I'm a good 95% sure I'm going to come back to this one. It feels not done.
Poppet (c) me.
Dalix (c) Selan Pike
OLDSKOOL PAIR!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I simply don't understand.
No matter how many times I've analyzed this situation, I still come up with the same answer: There is none. How did I end up with freedom? Liberty? How did I get off without reprimand for attempted deicide? And above all, how did I end up… Arguably happy?
And how did I end up like this, lying my very flesh in the hands of the world's most untalented tailor? His hands worked quickly and clumsily, trying their best to heal long-past wounds, and failing miserably despite their greatest efforts. "Hold still." Dalix chided me, trying to work his hands about my meat. Right hand gripping into my palm, his left hand moved, the needle in and out of my left middle finger, each time so terribly missing its mark.
"I am holding still, old man." As much as I tried to hide it, a note of irritation hit into my voice as I replied. Usually I could find patience with Dalix, but right at the moment patience was far out of the question. "It's you that's moving."
He looked up, green eyes narrowing, lower lip pouting out. His ruddy brown waves framed a thin face, complimenting pale skin; Dalix was gorgeous and handsome, even when he was being the most aggravating man in the world right now. Every one of his special marks was visible now as he sat topless, only in a pair of tacky green jeans; his fugitive marks, his grey arm, both out in the open, never hidden at all from me.
Stomach sucking in, he shook his head, shuddering at me. "No." This was insisted almost childishly as he held the needle between two gunmetal fingers. "No, you're fidgeting."
My eyes rolled. "Let me do it myself." It was a simple objection, but I knew he'd hear none of it.
"How the hell can you sew a finger back on alone with your WRONG hand?" he argued. Eyes widened, him clearly growing annoyed too as he shook my hand at me. Yes, one of the fingers had come clean off, and he did morbid work for me, trying to put it back on. But the stitches were slipshod, uneven and weak, the apprentice compared to the artisan.
Now I'd had enough; taking the needle back from his hand, I started on it myself without a worry or care. He let go surprisingly easily; I'd almost expected a struggle. "Look, Dalix, when you fall apart on a daily basis, you learn how to sew fast." Gripping the thread between my teeth, I tugged, pulling it taut; with a few more moves, I'd knotted the thread in place and my ring finger reattached.
He stared, voice slightly high, slightly concerned. "Don't it hurt?"
I know that tone. I glanced back, almost glaring at he questioned me. Yes, he was concerned, but it was so grating. That tone. That tone of worry that concerned me as if I were a stray child, it concerned me as if I were someone to be taken care of.
So many words wanted to leave my mouth, but they wouldn't come out, and I could only imagine the look I made; but I bit my tongue, sighing, and said none. "It doesn't hurt." It was all I would say on the matter, for now, unless he pressed me.
"How does it NOT hurt?" Exasperated, he let this out. I sighed. Of course he would. He always did. "How does that NOT hurt, Pandaboy? You're sewing through SKIN, for fuck's sake, with a pointed NEEDLE."
"I'm used to it," I replied, shaking my head as I returned the needle to its place; it didn't sting a bit as it slid under my epidermis, flowing silken smooth under skin much darker than his.
One of his hands jolted forward, grabbing at the wrist; he grappled onto the other, and lifted himself, leaning over me. A growl levitated out of my throat, and eyes narrowed to slits back at him. "OFF of me, you pervert!" I struggled, but he fought back, and today I was in no mood to argue.
"Noo~" He chuckled a bit, fighting back without any attempts to harm.
"OFF!" I pushed back, trying to force him.
Shaking his head, he snuck a quick kiss to my cheek, and I began to melt.
What is it about him that makes me so weak? I'm only ever defenseless around him. My limbs turned to rubber in his grip and he gave a relieved sigh, now lying my arms down, nuzzling into my chest as he laid upon me. Soft lips went to my neck, and the warm breath tickled down as he kissed, praised, worshipped my skin in that way he always did… that way I never tire of.
He sighed, docile against me, listening to my paper doll heart. "It has to hurt." This time, his voice was quiet and concerned, a wringing tone within it that struck rock solid to my spirit. "You can't be a block of ice your whole life, Poppet, it isn't natural and it ain't good. Why are you still so cold, even to me?" Head lifting, soft green eyes gazed into mine; his face was contorted, trying his best to hide the fact that he was upset about this. "Why do you act this way?"
I looked back at him. All my life, nobody had truly cared for me. Nobody had given a damn. But Dalix… Dalix, that god, that man, that… the one who became my all. I was at a loss for words.
"Poppet?" The worry sang clear here, and his hands shook my shoulders. "Poppet, answer me."
I licked my lips, pink tongue wetting them as I chose my words carefully. What a fool I was, and I knew I'd sound it as I became overly sentimental, and stupid with my emotions. "…I don't feel pain anymore, Dalix."
"Oh, you do so," he argued, shaking just barely again. "You do. Deep inside, you know it damages you, and deep inside-"
I interrupted him, kissing against his lips for a quick moment before pulling away, finishing my thought. What stupidity. What emotion. But, what truth.
"I don't feel pain, Dalix, ever since I've loved you."
Poppet (c) me.
Dalix (c) Selan Pike
OLDSKOOL PAIR!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I simply don't understand.
No matter how many times I've analyzed this situation, I still come up with the same answer: There is none. How did I end up with freedom? Liberty? How did I get off without reprimand for attempted deicide? And above all, how did I end up… Arguably happy?
And how did I end up like this, lying my very flesh in the hands of the world's most untalented tailor? His hands worked quickly and clumsily, trying their best to heal long-past wounds, and failing miserably despite their greatest efforts. "Hold still." Dalix chided me, trying to work his hands about my meat. Right hand gripping into my palm, his left hand moved, the needle in and out of my left middle finger, each time so terribly missing its mark.
"I am holding still, old man." As much as I tried to hide it, a note of irritation hit into my voice as I replied. Usually I could find patience with Dalix, but right at the moment patience was far out of the question. "It's you that's moving."
He looked up, green eyes narrowing, lower lip pouting out. His ruddy brown waves framed a thin face, complimenting pale skin; Dalix was gorgeous and handsome, even when he was being the most aggravating man in the world right now. Every one of his special marks was visible now as he sat topless, only in a pair of tacky green jeans; his fugitive marks, his grey arm, both out in the open, never hidden at all from me.
Stomach sucking in, he shook his head, shuddering at me. "No." This was insisted almost childishly as he held the needle between two gunmetal fingers. "No, you're fidgeting."
My eyes rolled. "Let me do it myself." It was a simple objection, but I knew he'd hear none of it.
"How the hell can you sew a finger back on alone with your WRONG hand?" he argued. Eyes widened, him clearly growing annoyed too as he shook my hand at me. Yes, one of the fingers had come clean off, and he did morbid work for me, trying to put it back on. But the stitches were slipshod, uneven and weak, the apprentice compared to the artisan.
Now I'd had enough; taking the needle back from his hand, I started on it myself without a worry or care. He let go surprisingly easily; I'd almost expected a struggle. "Look, Dalix, when you fall apart on a daily basis, you learn how to sew fast." Gripping the thread between my teeth, I tugged, pulling it taut; with a few more moves, I'd knotted the thread in place and my ring finger reattached.
He stared, voice slightly high, slightly concerned. "Don't it hurt?"
I know that tone. I glanced back, almost glaring at he questioned me. Yes, he was concerned, but it was so grating. That tone. That tone of worry that concerned me as if I were a stray child, it concerned me as if I were someone to be taken care of.
So many words wanted to leave my mouth, but they wouldn't come out, and I could only imagine the look I made; but I bit my tongue, sighing, and said none. "It doesn't hurt." It was all I would say on the matter, for now, unless he pressed me.
"How does it NOT hurt?" Exasperated, he let this out. I sighed. Of course he would. He always did. "How does that NOT hurt, Pandaboy? You're sewing through SKIN, for fuck's sake, with a pointed NEEDLE."
"I'm used to it," I replied, shaking my head as I returned the needle to its place; it didn't sting a bit as it slid under my epidermis, flowing silken smooth under skin much darker than his.
One of his hands jolted forward, grabbing at the wrist; he grappled onto the other, and lifted himself, leaning over me. A growl levitated out of my throat, and eyes narrowed to slits back at him. "OFF of me, you pervert!" I struggled, but he fought back, and today I was in no mood to argue.
"Noo~" He chuckled a bit, fighting back without any attempts to harm.
"OFF!" I pushed back, trying to force him.
Shaking his head, he snuck a quick kiss to my cheek, and I began to melt.
What is it about him that makes me so weak? I'm only ever defenseless around him. My limbs turned to rubber in his grip and he gave a relieved sigh, now lying my arms down, nuzzling into my chest as he laid upon me. Soft lips went to my neck, and the warm breath tickled down as he kissed, praised, worshipped my skin in that way he always did… that way I never tire of.
He sighed, docile against me, listening to my paper doll heart. "It has to hurt." This time, his voice was quiet and concerned, a wringing tone within it that struck rock solid to my spirit. "You can't be a block of ice your whole life, Poppet, it isn't natural and it ain't good. Why are you still so cold, even to me?" Head lifting, soft green eyes gazed into mine; his face was contorted, trying his best to hide the fact that he was upset about this. "Why do you act this way?"
I looked back at him. All my life, nobody had truly cared for me. Nobody had given a damn. But Dalix… Dalix, that god, that man, that… the one who became my all. I was at a loss for words.
"Poppet?" The worry sang clear here, and his hands shook my shoulders. "Poppet, answer me."
I licked my lips, pink tongue wetting them as I chose my words carefully. What a fool I was, and I knew I'd sound it as I became overly sentimental, and stupid with my emotions. "…I don't feel pain anymore, Dalix."
"Oh, you do so," he argued, shaking just barely again. "You do. Deep inside, you know it damages you, and deep inside-"
I interrupted him, kissing against his lips for a quick moment before pulling away, finishing my thought. What stupidity. What emotion. But, what truth.
"I don't feel pain, Dalix, ever since I've loved you."
