Undrwo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
knights_say_nih) wrote2006-04-20 11:22 pm
knights_say_nih) wrote2006-04-20 11:22 pm
Fic: Tearing
Dworkin and Satan
R for violence/disturbing/Dworkin the fucking psychopath.
This is never going to happen. Ever. Because I have a soft spot for poor Stan and don't want him to go away. But it needed to be ficced to get Dworkin's headvoice to stop being crazy-loud.
“What are you then?”
Satan looks up.
Dworkin looks down, a stern frown half-hidden behind his beard.
“Pardon?”
The hunchback, it seems, isn’t overly pleased with the polite dodge of the question and settles into the seat opposite the Devil with very little ado, still peering at him in amusement. Such a pretty creature. Simplicity. Layers.
“You. What are you?”
Eyes flash in anger behind sunglasses, because what right does this man…
…except…
Please oh please stop and there’s Logrus and Shadow and places that shouldn’t be seen and parts of him that shouldn’t be touched. Blood wells in the back of his throat and it isn’t the kind of pain that feels sweet it’s only a raw, brutal tearing deeper through layers and skins and ash.
So much ash. He can taste it welling with the blood and faintly maybe once had the thought that he didn’t even hurt this one.
You’re not naive enough to think that matters?
No one has ever called Satan naive before but no one has ever smiled at him quite so tenderly either, not with their talons ( what? ) wrapped round his very being and sinking into him peeling back defense after defense.
“Hush little boy” the man croons as Satan bleeds. “Hush, let me see. Artful little Shadow Thing. I won’t go too far.”
You will. You have. He thrashes, in anger, because that’s what this part of him does when it’s threatened and gets a cruel slap of Logrus-magic to keep him still.
Be. Still.
Then peeled away, like the skin of an onion pushed back and Dworkin strokes affectionately at the cringing angel-thing he can see and the Pattern whirling in a kind of tumult because time is a thing that should not be turned back.
“Yes Dworkin.”
“Thank you, angel. Now. You’re from where?”
They lie on the grass, surrounded in blood and ash and a few white feathers and speak softly about life and death and Chaos and Order and Good and Evil and time passes around them though neither notices.
When a natural silence falls, Dworkin leans back and lets the net of Darkness form again around the memory he’d held.
Satan knows better then to lash out at the man when he is himself again. Instead, he bows and disappears to the sound of wheezing laughter, trying to think of the best way to never see him again.
It’s to no avail, he knows. The old man will be back.
For the first time in a long while, he knows fear.
R for violence/disturbing/Dworkin the fucking psychopath.
This is never going to happen. Ever. Because I have a soft spot for poor Stan and don't want him to go away. But it needed to be ficced to get Dworkin's headvoice to stop being crazy-loud.
“What are you then?”
Satan looks up.
Dworkin looks down, a stern frown half-hidden behind his beard.
“Pardon?”
The hunchback, it seems, isn’t overly pleased with the polite dodge of the question and settles into the seat opposite the Devil with very little ado, still peering at him in amusement. Such a pretty creature. Simplicity. Layers.
“You. What are you?”
Eyes flash in anger behind sunglasses, because what right does this man…
…except…
Please oh please stop and there’s Logrus and Shadow and places that shouldn’t be seen and parts of him that shouldn’t be touched. Blood wells in the back of his throat and it isn’t the kind of pain that feels sweet it’s only a raw, brutal tearing deeper through layers and skins and ash.
So much ash. He can taste it welling with the blood and faintly maybe once had the thought that he didn’t even hurt this one.
You’re not naive enough to think that matters?
No one has ever called Satan naive before but no one has ever smiled at him quite so tenderly either, not with their talons ( what? ) wrapped round his very being and sinking into him peeling back defense after defense.
“Hush little boy” the man croons as Satan bleeds. “Hush, let me see. Artful little Shadow Thing. I won’t go too far.”
You will. You have. He thrashes, in anger, because that’s what this part of him does when it’s threatened and gets a cruel slap of Logrus-magic to keep him still.
Be. Still.
Then peeled away, like the skin of an onion pushed back and Dworkin strokes affectionately at the cringing angel-thing he can see and the Pattern whirling in a kind of tumult because time is a thing that should not be turned back.
“Yes Dworkin.”
“Thank you, angel. Now. You’re from where?”
They lie on the grass, surrounded in blood and ash and a few white feathers and speak softly about life and death and Chaos and Order and Good and Evil and time passes around them though neither notices.
When a natural silence falls, Dworkin leans back and lets the net of Darkness form again around the memory he’d held.
Satan knows better then to lash out at the man when he is himself again. Instead, he bows and disappears to the sound of wheezing laughter, trying to think of the best way to never see him again.
It’s to no avail, he knows. The old man will be back.
For the first time in a long while, he knows fear.