it was better before it had het...
Feb. 15th, 2006 05:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meretricula>_>
yeah. It's been revised and hopefully been made more censor-friendly. Think I need to cut out ALL the sex? ~weeps~
Her kisses are always gentle as he falls apart, but she is never kind. Kindness would break him, shatter him into a million pieces, and she doesn't want that (not yet), so she never tries to comfort him, only swallows the moans and ignores the tears that soak into the pillows of her bed. The first time he cried, he was inside her and it hurt like hell, and she asked what was wrong; he slapped her and ran away, and didn't come to school for a week. Now she holds him tighter than she needs to, and accepts that whatever pain he feels is not hers to cure.
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. She has studied Confucius, and she read most of a Bible that was left in the hospital waiting room once, sitting with him as they waited (waiting room, get it? Where you wait for people to die, he laughed as his voice cracked) for his grandmother's surgeon to come tell them what they already knew. His pranks are not a cry for help, the way the school's guidance counselor keeps insisting. She went to pick him up from her office a few times, and was deeply unimpressed by her psychiatric evaluation. Just because she has a degree from some famous med school, she thinks she knows everything, he sneered as they walked out of the school, and she agreed.
He hurts other people because he wants to be hurt, or maybe it's the other way around. Their guidance counselor doesn't understand the need for that kind of attention, but she understands him. She understands that he lashes out because he's bored, because he feels like it, because he can. She understands that he feels safer when she holds him down, that the scratches he leaves on her back are the only way he can say I love you, that he wants her to kiss him until he bleeds but can't ask for it.
She wants to make him cry because her arms are around him so tight it hurts, wants to bite and mark every inch of his skin her own personal possession, wants to put a collar around his throat and lead him around by a chain so everyone knows who he belongs to. She also wants to hug him when his parents scream, make him hot chocolate and kiss him until he forgets that he is in pain. Since she cannot have both, she has neither. She compromises with endless kisses, slow and relentless, and waits for him to break himself, because she cannot bring herself to do it for him.
Maybe hope is a thing with feathers, but her love is a horrifying thing with fangs and claws that sometimes gouge where they only meant to caress. Each man kills the thing he loves, some dead poet said (she cannot remember his name), but she loves him all the same.
One night she dreams of ripping off his skin inch by inch and wrapping it around herself like a blanket. She wakes up with him in her arms, her hands so close to his throat where it would be so easy to choke him until the light left his eyes forever. She throws up into the toilet and spends the rest of the night holding him, stroking his hair and ignoring the impulse to pull it out, one strand at a time, and make herself a bracelet.
The next night she dreams that she took a carving knife from the kitchen and sliced herself open from navel to collarbone, and tucked him inside her ribcage with her heart and lungs and other vital organs, where he would be safe from the world. In the morning, he wakes her up by breathing in her ear, steals her glasses and asks why she was smiling in his sleep. She kisses him savagely until he is flat on his back on the bed, struggling to breathe, and laughs at the confusion in his eyes as she takes her glasses back from his nerveless hand. She deliberately cuts herself making breakfast so that he will suck her wounded finger clean, and kisses him again, savoring the taste of her blood in his mouth.
She begins to drift off in classes where she never really needs to pay attention, thinking of all the ways she could kill him and make him really, truly, forever hers alone. She considers, and discards, seppuku, strangulation, immolation, excoriation, and countless other methods before she settles of arsenic. She spends hours fantasizing about the feverish gleam in his eyes before the build-up of the poison kills him.
He plays more pranks, and more carelessly, as if he wants to get caught. He comes to school drunk, hung-over, high. He spits at the guidance counselor, and earns a month of detention for telling her exactly what to do with her degree in psychiatry.
One Sunday morning he climbs in her window, still in the clothes he wore to school on Friday, and tells her that his parents have kicked him out for good. He lets her hold him while he cries, drinks the hot chocolate that she makes the old-fashioned way, with milk and sugar and bitter chocolate in a saucepan on the stove, and lets her sit in his lap so that she can kiss the not-quite-sweet dregs from his tongue. She thinks of what she might or might not have put into the drink besides chocolate, and smiles, eyes shining dangerously.
She always hated Dickinson, anyway.
yeah. It's been revised and hopefully been made more censor-friendly. Think I need to cut out ALL the sex? ~weeps~
Her kisses are always gentle as he falls apart, but she is never kind. Kindness would break him, shatter him into a million pieces, and she doesn't want that (not yet), so she never tries to comfort him, only swallows the moans and ignores the tears that soak into the pillows of her bed. The first time he cried, he was inside her and it hurt like hell, and she asked what was wrong; he slapped her and ran away, and didn't come to school for a week. Now she holds him tighter than she needs to, and accepts that whatever pain he feels is not hers to cure.
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. She has studied Confucius, and she read most of a Bible that was left in the hospital waiting room once, sitting with him as they waited (waiting room, get it? Where you wait for people to die, he laughed as his voice cracked) for his grandmother's surgeon to come tell them what they already knew. His pranks are not a cry for help, the way the school's guidance counselor keeps insisting. She went to pick him up from her office a few times, and was deeply unimpressed by her psychiatric evaluation. Just because she has a degree from some famous med school, she thinks she knows everything, he sneered as they walked out of the school, and she agreed.
He hurts other people because he wants to be hurt, or maybe it's the other way around. Their guidance counselor doesn't understand the need for that kind of attention, but she understands him. She understands that he lashes out because he's bored, because he feels like it, because he can. She understands that he feels safer when she holds him down, that the scratches he leaves on her back are the only way he can say I love you, that he wants her to kiss him until he bleeds but can't ask for it.
She wants to make him cry because her arms are around him so tight it hurts, wants to bite and mark every inch of his skin her own personal possession, wants to put a collar around his throat and lead him around by a chain so everyone knows who he belongs to. She also wants to hug him when his parents scream, make him hot chocolate and kiss him until he forgets that he is in pain. Since she cannot have both, she has neither. She compromises with endless kisses, slow and relentless, and waits for him to break himself, because she cannot bring herself to do it for him.
Maybe hope is a thing with feathers, but her love is a horrifying thing with fangs and claws that sometimes gouge where they only meant to caress. Each man kills the thing he loves, some dead poet said (she cannot remember his name), but she loves him all the same.
One night she dreams of ripping off his skin inch by inch and wrapping it around herself like a blanket. She wakes up with him in her arms, her hands so close to his throat where it would be so easy to choke him until the light left his eyes forever. She throws up into the toilet and spends the rest of the night holding him, stroking his hair and ignoring the impulse to pull it out, one strand at a time, and make herself a bracelet.
The next night she dreams that she took a carving knife from the kitchen and sliced herself open from navel to collarbone, and tucked him inside her ribcage with her heart and lungs and other vital organs, where he would be safe from the world. In the morning, he wakes her up by breathing in her ear, steals her glasses and asks why she was smiling in his sleep. She kisses him savagely until he is flat on his back on the bed, struggling to breathe, and laughs at the confusion in his eyes as she takes her glasses back from his nerveless hand. She deliberately cuts herself making breakfast so that he will suck her wounded finger clean, and kisses him again, savoring the taste of her blood in his mouth.
She begins to drift off in classes where she never really needs to pay attention, thinking of all the ways she could kill him and make him really, truly, forever hers alone. She considers, and discards, seppuku, strangulation, immolation, excoriation, and countless other methods before she settles of arsenic. She spends hours fantasizing about the feverish gleam in his eyes before the build-up of the poison kills him.
He plays more pranks, and more carelessly, as if he wants to get caught. He comes to school drunk, hung-over, high. He spits at the guidance counselor, and earns a month of detention for telling her exactly what to do with her degree in psychiatry.
One Sunday morning he climbs in her window, still in the clothes he wore to school on Friday, and tells her that his parents have kicked him out for good. He lets her hold him while he cries, drinks the hot chocolate that she makes the old-fashioned way, with milk and sugar and bitter chocolate in a saucepan on the stove, and lets her sit in his lap so that she can kiss the not-quite-sweet dregs from his tongue. She thinks of what she might or might not have put into the drink besides chocolate, and smiles, eyes shining dangerously.
She always hated Dickinson, anyway.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
okay here's an honest opinion
Date: 2006-02-16 12:47 am (UTC)Re: okay here's an honest opinion
Date: 2006-02-16 02:27 am (UTC)a much...happier vday fic? SQUEE.
Re: okay here's an honest opinion
Date: 2006-02-16 10:06 am (UTC)Re: okay here's an honest opinion
Date: 2006-02-17 03:05 am (UTC)http://mtarashidango.livejournal.com/895.html#cutid1
I love all of
Yes, this is me NOT studying for math...*grumbles*
Re: okay here's an honest opinion
Date: 2006-02-17 09:52 am (UTC)Re: okay here's an honest opinion
Date: 2006-02-16 09:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-16 12:55 am (UTC)(so everyone knows whom he belongs to, by the way)
meh. I'm with Yi.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-16 09:55 am (UTC)(I actually debated that one with myself. do you think whom flows better?)
on the other hand, this is how it was supposed to end. except I love Niou too much to kill him.
no subject
Date: 2006-02-16 02:01 am (UTC)Much better before. =(
no subject
Date: 2006-02-16 10:02 am (UTC)