Drabble
Title: A Pair of Random Drabbles
Author:
lesinnocents
Rating: Various
Pairing: Various
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.
Summary: Two drabbles formegyal and myself.
Comfortable Flaws
Formegyal.
Prompt: knives
Rated R
Word count: 564
pxp
Pete’s thighs were parted, revealing a strip of chipping linoleum countertop that he took the liberty of sliding a fingernail beneath and picking at, assisting in its demise to add a few more to the list of ‘comfortable flaws’ that composed Patrick’s not-so-swanky apartment.
“Could you not do that?” Patrick asked, lips drawn tight like they were poised for battle and gaze firmly focused on the uneven rows of tomatoes lined up on the chopping board in front of him beneath the ends of his copper hair. Pete’s eyes rounded out a bit around the edges and he promptly plucked his hand away from the counter, settling it innocently in his lap. “No, not… okay, well, don’t do that either, but I mean. Seriously. Stop.” He nudged Pete’s knee with his hip, never missing a beat in his studious slicing, to try to convince him to halt the discordant swinging of his ankles into the cupboard door that was throwing off the steady rhythm of the blade silently parting the pliable flesh of the fruit before making a hushed thud against the cutting board.
“Oh, right. Sorry,” and as if the apology wouldn’t suffice, Pete offered up one of his award-winning grins in an attempt to make the ordeal seem more sincere. Patrick was about to wonder whether or not Pete was aware of how forced and fabricated his smiles could appear, especially in such wantonly endearing moments, but his thought process was cut off by an ambassador from his nervous system rushing into his brain to deliver the message of pain.
“Fuck,” Patrick hissed in a sharp breath through the spaces between his gritted teeth, retracting his hand hurriedly from the diced tomatoes, the knife clattering to the floor and narrowly missing severing one of Pete’s shoelaces. Hand cradled to his chest, Patrick looked up as Pete dutifully hopped off the counter and took a gentle hold of his wrist, lifting the singer’s pale, limp hand and meeting Patrick’s gaze with some pressing tacit message that didn’t quite wriggle its way into Patrick’s understanding. Pete was still regarding him down the line of his blanched arm as he took the wounded finger into his mouth, inches of shivery skin disappearing behind ripe lips as the tip of a tongue traced the slit of the cut.
“Don’t,” Patrick gasped, jerking away and feeling his fingertip catch on the lower row of Pete’s teeth.
“Why?” Pete half-laughed, making another grab for the fine bones of Patrick’s wrist and betraying a hint of a frown and furrowed brow when the shorter man only backed away from him again, gradually cornering himself against the stove.
‘Because I love you and it hurts.’ “It hurts,” Patrick said, voice soft as if the will to summon breath to speak had bled out of him and was gracelessly mixing with the paler shade of red tomato juice already staining the counter.
“Well, I think the point is to heal you.” The grin was back, twitching to life at the corners of Pete’s mouth as he advanced, almost close enough for their knees to brush.
“You can’t,” Patrick said, quivering almost-against Pete, his own blood seeping through his fingers as he tried to grip his hand hard enough to stop the bleeding, stop whatever part of him he was losing from spilling from himself. “You can’t,” Patrick said, like a dying breath.
Bleed these Veins Dry, Doctor
completely random
Word count: 55
“It hurts,” pouts the Patient with lips fit for rescue shelters cast in chain link fences and cement foundations laid with the intention of enticing bill-flipping pity.
“What does?” Asks the Nurse, smiling because his face has forgotten everything else.
“I don’t know. Nothing.” He dies, blood at the corner of a cerulean mouth.
Everything.
Author:
lesinnocentsRating: Various
Pairing: Various
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.
Summary: Two drabbles for
megyal and myself.Comfortable Flaws
For
megyal. Prompt: knives
Rated R
Word count: 564
pxp
Pete’s thighs were parted, revealing a strip of chipping linoleum countertop that he took the liberty of sliding a fingernail beneath and picking at, assisting in its demise to add a few more to the list of ‘comfortable flaws’ that composed Patrick’s not-so-swanky apartment.
“Could you not do that?” Patrick asked, lips drawn tight like they were poised for battle and gaze firmly focused on the uneven rows of tomatoes lined up on the chopping board in front of him beneath the ends of his copper hair. Pete’s eyes rounded out a bit around the edges and he promptly plucked his hand away from the counter, settling it innocently in his lap. “No, not… okay, well, don’t do that either, but I mean. Seriously. Stop.” He nudged Pete’s knee with his hip, never missing a beat in his studious slicing, to try to convince him to halt the discordant swinging of his ankles into the cupboard door that was throwing off the steady rhythm of the blade silently parting the pliable flesh of the fruit before making a hushed thud against the cutting board.
“Oh, right. Sorry,” and as if the apology wouldn’t suffice, Pete offered up one of his award-winning grins in an attempt to make the ordeal seem more sincere. Patrick was about to wonder whether or not Pete was aware of how forced and fabricated his smiles could appear, especially in such wantonly endearing moments, but his thought process was cut off by an ambassador from his nervous system rushing into his brain to deliver the message of pain.
“Fuck,” Patrick hissed in a sharp breath through the spaces between his gritted teeth, retracting his hand hurriedly from the diced tomatoes, the knife clattering to the floor and narrowly missing severing one of Pete’s shoelaces. Hand cradled to his chest, Patrick looked up as Pete dutifully hopped off the counter and took a gentle hold of his wrist, lifting the singer’s pale, limp hand and meeting Patrick’s gaze with some pressing tacit message that didn’t quite wriggle its way into Patrick’s understanding. Pete was still regarding him down the line of his blanched arm as he took the wounded finger into his mouth, inches of shivery skin disappearing behind ripe lips as the tip of a tongue traced the slit of the cut.
“Don’t,” Patrick gasped, jerking away and feeling his fingertip catch on the lower row of Pete’s teeth.
“Why?” Pete half-laughed, making another grab for the fine bones of Patrick’s wrist and betraying a hint of a frown and furrowed brow when the shorter man only backed away from him again, gradually cornering himself against the stove.
‘Because I love you and it hurts.’ “It hurts,” Patrick said, voice soft as if the will to summon breath to speak had bled out of him and was gracelessly mixing with the paler shade of red tomato juice already staining the counter.
“Well, I think the point is to heal you.” The grin was back, twitching to life at the corners of Pete’s mouth as he advanced, almost close enough for their knees to brush.
“You can’t,” Patrick said, quivering almost-against Pete, his own blood seeping through his fingers as he tried to grip his hand hard enough to stop the bleeding, stop whatever part of him he was losing from spilling from himself. “You can’t,” Patrick said, like a dying breath.
Bleed these Veins Dry, Doctor
completely random
Word count: 55
“It hurts,” pouts the Patient with lips fit for rescue shelters cast in chain link fences and cement foundations laid with the intention of enticing bill-flipping pity.
“What does?” Asks the Nurse, smiling because his face has forgotten everything else.
“I don’t know. Nothing.” He dies, blood at the corner of a cerulean mouth.
Everything.