Talk [Yami no Matsuei, Muraki x Oriya, R]
Jun. 9th, 2009 08:16 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kinkfestTitle: Talk
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roseargent
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, crazy, implied rough sex and dubcon.
Prompt: Yami no Matsuei, Muraki/Oriya: Communication - "You can't talk to a psycho like a normal human being."
Word count: 578
A/N: I used the whole song ("Trigger Happy Jack (Drive-By a Go-Go)," by Poe) as inspiration, not just the line quoted in the prompt. And, err, kinda nervous about this because this is my first non-RP-related fic(let) in about, oh, four years. *cough*
The room was silent except for the sick cracking and popping of Oriya's shoulder as Muraki forced the bone back into its socket. Muraki's hands were gentle and sure, his face showed no expression save intense concentration and faint concern. None of it was real, of course, but Muraki slipped so easily into the role of the Good Doctor that even Oriya had to marvel at it sometimes.
Muraki didn't apologise for being the one to dislocate Oriya's shoulder in the first place, and Oriya was glad for that; he neither needed nor wanted Muraki's reassuring lies. Polite fictions had their purpose between them, but on nights like this they would be more insult than kindness. Oriya didn't say anything, either, as Muraki expertly tucked his arm into a sling. Instead, Oriya focused his attention on keeping his breathing even, on staying calm and still and utterly uninteresting. Muraki thrived on reactions, on pain and on anger, sometimes even with Oriya. For the moment, Oriya was determined to deny his friend the pleasure of seeing him squirm. Pride had its purpose between them, too.
Oriya turned his head, looking away from Muraki's disturbingly serene face. A bloodstain on the floor caught his eye and, without intending to, Oriya sighed, "I'm going to have to replace the tatami again."
The cool, white hands stilled against Oriya's shoulder, and in an instant the silence became brittle and dangerous. Most nights, Oriya could say anything to his old friend, could complain and argue and nag as he wished, and he would get only amusement or indifference in return. And some nights, when the demons were loud in Muraki's ears and he needed the suffering of others like a drug, even Oriya was forced to remember that he was dealing with a psychopath. Even Oriya had to measure his every word and gesture. But he'd forgotten, for just a heartbeat's worth of time, and his simple, idle comment had tripped some wire in Muraki. Too close to censure, maybe. Too much like a complaint over having been made to bleed on his own floor.
Smiling now, baring no teeth but still somehow making the expression a threat, Muraki murmured, "You really shouldn't move that arm for a while."
Oriya thought about saying "no," just for a moment. He was tired, he was hurting, and he'd indulged Muraki's needs already tonight. But there was no point--there was just no talking to Muraki when he was like this, no chance of even an old friend's voice being heard through the hammering in Muraki's head. And so Oriya swallowed his refusal and closed his eyes as the suffocating pressure of Muraki's magic settled over him like a shroud.
Frozen, unable to even grit his teeth in anger and frustration, Oriya could only lie there and allow Muraki to manipulate and position his body like Oriya was one of his damned dolls. In that moment, Oriya hated Muraki. But, more than that, he hated himself, hated the way his helpless body stirred and responded even to this most humiliating of stimulation, hated the way his breath quickened and his heart pounded.
If he could have, Oriya would have laughed. Sometimes, there was just no talking to Muraki. But there was never any point to trying to talk some sense into him, either, was there? He'd made his choices long ago, knowing full well the inevitable cost of being just crazy enough to love a psychopath.
Author/Artist:
roseargentRating: R
Warnings: Violence, crazy, implied rough sex and dubcon.
Prompt: Yami no Matsuei, Muraki/Oriya: Communication - "You can't talk to a psycho like a normal human being."
Word count: 578
A/N: I used the whole song ("Trigger Happy Jack (Drive-By a Go-Go)," by Poe) as inspiration, not just the line quoted in the prompt. And, err, kinda nervous about this because this is my first non-RP-related fic(let) in about, oh, four years. *cough*
The room was silent except for the sick cracking and popping of Oriya's shoulder as Muraki forced the bone back into its socket. Muraki's hands were gentle and sure, his face showed no expression save intense concentration and faint concern. None of it was real, of course, but Muraki slipped so easily into the role of the Good Doctor that even Oriya had to marvel at it sometimes.
Muraki didn't apologise for being the one to dislocate Oriya's shoulder in the first place, and Oriya was glad for that; he neither needed nor wanted Muraki's reassuring lies. Polite fictions had their purpose between them, but on nights like this they would be more insult than kindness. Oriya didn't say anything, either, as Muraki expertly tucked his arm into a sling. Instead, Oriya focused his attention on keeping his breathing even, on staying calm and still and utterly uninteresting. Muraki thrived on reactions, on pain and on anger, sometimes even with Oriya. For the moment, Oriya was determined to deny his friend the pleasure of seeing him squirm. Pride had its purpose between them, too.
Oriya turned his head, looking away from Muraki's disturbingly serene face. A bloodstain on the floor caught his eye and, without intending to, Oriya sighed, "I'm going to have to replace the tatami again."
The cool, white hands stilled against Oriya's shoulder, and in an instant the silence became brittle and dangerous. Most nights, Oriya could say anything to his old friend, could complain and argue and nag as he wished, and he would get only amusement or indifference in return. And some nights, when the demons were loud in Muraki's ears and he needed the suffering of others like a drug, even Oriya was forced to remember that he was dealing with a psychopath. Even Oriya had to measure his every word and gesture. But he'd forgotten, for just a heartbeat's worth of time, and his simple, idle comment had tripped some wire in Muraki. Too close to censure, maybe. Too much like a complaint over having been made to bleed on his own floor.
Smiling now, baring no teeth but still somehow making the expression a threat, Muraki murmured, "You really shouldn't move that arm for a while."
Oriya thought about saying "no," just for a moment. He was tired, he was hurting, and he'd indulged Muraki's needs already tonight. But there was no point--there was just no talking to Muraki when he was like this, no chance of even an old friend's voice being heard through the hammering in Muraki's head. And so Oriya swallowed his refusal and closed his eyes as the suffocating pressure of Muraki's magic settled over him like a shroud.
Frozen, unable to even grit his teeth in anger and frustration, Oriya could only lie there and allow Muraki to manipulate and position his body like Oriya was one of his damned dolls. In that moment, Oriya hated Muraki. But, more than that, he hated himself, hated the way his helpless body stirred and responded even to this most humiliating of stimulation, hated the way his breath quickened and his heart pounded.
If he could have, Oriya would have laughed. Sometimes, there was just no talking to Muraki. But there was never any point to trying to talk some sense into him, either, was there? He'd made his choices long ago, knowing full well the inevitable cost of being just crazy enough to love a psychopath.
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