I never do post or finish anything under this penname. I'm sorry. My KxL muse is possibly the most fickle one of all, and though it gives me oodles of angsty goodness when it's on my side, it rarely is. So. Here's the longest yet of my pieces for this name- it's actually got a projected plot and a few chapters after this'n are already partially written. Be warned: This story is as graphic as I get. Which isn't very, to be fair, and ought not to be enough to get me in trouble, but if you're a fluff-lover like I normally am, this might not be the 'fic for you. ^^ I promise one of these days I'll finish 'the hand that gives'. For the moment, though, let this tide you over. I'd say love and peace, but considering the subject matter, it might not be the best bet. Ciao!
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The backhand to his face snapped the skull back in an instant, the blow's force (thrown by a hand both inhuman and inhumane) sufficient to throw him against the wall. He spat blood. The crack of his head against sheer metal wasn't nearly as audible as one might expect- it was inside, through hollow corridors of a diseased mind, that it truly reverberated. The blow (the blow, the wall, the touch, the ache he always knew- all of it indistinguishable-) filled the space behind dazed golden eyes with an overload of sensation. Pain brought pleasure and pleasure pain, locked together inextricably, an elegant surcease from the numbness he knew otherwise. Now, the sweet ache of it- his touch above all else, the poisonous, greedy caress meant for another man's flesh- was too much. His skin, burning in the stale air, was shining with sweat, marked with a hundred paper-fine cuts and half-healed marks of strong teeth, souvenirs of a thousand debasements of his Lord. A thousand times Knives had sheathed himself in this weary, willing, unworthy flesh, and all of it the same- never was it Legato's breath he wanted to come ragged and quick, never did his mind join his lips as they tangled in the blue-haired man's, greedy for more, eager to draw blood. And in the end, it was never Legato's name, so longingly cried it pained the slave to hear it. In the end, it was always a curse and a casual, vicious blow to the body and whatever pretense of pride remained.
For a very, very long time, it had been enough.
Dazed and lost, Legato peeled himself from the floor, his heart racing with desire and terror. The two were entwined, for him, as deeply a part of each other as he and his Lord at the height of brutality. One did not exist without the other. Knives never touched him gently, and Legato had learned not to want him to. For a long time, it had been enough to revel in the acid on raw nerves, the race of blood in his veins and down his face. After the first sweet, terrible time when Knives, murder and madness in his eyes, had backed his faithful, uncomprehending servant into a corner and taken the world away- it was like love at first sight, viscous, toxic need flowing in him, making his soul sluggish until his master's touch, or a look of disgust, quickened it. Whether a beating or something more carnal, threats and punishments had become promises of painful rewards. If someone had set him free, now, told him he could go... he would have laughed at the audacity- no, the sheer idiocy- of it. To think that he could leave! Not until his master freed him for the final time, took him away from soiled flesh for good, would he know liberty. And even then, he wondered if his broken soul would stay here, bound to eternal service, but without the brief surcease of fleshly sins. If there were a hell, that was it. The only saving grace of existence was that- the perfect being lowering himself to his servant's level, delivering unto him temporary release. Even if it was not Legato he wanted, it was Legato he had. The minion had learned to take what he could get- undeserving of the angel's love, he was at least enlightened enough to deserve a personal fury, a specific hatred. It was the mark that set him above the rest of humanity. Each scar was an accomplishment, a mark of divine favor.
Now, hands moved to touch the wound on his left shoulder, where thick gouges were starting to congeal. The rent flesh, he mused, was still under Knives' nails- a part of himself that would stay for another brief moment with his Lord. Legato's own digits were sticky and stained- he licked the ichor from them thoughtlessly, the warmth doing nothing to thaw the chill of indifference already threatening to fall over him again.