin with an R-18 slipcover. Syo glances at it, flips through some of the dog-eared pages, and immediately slams down the exact amount required.
"Do you want a bag for that?"
Syo doesn't bother to dignify that question with an answer. She disappears into the crowd, admiring her new acquisition, running her fingers across the glossy slipcover.
The front cover features a naked boy in a collar, with blood trickling down his collarbone, and tally marks carved into his chest. The boy is weeping in agony, and an unseen person has a deathgrip on one of the boy's wrists.
Syo's tongue darts out as she flips through the pages, and she licks her lips in anticipation.
-----
Syo strides towards Naoji, keeping her footsteps long and slow, swinging her hips as she walks. The hem of her skirt flares up in the breeze, and she twinkles her fingers at him, catching his eye.
She can just hear her heart go doki-doki.
He's away from the cameras of other eager fangirls, and they're near that quiet alley she's been eyeing ever since she got here. He's all hers now, and the thought is just such a turn-on.
"Like, could you..." Syo twirls her braids artfully, coquettishly, letting her tongue peek out from her lips, waving her cell phone at him. "Could you pose in that alley? For my blog? Pleeeeaaase? You'd look so totally hot against that concrete wall!"
"Well, if you insist," Naoji says, giving her a dubious look, and Syo leads him away with promises to email him the completely great photographs. He's so adorably naive. He adjusts his wig and checks his contact lenses, eyeing the surroundings to figure out the best place for him to pose, completely oblivious to anything else.
"Is this pose all right?" Naoji asks, half-leaning against the concrete wall, flexing his arms to show off his bracelets and his faux tattoo, looking away so Syo can capture his best angle.
"It's absolutely, completely, entirely perfect!" Syo proclaims passionately, aiming for his throat with her first strike. The scissors sink into his soft throat, and a warm jet of blood spurts out, all over her glasses and her face. He gurgles in agony, thrashing his limbs in an uncoordinated fashion. He's too ditzy to even realise he's going to die from that wound, too clumsy to properly fight her off, and a frisson of heat runs through Syo's body.
She usually does the throat last, so her boys can whimper and moan and beg for their lives, but she can overlook it in this case. The joy she's getting from watching the blood trickle down his chest is worth cutting the kill short. His double-breasted top is so wet from blood that it's clinging to his skin.
"Hey, hey, stop squirming! I've barely even started yet!" Syo completes her first move, nailing the scissors into the wall with another swift blow. She starts humming the full version of the Okane Ga Nai OP so she can keep track of the time before he bleeds out.
Another stab. Right wrist this time, nice and slow, and she rotates the scissors as they enter his skin. She licks his blood off her fingers, laps it off her wrist - iron keeps the body healthy, and murders keep the soul healthy. Killing someone is just like getting a dose of vitamins.
Naoji is trying to reach for her with his left hand, and it's such a turn-on, he's so needy and desperate for her touch. What a silly, silly boy. What a pervert. To teach him a lesson, she slams the scissors into his left wrist. His face contorts in agony, and his eyes glaze over with pain. He's gurgling sweet nothings to her, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and she wipes it off his face with her thumb.
Chest now, both sides, two pairs of scissors at once. Faster, faster, speed is of the essence here, she's not sure either of them can last much longer.
Syo's busy humming the final verse of the song when Naoji breathes his last, his body going slack against the wall. The scissors hold him up, that's what they're made for, gleaming silver in the fading daylight. He looks utterly gorgeous, all vulnerable and hers. She uses her fingernails to scratch a tally mark on her thigh, a commemoration of her new conquest.
Before his blood cools, she dips the end of one of her pigtails into his open throat wound, swishing it around to make sure it's properly coated, and starts to write on the wall.
"Bloodstain Fever", Syo writes, in dramatic strokes, and it's right, it's a fever, it's making her body hot, making her blood boil, making her toes curl with delight, this warm tingling sensation all over her, and her breaths are coming quicker with every stroke on the dirty concrete wall. As she does the final flourish, Syo thinks about the empty seat in Fukawa's class on Monday.
The countless drafts Fukawa will have to throw away because they're too direct, too pornographic, too violent.
The sheer panic, the sheer hatred that Fukawa will feel when she wakes up and sees Syo's masterpiece hanging on the wall.
Syo shudders with satisfaction, and closes her eyes.
Fukawa opens her eyes, and screams.