Hal Jordan! Let's do it! (memlu) wrote in temps_mort,
Hal Jordan! Let's do it!
memlu
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Tongues, The Demon Ororon, PG13, Gen

Title: Tongues
Author: memlu
Fandom: The Demon Ororon
Type: Gen
Characters: Mitsume, Original Character(s).
Rating: PG13
Challenge: Late response to Nonverbal Challenge.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: I suck.



Tongues



I.

He pressed his back against the wall, closing his eyes and breathing outinout, a shaky and steadying rhythm. His body shook, once, and then he opened his eyes again to watch the sky. It was overcast, still, and somewhere thunder was rumbling in distant omnipotent threat. A drop of rain struck his cheek. He touched a hand to his face and pulled his fingers away to study the red smearing the tips.

“Are you forgetting me?” the creature hissed: a long rasping slide of the tongue scraping over its lips. “Good boys never turn their backs to their elders.” Mitsume closed his eyes again as the tongue lashed out past his head, striking at and through the wall. The creature chuckled and slithering back, the tongue grazed his cheek. “You taste of my blood, you filthy boy.”

“Stop talking,” he said. He dug the tip of his sword into the earth and levered up to his feet, twisting the blade free and wiping his arm over his face. He propped one foot against the wall and lowered his body, slightly, cocking his arm to the side. “You fucking hag.” Mitsume smiled.

“Filthy tongue!” the creature shrieked, lashing its own out again. Mitsume shifted his weight, aside, and pressed off the wall, digging his boots into the dirt. “Filthy tongue! Filthy tongue!” Mitsume swung at its head.


II.

He took the money they gave him for bringing back the tongue, wrapped in a yellow-green bundle of drying flesh and severed veins. Retreating to his room he counted the barons and stilled his palms over the bills, leaning over them, silent. The room was dark and he uncurled his legs, stuffing the money into the pocket of his jeans. He felt cold. It didn’t take long to find what he thought he needed, or wanted.

The prostitute said she liked the color of his eyes. She ran her fingers like the spindle legs of spiders down his face and smiled, thin and private. He could hear her humming softly as she leaned over him, in the dark of the bedroom. The tune followed the movements of her fingers, sweeping up as she grazed his eyelashes and her face filled his vision, curling down as she moved her fingers down over his mouth.

He lifted his hand and touched her waist, spreading his two fingers over the curve and flicking his eyes down to see his skin pale against the black of her dress. She followed his gaze, her fingers pressing gently over the angle of his eyebrow. “You don’t feel ready for that,” she teased, wriggling her hips against his. “Not yet, brown eyes.” Her face was a smudged white circle hovering over his, disconnected and real.

She kissed the side of his neck, humming against the skin. Mitsume watched the lights outside shining through the curtains, playing over the ceiling. He felt her flick her tongue along his throat and realized, dispassionately, he hated the sound of her voice. He curled his fingers tight around her waist, and she laughed into the corner of his jaw. Her body was cold and tense against his.


III.

He licked the salt from his lips and watched her sitting on the edge of the bed. She was humming again, as she rolled stockings up her legs and kept her face bent forward. Black hair fringed over the white moon of her face and she looked like something alien, shoulders arched down and back moved forward in a slender arc: faceless, and maybe dead. Mitsume turned on his side to watch the wall. After a moment, he closed his eyes and moved to sit up, rested his back against the headboard.

“What’s your name?” he asked, tired. His body ached; there would be bruises, later, where he had stumbled or been thrown, earlier. She stopped humming and looked up at him. Her eyes were wide. “I’m Mitsume.”

“Pearl,” she said. She smiled, lips twisting up, brittle and smudged red. The prostitute shrugged. “I don’t have a name. Not anymore.”

“Why?” he asked. He thought he sounded like a child. She grabbed at her bag and tossed her hair over her shoulder, standing and moving toward him with her lips pulled up like china. Mitsume tilted his head back to watch her.

“Nameless people don’t have tongues,” she said, and faded out through the door.


-end-
Tags: *type: gen, [animanga] akuma no ororon, author: memlu
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