Disclaimer: I bet none of you even read these things, do you? I could just put "blah blah blahblabbity blah blah" in place of "I don't own shit," and no one would notice. . .
Author's Note: I was inspired for this chapter by my own skin, actually. Being the computer/drama nerd I am, I have insanely pale skin—you can see my veins quite clearly up to my elbows. They're pretty and blue. :)
. . . uh, well, though I'm sure that was waaaay too much information, I hope y'all enjoy this chapter! XD
Warnings for All Chapters: ZADR, dark themes, blood (duh).
Warnings for This Chapter: Implied S&M.
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Ketsueki
Transparent
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I can't get enough of it, the entertaining build of human bodies. It's like a huge cosmic joke: so fragile, so weak—so very, very pathetic. How can they have possibly lasted as long as they have? With their brittle bones, easily torn tissue, and organs soft enough to pop with a bare hand?
Such a mystery; I doubt I'll ever understand it.
But I don't care. I didn't come here to understand—I came here to study, to learn. Then to destroy. It shouldn't be so hard; just look at their moronic structure. Everything about the humans is flimsy and frail. So much so that it's amusing.
Oh so very, very amusing. . .
The Dib cries out again as my claws rake down his back and sides; his sweat singeing my body shell as my mouth clamps harshly down on his ear. Blood spills everywhere, from nearly every pore, orifice. . . Bruises blossom on his pale, pale skin.
His skin. . .
Perhaps the most humorous part of the human body, skin. Really, what do they expect such a weak membrane to keep out? Even the smallest of germs can crawl right through—and it's not like it protects from injuries to the joints or muscles. Nor does it hide anything from enemies—I can see through his flesh; it's transparent, almost like glass. I can see rippling muscles; I can see tired ligaments; I can see pumping blood vessels—a haunting shade of blue beneath the white.
So useless. . . a waste. Saddening, almost, that a race so proud be stored in these ineffective containers. It almost makes me want to be gentle with the Dib; hold him, perhaps—protect him.
Almost.
Instead, I sneer, reveling in my superiority as my fingers clamp around his wrists; pinning him harshly to the bed frame as our bodies begin to peak. He screams, pretending to hate this, hate me. But I can see—see through his feeble flesh and on to the white-hot desire that's pulsing through his violet veins as we ride the waves of pain and pleasure.
He can hide nothing from me; he is transparent.
. . . I like that.