[FANFIC] Like Pinning Butterflies
Title: Like Pinning Butterflies (Six)
Author: ienvy
Fandom: South Park
Pairing: Craig/Tweek
Rating: NC-17 (just to be safe, no smut but plenty of violence)
Summary: Craig Tucker is sick. And Craig Tucker is madly, irrevocably obsessed with Tweek Tweak.
Warnings: This story is NOT for those who are easily disturbed or upset. This story is intended to be very morbid and macabre and will contain subjects that most of the population find upsetting. In case you're wondering, these subjects will be along the lines of: stalking, torture, morbid/macabre love, death, suicide, rape and so on, so forth. ALSO! This chapter references religion (Catholic).
Notes: This was inspired/based off of 'The Horror of Our Love' by Ludo.
A/N: Again, life catches up to me now and then but I hope you enjoy this chapter! Your comments keep me writing!
Directory of Chapters
I wake in terror,
Blackbirds screaming.
Dark cathedrals spilling midnight on their altars.
I’m your servant, my immortal;
Pale and Perfect.
---
Blood covered Tweek Tweak is not beautiful.
Craig Tucker had been wrong.
The dripping, sticky and red blood is disgusting, especially the way it mats down the blonde strands of hair and cascades across a pale, slender neck. It makes Craig think angry things while watching it slip so very slowly and so very tauntingly along the beautiful skin beneath it.
It was not the blood, he decides, that had attracted him to Tweek in the first place. It was not that tender little blossom of red that had hovered on the boy’s split lip. It was those lips -- not that blood -- those gorgeously pursed lips and the corner at which they met that made Craig’s body yearn for his blonde friend. Those lips that whispered, quiet, disconnected phrases into Craig’s ear every night after his eyes had closed and his mind had run blank. That slight corner at which they met, that was what Craig wanted so damn badly all this time. Not the blood. Not the pain it would bring when the blood surfaced. But those beautiful lips.
It is such a shocking revelation that Craig finds his knees growing weak, finds his heart speeding up, but ignores these dull and overused reactions in favor of cleaning off the hideously offending blood before it stains those wonderful lips forever.
He moves slowly, a killer with time to spare, to clean Tweek and free him from all that horrible blood. He moves gradually, to take care to wash up the blonde hairs, to gently massage Tweek’s scalp where it had cracked very slightly, to slip his hands along every curve for as long as possible before Tweek wakes.
The entire process took well over an hour, but Craig worked quietly the entire time. He had done his best to clean it all off, done his very best to make sure that everything was set right and proper before he retreated to stand away and admire his handiwork.
He stands only a foot away as he gazes upon Tweek’s form, grey-blue eyes wiping it up and down until he feels a sense of satisfaction and steps forward. A trickle of the stuff is at Tweek’s mouth and he leans forward to kiss it away, smiling as he does so for he has finally pressed his yearning lips onto those beautiful ones.
“Tweek,” his voice is quiet, so gentle he is not doubtful that the other will be startled by his being there if he wakes up. The blonde remains still and he leans down once more to leave a kiss upon that same corner, sighing gently as he parts and retreats to reflect upon all that he has done.
---
It is cold.
It is dark.
It is dusty.
His body aches and his head is sore and for the life of his being, he cannot recall how he got to be here. It is dark and he is squinting to try and capture an idea of where this cold, dark, dusty place is but he can’t. There’s a dim and flickering light coming from somewhere, not enough to see where he’s at, but enough to let him know that he isn’t going blind and that he is still very much alive.
But he has all the pain to remind him that he is alive and he doesn’t need anything else to tell him and remind him that his heart is still beating strong and his brain is still churning out a hundred and one panicked thoughts as to where he could possibly be.
What is the last thing he remembers? Kenny’s dead, lifeless shell of a body in the bathtub. Eyes staring at him like it was all his fault. Which, he supposes, it really is. All. His. Fault.
But that isn’t the last thing, no something else is shoving its way to the surface and he remembers Craig in the bathroom, remembers a prayer ignored by the angel’s, remembers how hard and fast his heart had pumped when Craig pressed their bodies together and how clumsy his movements with the scalpel had been when it had been his own hope of survival. And he remembers how he ran down the hallway, madly, blindly, stupidly, thoughts of escape pumping his blood and urging his legs to just. keep. running.. And how all the hope in the world couldn’t have kept him safe from Craig, how no amount of prayer would ever have been able to save him and how no one would be able to hear him, no matter how hard he had been screaming. And how he had been shoved, how his mind had gone fuzzy like static on a screen and how he wasn’t sure if Craig had been rocking, rocking, rocking, or if he had only imagined it to fill his fading mind with something. Some reason. But then he remembers the sickening crunch that had twisted his stomach into a knot, the sound of resistance failing when Craig had so easily snapped his arm. And then he remembers nothing.
But mostly importantly, he remembers not the pain, not the overwhelming amount of pain that had surely raced through him when his arm had been snapped so easily but he remembers that sound which serves now as a reminder of how weak he really is. That there is no hope. That, no matter what, Craig will always be there to capture him and show him every horror that he’s never known.
He takes in a deep, shuddering breath as the tears threaten to coat his hazel eyes and he knows, for that frame of space that hangs in time, that he is going to die.
He struggles briefly against the binding that holds him down, but it proves to have very little effect and more or less just results in more frantic sobbing and vain attempts at an escape (if one could even call it that). He gasps for air and breaths in only the dust of the dank place, finding that it burns and scratches at his lungs and nostrils, burns and scratches as he swallows gulps of the air because he is not given any other option or choice as to what air he may breath.
He’s going to die.
---
The confessional smells of death. The divider is dusty, all ragged and worn out and Craig is sure that the reason why is all the sins that must hang onto the cracked material. He can see it as clearly as night can see day. It makes him feel dirty, to have all this sin floating so freely around him, but he supposes that it shouldn’t. After all, he is far from pure and that is why he is sitting in the tiny box.
Though there is no heavenly advocate sitting on the other side of the screen, Craig closes his eyes and sits down, heaving a sigh and he can almost hear the priest prompting him to begin. He crosses himself and the words are flowing, though it’s been so very long, but they come quickly to his lips, as if they don’t burn when they trickle out.
“O, heavenly Father, forgive me for I have sinned.”
There is no response, but Craig’s imagination is grown up enough to supply one for his own amusement. The father asks what sins he is guilty of. Craig wants to ask if the sins are specific, like the ones that Moses brought down. But he doesn’t.
“Father, I have--” He stops himself, long enough to listen to the sobs coming from the altar. He closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. It is not enough. “Father, my sins are…” Again, those ear piercing, heart wrenching, banshee toned screams and gasps and pleas are echoing off the walls and he brings his hands up to his face, cradles it slowly before falling forward, gripping onto his head with his elbows pressed between his knees as he rocks and groans, a horrible, wrenching noise that takes up all his might to summon.
The father is waiting patiently.
Craig straightens himself as the screams ebb away into quiet sobs and his grey-blue eyes slide in and out of focus as he stares at the cracked material used to create the divider that keeps them anonymous to one another. Craig doesn’t know heaven and heaven doesn’t know Craig.
He seizes the material by sliding his fingers into the tiny, perfect-for-the-tops-of-your-fingers holes and grips tight to it, his body raising off the bench, his lips quite nearly touching the dusty, sin soaked material as he hisses past the sin catcher, his voice a harsh string of words that no doubt make no sense to the priest, who can surely sense the hate and complete loss in Craig’s voice and in his words.
He grips onto the material and he rises up against it, his hips pressing to the wall, his lips grazing the sins of perverted old men, dirty school girls and wives with too much time on their hands. He draws his tongue across them all and he tastes them and he’s still hissing out his own sins, no doubt more than this confessional has ever had to remain witness to.
And as suddenly as that, he’s done. His fingers loosen around the holes and he drops his hand, staring intently, waiting for a word from his heavenly father. Nothing comes and he sits back down, leans into the wall of the booth, listening to the heavy breathing that comes from the altar.
Craig knows what must be done.
---
Author: ienvy
Fandom: South Park
Pairing: Craig/Tweek
Rating: NC-17 (just to be safe, no smut but plenty of violence)
Summary: Craig Tucker is sick. And Craig Tucker is madly, irrevocably obsessed with Tweek Tweak.
Warnings: This story is NOT for those who are easily disturbed or upset. This story is intended to be very morbid and macabre and will contain subjects that most of the population find upsetting. In case you're wondering, these subjects will be along the lines of: stalking, torture, morbid/macabre love, death, suicide, rape and so on, so forth. ALSO! This chapter references religion (Catholic).
Notes: This was inspired/based off of 'The Horror of Our Love' by Ludo.
A/N: Again, life catches up to me now and then but I hope you enjoy this chapter! Your comments keep me writing!
Directory of Chapters
I wake in terror,
Blackbirds screaming.
Dark cathedrals spilling midnight on their altars.
I’m your servant, my immortal;
Pale and Perfect.
---
Blood covered Tweek Tweak is not beautiful.
Craig Tucker had been wrong.
The dripping, sticky and red blood is disgusting, especially the way it mats down the blonde strands of hair and cascades across a pale, slender neck. It makes Craig think angry things while watching it slip so very slowly and so very tauntingly along the beautiful skin beneath it.
It was not the blood, he decides, that had attracted him to Tweek in the first place. It was not that tender little blossom of red that had hovered on the boy’s split lip. It was those lips -- not that blood -- those gorgeously pursed lips and the corner at which they met that made Craig’s body yearn for his blonde friend. Those lips that whispered, quiet, disconnected phrases into Craig’s ear every night after his eyes had closed and his mind had run blank. That slight corner at which they met, that was what Craig wanted so damn badly all this time. Not the blood. Not the pain it would bring when the blood surfaced. But those beautiful lips.
It is such a shocking revelation that Craig finds his knees growing weak, finds his heart speeding up, but ignores these dull and overused reactions in favor of cleaning off the hideously offending blood before it stains those wonderful lips forever.
He moves slowly, a killer with time to spare, to clean Tweek and free him from all that horrible blood. He moves gradually, to take care to wash up the blonde hairs, to gently massage Tweek’s scalp where it had cracked very slightly, to slip his hands along every curve for as long as possible before Tweek wakes.
The entire process took well over an hour, but Craig worked quietly the entire time. He had done his best to clean it all off, done his very best to make sure that everything was set right and proper before he retreated to stand away and admire his handiwork.
He stands only a foot away as he gazes upon Tweek’s form, grey-blue eyes wiping it up and down until he feels a sense of satisfaction and steps forward. A trickle of the stuff is at Tweek’s mouth and he leans forward to kiss it away, smiling as he does so for he has finally pressed his yearning lips onto those beautiful ones.
“Tweek,” his voice is quiet, so gentle he is not doubtful that the other will be startled by his being there if he wakes up. The blonde remains still and he leans down once more to leave a kiss upon that same corner, sighing gently as he parts and retreats to reflect upon all that he has done.
---
It is cold.
It is dark.
It is dusty.
His body aches and his head is sore and for the life of his being, he cannot recall how he got to be here. It is dark and he is squinting to try and capture an idea of where this cold, dark, dusty place is but he can’t. There’s a dim and flickering light coming from somewhere, not enough to see where he’s at, but enough to let him know that he isn’t going blind and that he is still very much alive.
But he has all the pain to remind him that he is alive and he doesn’t need anything else to tell him and remind him that his heart is still beating strong and his brain is still churning out a hundred and one panicked thoughts as to where he could possibly be.
What is the last thing he remembers? Kenny’s dead, lifeless shell of a body in the bathtub. Eyes staring at him like it was all his fault. Which, he supposes, it really is. All. His. Fault.
But that isn’t the last thing, no something else is shoving its way to the surface and he remembers Craig in the bathroom, remembers a prayer ignored by the angel’s, remembers how hard and fast his heart had pumped when Craig pressed their bodies together and how clumsy his movements with the scalpel had been when it had been his own hope of survival. And he remembers how he ran down the hallway, madly, blindly, stupidly, thoughts of escape pumping his blood and urging his legs to just. keep. running.. And how all the hope in the world couldn’t have kept him safe from Craig, how no amount of prayer would ever have been able to save him and how no one would be able to hear him, no matter how hard he had been screaming. And how he had been shoved, how his mind had gone fuzzy like static on a screen and how he wasn’t sure if Craig had been rocking, rocking, rocking, or if he had only imagined it to fill his fading mind with something. Some reason. But then he remembers the sickening crunch that had twisted his stomach into a knot, the sound of resistance failing when Craig had so easily snapped his arm. And then he remembers nothing.
But mostly importantly, he remembers not the pain, not the overwhelming amount of pain that had surely raced through him when his arm had been snapped so easily but he remembers that sound which serves now as a reminder of how weak he really is. That there is no hope. That, no matter what, Craig will always be there to capture him and show him every horror that he’s never known.
He takes in a deep, shuddering breath as the tears threaten to coat his hazel eyes and he knows, for that frame of space that hangs in time, that he is going to die.
He struggles briefly against the binding that holds him down, but it proves to have very little effect and more or less just results in more frantic sobbing and vain attempts at an escape (if one could even call it that). He gasps for air and breaths in only the dust of the dank place, finding that it burns and scratches at his lungs and nostrils, burns and scratches as he swallows gulps of the air because he is not given any other option or choice as to what air he may breath.
He’s going to die.
---
The confessional smells of death. The divider is dusty, all ragged and worn out and Craig is sure that the reason why is all the sins that must hang onto the cracked material. He can see it as clearly as night can see day. It makes him feel dirty, to have all this sin floating so freely around him, but he supposes that it shouldn’t. After all, he is far from pure and that is why he is sitting in the tiny box.
Though there is no heavenly advocate sitting on the other side of the screen, Craig closes his eyes and sits down, heaving a sigh and he can almost hear the priest prompting him to begin. He crosses himself and the words are flowing, though it’s been so very long, but they come quickly to his lips, as if they don’t burn when they trickle out.
“O, heavenly Father, forgive me for I have sinned.”
There is no response, but Craig’s imagination is grown up enough to supply one for his own amusement. The father asks what sins he is guilty of. Craig wants to ask if the sins are specific, like the ones that Moses brought down. But he doesn’t.
“Father, I have--” He stops himself, long enough to listen to the sobs coming from the altar. He closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. It is not enough. “Father, my sins are…” Again, those ear piercing, heart wrenching, banshee toned screams and gasps and pleas are echoing off the walls and he brings his hands up to his face, cradles it slowly before falling forward, gripping onto his head with his elbows pressed between his knees as he rocks and groans, a horrible, wrenching noise that takes up all his might to summon.
The father is waiting patiently.
Craig straightens himself as the screams ebb away into quiet sobs and his grey-blue eyes slide in and out of focus as he stares at the cracked material used to create the divider that keeps them anonymous to one another. Craig doesn’t know heaven and heaven doesn’t know Craig.
He seizes the material by sliding his fingers into the tiny, perfect-for-the-tops-of-your-fingers holes and grips tight to it, his body raising off the bench, his lips quite nearly touching the dusty, sin soaked material as he hisses past the sin catcher, his voice a harsh string of words that no doubt make no sense to the priest, who can surely sense the hate and complete loss in Craig’s voice and in his words.
He grips onto the material and he rises up against it, his hips pressing to the wall, his lips grazing the sins of perverted old men, dirty school girls and wives with too much time on their hands. He draws his tongue across them all and he tastes them and he’s still hissing out his own sins, no doubt more than this confessional has ever had to remain witness to.
And as suddenly as that, he’s done. His fingers loosen around the holes and he drops his hand, staring intently, waiting for a word from his heavenly father. Nothing comes and he sits back down, leans into the wall of the booth, listening to the heavy breathing that comes from the altar.
Craig knows what must be done.
---