kimaracretak (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fiachairecht) wrote2021-04-07 01:41 pm
fiachairecht) wrote2021-04-07 01:41 pm
Entry tags:
3x fics
Apparently the theme for this year's writing so far is largely 'short sexy horror'? I really need to get back into crossposting fics, so, have some various things I have written for fests and exchanges. All less than 1k words.
Title: the glass of my intentions
Fandom: Marianne (TV)
Characters/Ships: Emma/Marianne, Camille
Rating/Warnings: E, blood, dream sex, knifeplay, woundfucking
Summary: The road away from Elden is still fraught.
Notes: Forechoslam in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kinkluckydip
Camille drives fast - too fast, the thought sometimes flickers against the edge of Emma's awareness, breaking past the smirr of sea and rain against the window and rising up above the hiss and snap of static from the radio. She clings on to it whenever it surfaces, but it never lingers long. Breaks up under Marianne's face among the trees.
She's meant to be sleeping, might even have been, but it's hard to tell. Outside is all blacks and greys and greens, and inside, too, Camille's profile washed out by the storm. Hardly still a part of the world, not like Marianne was. Marianne is in every twist of leaves, every breath of wind, every half-caught glimpse.
"Oh, there's a good thought." Marianne's voice in her ear, breath hot even though by rights the window should be cold. "Write it down, Emma, you owe me an entrance."
"I don't owe you anything," Emma mutters. Glances around the headrest at Camille clinging white-knuckled to the steering wheel, and, when she doesn't react, shifts her legs far enough open that she can feel Marianne settle between them, light as smoke. She can't see her, but she doesn't need to.
Never has.
Up front, Camille's still driving, like she hasn't noticed a thing.
Wouldn't notice.
"She's not here," Marianne says. Read Emma's mind again, if she ever needed to put that much effort in. Is it reading, if you're both just thoughts? "She can't stop this."
Emma leans back against the door, stretches one leg out along the length of the back seat. Marianne drifts with her, settles over her like a blanket - all her warmth prickling along Emma's skin through her t-shirt and jeans. Maybe it was the radiator - its turn to act up.
She knows better. "You're dead." It makes sense in the dreamscape that might not be a dream, as much sense as it ever could.
Marianne sinks further down, skin against not-skin. Marianne's curls brush against Emma's cheek and she's suffocating, suddenly, under the scent of the sea air - of the woodsmoke from the city down the strand. "So much more than," Marianne says, and the backs of her fingers are curling so warm against Emma's cheek that they blend seamlessly into her kiss, and her tongue is prising Emma's lips open so warm and insistent as it traces over the inside Emma's mouth, that Emma doesn't see the knife until her skin opens beneath it.
She doesn't feel the tear of skin and tissue at the cut, just the blood soaking down her chest. Doesn't see the knife, just the light glinting silver and white against Marianne's mouth as she slides her path of not-quite-kisses down Emma's neck. "I came from here," she murmurs, when her lips meet the gash she's drawn. "Don't put me back, Emma, I know it wasn't your fault."
Blood is rising in the back of her throat, sharp and sweet and it crosses Emma's mind that this would have been fatal. If Marianne had really had a knife. If her body had really split in two between her clavicle and the tops of her breasts.
Might have been, might still be. The world is all fuzzy, crimson-grey on her chest just like the mist outside, but Marianne is starting to take shape in the dim. A finger, pulling down the edges of the wound so that blood waterfalls down with each beat of Emma's heart. The heart shaped bow of lips, pink with an innocent life.
Two, three, four more fingers, smooth and slim, sinking inside the cut one after another until Emma is so full up with them she can't even scream.
A knee, firm and real between Emma's legs, pressing the seam of her jeans against her pussy so tightly she can feel her heartbeat there too, each throb pressing her closer and closer into Marianne's body.
The blade that might just be Marianne's fingers, drifting lazy across her gooseflesh-pebbled arms and the soft strip of her belly where her shirt's riding up. It's everywhere and nowhere and leaves a burning trail of blood in its wake, the cuts shallower than the first but no less real.
"You can't stay here," Emma says, or perhaps she just means to - there's so few words inside her now. Her breathing is slowing, every inhale against Marianne's lips harder than the last. She rocks against Marianne's thigh instead, feels heat rising, spiraling through her body to meet Marianne's fingers as they delve further inside.
No words. No blood. Marianne, yes, and pleasure, yes - she wants to replace me, the thought drifts by, but Marianne snatches it away, discards it. Her fingers curl inside Emma's chest, the tips pressing against the thinning walls of skin and muscle until they meet Marianne's thumb where it rubs the steady gush of blood back into Emma's skin.
Putting her back together. Making room for -
"Stop thinking," she says, fingers back inside Emma's chest now. In and out, in and out, out of step with the car rocking back against them but just the same as the pulse between her legs.
Marianne is whole when her lips meet Emma's. Firm and solid under the black lace trapped between Emma's thighs when she comes.
Emma opens her eyes to the rain pounding against the car loud enough to set her insides rattling. Her chest is bare, clean under the cotton of her shirt. Her knickers are soaked, aftershocks of her orgasm still trembling through her.
Camille is still staring straight ahead as if she could see anything through the rivers on the windshield, foot flat and heavy on the gas. "Nightmares?" She asks, and Emma is suddenly, entirely certain that she doesn't care about the answer.
Emma swallows hard. Her throat is dry, the only reason she knows that she really - that Marianne really -
"No."
It isn't, really, a lie.
Title: two for joy
Fandom: Changeling: The Lost
Characters/Ships: Ambrosia/Original Female Fairest
Rating/Warnings: M, eye horror, guro
Summary: Ambrosia prepares her latest servant.
Notes: For the prompt 'Any/Ambrosia, guro' at Sapphic Spring
Ambrosia takes the eyes out herself. Other aspects of capture she's willing to hand off by now, but not this.
Nerves split easily under her nails as she dips her thumbs inside the nude woman on the ice. They trail behind the gleaming blue irises as she places them carefully on the cloth laid out between them, and as Ambrosia picks up the pale sapphires instead, the Fairest's head turns, chasing the memory of sight.
"Don't cry," Ambrosia whispers, and can't help but laugh at her own words as she kisses each gemstone, and then, softer, each empty eye socket. Her tongue dips inside, quicker than quick, and still comes away with the hint of blood as the woman's neck cranes upward, lips parted in hopes of one true kiss.
This Ambrosia grants: hunger matched with hunger as her fingers press the new eyes home.
"Tell me who you will bring me, Fairest," Ambrosia murmurs against the woman's freezing lips.
"One of the Lights That Stride, my lady," she replies. Her voice is a whisper, now - half-choked away under Ambrosia's small hands. But there's a conviction underlying her words, one that makes Ambrosia wish - hope -
Perhaps this one will succeed.
Title: to me
Fandom: Hannibal (TV)
Characters/Ships: Bedelia/Chiyoh
Rating/Warnings: M, gunplay
Summary: She would still fire true.
Notes: For the prompt 'Any/Chiyoh, take aim' at Sapphic Spring
Everyone looks small at the end of a rifle's barrel. The world falls away, narrows down in her sights, until -
Not so with a pistol.
It's the pistol that is small in Chiyoh's hand, smaller still as Bedelia's head tips forward and takes the muzzle in her mouth: delicate.
Chiyoh's finger passes over the trigger, light. She would still fire true, crosshairs or no.
Bedelia leans back with a sigh, hair feathering out over Chiyoh's bare legs. "Is this what you wanted?"
The gun drifts lower, and Chiyoh's hand with it, metal warming against Bedelia's body. "It is a start."
Title: the glass of my intentions
Fandom: Marianne (TV)
Characters/Ships: Emma/Marianne, Camille
Rating/Warnings: E, blood, dream sex, knifeplay, woundfucking
Summary: The road away from Elden is still fraught.
Notes: For
echoslam in kinkluckydipCamille drives fast - too fast, the thought sometimes flickers against the edge of Emma's awareness, breaking past the smirr of sea and rain against the window and rising up above the hiss and snap of static from the radio. She clings on to it whenever it surfaces, but it never lingers long. Breaks up under Marianne's face among the trees.
She's meant to be sleeping, might even have been, but it's hard to tell. Outside is all blacks and greys and greens, and inside, too, Camille's profile washed out by the storm. Hardly still a part of the world, not like Marianne was. Marianne is in every twist of leaves, every breath of wind, every half-caught glimpse.
"Oh, there's a good thought." Marianne's voice in her ear, breath hot even though by rights the window should be cold. "Write it down, Emma, you owe me an entrance."
"I don't owe you anything," Emma mutters. Glances around the headrest at Camille clinging white-knuckled to the steering wheel, and, when she doesn't react, shifts her legs far enough open that she can feel Marianne settle between them, light as smoke. She can't see her, but she doesn't need to.
Never has.
Up front, Camille's still driving, like she hasn't noticed a thing.
Wouldn't notice.
"She's not here," Marianne says. Read Emma's mind again, if she ever needed to put that much effort in. Is it reading, if you're both just thoughts? "She can't stop this."
Emma leans back against the door, stretches one leg out along the length of the back seat. Marianne drifts with her, settles over her like a blanket - all her warmth prickling along Emma's skin through her t-shirt and jeans. Maybe it was the radiator - its turn to act up.
She knows better. "You're dead." It makes sense in the dreamscape that might not be a dream, as much sense as it ever could.
Marianne sinks further down, skin against not-skin. Marianne's curls brush against Emma's cheek and she's suffocating, suddenly, under the scent of the sea air - of the woodsmoke from the city down the strand. "So much more than," Marianne says, and the backs of her fingers are curling so warm against Emma's cheek that they blend seamlessly into her kiss, and her tongue is prising Emma's lips open so warm and insistent as it traces over the inside Emma's mouth, that Emma doesn't see the knife until her skin opens beneath it.
She doesn't feel the tear of skin and tissue at the cut, just the blood soaking down her chest. Doesn't see the knife, just the light glinting silver and white against Marianne's mouth as she slides her path of not-quite-kisses down Emma's neck. "I came from here," she murmurs, when her lips meet the gash she's drawn. "Don't put me back, Emma, I know it wasn't your fault."
Blood is rising in the back of her throat, sharp and sweet and it crosses Emma's mind that this would have been fatal. If Marianne had really had a knife. If her body had really split in two between her clavicle and the tops of her breasts.
Might have been, might still be. The world is all fuzzy, crimson-grey on her chest just like the mist outside, but Marianne is starting to take shape in the dim. A finger, pulling down the edges of the wound so that blood waterfalls down with each beat of Emma's heart. The heart shaped bow of lips, pink with an innocent life.
Two, three, four more fingers, smooth and slim, sinking inside the cut one after another until Emma is so full up with them she can't even scream.
A knee, firm and real between Emma's legs, pressing the seam of her jeans against her pussy so tightly she can feel her heartbeat there too, each throb pressing her closer and closer into Marianne's body.
The blade that might just be Marianne's fingers, drifting lazy across her gooseflesh-pebbled arms and the soft strip of her belly where her shirt's riding up. It's everywhere and nowhere and leaves a burning trail of blood in its wake, the cuts shallower than the first but no less real.
"You can't stay here," Emma says, or perhaps she just means to - there's so few words inside her now. Her breathing is slowing, every inhale against Marianne's lips harder than the last. She rocks against Marianne's thigh instead, feels heat rising, spiraling through her body to meet Marianne's fingers as they delve further inside.
No words. No blood. Marianne, yes, and pleasure, yes - she wants to replace me, the thought drifts by, but Marianne snatches it away, discards it. Her fingers curl inside Emma's chest, the tips pressing against the thinning walls of skin and muscle until they meet Marianne's thumb where it rubs the steady gush of blood back into Emma's skin.
Putting her back together. Making room for -
"Stop thinking," she says, fingers back inside Emma's chest now. In and out, in and out, out of step with the car rocking back against them but just the same as the pulse between her legs.
Marianne is whole when her lips meet Emma's. Firm and solid under the black lace trapped between Emma's thighs when she comes.
Emma opens her eyes to the rain pounding against the car loud enough to set her insides rattling. Her chest is bare, clean under the cotton of her shirt. Her knickers are soaked, aftershocks of her orgasm still trembling through her.
Camille is still staring straight ahead as if she could see anything through the rivers on the windshield, foot flat and heavy on the gas. "Nightmares?" She asks, and Emma is suddenly, entirely certain that she doesn't care about the answer.
Emma swallows hard. Her throat is dry, the only reason she knows that she really - that Marianne really -
"No."
It isn't, really, a lie.
Title: two for joy
Fandom: Changeling: The Lost
Characters/Ships: Ambrosia/Original Female Fairest
Rating/Warnings: M, eye horror, guro
Summary: Ambrosia prepares her latest servant.
Notes: For the prompt 'Any/Ambrosia, guro' at Sapphic Spring
Ambrosia takes the eyes out herself. Other aspects of capture she's willing to hand off by now, but not this.
Nerves split easily under her nails as she dips her thumbs inside the nude woman on the ice. They trail behind the gleaming blue irises as she places them carefully on the cloth laid out between them, and as Ambrosia picks up the pale sapphires instead, the Fairest's head turns, chasing the memory of sight.
"Don't cry," Ambrosia whispers, and can't help but laugh at her own words as she kisses each gemstone, and then, softer, each empty eye socket. Her tongue dips inside, quicker than quick, and still comes away with the hint of blood as the woman's neck cranes upward, lips parted in hopes of one true kiss.
This Ambrosia grants: hunger matched with hunger as her fingers press the new eyes home.
"Tell me who you will bring me, Fairest," Ambrosia murmurs against the woman's freezing lips.
"One of the Lights That Stride, my lady," she replies. Her voice is a whisper, now - half-choked away under Ambrosia's small hands. But there's a conviction underlying her words, one that makes Ambrosia wish - hope -
Perhaps this one will succeed.
Title: to me
Fandom: Hannibal (TV)
Characters/Ships: Bedelia/Chiyoh
Rating/Warnings: M, gunplay
Summary: She would still fire true.
Notes: For the prompt 'Any/Chiyoh, take aim' at Sapphic Spring
Everyone looks small at the end of a rifle's barrel. The world falls away, narrows down in her sights, until -
Not so with a pistol.
It's the pistol that is small in Chiyoh's hand, smaller still as Bedelia's head tips forward and takes the muzzle in her mouth: delicate.
Chiyoh's finger passes over the trigger, light. She would still fire true, crosshairs or no.
Bedelia leans back with a sigh, hair feathering out over Chiyoh's bare legs. "Is this what you wanted?"
The gun drifts lower, and Chiyoh's hand with it, metal warming against Bedelia's body. "It is a start."