[Fanfiction] - Cain & Jizabel - Scars
Angsty little treat for y'all. XD A little darker than what I usually write, and in a slightly different style.
Title: Scars
Fandom: Godchild
Beta: kashibanohikari
Characters/Pairing: Cain, Jizabel and Alexis, implied Cain/Riff
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied shounen-ai, violence, disturbing imagery, spoilers for the volumes 6 and 7 of the manga, Jizabel (he needs his own category :p). Not a very cheerful fic. No puppies and flowers. More Garden of Eden analogies and whips.
Disclaimer: If I owned Cain, Riff and Jizabel they wouldn't have time to be running around London fighting/aiding Delilah.
Summary: Cain and Jizabel. Brothers. Enemies. But when they are stripped to the bone, are they really as different as they pretend?
Notes: Takes place during the scene in volume 7 where Alexis orders Riffael to whip Jizabel for him. It works on the presumption Cain is asleep and dreaming at this point, which he probably isn't, but I ask you to suspend disbelief momentarily. Thankyou. Also contains some minor deviations from what might be considered 'correct' grammar. They worked in my mind when I was writing it. I hope they do the same in yours.
*****
He can smell roses.
He’s smothering in the sickly sweet scent, suffocating in the perfume as it mingles with the taste of blood in his mouth.
Something’s rotting, and he thinks it might be his soul. Or perhaps he was born like this. A spoiled apple in the barrel, his glossy red skin marred by pulpy patches of sin. Eve tasted an apple, sank her teeth into the succulent flesh of a forbidden fruit, and as she was cast from the Garden of Eden for her sins, and so he is cast from Paradise for the sins of the Father.
He knows the feel of the whip intimately. Knows how it sounds as it cuts through the air, knows how it feels as it slices into his flesh, curving around to kiss his sides. He knows how the pain comes, first a searing agony, then blinding, throbbing ache that makes him feel as if his skin in on fire.
He is a child again, hurt and beaten, craving love from the hand that harms him, curled up and weeping in the gardens, wondering if it is possible to drown in despair and die.
I don’t believe you can, sir, but I imagine it might feel like it.
He cries, he always cries in the dreams, and the tears are wet and real on his face.
-
He’s cold.
The freezing air sinks fangs into his back and the iron is chill against his chest. He tilts his head to the side, resting his cheek on his arms as a child might in slumber. His blonde hair is loose, tumbling forward around his face, baring the back of his neck and the contours of his back.
Thwack.
The whip tastes his flesh again, drawing a new line over the raw, pink scars. His breath hitches as the pain comes, but he embraces it, lets it overwhelm him, bathes in the love he craves as the blood runs.
He loves me, he does it because he loves me, like mistletoe loves the tree as it sucks its lifeblood away. Like I love the bodies I dissect, treasure every broken inch of them, from the blue-tinted lips to the still, cold toes.
Thwack.
He stares into the distance, seeing the forests of his childhood, breathing in the rich scent of decaying autumn leaves and moss, feeling the soft wool of Snark beneath his fingers as the lamb stares at him with blind devotion.
Thwack.
The cross on its chain is cold around his neck, feather light but dragging him down with the weight of his sins. He breathes in, closing his eyes and basking in the penance he finds beneath the whip of his Cardmaster.
-
This is different.
There is a different voice whispering venomous barbs as though they are endearments, a voice as soft as a lover’s caress.
You’ll die alone. You’ll die unloved. You, who is named for Cain, who killed his brother. You, who slew your mother.
He knows the hands on the whip, the elegant fingers curved around the handle. Knows them as well as he knows his own, knows the lightly callused palms and the lines that spell out destiny. Is this destiny? He chokes in a breath, gasping for air, as the whip rips into his back and a fist closes around his heart.
Those fingers once tangled in his hair, pulling him into playful kisses or tender embraces, holding him as though he was precious. Cherishing him.
But no. I know those fingers, and they would do me no violence. Those are not your eyes, not your teeth or your lips. I know those lips, and those are not they I have kissed and licked, those are not they I have bitten and loved.
Blue eyes, like summer skies, alight with a smile as his blood drips down to splash on to the stone floor.
-
You do it, Riffael.
The whip sings through the air to split his skin like overripe fruit, blood spilling out like nectar, hot on his bare back.
But why, father? Why don’t you love me, after all I’ve done, why do you cast me aside? Why do you force me to feast on the flesh of my failures? Why am I still living, worse than an insect, crawling over this filthy world, tainting it further, why? Why?
The Tower, harbinger of change, battlements shattered by the storm, stone flying in every direction. The whip cracks like lightning across his bare skin, as his heart pounds in his ears like thunder.
I will make you my prey, Cain, I will dissect you and discover every pulsing secret your body has hidden within it. I will make you suffer, I will baptise you in the blood of your sister and your loved ones, I will break you, break you for breaking me.
He can feel the blood on his skin, and it is as warm and sinful as that of every other tainted human being.
-
He comes awake screaming.
His scars are burning, and for a second he half expects the fingers that go to his back to come away sticky with blood. He can taste the familiar, metallic tang on his tongue and he spits the blood onto the coverlet, unwilling to swallow it.
It stains the white lace red, a crimson patch that reminds him of spills of cherry juice on a white tablecloth.
He remembers the taste of cherries, tart on his tongue, and stolen kisses under summer skies, sweeter than the fruit. Whispered cautions, fumbling touches, the scent of cut grass and fresh earth.
Sir, I can’t…we can’t.
-
He almost screams as he pulls his shirt back on.
He breathes in - every breath a reminder of his sin - his life cut out and patched together from pieces of those he loved, stitched up with black yarn and tears.
Do you imagine Riffael beating you, Cain? Is that your nightmare? I’ll find out. I’ll pluck out your eyes and find out what kisses them with gold, then I’ll tug out your secrets, one by one, until you’re spread out before me, until you’re no longer the sum of your parts, but merely pieces.
His father isn’t even looking at him.
You stole it, Cain, stole it all away from me, so I’ll steal it from you now, carve open your life and watch as it unravels, as my knife nicks your artery and your lifeblood trickles away, slowly, so I can feast on the pallor of your cheeks and taste the salt of your tears.
Riffael is.
I’d like to cut you open as well, slit you down the middle and pull out all your cruelty. I’ll peel away your skin to see whether the Riff Cain cries for is hiding beneath it, crack you open and examine what spills out.
-
Yes we can, Riff. Why shouldn’t we?
He gasps for breath, drenched in a cold sweat, his heart racing and the taste of terror acrid on his tongue. He can remember, remember it all so well.
The scent of fresh scones and blackberry jam, as they cool beside his bed while he indulges in a far less culinary pleasure, feasting his palate on his favourite flavours, Riff’s ragged breathing sweeter than the purest melody in his ears.
Sir, I’ll follow you to hell.
Gentle touches, fingers on his cheek, the brush of hot breath on his throat. Hand on his back, tracing his scars with infinite care, mapping out the pits and crevices as though they are sacred.
No, Riff, you won’t. You’ll lead me to hell. You already have.
He smiles. How maudlin. How blissfully macabre this whole sorry show. When the curtain rises, when the Masque begins, he will act, and he will watch himself perform with the jaded eyes of an embittered cynic.
If you ever betray me, I’ll kill myself.
-
Did you enjoy that, Riffael? Did you imagine that it was Cain sprawled before you, your hands carving new scars onto his ruined back? Did you like it?
-
Are you happy, father, now you’ve taken away the one thing I thought was truly mine?
-
Are you happy, father, watching your prodigy ripping me open as you do?
-
Would you be happy, father, if I kept my vow?
-
Will you kill me, father, or make him do it for you?
-
Cain laughs then, the sound sharp with hysteria, as far away giggles bubble from Jizabel’s lips.
Come now, we both know I’m already dead.
Title: Scars
Fandom: Godchild
Beta: kashibanohikari
Characters/Pairing: Cain, Jizabel and Alexis, implied Cain/Riff
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied shounen-ai, violence, disturbing imagery, spoilers for the volumes 6 and 7 of the manga, Jizabel (he needs his own category :p). Not a very cheerful fic. No puppies and flowers. More Garden of Eden analogies and whips.
Disclaimer: If I owned Cain, Riff and Jizabel they wouldn't have time to be running around London fighting/aiding Delilah.
Summary: Cain and Jizabel. Brothers. Enemies. But when they are stripped to the bone, are they really as different as they pretend?
Notes: Takes place during the scene in volume 7 where Alexis orders Riffael to whip Jizabel for him. It works on the presumption Cain is asleep and dreaming at this point, which he probably isn't, but I ask you to suspend disbelief momentarily. Thankyou. Also contains some minor deviations from what might be considered 'correct' grammar. They worked in my mind when I was writing it. I hope they do the same in yours.
*****
He can smell roses.
He’s smothering in the sickly sweet scent, suffocating in the perfume as it mingles with the taste of blood in his mouth.
Something’s rotting, and he thinks it might be his soul. Or perhaps he was born like this. A spoiled apple in the barrel, his glossy red skin marred by pulpy patches of sin. Eve tasted an apple, sank her teeth into the succulent flesh of a forbidden fruit, and as she was cast from the Garden of Eden for her sins, and so he is cast from Paradise for the sins of the Father.
He knows the feel of the whip intimately. Knows how it sounds as it cuts through the air, knows how it feels as it slices into his flesh, curving around to kiss his sides. He knows how the pain comes, first a searing agony, then blinding, throbbing ache that makes him feel as if his skin in on fire.
He is a child again, hurt and beaten, craving love from the hand that harms him, curled up and weeping in the gardens, wondering if it is possible to drown in despair and die.
I don’t believe you can, sir, but I imagine it might feel like it.
He cries, he always cries in the dreams, and the tears are wet and real on his face.
-
He’s cold.
The freezing air sinks fangs into his back and the iron is chill against his chest. He tilts his head to the side, resting his cheek on his arms as a child might in slumber. His blonde hair is loose, tumbling forward around his face, baring the back of his neck and the contours of his back.
Thwack.
The whip tastes his flesh again, drawing a new line over the raw, pink scars. His breath hitches as the pain comes, but he embraces it, lets it overwhelm him, bathes in the love he craves as the blood runs.
He loves me, he does it because he loves me, like mistletoe loves the tree as it sucks its lifeblood away. Like I love the bodies I dissect, treasure every broken inch of them, from the blue-tinted lips to the still, cold toes.
Thwack.
He stares into the distance, seeing the forests of his childhood, breathing in the rich scent of decaying autumn leaves and moss, feeling the soft wool of Snark beneath his fingers as the lamb stares at him with blind devotion.
Thwack.
The cross on its chain is cold around his neck, feather light but dragging him down with the weight of his sins. He breathes in, closing his eyes and basking in the penance he finds beneath the whip of his Cardmaster.
-
This is different.
There is a different voice whispering venomous barbs as though they are endearments, a voice as soft as a lover’s caress.
You’ll die alone. You’ll die unloved. You, who is named for Cain, who killed his brother. You, who slew your mother.
He knows the hands on the whip, the elegant fingers curved around the handle. Knows them as well as he knows his own, knows the lightly callused palms and the lines that spell out destiny. Is this destiny? He chokes in a breath, gasping for air, as the whip rips into his back and a fist closes around his heart.
Those fingers once tangled in his hair, pulling him into playful kisses or tender embraces, holding him as though he was precious. Cherishing him.
But no. I know those fingers, and they would do me no violence. Those are not your eyes, not your teeth or your lips. I know those lips, and those are not they I have kissed and licked, those are not they I have bitten and loved.
Blue eyes, like summer skies, alight with a smile as his blood drips down to splash on to the stone floor.
-
You do it, Riffael.
The whip sings through the air to split his skin like overripe fruit, blood spilling out like nectar, hot on his bare back.
But why, father? Why don’t you love me, after all I’ve done, why do you cast me aside? Why do you force me to feast on the flesh of my failures? Why am I still living, worse than an insect, crawling over this filthy world, tainting it further, why? Why?
The Tower, harbinger of change, battlements shattered by the storm, stone flying in every direction. The whip cracks like lightning across his bare skin, as his heart pounds in his ears like thunder.
I will make you my prey, Cain, I will dissect you and discover every pulsing secret your body has hidden within it. I will make you suffer, I will baptise you in the blood of your sister and your loved ones, I will break you, break you for breaking me.
He can feel the blood on his skin, and it is as warm and sinful as that of every other tainted human being.
-
He comes awake screaming.
His scars are burning, and for a second he half expects the fingers that go to his back to come away sticky with blood. He can taste the familiar, metallic tang on his tongue and he spits the blood onto the coverlet, unwilling to swallow it.
It stains the white lace red, a crimson patch that reminds him of spills of cherry juice on a white tablecloth.
He remembers the taste of cherries, tart on his tongue, and stolen kisses under summer skies, sweeter than the fruit. Whispered cautions, fumbling touches, the scent of cut grass and fresh earth.
Sir, I can’t…we can’t.
-
He almost screams as he pulls his shirt back on.
He breathes in - every breath a reminder of his sin - his life cut out and patched together from pieces of those he loved, stitched up with black yarn and tears.
Do you imagine Riffael beating you, Cain? Is that your nightmare? I’ll find out. I’ll pluck out your eyes and find out what kisses them with gold, then I’ll tug out your secrets, one by one, until you’re spread out before me, until you’re no longer the sum of your parts, but merely pieces.
His father isn’t even looking at him.
You stole it, Cain, stole it all away from me, so I’ll steal it from you now, carve open your life and watch as it unravels, as my knife nicks your artery and your lifeblood trickles away, slowly, so I can feast on the pallor of your cheeks and taste the salt of your tears.
Riffael is.
I’d like to cut you open as well, slit you down the middle and pull out all your cruelty. I’ll peel away your skin to see whether the Riff Cain cries for is hiding beneath it, crack you open and examine what spills out.
-
Yes we can, Riff. Why shouldn’t we?
He gasps for breath, drenched in a cold sweat, his heart racing and the taste of terror acrid on his tongue. He can remember, remember it all so well.
The scent of fresh scones and blackberry jam, as they cool beside his bed while he indulges in a far less culinary pleasure, feasting his palate on his favourite flavours, Riff’s ragged breathing sweeter than the purest melody in his ears.
Sir, I’ll follow you to hell.
Gentle touches, fingers on his cheek, the brush of hot breath on his throat. Hand on his back, tracing his scars with infinite care, mapping out the pits and crevices as though they are sacred.
No, Riff, you won’t. You’ll lead me to hell. You already have.
He smiles. How maudlin. How blissfully macabre this whole sorry show. When the curtain rises, when the Masque begins, he will act, and he will watch himself perform with the jaded eyes of an embittered cynic.
If you ever betray me, I’ll kill myself.
-
Did you enjoy that, Riffael? Did you imagine that it was Cain sprawled before you, your hands carving new scars onto his ruined back? Did you like it?
-
Are you happy, father, now you’ve taken away the one thing I thought was truly mine?
-
Are you happy, father, watching your prodigy ripping me open as you do?
-
Would you be happy, father, if I kept my vow?
-
Will you kill me, father, or make him do it for you?
-
Cain laughs then, the sound sharp with hysteria, as far away giggles bubble from Jizabel’s lips.
Come now, we both know I’m already dead.