kingdom hearts -- blood and chocolate
title: blood and chocolate
wordcount: 601
rating: R for suggestive themes
warnings: sexuality.
summary: Pleasure and pain are two intrinsically entwined concepts.
As mundane as it seems, she uses her knives for more than cutting pretty little faces up.
It is one thing to run a sharpened dagger-tip down warm, living skin, to score furrows in yielding flesh which shrinks back from the cold bite of electrified metal. It is one thing to press glinting blades to trembling throats, to carve them a painted mockery of a smile and tear them open from ear to ear, to watch yet another hapless fool’s lifeblood flow freely from ragged slashes. It is one thing to watch broken bodies fall like unmanned marionettes with their strings cut, swimming face-down, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, piteously bloated in a pool of telltale crimson.
It is one thing to watch droplets of blood well up in the wake of her knife-path, to fingerpaint intricate designs upon her red-stained canvas, to press at the edge of weeping wounds and rub salt in over the crisscrossed trails. It is one thing to press her lips to bloodstained steel, to test the harsh metallic flavour on the tip of her tongue, to act as though she enjoys the acrid tang souring her mouth.
It is one thing to map out a route of fine lacerations upon bare skin, to link them together with thick roads of winding, pulsing scarlet, to allow coy fingers to travel slyly down never-trod roads until her vision blurs to a hazy miasma of brilliant red, bleeding into the edges of her vision.
It is one thing to hear that breathless hiss, that quietly explosive oath, to pierce through skin and clothes with each exultant sweep of her knife, to claw jagged gouges onto sinewy arms in the heat of passion. It is one thing to hear her pulse pounding in her ears, thundering through her brain when she tightens her grip, rakes fingernails down a straining back, bites down hard on a shoulder until she can taste the ferrous tang of blood at the back of her throat.
It is one thing to wonder what it will be like to drive a single knife, humming with the power of harnessed lightning and stolen thunder, between his shoulderblades and whisper into his mouth her knowledge of his treachery. To know his blood is on her hands, and nobody else’s.
It is another thing to pin notes and shopping lists to the Castle noticeboards with a single knife, left innocuously in place like just any other thumb-tack. It is another thing to flick them through the air like harmless bowling-pins when she is bored, to toss them through the air and catch them with her eyes closed, like any other circus performer. It is another thing to send them at a dartboard, to speed up their flight with a surge of electromagnetic energy that embeds each stiletto up to its hilt in splintered wood, dagger-points protruding on the other side of a door like some absurd tapestry of varnished timber and polished metal.
It is another thing to idly shave curls of couverture from a freshly-opened bar, to almost-surgically cut away crinkling foil wrappings, to lick chocolate melted by the warmth of her hands off a silvered blade. It is another thing to hack and slash at a faceless phalanx of battered mannequins in the training arena, to offer to anyone who passes by the guileless, amoral smile of a small child. It is another thing to see them remember who she is, and what she is capable of.
Hurt to the hurtful, hurt to the hurting. There’s no other way she’d have it, she tells herself, over and over.
back to index.
wordcount: 601
rating: R for suggestive themes
warnings: sexuality.
summary: Pleasure and pain are two intrinsically entwined concepts.
As mundane as it seems, she uses her knives for more than cutting pretty little faces up.
It is one thing to run a sharpened dagger-tip down warm, living skin, to score furrows in yielding flesh which shrinks back from the cold bite of electrified metal. It is one thing to press glinting blades to trembling throats, to carve them a painted mockery of a smile and tear them open from ear to ear, to watch yet another hapless fool’s lifeblood flow freely from ragged slashes. It is one thing to watch broken bodies fall like unmanned marionettes with their strings cut, swimming face-down, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, piteously bloated in a pool of telltale crimson.
It is one thing to watch droplets of blood well up in the wake of her knife-path, to fingerpaint intricate designs upon her red-stained canvas, to press at the edge of weeping wounds and rub salt in over the crisscrossed trails. It is one thing to press her lips to bloodstained steel, to test the harsh metallic flavour on the tip of her tongue, to act as though she enjoys the acrid tang souring her mouth.
It is one thing to map out a route of fine lacerations upon bare skin, to link them together with thick roads of winding, pulsing scarlet, to allow coy fingers to travel slyly down never-trod roads until her vision blurs to a hazy miasma of brilliant red, bleeding into the edges of her vision.
It is one thing to hear that breathless hiss, that quietly explosive oath, to pierce through skin and clothes with each exultant sweep of her knife, to claw jagged gouges onto sinewy arms in the heat of passion. It is one thing to hear her pulse pounding in her ears, thundering through her brain when she tightens her grip, rakes fingernails down a straining back, bites down hard on a shoulder until she can taste the ferrous tang of blood at the back of her throat.
It is one thing to wonder what it will be like to drive a single knife, humming with the power of harnessed lightning and stolen thunder, between his shoulderblades and whisper into his mouth her knowledge of his treachery. To know his blood is on her hands, and nobody else’s.
It is another thing to pin notes and shopping lists to the Castle noticeboards with a single knife, left innocuously in place like just any other thumb-tack. It is another thing to flick them through the air like harmless bowling-pins when she is bored, to toss them through the air and catch them with her eyes closed, like any other circus performer. It is another thing to send them at a dartboard, to speed up their flight with a surge of electromagnetic energy that embeds each stiletto up to its hilt in splintered wood, dagger-points protruding on the other side of a door like some absurd tapestry of varnished timber and polished metal.
It is another thing to idly shave curls of couverture from a freshly-opened bar, to almost-surgically cut away crinkling foil wrappings, to lick chocolate melted by the warmth of her hands off a silvered blade. It is another thing to hack and slash at a faceless phalanx of battered mannequins in the training arena, to offer to anyone who passes by the guileless, amoral smile of a small child. It is another thing to see them remember who she is, and what she is capable of.
Hurt to the hurtful, hurt to the hurting. There’s no other way she’d have it, she tells herself, over and over.
back to index.