and if you rap like me you don't get paid
Title: [untitled]
Word Count: 380
Rating: PG?
Series: Original
Notes: Prompt: entwined. For daiyaonna.
....entwined as in the sense that they're all snuggled up. SHUT UP I KNOW I CAN'T WRITE.
They start out as quiet shapes in the dark, indistinct, just shadows, gradually becoming clearer; images like a silent movie with no subtitles, playing against the canvas of his mind. It's a dream he's seen too many times before, and Dezso has to wonder if there's a point to it.
So he just sits and watches as the film that is his life plays in reverse. Soft pastels, a track consisting of Dante's voice as he sees the time they spend together, how Dante dotes on him. How much he cares. Dante... The one saving grace in Hell, despite what he thinks of himself.
But then the images change, and he wants so badly to look away. A slash of red, of fear and pain, and Caim's face is there, malice and hatred and unbridled violence. He wants to look away, cover his eyes, anything so he doesn't have to watch. But it's like he's frozen, eyes wired open and unable to move. Tries to scream for Dante, but no sound comes out. And all he can hear is Caim, sneering that one word over and over:
"Whore."
No. No no no, he's not that person anymore, not to be bought and used and thrown away. But it's getting harder and harder to believe that, and just when he thinks it might swallow him whole, the pain and resignation, it's warm, so warm, and he knows that it has to be Dante. Caim melts away, and Dezso settles back to watch the rest.
It always gets strange after that, though, past Cassia and the brothel, waking up in Hell for the first time; streets he doesn't recognize, people without faces. It's unnerving, scares him a little, even though it's so utterly mundane. Nothing like what happens to him in this life. A stack of books, a dark street. Some small box, and a man with his back turned. So familiar. Who--
He hates them, these dreams, but can never seem to wake up on his own. It's only ever a gentle touch, a murmur of his name, and he's staring at a dark ceiling, comfortable, warm. Safe. And it takes but a second to realize he's curled with Dante, wrapped up in him, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
Word Count: 380
Rating: PG?
Series: Original
Notes: Prompt: entwined. For daiyaonna.
....entwined as in the sense that they're all snuggled up. SHUT UP I KNOW I CAN'T WRITE.
They start out as quiet shapes in the dark, indistinct, just shadows, gradually becoming clearer; images like a silent movie with no subtitles, playing against the canvas of his mind. It's a dream he's seen too many times before, and Dezso has to wonder if there's a point to it.
So he just sits and watches as the film that is his life plays in reverse. Soft pastels, a track consisting of Dante's voice as he sees the time they spend together, how Dante dotes on him. How much he cares. Dante... The one saving grace in Hell, despite what he thinks of himself.
But then the images change, and he wants so badly to look away. A slash of red, of fear and pain, and Caim's face is there, malice and hatred and unbridled violence. He wants to look away, cover his eyes, anything so he doesn't have to watch. But it's like he's frozen, eyes wired open and unable to move. Tries to scream for Dante, but no sound comes out. And all he can hear is Caim, sneering that one word over and over:
"Whore."
No. No no no, he's not that person anymore, not to be bought and used and thrown away. But it's getting harder and harder to believe that, and just when he thinks it might swallow him whole, the pain and resignation, it's warm, so warm, and he knows that it has to be Dante. Caim melts away, and Dezso settles back to watch the rest.
It always gets strange after that, though, past Cassia and the brothel, waking up in Hell for the first time; streets he doesn't recognize, people without faces. It's unnerving, scares him a little, even though it's so utterly mundane. Nothing like what happens to him in this life. A stack of books, a dark street. Some small box, and a man with his back turned. So familiar. Who--
He hates them, these dreams, but can never seem to wake up on his own. It's only ever a gentle touch, a murmur of his name, and he's staring at a dark ceiling, comfortable, warm. Safe. And it takes but a second to realize he's curled with Dante, wrapped up in him, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.