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fandomweekly2025-03-16 01:45 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2025-03-16 01:45 pm
Entry tags:
[#252] drowning or walking on water (SVSSS)
Theme Prompt: 252 - Midnight Snack
Title: drowning or walking on water
Fandom: Scum Villain Self Saving System
Rating/Warnings: M, cannibalism, aftermath of torture, body horror
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 919
Summary: Luo Binghe is the Demon Emperor, but it still isn't enough.
Iron coats Luo Binghe’s tongue as he chews, chews until his jaw aches and something soft falls free. It catches on his chin before softly landing on the hollow curve of Shen Qingqiu’s belly, bright against the alabaster glow of his skin.
It doesn’t slide further.
There is no arm left to cup Luo Binghe’s cheek, no nails to score fresh lines into his scalp, hidden except for the tacky drip of blood down his brow, but Luo Binghe leans into the touch he remembers. The moon hangs heavy outside his single window, the shutters drawn, but silver light bleeds through, paying its own homage at the altar Luo Binghe tends.
“Shizun, this disciple wonders what you would say to him?” Luo Binghe laughs softly, pressing his own hand to his cheek. It isn’t the same; his hand is too broad, too clumsy to pass for Shizun’s, but he digs his claws into his flesh all the same, leaning closer as if drawn on a thin wire hooked behind his teeth. He folds himself along the line of Shen Qingqiu, lets his legs splay wider over the ruin of the other man’s hips as he braces himself on his elbows over his chest. Bone gleams bright as Luo Binghe brushes his fingertips against it, reaching in further to yellow fat and red muscle, coating his fingers in copper and iron.
“Foolish beast,” Shizun snarls, his dark eyes narrowed behind the line of his fan. A faint flush burns through his cheeks, a painting given form and substances, his colour entirely from a rage so well-worn it is embedded in his bones and flavours his flesh. “Pawing at this master like a mewling pup.”
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe murmurs, turning his head to mouth at the soft demarcation he’s carved through his master. He bites down, muffling a sob as his shoulders shake. Clouds spill across the moon, the universe trembling beneath the weight of his grief, his rage. “Shizun!”
Outside of this room, he is an Emperor. He refuses to dishonour his Shizun by falling short of expectations. But in what little sanctuary that Luo Binghe has bled himself dry for, he can wail salt-streaked tears into his master’s chest and seek absolution there.
Shizun makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, his gaze angled away from the tremble of Luo Binghe’s shoulders, the open-mouthed keen of his misery. “Enough. You will unbalance this master. You think him incompetent to offer counsel on matters to one risen as high as this disciple?”
“No, Shizun.” Luo Binghe raises himself back onto his elbows, splays one hand wide next to the cavern of Shizun’s ribs as he lifts himself up. He doesn’t reach for Shizun’s face with his free hand, instead tugging at the collar of his robe. It’s pale, slippery beneath Luo Binghe’s touch before it stains copper and sticks against the sharp edge of a clavicle, the line of his throat. He can barely remember a moment in his childhood when Shizun dressed as anything other than perfection, his robes immaculate, his hair effortlessly cascading down his back and held in place at the apex by a twist of delicate silver.
In front of Luo Binghe, now, here, Shen Qingqiu is undone.
The robes he had been wearing when Luo Binghe summoned in are near-enough discarded, torn from the line as his torso as he had crumpled into Luo Binghe’s arms. A few remnants circle his neck, the majority left crumpled beneath the small of his back and it angles his torso slightly, lifting him upwards, curving his back. His hair remains longer now than in Luo Binghe’s memories, carefully brushed and smoothed into place. Luo Binghe’s movement had disturbed some tresses, darker as he picks them out of the congealing mess and returns them to their crowning glory. Shen Qingqiu is everything he had never allowed himself to become while he had been only Luo Binghe’s teacher, a renowned Peak Lord, and Luo Binghe sniffs back a sob, scuffs the rough edge of his palm against the tears threatening to fall.
“What would Shizun wish this disciple to do?”
Shen Qingqiu blinks because Luo Binghe allows him to do so. It is a delicate matter to hold another person at the edge of death, on the precipice of their consciousness. Blood loss tempered at the ruin of Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder, the network coaxed into tributaries through his chest so his heart would stutter through a few more beats. There is pain there too, an agonising blistering infliction, and Shen Qingqiu bares his teeth in a grin made bloody by Luo Binghe’s exacting attention.
“This master would wish you to die.”
Luo Binghe leans closer, his nose bumping against Shen Qingqiu’s, his breath fogging against cool lips. “No, Shizun. This disciple will have to disobey his most beloved teacher.”
It’s barely a thought to close the distance between them to kiss Shen Qingqiu, a moment more and Luo Binghe’s teeth fasten to the slight swell of his bottom lip and bite down, bite through, swallowing down the muted howl of pain as nerves explode into life. He chews this offering carefully, lets the flavour burst across his tongue before he swallows. “This disciple thanks his Shizun,” he murmurs and bites his cheeks, his tongue before he kisses Shen Qingqiu once more.
There is damage for his blood mites to fix and he can try again the next night.
Maybe he’ll find the answer he’s looking for tomorrow.
Title: drowning or walking on water
Fandom: Scum Villain Self Saving System
Rating/Warnings: M, cannibalism, aftermath of torture, body horror
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 919
Summary: Luo Binghe is the Demon Emperor, but it still isn't enough.
Iron coats Luo Binghe’s tongue as he chews, chews until his jaw aches and something soft falls free. It catches on his chin before softly landing on the hollow curve of Shen Qingqiu’s belly, bright against the alabaster glow of his skin.
It doesn’t slide further.
There is no arm left to cup Luo Binghe’s cheek, no nails to score fresh lines into his scalp, hidden except for the tacky drip of blood down his brow, but Luo Binghe leans into the touch he remembers. The moon hangs heavy outside his single window, the shutters drawn, but silver light bleeds through, paying its own homage at the altar Luo Binghe tends.
“Shizun, this disciple wonders what you would say to him?” Luo Binghe laughs softly, pressing his own hand to his cheek. It isn’t the same; his hand is too broad, too clumsy to pass for Shizun’s, but he digs his claws into his flesh all the same, leaning closer as if drawn on a thin wire hooked behind his teeth. He folds himself along the line of Shen Qingqiu, lets his legs splay wider over the ruin of the other man’s hips as he braces himself on his elbows over his chest. Bone gleams bright as Luo Binghe brushes his fingertips against it, reaching in further to yellow fat and red muscle, coating his fingers in copper and iron.
“Foolish beast,” Shizun snarls, his dark eyes narrowed behind the line of his fan. A faint flush burns through his cheeks, a painting given form and substances, his colour entirely from a rage so well-worn it is embedded in his bones and flavours his flesh. “Pawing at this master like a mewling pup.”
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe murmurs, turning his head to mouth at the soft demarcation he’s carved through his master. He bites down, muffling a sob as his shoulders shake. Clouds spill across the moon, the universe trembling beneath the weight of his grief, his rage. “Shizun!”
Outside of this room, he is an Emperor. He refuses to dishonour his Shizun by falling short of expectations. But in what little sanctuary that Luo Binghe has bled himself dry for, he can wail salt-streaked tears into his master’s chest and seek absolution there.
Shizun makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, his gaze angled away from the tremble of Luo Binghe’s shoulders, the open-mouthed keen of his misery. “Enough. You will unbalance this master. You think him incompetent to offer counsel on matters to one risen as high as this disciple?”
“No, Shizun.” Luo Binghe raises himself back onto his elbows, splays one hand wide next to the cavern of Shizun’s ribs as he lifts himself up. He doesn’t reach for Shizun’s face with his free hand, instead tugging at the collar of his robe. It’s pale, slippery beneath Luo Binghe’s touch before it stains copper and sticks against the sharp edge of a clavicle, the line of his throat. He can barely remember a moment in his childhood when Shizun dressed as anything other than perfection, his robes immaculate, his hair effortlessly cascading down his back and held in place at the apex by a twist of delicate silver.
In front of Luo Binghe, now, here, Shen Qingqiu is undone.
The robes he had been wearing when Luo Binghe summoned in are near-enough discarded, torn from the line as his torso as he had crumpled into Luo Binghe’s arms. A few remnants circle his neck, the majority left crumpled beneath the small of his back and it angles his torso slightly, lifting him upwards, curving his back. His hair remains longer now than in Luo Binghe’s memories, carefully brushed and smoothed into place. Luo Binghe’s movement had disturbed some tresses, darker as he picks them out of the congealing mess and returns them to their crowning glory. Shen Qingqiu is everything he had never allowed himself to become while he had been only Luo Binghe’s teacher, a renowned Peak Lord, and Luo Binghe sniffs back a sob, scuffs the rough edge of his palm against the tears threatening to fall.
“What would Shizun wish this disciple to do?”
Shen Qingqiu blinks because Luo Binghe allows him to do so. It is a delicate matter to hold another person at the edge of death, on the precipice of their consciousness. Blood loss tempered at the ruin of Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder, the network coaxed into tributaries through his chest so his heart would stutter through a few more beats. There is pain there too, an agonising blistering infliction, and Shen Qingqiu bares his teeth in a grin made bloody by Luo Binghe’s exacting attention.
“This master would wish you to die.”
Luo Binghe leans closer, his nose bumping against Shen Qingqiu’s, his breath fogging against cool lips. “No, Shizun. This disciple will have to disobey his most beloved teacher.”
It’s barely a thought to close the distance between them to kiss Shen Qingqiu, a moment more and Luo Binghe’s teeth fasten to the slight swell of his bottom lip and bite down, bite through, swallowing down the muted howl of pain as nerves explode into life. He chews this offering carefully, lets the flavour burst across his tongue before he swallows. “This disciple thanks his Shizun,” he murmurs and bites his cheeks, his tongue before he kisses Shen Qingqiu once more.
There is damage for his blood mites to fix and he can try again the next night.
Maybe he’ll find the answer he’s looking for tomorrow.
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