Ship: Akashi/Akashi Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke Major Tags: tags omitted Other Tags: tags omitted Word Count: 404 words
Warnings for gore, blood, dubcon, cannibalism, angst, general darkness.
***
Everything is dark and peaceful, as warm as his mother’s womb must’ve been. The throne becomes a chair becomes a cradle and Akashi is rocking slowly, staring up into a darkness so absolute that it rests his eyes.
It’s calmer here. No Aomine, blazing too brightly, demanding too much. No Kise, trying so hard to be Aomine, artificial light to Aomine’s sunshine. No Murasakibara daring to challenge him and forcing him to realize his own slipping control. No Midorima with his quiet, distinctive disapproval (as if he could do any better!).
There’s someone he’s forgetting, he knows, but it doesn’t matter if he forgets them.
They’re no longer his concern.
*
Hands crawl up his body, pale spider leg fingers closing around his throat, and he looks into mismatched eyes.
“What do you want?” He asks, dispassionate and deadened. He doesn’t have the body anymore. All those emotions come from hormones; without the body flooding him with chemical controls, he is clear crystal calm.
“Everything,” his other self answers. A fingernail like a scythe slices across his throat and blood tumbles down. Cupped hands, pale and calloused from years of playing instruments, gather the blood. The excess spills over the sides, soaking into a ground that absorbs it soundlessly.
“You already have everything,” Akashi says and his breath whistles through the cut that yawns across his throat when he speaks.
“No,” his other self disagrees with a smile that is so nakedly hungry that Akashi would never let it show. “Not yet.”
The cradle is a throne again and his other self is kneeling at his feet, lapping blood off the throne, licking at clothing that dissolves under his tongue like rice paper. Akashi watches furrows cut in the cloth, watches those red-dyed hands pull the fabric from his skin until he’s naked but still throned.
“The Emperor has no clothes,” his other self says, drawing a scarlet line along the inside of Akashi’s thigh. He follows the line of the femoral artery, working up from the hard curve of Akashi’s knee to the softer join of thigh to hip.
He smiles again, red-lipped and ready to devour, and Akashi shudders at the first wet touch against his stomach.
“I cannot be absolute as long as you exist.”
The logic is too absolute to fight and yet, fight Akashi does.
FILL: TEAM PRINCE OF TENNIS, M
Fandom: Kuroko no Basuke
Major Tags: tags omitted
Other Tags: tags omitted
Word Count: 404 words
Warnings for gore, blood, dubcon, cannibalism, angst, general darkness.
***
Everything is dark and peaceful, as warm as his mother’s womb must’ve been. The throne becomes a chair becomes a cradle and Akashi is rocking slowly, staring up into a darkness so absolute that it rests his eyes.
It’s calmer here. No Aomine, blazing too brightly, demanding too much. No Kise, trying so hard to be Aomine, artificial light to Aomine’s sunshine. No Murasakibara daring to challenge him and forcing him to realize his own slipping control. No Midorima with his quiet, distinctive disapproval (as if he could do any better!).
There’s someone he’s forgetting, he knows, but it doesn’t matter if he forgets them.
They’re no longer his concern.
*
Hands crawl up his body, pale spider leg fingers closing around his throat, and he looks into mismatched eyes.
“What do you want?” He asks, dispassionate and deadened. He doesn’t have the body anymore. All those emotions come from hormones; without the body flooding him with chemical controls, he is clear crystal calm.
“Everything,” his other self answers. A fingernail like a scythe slices across his throat and blood tumbles down. Cupped hands, pale and calloused from years of playing instruments, gather the blood. The excess spills over the sides, soaking into a ground that absorbs it soundlessly.
“You already have everything,” Akashi says and his breath whistles through the cut that yawns across his throat when he speaks.
“No,” his other self disagrees with a smile that is so nakedly hungry that Akashi would never let it show. “Not yet.”
The cradle is a throne again and his other self is kneeling at his feet, lapping blood off the throne, licking at clothing that dissolves under his tongue like rice paper. Akashi watches furrows cut in the cloth, watches those red-dyed hands pull the fabric from his skin until he’s naked but still throned.
“The Emperor has no clothes,” his other self says, drawing a scarlet line along the inside of Akashi’s thigh. He follows the line of the femoral artery, working up from the hard curve of Akashi’s knee to the softer join of thigh to hip.
He smiles again, red-lipped and ready to devour, and Akashi shudders at the first wet touch against his stomach.
“I cannot be absolute as long as you exist.”
The logic is too absolute to fight and yet, fight Akashi does.
*
It doesn’t hurt as much as Akashi expects.
In the end, that is no blessing.