Vertebrae
Title: Vertebrae
Author: life_of_amesu
For: anneka_neko
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Summary: Coward musing, second person. Coward is not happy, might I say.
Notes: For anneka_neko. I hope you like it. Perhaps not quite what you wanted but I have discovered, long ago, that I cannot write straight porn. I just can't. So instead you get Coward being a whiney bitch. -looks awkwardly about- Yes. Again, hope you like it.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night. If you knew what you were doing. And all you said was that you wanted to contrast me with everything that was good and holy, with everything that our fathers were, our nation was, and our world pretended to be. And so you stretched me out on white cotton sheets so you could dirty them as you profaned my body with detestable acts I never truly tried to stop. So you could watch the white bloom as red as my pale, perfect, inbred skin bloomed. And as you watched you hoped that the stars, discontent in their heaves, were watching, wanting, and all the more shamed for it.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night with my hands tied above my head and you were glorious in your darkness that was actually your light. Your eyes were forest dark and forest green and reminded me of the silence in church halls and at the dinner table. There was that look in them, when I asked, that look that said I had made this choice and so I ought to be silent. I ought to be thankful that it was me and not some whore that truly wasn't a whore because you only fucked and killed virgins. But that look was one that was all too hungry, and tired, and needful and someone is going to be in some sort of pain tonight and like hell was it going to be Henry Blackwood so it was up to me to make the choice.
Creative anatomy lessons had become a bore as they were all blood, blood, blood, and marble, and hair spilling over shoulders, and oh this bone jutting out in broken shambles was the clavicle, this one back here was the scapula - lovely isn't it? Smooth to the touch when properly cleaned. You've seen the one in my desk? And yes, yes I've seen the one in your desk just as I've seen the one moving under your skin and felt mine as I arched my shoulders to your disgusting, achingly beautiful touch.
But those games with those girls, they were tiring. Tiring, so it was me that night. Me with your knife on my back curving with the lumbar and back up as you itched to jut your fingers into the notches of my spine, whore that you are and that I am. You were counting vertebrae and whispering Scapula, spinal cord, twenty three, twenty four, on the other side the clavicle - your favorite Daniel, and now your ribs - amazing how fragile, how strong. You were pressing down so my breath was all short gasps and barely-there moans.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night and you answered with a question that I would never be able to answer for all its implications were more numerous than knots in pine. Would you have me stop? There had been sucking, biting, too many teeth, kisses on the back of my neck as my trousers were undone and my prick aching in that obnoxious way it has. Your dead, dead, dead too green eyes were staring into me, were terrifying me, were arousing me, were amazing me, were everything-ing me and I knew that they were dead, dead, dead, too green eyes that I had to keep on me, me alone, and never let them stray.
I rasped out an answer of no, never. But stopped there since air was failing to reach my lungs and my mind and my blood. So you never heard me whisper that it was no, never because I hated the way you looked at the dying virgin whores, hated how you caressed them with smooth bastard hands that belonged to me, hated how you wooed them with their own mortality, hated how possessive you were and no, no, I could never touch them, but I could watch. Oh yes, I could always watch. And Christ's Glorious Almighty Blood did I hate the way you fucked me after every death. Fucked me liked you fucked them with eyes closed and lips parted so your face was the closest thing to bliss it could ever reach.
My answer - no, never - earned a nod that evening so I knew I had answered justly, answered correctly, answered as was right and proper, as I ought to, as you had taught me to. You have always liked your dogs well trained.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night when you bent me over my desk so my back was bruising long and hard. You simply asked if you had told me to spread my legs. My damned legs, actually. It was a question spat into my ear. It was cold water down a canyon. It was a slap on my face that left no mark.
No, I replied. No, and you pulled away with something akin to a sneering smile on a face that was beautiful in its blankness and grotesque in its beauty. You hauled me fully onto the oak and sat, straddling my hips. A finger dragged down my bruised chest, from throat to naval so my muscles were quivering and I was all that was fear and arousal wrapped up into one.
There was a question you wanted me to ask, that evening. I remember just-there pursed lips, a barely-registered push of hips so I managed a rasped - Will I Be Punished? A question you seemed to like so much, though I could never understand why. You had your power and any more obvious demonstrations would be overkill.
There was a drawled yes then a drawled no and it reminded me of the civil servant in you that was anything but civil and servile. You slapped my ass and called me a slut, I think I might have grinned and bit out a reply. I don't remember and don't care to.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night. I asked if you knew what you were doing, one night. I asked if you knew what dying felt like because that's what happened to me every time you strung me up from my pretty, pretty, Boleyn thin, neck. You liked to watch me dangle, prick jutting straight out. You liked to watch me strangle with my own weight killing me and would chuckle for the next week at my hoarse voice.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night and you asked if I would be sharing your bed if I thought you weren't. I didn't answer then because there was sun coming in through curtains and smoke drifting up from the tray and it was beautiful and I don't count myself a cruel man, so I left the moment as it was. You took the silence as consent. And maybe it was. It was your perogative to, anyhow.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night and you said yes, yes you were. You were as sure as the sun rising in the east, as sure as the moon revolving around the earth, as sure as the night turning into day and so I knew you were lying and that you were scared and terrified by it all and just wanted the world to disappear. So I smiled, and said that's good, because I'm sure about it this too, because I knew what I was doing, and held your hand because someone had to.
Author: life_of_amesu
For: anneka_neko
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Summary: Coward musing, second person. Coward is not happy, might I say.
Notes: For anneka_neko. I hope you like it. Perhaps not quite what you wanted but I have discovered, long ago, that I cannot write straight porn. I just can't. So instead you get Coward being a whiney bitch. -looks awkwardly about- Yes. Again, hope you like it.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night. If you knew what you were doing. And all you said was that you wanted to contrast me with everything that was good and holy, with everything that our fathers were, our nation was, and our world pretended to be. And so you stretched me out on white cotton sheets so you could dirty them as you profaned my body with detestable acts I never truly tried to stop. So you could watch the white bloom as red as my pale, perfect, inbred skin bloomed. And as you watched you hoped that the stars, discontent in their heaves, were watching, wanting, and all the more shamed for it.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night with my hands tied above my head and you were glorious in your darkness that was actually your light. Your eyes were forest dark and forest green and reminded me of the silence in church halls and at the dinner table. There was that look in them, when I asked, that look that said I had made this choice and so I ought to be silent. I ought to be thankful that it was me and not some whore that truly wasn't a whore because you only fucked and killed virgins. But that look was one that was all too hungry, and tired, and needful and someone is going to be in some sort of pain tonight and like hell was it going to be Henry Blackwood so it was up to me to make the choice.
Creative anatomy lessons had become a bore as they were all blood, blood, blood, and marble, and hair spilling over shoulders, and oh this bone jutting out in broken shambles was the clavicle, this one back here was the scapula - lovely isn't it? Smooth to the touch when properly cleaned. You've seen the one in my desk? And yes, yes I've seen the one in your desk just as I've seen the one moving under your skin and felt mine as I arched my shoulders to your disgusting, achingly beautiful touch.
But those games with those girls, they were tiring. Tiring, so it was me that night. Me with your knife on my back curving with the lumbar and back up as you itched to jut your fingers into the notches of my spine, whore that you are and that I am. You were counting vertebrae and whispering Scapula, spinal cord, twenty three, twenty four, on the other side the clavicle - your favorite Daniel, and now your ribs - amazing how fragile, how strong. You were pressing down so my breath was all short gasps and barely-there moans.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night and you answered with a question that I would never be able to answer for all its implications were more numerous than knots in pine. Would you have me stop? There had been sucking, biting, too many teeth, kisses on the back of my neck as my trousers were undone and my prick aching in that obnoxious way it has. Your dead, dead, dead too green eyes were staring into me, were terrifying me, were arousing me, were amazing me, were everything-ing me and I knew that they were dead, dead, dead, too green eyes that I had to keep on me, me alone, and never let them stray.
I rasped out an answer of no, never. But stopped there since air was failing to reach my lungs and my mind and my blood. So you never heard me whisper that it was no, never because I hated the way you looked at the dying virgin whores, hated how you caressed them with smooth bastard hands that belonged to me, hated how you wooed them with their own mortality, hated how possessive you were and no, no, I could never touch them, but I could watch. Oh yes, I could always watch. And Christ's Glorious Almighty Blood did I hate the way you fucked me after every death. Fucked me liked you fucked them with eyes closed and lips parted so your face was the closest thing to bliss it could ever reach.
My answer - no, never - earned a nod that evening so I knew I had answered justly, answered correctly, answered as was right and proper, as I ought to, as you had taught me to. You have always liked your dogs well trained.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night when you bent me over my desk so my back was bruising long and hard. You simply asked if you had told me to spread my legs. My damned legs, actually. It was a question spat into my ear. It was cold water down a canyon. It was a slap on my face that left no mark.
No, I replied. No, and you pulled away with something akin to a sneering smile on a face that was beautiful in its blankness and grotesque in its beauty. You hauled me fully onto the oak and sat, straddling my hips. A finger dragged down my bruised chest, from throat to naval so my muscles were quivering and I was all that was fear and arousal wrapped up into one.
There was a question you wanted me to ask, that evening. I remember just-there pursed lips, a barely-registered push of hips so I managed a rasped - Will I Be Punished? A question you seemed to like so much, though I could never understand why. You had your power and any more obvious demonstrations would be overkill.
There was a drawled yes then a drawled no and it reminded me of the civil servant in you that was anything but civil and servile. You slapped my ass and called me a slut, I think I might have grinned and bit out a reply. I don't remember and don't care to.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night. I asked if you knew what you were doing, one night. I asked if you knew what dying felt like because that's what happened to me every time you strung me up from my pretty, pretty, Boleyn thin, neck. You liked to watch me dangle, prick jutting straight out. You liked to watch me strangle with my own weight killing me and would chuckle for the next week at my hoarse voice.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night and you asked if I would be sharing your bed if I thought you weren't. I didn't answer then because there was sun coming in through curtains and smoke drifting up from the tray and it was beautiful and I don't count myself a cruel man, so I left the moment as it was. You took the silence as consent. And maybe it was. It was your perogative to, anyhow.
I asked if you were sure about this, one night and you said yes, yes you were. You were as sure as the sun rising in the east, as sure as the moon revolving around the earth, as sure as the night turning into day and so I knew you were lying and that you were scared and terrified by it all and just wanted the world to disappear. So I smiled, and said that's good, because I'm sure about it this too, because I knew what I was doing, and held your hand because someone had to.