Covered in Blood and Smiling
warnings: overtones of possible slashiness?;;;; Oh yes, and bad writing abounds.
description: Drabble concerning Kichisaburou (the guy who looked like Okita, if you're bad with names ) Takes place during that part where he kills the... Mimawarigumi (name may be wrong;;;; laughs) members.
disclaimer: Um... I don't own PMK, or any of the characters therein, even though I'd really love to hug Okita-san laughs I'm not a good person to sue, 'cause I'm really quite broke, and this isn't even earning me a penny, so don't waste the court expenses...(is poor)
author's note: I hope everyone's in character, since it's hard to make people OOC when they have like... no original dialogue;; Also, the dialogue I have is in a place that it doesn't occur in the show (And is prolly only a paraphrase of what he actually said...). I know that, it just worked out that way! (apologies;;) And I know most people probably won't, but I sincerely wish for at least one review, because my whole reason for posting this is to get a critique on my writing... (honesty is appreciated, I know I suck, please don't worry about telling me that to my face. )
Saa, onto the drabble...
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He was awash in blood, but it was not his own. Scarlet trickled down his face, infecting his pale skin with darker hues. It had already covered his hands, and soaked into his sleeves as the whole sensation of the massacre soaked into his mind, his flesh, his very being. Yes, it had been a massacre. One against a whole troop of men, and yet it was a massacre. They'd been no match for him, he'd sensed it at the first clashing of steel. Still, rather than leave them, he'd finished them all off, sparing only the required one to hobble off calling for help.
"Perhaps it's because I enjoy killing. I like the sight of blood."
Why was that? Its stark contrast -- the dark crimson blotted on his pallid skin almost white in colour-- gave off a sort of eerie, dark beauty. Some even found it seductive, which assisted a great deal in his trade.
He calmly, almost detachedly strolled over to his rich employer, who was ecstatic, apparently a great appreciator of his shady, sadistic pulchritude. Smoothly lifting a red-stained finger to the lord's forehead, he smirked confidently, completely retaining his seductive allure, which seemed to eternally float about his person in a rancid vermillion mist. "You're a real piece of work. I like you."
The pasty red liquid fell in a disgustingly elegant glob down the lord's face, reaching his lips as they turned up in a smile.
It was his business, after all -- to
make men smile, no matter what their pleasure. It just made it all
the more
delightful if that pleasure happened to be his as well.
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author's end note: Eeks! ;;;;;; my author's notes seem to be almost as long as the actual drabble! (remember: critiques on this hopelessly small offering of prose are very openly welcomed! )