Fanfic: Always The Blade (1/1)
May. 17th, 2011 07:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingmirrorTitle: Always The Blade
Author: Avarice
Rating: R (disturbing imagery, descriptions of torture)
Pairing: -
Spoilers: -
Summary: Pain is Tybalt's business, and business is good.
Word Count: 811
Date First Posted: 2001
Date Revised - 17-05-2011
Beta: Rin
Awards: -
Notes: Tybalt POV. This is the first Vamp Tybalt fic I ever wrote. Looking back, I still can't quite believe I could write imagery like this... it's not something I tend to like, by any stretch. But it worked for this. This began a love affair with the character of Tybalt which has never quite left me.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.
I like blades the best. Always the blade. Not that guns don't have their uses -- quite adequate in their own way -- they just don't lend themselves to creativity.
There is something to be said for inspiring one's imagination.
Dull blades are painful in a mundane way. They tear indiscriminately and elicit screams and cries. But anyone can plunge a rusty old knife into unforgiving flesh and watch the redness spurt forth. Where is the sport in that? An artery is severed, several vital organs punctured and the game is all over.
A sharp blade wielded with a keen hand is so much more rewarding. The most wonderful thing about the razor's kiss is it cleaves flesh so smoothly; often the receptors of pain don't ignite until moments after the damage is done. Realisation blankets pallid features, as the act is noticed by the mind.
That... that is worth the wait.
Serrated edges lend themselves to peeling. To scrape skin and sinew off in long, thin strips. I must admit, I do have a weakness for this. Bands of liquid sanguine in which I like to make patterns. Sometimes I draw pictures. Sometimes I write their name. Sometimes I write my name.
I don't like to stay with the same method too long. There is much variety, if one deigns to explore.
And I am something of an explorer.
Short, sharp, flat bladed knives are perfect for small gouging; removing eyes, noses, ears, genitalia... I have somehow grown out of these particular mutilation habits, though. I have always had a desire for beauty -- those that know me would always attest to this -- so I prefer all parts, no matter how small, to be intact.
Just a personal preference, though. After all, everyone is beautiful when they are in pain.
The simplicity of a good hook can rarely be duplicated. Cool, rounded edges... run across the skin it so often mimics a caress. They can be drawn through the epidermis, tearing each layer one at a time.
I used one once to pierce the chest of my plaything, puncturing a lung. Watching as the organ slowly filled with blood, I saw the whole spectrum of human emotion in the space of the few hours it took to die. It was quite exhilarating, if impetuous. I have learnt to appreciate the patience I lacked in my youth.
I still ache to produce the same response, but nowadays prefer to draw the experience out to days, weeks, months.
One thing I am not able to remedy is my lust for change, though. Patience I may have, but not enough to last years with the same toy.
Razors have many uses. Used on one angle, they slice smoothly, cleanly. The other, rough and jagged. It rubs everything the wrong way. They are so nice embedded in the flesh. Carves through the soft tissue of the tongue quite effortlessly. The corners of the mouth are so sensitive, all it takes is one little flick of the wrist...
I think it's Buddhism that touts the belief that the destination isn't so important as the journey. I can't agree more. Death isn't the point of my work; it's how I get there that makes the difference.
So many options, so little time...
...for them.
Me? I am immortal, I know. But even that comes with its own set of dangers. Immortal until I am killed. An oxymoron if ever there was...
And that in itself is the root of my fascination... What more is there for a being that cannot naturally die, except to tempt the Fates in the only way he can?
It's awfully philosophical, sometimes I wonder whether I intellectualise it too much. The simplicity of the blood really is the only pleasure I ever seek anymore. Other avenues -- like love -- are closed to me now.
I will not repent.
I love the game, but sometimes it pains me that I tire of playing... I crouch down over the shuddering form at my feet. Longish brown hair sticks to the sculpted face, now remarkable for the beauty of the purpling bruises and crimson stains. He truly is glorious now.
My lips touch his, softly, tenderly. It pleases me to know he will remember this part the most. It is like a sip of water to the man in the desert... the cruelest thing is to give a moment's respite -- a moment's hope -- rather than none at all.
Fingers close around a small, curved knife. His eyes catch it, and he knows the moment is gone.
It is time to play again. And if it is at all possible, his screams are even more agonising than before. Like poetry in my heart. Cleaving flesh and bone and sinew, my mind drifts.
I like blades the best. Always the blade.
Author: Avarice
Rating: R (disturbing imagery, descriptions of torture)
Pairing: -
Spoilers: -
Summary: Pain is Tybalt's business, and business is good.
Word Count: 811
Date First Posted: 2001
Date Revised - 17-05-2011
Beta: Rin
Awards: -
Notes: Tybalt POV. This is the first Vamp Tybalt fic I ever wrote. Looking back, I still can't quite believe I could write imagery like this... it's not something I tend to like, by any stretch. But it worked for this. This began a love affair with the character of Tybalt which has never quite left me.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.
I like blades the best. Always the blade. Not that guns don't have their uses -- quite adequate in their own way -- they just don't lend themselves to creativity.
There is something to be said for inspiring one's imagination.
Dull blades are painful in a mundane way. They tear indiscriminately and elicit screams and cries. But anyone can plunge a rusty old knife into unforgiving flesh and watch the redness spurt forth. Where is the sport in that? An artery is severed, several vital organs punctured and the game is all over.
A sharp blade wielded with a keen hand is so much more rewarding. The most wonderful thing about the razor's kiss is it cleaves flesh so smoothly; often the receptors of pain don't ignite until moments after the damage is done. Realisation blankets pallid features, as the act is noticed by the mind.
That... that is worth the wait.
Serrated edges lend themselves to peeling. To scrape skin and sinew off in long, thin strips. I must admit, I do have a weakness for this. Bands of liquid sanguine in which I like to make patterns. Sometimes I draw pictures. Sometimes I write their name. Sometimes I write my name.
I don't like to stay with the same method too long. There is much variety, if one deigns to explore.
And I am something of an explorer.
Short, sharp, flat bladed knives are perfect for small gouging; removing eyes, noses, ears, genitalia... I have somehow grown out of these particular mutilation habits, though. I have always had a desire for beauty -- those that know me would always attest to this -- so I prefer all parts, no matter how small, to be intact.
Just a personal preference, though. After all, everyone is beautiful when they are in pain.
The simplicity of a good hook can rarely be duplicated. Cool, rounded edges... run across the skin it so often mimics a caress. They can be drawn through the epidermis, tearing each layer one at a time.
I used one once to pierce the chest of my plaything, puncturing a lung. Watching as the organ slowly filled with blood, I saw the whole spectrum of human emotion in the space of the few hours it took to die. It was quite exhilarating, if impetuous. I have learnt to appreciate the patience I lacked in my youth.
I still ache to produce the same response, but nowadays prefer to draw the experience out to days, weeks, months.
One thing I am not able to remedy is my lust for change, though. Patience I may have, but not enough to last years with the same toy.
Razors have many uses. Used on one angle, they slice smoothly, cleanly. The other, rough and jagged. It rubs everything the wrong way. They are so nice embedded in the flesh. Carves through the soft tissue of the tongue quite effortlessly. The corners of the mouth are so sensitive, all it takes is one little flick of the wrist...
I think it's Buddhism that touts the belief that the destination isn't so important as the journey. I can't agree more. Death isn't the point of my work; it's how I get there that makes the difference.
So many options, so little time...
...for them.
Me? I am immortal, I know. But even that comes with its own set of dangers. Immortal until I am killed. An oxymoron if ever there was...
And that in itself is the root of my fascination... What more is there for a being that cannot naturally die, except to tempt the Fates in the only way he can?
It's awfully philosophical, sometimes I wonder whether I intellectualise it too much. The simplicity of the blood really is the only pleasure I ever seek anymore. Other avenues -- like love -- are closed to me now.
I will not repent.
I love the game, but sometimes it pains me that I tire of playing... I crouch down over the shuddering form at my feet. Longish brown hair sticks to the sculpted face, now remarkable for the beauty of the purpling bruises and crimson stains. He truly is glorious now.
My lips touch his, softly, tenderly. It pleases me to know he will remember this part the most. It is like a sip of water to the man in the desert... the cruelest thing is to give a moment's respite -- a moment's hope -- rather than none at all.
Fingers close around a small, curved knife. His eyes catch it, and he knows the moment is gone.
It is time to play again. And if it is at all possible, his screams are even more agonising than before. Like poetry in my heart. Cleaving flesh and bone and sinew, my mind drifts.
I like blades the best. Always the blade.
~finis
