(no subject)
Title - Wrath (4 out of 7)
Pairing - Dagger/Squirtle
Rating - NC17
Disclaimer - Not true. All made up.
Summary - There’s a fine line…
(*)
”Agger?” he says, with a smile. “Oh, I’m better than him.”
“Really?”
Faux confidence, betrayed with a grin. A smile to frighten children; a face to inflict fear.
A laughing assassin…
“Better than Agger?”
“I wish,” he says, indicating the joke, but the cameras stop rolling; catch it only as an afterthought.
The comment stands framed.
Taken out of context.
(*)
“You think you’re better than me?”
Two chests, pressed against each other, velcro tabbed. Magnet against metal, pushed together.
Beating hearts colliding, throbbing out of rhythm with each other, one beating with fire; with resentment and one with apprehension.
They were born days apart yet polarities away from each other
Fine lines…
…lines crossed.
He looked like such a bad boy…
Martin looks away with manic, crazy eyes, just like they say, yet the book cover doesn’t reflect the novel inside.
Hard jaw relaxes, and his mouth falls open.
There is no fire; this dragon is all talk and armour.
“Well?”
“I-I don’t…I didn’t…fuck.“
He’d run away, but his back’s against the wall.
“You think you’re fucking better than me?”
“I didn’t say that, Daniel.”
One head tilts downwards, eyes burning into eyes - one jaw, clenched in aggression, muscles tense, veins like snakes underneath hot, clammy skin. Anger simmers, red, bubbled blood that pricks at white against blue, against green, against hazel.
Daniel’s eyes reflect antagonism, not worship.
They reflect disgust, not respect.
Eyes met across a crowded room, and it was love at first sight.
There is no love.
“Five fucking minutes,” he says. “You’ve been here five fucking minutes. You want to steal my thunder?”
He is pride.
He is wounded.
He is arrogant.
“I’m not a thief, Daniel.”
“Not a thief? Oh, fuck you. You think you’re funny?”
Spittle flies from tight lips in an ejaculation of rage as Agger mocks Skrtl with words; as he takes him down, piece by piece, inch by inch.
As he waits for the dam to burst, for the cracks to show…
He’s pissing on his corners, here. He’s marking his territory.
He’s showing his domination.
“I should do you over right here, just to show you what I’m capable of. Then we’ll see who’s better.”
“Not like this,” Martin says, eyes darting, voice painted with shame. “Be a man, Danny.”
“Be a man? Who do you think you are?”
Who does Skrtl think he is?
He’s Daniel.
He’s Daniel, two years ago, rookie-raw, skin made of white-porcelain and arms spun from tattoos.
He’s Daniel one year ago, head shaved down to nothing, bullet style, skull-shaped, thug, bully, neo-Nazi that reads poetry and spits on the ground.
They say that opposites attract. Likes only repel.
Martin is eagerness; angel painted black.
Daniel is pure wrath. The hand of God.
Viking. Warrior-like. Blazing battles and lightening bolts and beams, beams of aggression seeping from every pore, from every movement.
Sexual tension from every last gasp of breath.
He smiles.
Teeth like white bricks, tightly pressed, straining in their foundations. Words escape like prisoners dissolving through the cracks.
“Who do you think you are, eh?”
Martin might ask Daniel the question himself; knows the answer.
Who is Agger?
A messiah. A God.
A ghetto fucking superstar!
(*)
“You think you’re fucking better than me?”
Said again as the door of Agger’s apartment slams closed, as Skrtl’s back collides with plaster and brick and expensive décor; as his body tremors from tiny earthquakes that shake his very foundations as the force of his bones drag paintings down from walls.
And, the measure on the Richter scale was…
Skrtl’s hands wrap around Daniel’s wrists.
He pushes him away.
He says nothing. No words escape those lips; no prisoners, seeping through as they did with Agger.
He licks them.
Those lips…
Daniel licks his own. He is a natural disaster…but as he looks at those full, down-turned, inverted cherub-lips, at the intensity in these eyes, urging him on, daring, so daring, he finds himself overcome.
He whispers.
So close, he whispers, a breath against Martin’s skin.
A hand against Martin’s chest…bigger…bigger than his own…
Better…
“I’ll show you better.”
More able.
More willing.
More dominant
He’s all talk.
“Then, show me.”
Does he expect a fist? Daniel looks enraged.
Does he want to throw a punch?
Martin can give as good as he gets.
The sucker punch, though, it comes unexpectedly; winds him, without force.
There is no pain. No blood.
Lips like magnet and metal, like Velcro. Martin wouldn’t pull away even if he could. The better man tastes like spearmint and cigarettes, a vice that Martin would never wear yet enjoys the taste of.
He swallows Daniel’s drug as he swallows him.
He feels himself gasping for air as his skin burns from touch and, if he had hair it would be tight in Agger’s grip, his face against the softness of patterned wallpaper.
Primitive, primal, there is no face to face.
Wrath has no eyes; no smile.
Lust?
Lust has both.
As Agger exposes his chest; tears him down, as he renders him naked as a child with only those ink sleeves to keep him warm, Skrtl returns the favour.
He reads the back of Daniel as if he were a novel in a bookshop; wonders if the content is the same as these dark, morbid words.
“I’ll show you…”
I’ll show you who’s better…
…they are both as bad as each other…
(*)
Even now, after the act, the tension in the room is palpable, like a physical presence sharpened to a knife-point. For a brief moment everything is still, muscles taut on the edge of a word as Daniel slowly turns his head towards Martin, a smile of triumph curled his lips.
“Who do you think you are?” he pants, full circle.
Sweat drips from his forehead into wide, sated eyes. He stares at Martin, the predator, the spider to the fly in its web.
The fly looks back, happy to be caught.
It doesn’t struggle.
It never will.
It’s still hard. Hard, from the memory of strong hands on his cock and a sharp-lizard tongue on his thighs.
His back burns.
He tastes blood.
Daniel’s nails are talons…and, his teeth?
His teeth are fury carved from ivory.
Who does he think he is?
“Whoever you fucking want me to be.”
Daniel smiles, wrath abated, yet lingering.
Always lingering.
Pairing - Dagger/Squirtle
Rating - NC17
Disclaimer - Not true. All made up.
Summary - There’s a fine line…
(*)
”Agger?” he says, with a smile. “Oh, I’m better than him.”
“Really?”
Faux confidence, betrayed with a grin. A smile to frighten children; a face to inflict fear.
A laughing assassin…
“Better than Agger?”
“I wish,” he says, indicating the joke, but the cameras stop rolling; catch it only as an afterthought.
The comment stands framed.
Taken out of context.
(*)
“You think you’re better than me?”
Two chests, pressed against each other, velcro tabbed. Magnet against metal, pushed together.
Beating hearts colliding, throbbing out of rhythm with each other, one beating with fire; with resentment and one with apprehension.
They were born days apart yet polarities away from each other
Fine lines…
…lines crossed.
He looked like such a bad boy…
Martin looks away with manic, crazy eyes, just like they say, yet the book cover doesn’t reflect the novel inside.
Hard jaw relaxes, and his mouth falls open.
There is no fire; this dragon is all talk and armour.
“Well?”
“I-I don’t…I didn’t…fuck.“
He’d run away, but his back’s against the wall.
“You think you’re fucking better than me?”
“I didn’t say that, Daniel.”
One head tilts downwards, eyes burning into eyes - one jaw, clenched in aggression, muscles tense, veins like snakes underneath hot, clammy skin. Anger simmers, red, bubbled blood that pricks at white against blue, against green, against hazel.
Daniel’s eyes reflect antagonism, not worship.
They reflect disgust, not respect.
Eyes met across a crowded room, and it was love at first sight.
There is no love.
“Five fucking minutes,” he says. “You’ve been here five fucking minutes. You want to steal my thunder?”
He is pride.
He is wounded.
He is arrogant.
“I’m not a thief, Daniel.”
“Not a thief? Oh, fuck you. You think you’re funny?”
Spittle flies from tight lips in an ejaculation of rage as Agger mocks Skrtl with words; as he takes him down, piece by piece, inch by inch.
As he waits for the dam to burst, for the cracks to show…
He’s pissing on his corners, here. He’s marking his territory.
He’s showing his domination.
“I should do you over right here, just to show you what I’m capable of. Then we’ll see who’s better.”
“Not like this,” Martin says, eyes darting, voice painted with shame. “Be a man, Danny.”
“Be a man? Who do you think you are?”
Who does Skrtl think he is?
He’s Daniel.
He’s Daniel, two years ago, rookie-raw, skin made of white-porcelain and arms spun from tattoos.
He’s Daniel one year ago, head shaved down to nothing, bullet style, skull-shaped, thug, bully, neo-Nazi that reads poetry and spits on the ground.
They say that opposites attract. Likes only repel.
Martin is eagerness; angel painted black.
Daniel is pure wrath. The hand of God.
Viking. Warrior-like. Blazing battles and lightening bolts and beams, beams of aggression seeping from every pore, from every movement.
Sexual tension from every last gasp of breath.
He smiles.
Teeth like white bricks, tightly pressed, straining in their foundations. Words escape like prisoners dissolving through the cracks.
“Who do you think you are, eh?”
Martin might ask Daniel the question himself; knows the answer.
Who is Agger?
A messiah. A God.
A ghetto fucking superstar!
(*)
“You think you’re fucking better than me?”
Said again as the door of Agger’s apartment slams closed, as Skrtl’s back collides with plaster and brick and expensive décor; as his body tremors from tiny earthquakes that shake his very foundations as the force of his bones drag paintings down from walls.
And, the measure on the Richter scale was…
Skrtl’s hands wrap around Daniel’s wrists.
He pushes him away.
He says nothing. No words escape those lips; no prisoners, seeping through as they did with Agger.
He licks them.
Those lips…
Daniel licks his own. He is a natural disaster…but as he looks at those full, down-turned, inverted cherub-lips, at the intensity in these eyes, urging him on, daring, so daring, he finds himself overcome.
He whispers.
So close, he whispers, a breath against Martin’s skin.
A hand against Martin’s chest…bigger…bigger than his own…
Better…
“I’ll show you better.”
More able.
More willing.
More dominant
He’s all talk.
“Then, show me.”
Does he expect a fist? Daniel looks enraged.
Does he want to throw a punch?
Martin can give as good as he gets.
The sucker punch, though, it comes unexpectedly; winds him, without force.
There is no pain. No blood.
Lips like magnet and metal, like Velcro. Martin wouldn’t pull away even if he could. The better man tastes like spearmint and cigarettes, a vice that Martin would never wear yet enjoys the taste of.
He swallows Daniel’s drug as he swallows him.
He feels himself gasping for air as his skin burns from touch and, if he had hair it would be tight in Agger’s grip, his face against the softness of patterned wallpaper.
Primitive, primal, there is no face to face.
Wrath has no eyes; no smile.
Lust?
Lust has both.
As Agger exposes his chest; tears him down, as he renders him naked as a child with only those ink sleeves to keep him warm, Skrtl returns the favour.
He reads the back of Daniel as if he were a novel in a bookshop; wonders if the content is the same as these dark, morbid words.
“I’ll show you…”
I’ll show you who’s better…
…they are both as bad as each other…
(*)
Even now, after the act, the tension in the room is palpable, like a physical presence sharpened to a knife-point. For a brief moment everything is still, muscles taut on the edge of a word as Daniel slowly turns his head towards Martin, a smile of triumph curled his lips.
“Who do you think you are?” he pants, full circle.
Sweat drips from his forehead into wide, sated eyes. He stares at Martin, the predator, the spider to the fly in its web.
The fly looks back, happy to be caught.
It doesn’t struggle.
It never will.
It’s still hard. Hard, from the memory of strong hands on his cock and a sharp-lizard tongue on his thighs.
His back burns.
He tastes blood.
Daniel’s nails are talons…and, his teeth?
His teeth are fury carved from ivory.
Who does he think he is?
“Whoever you fucking want me to be.”
Daniel smiles, wrath abated, yet lingering.
Always lingering.