20loves - table one prompt #8
Title: Slavedriver
Fandom: Bones (original)
Pairing: Emily/Ana
Word Count: 294
Rating: PG-13
Table link: http://airelement.livejournal.com/66125.html
You’re my saving grace, my best friend, my lover, and my slave driver.
The money I waste on you is phenomenal. There’s the uneaten food - I cook it and serve it to perfection, but then I steel my resolve and scrape it into the bin - I know it’s wrong to do that but your words of encouragement thrill me and urge me on. I buy perfect clothes, ones that you pick out for me in the shops a size or two too small. They aren’t really perfect, but they’re a step in the right direction. Then there’s the money I spend on salad leaves in Tesco, ignoring people who mutter about the crazy girl checking the imperfection value on lettuce and spinach leaves and celery.
There’s gym and swimming money, too. Running in the morning and gym in the evening and swimming when I’m not going out for a few days - my skin flakes in the chlorine now more than ever - and swimming is the best of the three, because when I emerge dripping from the pool of torturous imperfection I can feel the perfection burning in my stomach.
Hunger is perfection. I feel it burning away everything that’s wrong with me. The nausea is punishment for my gluttony, the burning is cleansing, and the pain wears away after a few hours. I deserve the pain for being so weak. If I hadn’t got so used to my repulsive gluttony this wouldn’t be so painful.
Why do I do this to myself? I want to have control, but although I kid myself that I do, you’re the one holding the reins.
So why do I do it? Because I stare at your perfect body, your purely clean bones, and I know you’re worth it.
Fandom: Bones (original)
Pairing: Emily/Ana
Word Count: 294
Rating: PG-13
Table link: http://airelement.livejournal.com/66125.html
You’re my saving grace, my best friend, my lover, and my slave driver.
The money I waste on you is phenomenal. There’s the uneaten food - I cook it and serve it to perfection, but then I steel my resolve and scrape it into the bin - I know it’s wrong to do that but your words of encouragement thrill me and urge me on. I buy perfect clothes, ones that you pick out for me in the shops a size or two too small. They aren’t really perfect, but they’re a step in the right direction. Then there’s the money I spend on salad leaves in Tesco, ignoring people who mutter about the crazy girl checking the imperfection value on lettuce and spinach leaves and celery.
There’s gym and swimming money, too. Running in the morning and gym in the evening and swimming when I’m not going out for a few days - my skin flakes in the chlorine now more than ever - and swimming is the best of the three, because when I emerge dripping from the pool of torturous imperfection I can feel the perfection burning in my stomach.
Hunger is perfection. I feel it burning away everything that’s wrong with me. The nausea is punishment for my gluttony, the burning is cleansing, and the pain wears away after a few hours. I deserve the pain for being so weak. If I hadn’t got so used to my repulsive gluttony this wouldn’t be so painful.
Why do I do this to myself? I want to have control, but although I kid myself that I do, you’re the one holding the reins.
So why do I do it? Because I stare at your perfect body, your purely clean bones, and I know you’re worth it.