eerieindiana | Better Weird than Dead: An Eerie, Indiana Fic Fest

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(I was talking to Froodle and we decided this is totally necessary. I apologize for the craptastic banner)

eeriefest

What it is: A fest of Eerie Fic! Including Eerie, Indiana and Eerie, Indiana: The Other Dimension. Just comment with your prompts and write for any prompt that speaks to you. That easy!

Rules:

1) Only one prompt per comment, please, but feel free to comment as many times as you want
2) Prompts can be anything. Song lines, words, ideas, pictures; anything goes. Just no NSFW pics
2) Prompts can be filled an unlimited number of times
3) All ratings and genres allowed
4) Rate all stories in the subject line of the comment (i.e., Title of Story, Rating)
6) All pairings and gen fic allowed.
7) Have fun. No, really, it's a rule. It's required. If you aren't having fun the Garbage men will come for you.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

friendof_dorothy

He is never more beautiful than when he has a knife to Dash’s throat.

Marshall is close, so close Dash can feel his breath on his face. A drop of red is stuck in the middle of the eyelashes of his left eye like snow in the winter. Those blue eyes are so cold, but heavy with lust. For him, for the blood. His smile is so magnificently unhinged, a little lopsided and made all of teeth. His breath comes in pants and grunts, but Dash stays still and calm. The power is all Marshall's, exactly where Dash wants it to be.

One day, Marshall will kill him. It wouldn’t take much. A tiny bit of pressure at his throat with the knife, the good serrated one, barely more than he’s exerting right now. Dash wouldn’t be scared, he’d be willing if this was the last thing he saw. He knew he wouldn’t be waiting long for Marshall wherever people like them went after death.

Marshall leaned in and caught him in a chaste kiss. The knife pressed incrementally harder against his throat. Yes, he thinks. Yes, harder. His breathing picks up, its the only noise in the small room aside from the rustle of their clothes. Then, just before the point of no return, Marshall pulls back. The knife went up, the overhead yellow light reflected off the pristine silver blade. His tongue, wet and pink, ran along the flat side of the blade before vanishing back inside his mouth. Dash can’t hold back any longer, he crashed into Marshall. Their lips connected and both of them fought to be the one that bit the others lip between their teeth. The inside of his mouth tastes like salt and copper. Like blood. Like his blood.

Dash lets him win. Marshall captures his bottom lip between his teeth, tugging playfully on it before returning it to its rightful owner. He laughs softly, it’s an evil little thing. It’s music to his ears. He tosses the knife aside and kisses him again, softer this time, and pulls back. One hand came to his face, tracing along three scratch marks that had reopened. He caught a drop of blood on one finger and held it to the light.

“She scratched you.”

“It’s just a little one.”

Using his thumb and forefinger on the opposite hand, Marshall opened his mouth and drew the bloody finger along his tongue. Playfully, Dash caught it between his teeth before releasing it.

“We’ll have to do something about her fingers,” Marshall said thoughtfully. “Simon and Janet have been poking around again.” Simon and Janet. Detective Donner, a rising star at the station and private detective Holmes. Fear caught his heart in a black icy bear trap.

“Don’t bring them up here.” His voice is pleading, delicate. Almost fragile. This is their own private sanctuary, a place for them and only them. It was their marital bed and their place of worship. To invite someone else, sacrilege. “Let this be just for us.”

“Just us,” Marshall says, his train of thought abandoned when his hands traveled along Dash’s chest under his bloody shirt. “You take the next one. You’re never more beautiful than when you have a knife in hand.” When Dash puts a hand on Marshall's face, the light glints off his wedding ring.