"Desecration"
Title: Desecration
Rating: R
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Eric/Talbot, though really, it's open to interpretation
A/N: My interpretation of Season 3 spoilers; intermittent lyrics are from various Florence The Machine songs and "O Death" by Jen Titus.
Sinful doesn’t begin to describe the motion of the boy’s hips, the sway of lithe limbs, ever languid, impossibly graceful. Red lips that pout even as they twist into a smirk, and he wants to touch, to taste, though if that’s the scarlet of the boy’s mouth or the mere imaginings of crimson dripping from his teeth, he can’t distinguish. But he wants, and what he wants, he takes.
And I never wanted anything from you, except everything you had and what was left after that, too.
His hand lifts with the slightest crook of his fingers, expression motionless as he watches the quirk of the dancing boy’s brow, dark, sculpted. He is just a boy- hundreds of years old, perhaps, but a boy nonetheless. A boy held too close, protected too carefully, his pouting lips and swaying hips as much a display of defiance as seduction. For either purpose, though, he clearly knows what he’s doing; his feet shift toward the man without hesitation, gaze predatory, but even the most determined of efforts isn’t enough to mask the submission, the hint of fear that lurks behind his eyes.
The man is glad to see that he knows his place.
When God is gone and the Devil takes hold, who will have mercy on your soul?
The boy’s hands- long fingers, bone-white skin- never leave his body, even as he pauses before the man’s seated figure. His eyes are hooded with desire, the corner of his mouth turned up in the ghost of a smirk, the fluid motion of his body wickedly subtle as it teases, too far away to touch. Feeling uncharacteristically generous, the man allows him his fun- but his patience leaves something to be desired. It’s only moments before he’s on his feet, towering over the boy, and he knows he must be too close for comfort but the boy never stops moving, doesn’t falter for a second as he reaches out to trail his fingers down the man’s chest. Despite his confident façade, though, he can’t control his flinch as the man catches his hand in his own, voice low, dangerous as he murmurs, “Keep your hands to yourself.”
Obliging, the boy can’t seem to meet the man’s eyes even as he moves impossibly closer, their bodies flush together, chests rising and falling in unison. It’s a nasty habit, breathing, one that none of them quite seem able to break, though the man finds himself wishing that he could rid himself of this last shred of his past humanity, mortality, weakness. His frustration washes over him in a jealous wave, making his limbs shake as he grabs the boy’s hair and tugs his head back until their eyes meet.
I want to find you and tear out all of your tenderness.
No semblance of courage, of defiance exists in the boy’s gaze now. The sea-green of his irises does nothing to disguise his terror as the man looms over him, teeth bared in a feral grin. This is what he wants. The fear, the power it gives him: it’s everything he needs. The boy’s submission fuels his lust, charges his desire, and he finds his fangs aching for the blood that courses through the boy’s veins, even though he knows it isn’t his own. So he takes whatever else the boy has to give.
Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart.
When their lips meet it’s anything but careful, controlled. The boy’s rebellion, the man’s dominance come to a head at the clash of fangs, a rivulet of blood trickling down the boy’s chin. His arms wind around the man’s neck, tugging him closer as though he doesn’t even notice the pain- and perhaps he doesn’t. The man thinks of the order he’d given the boy moments earlier, but thinks twice about punishing him for his disobedience; as his tongue laps away the blood, he decides that some rules are, indeed, made to be broken.
My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out.
Seconds later, the man is seated again, the boy straddling his lap and licking into his mouth, eager for a taste of his own blood on the man’s lips. His desperation is almost endearing but bordering on pathetic, and the man has to hold him at arm’s distance to capture his gaze.
Ice blue eyes fall from darkened green irises to abused lips, smeared with blood but intact, already healed, and that, that simply won’t do. The man wants to make this boy ache, to call out for him in his desire, to claim him as his own. It’s a matter of possession, of claiming what should belong to him- because, truthfully, what shouldn’t?
No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold, nothing satisfies me but your soul.
The man tells the boy everything in absolute silence, their eyes locked upon one another- what he’s going to do to him, what he expects in return. There’s no hint of a question in his gaze, and as the boy’s lips part, eyes widen, the man knows he understands. He rewards him with a roll of his hips, holding back a smirk at the way the boy falls apart around him, twisting, panting. “Oh, god…”
“No.” The man laughs, a quiet, haunting sound as he leans forward to extend his fangs against the skin of the boy’s neck, so pale, so fragile…and his for the taking. “Just me.”
My name is Death and the end is here.
Rating: R
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Eric/Talbot, though really, it's open to interpretation
A/N: My interpretation of Season 3 spoilers; intermittent lyrics are from various Florence The Machine songs and "O Death" by Jen Titus.
Sinful doesn’t begin to describe the motion of the boy’s hips, the sway of lithe limbs, ever languid, impossibly graceful. Red lips that pout even as they twist into a smirk, and he wants to touch, to taste, though if that’s the scarlet of the boy’s mouth or the mere imaginings of crimson dripping from his teeth, he can’t distinguish. But he wants, and what he wants, he takes.
And I never wanted anything from you, except everything you had and what was left after that, too.
His hand lifts with the slightest crook of his fingers, expression motionless as he watches the quirk of the dancing boy’s brow, dark, sculpted. He is just a boy- hundreds of years old, perhaps, but a boy nonetheless. A boy held too close, protected too carefully, his pouting lips and swaying hips as much a display of defiance as seduction. For either purpose, though, he clearly knows what he’s doing; his feet shift toward the man without hesitation, gaze predatory, but even the most determined of efforts isn’t enough to mask the submission, the hint of fear that lurks behind his eyes.
The man is glad to see that he knows his place.
When God is gone and the Devil takes hold, who will have mercy on your soul?
The boy’s hands- long fingers, bone-white skin- never leave his body, even as he pauses before the man’s seated figure. His eyes are hooded with desire, the corner of his mouth turned up in the ghost of a smirk, the fluid motion of his body wickedly subtle as it teases, too far away to touch. Feeling uncharacteristically generous, the man allows him his fun- but his patience leaves something to be desired. It’s only moments before he’s on his feet, towering over the boy, and he knows he must be too close for comfort but the boy never stops moving, doesn’t falter for a second as he reaches out to trail his fingers down the man’s chest. Despite his confident façade, though, he can’t control his flinch as the man catches his hand in his own, voice low, dangerous as he murmurs, “Keep your hands to yourself.”
Obliging, the boy can’t seem to meet the man’s eyes even as he moves impossibly closer, their bodies flush together, chests rising and falling in unison. It’s a nasty habit, breathing, one that none of them quite seem able to break, though the man finds himself wishing that he could rid himself of this last shred of his past humanity, mortality, weakness. His frustration washes over him in a jealous wave, making his limbs shake as he grabs the boy’s hair and tugs his head back until their eyes meet.
I want to find you and tear out all of your tenderness.
No semblance of courage, of defiance exists in the boy’s gaze now. The sea-green of his irises does nothing to disguise his terror as the man looms over him, teeth bared in a feral grin. This is what he wants. The fear, the power it gives him: it’s everything he needs. The boy’s submission fuels his lust, charges his desire, and he finds his fangs aching for the blood that courses through the boy’s veins, even though he knows it isn’t his own. So he takes whatever else the boy has to give.
Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart.
When their lips meet it’s anything but careful, controlled. The boy’s rebellion, the man’s dominance come to a head at the clash of fangs, a rivulet of blood trickling down the boy’s chin. His arms wind around the man’s neck, tugging him closer as though he doesn’t even notice the pain- and perhaps he doesn’t. The man thinks of the order he’d given the boy moments earlier, but thinks twice about punishing him for his disobedience; as his tongue laps away the blood, he decides that some rules are, indeed, made to be broken.
My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out.
Seconds later, the man is seated again, the boy straddling his lap and licking into his mouth, eager for a taste of his own blood on the man’s lips. His desperation is almost endearing but bordering on pathetic, and the man has to hold him at arm’s distance to capture his gaze.
Ice blue eyes fall from darkened green irises to abused lips, smeared with blood but intact, already healed, and that, that simply won’t do. The man wants to make this boy ache, to call out for him in his desire, to claim him as his own. It’s a matter of possession, of claiming what should belong to him- because, truthfully, what shouldn’t?
No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold, nothing satisfies me but your soul.
The man tells the boy everything in absolute silence, their eyes locked upon one another- what he’s going to do to him, what he expects in return. There’s no hint of a question in his gaze, and as the boy’s lips part, eyes widen, the man knows he understands. He rewards him with a roll of his hips, holding back a smirk at the way the boy falls apart around him, twisting, panting. “Oh, god…”
“No.” The man laughs, a quiet, haunting sound as he leans forward to extend his fangs against the skin of the boy’s neck, so pale, so fragile…and his for the taking. “Just me.”
My name is Death and the end is here.