So I finally grew the balls to post this one. It's disturbing in the most fundimental ways... but a vast majority is based on real life incidents, with the irony factor tweaked, of course.
Lots of language, lots of questionable material... don't read that if you don't like. The actual named pairing won't really reveal until later... so hang around a bit. This is more an expiramental piece than anything else... so Crit is great, if you don't just say it sucks and walk away. Point out flaws. I'll make it better next time around.
So without further a due:
Disclaimer: I don't own KH.
EDIT!
Freshly beta'd and a thousand times better. Yes. There's big differences with this one and I suggest you guys come back and give it a look just for good measure. This is the amazing beta work of Mousewolf, whom I revere and fear (only when I make dumb mistakes for the latter...) and you should all bow down and pay homage... Bow down, I say! haha! Well, Enjoy... again!
Read, enjoy, review, repeat!
::: The Things We Do... :::
Every night, an idea flits through his head, but he can never quite catch it.
It's light and heat and burning and he can't quite hold onto it long enough to know what it could possibly be.
One night it feels like a bird's wing.
The next, it's a cat's paw.
And the next, a dragonfly.
A snake skin.
A tiger's claws.
A rat.
And every night, he's not quite able to get a real handle on it, his hands aching to work on something he can never quite see. So he goes into his studio and he drinks a bottle of vodka, staring at the paintings he hasn't finished yet, and he paints what he thinks he touched that night.
The painting is growing, a multicolored collage of texture and abstract shapes. He drinks vodka and traces new lines with his fingertips, half-blank, entranced until his woman pulls him away and fucks him to sleep. It's a nightly thing, routine, and he's gotten used to it. He really doesn't care about how irreverent she treats him anymore; doesn't care about the way she always smells like cigarette smoke; doesn't care that she's already been fucking someone else. He just doesn't care because his head is too addled to really wrap around the situation in and of itself.
She's blond and she's beautiful in the most brutal way, a wasp dressed in lion-skins. He wants to bludgeon her to death with the big Maglite under the bed and put her in the bathtub sometimes. Sometimes he thinks he'll do it and then dismember her and bury her in fifty different places across the city, but it's nothing but a thought he randomly entertains.
He used to paint her before all this.
He reaches under the bed and grips the textured metal as she grinds herself down into him. He pants, and she cries out, digging her nails into his skin. He grips that metal shaft, knows that he's holding it like a club with the flared end forward and he smiles.
"Can I kill you?" he asks.
"Not yet!" she pants, "I still haven't…"
He puts the flashlight down and lets her go. She's just as stoned and drunk as he is.
Just like any other time, she has her orgasm and they both fall asleep soon thereafter. No words exchanged; no need. The room smells like sex. Bad sex.
And god is it awful.
He's a painter. She's a whore. Whether she likes it or not, that's what she is.
"Axel?"
Well, at least he thought that was how it would happen.
"What, Larxene…"
"Do we have to go to that opening tomorrow? I just want to stay home and get laid."
A whore who wants to get laid, apparently. He's not so enthusiastic about her plans.
"Luxord needs me to be there. I have to be at the show because people want to see my work and me. As much as you feed that thing, how can it still be hungry? Maybe you should buy yourself some toys for it or something," he mumbles.
"Fuck you."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
For some reason, they always say that to each other in rapid succession. He's not really sure why they torture themselves like this, but he's still not really sure he could live without her, with her poison in his blood like this. They've been together for so long, and when he tries to think of life without her, he cries. The place he thinks of all that most often is not here in this sweaty, steamy bed. He always ponders that kind of thing in the shower so that he can dismiss the redness of his cheeks as nothing but the water's heat, and the tears that escape are nothing but water from the shower.
God, but he's such a basket case.
He hasn't even sold a painting since two years ago, and that for only a measly $50,000. A series of twelve paintings to be displayed in a straight line. Only $50,000, and it had vanished terribly fast.
When they have the money for it, Larxene likes to buy Crown Royal.
It's her favorite.
When they have money, Axel likes to get Jägermeister. It's his favorite… but Larxene hates it, so he has to hide it lest she should pour it out or something stupid like that.
He falls asleep wondering why the hell he does these things to himself.
And everything, everything smells like turpentine, razor edges that blur into sleep.
Dreams are premonitions of a clouded future, and the future's eye sees… you. The blond with the clear, ocean water eyes… the boy who holds so very still as my oils run smooth over the canvas. I'll find you, I tell you, and you smile.
"I'm waiting. Come and find me."