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thelonelylakebe a body. all elite wrestling, kris/thekla, kris/willow. kris wants to bleed and thekla wants to make someone bleed. for femslashfete #083 'loveless' and bring her bleeding heart to me
Blame the belt, blame Harley announcing to the whole wide world that my parents are back together and then choosing only Willow over their family over and over—
(Kris is thinking about love, these days, about the absences it defines and requires around itself. About how, having gone through what too many people have told her she should be so grateful for — having, and losing, and regaining Willow's love — she's just tired.)
Blame Thekla, maybe. She spreads her collection of blades out in front of Kris and says, do you want to hurt, and it feels like the sort of choice Kris has gone too long without, so of course she answers.
I want to bleed, she says, and it makes Thekla laugh. They fit together, that way, neither of them fully human in all of the ways that matter. Their bodies fit too, but that's the easy part, the extra that neither of them need to talk about.
They're good with bodies, have to be, in their jobs. And Thekla's one of the few who brings Kris back into her own with ease, even and because she splits the skin open and watches all the insides spill out.
Thekla likes the way head wounds bleed, likes to slice along the sides of Kris's face in all the places that makeup can hide. Kris likes the way the blood trails down the whole length of her body, warm and ticklish and grounding. Sometimes it pools on her thighs where Thekla straddles her, overflows the crease between their bodies where it moves with their movement, a heavy dark weight to the bright glimmers of brightness that flash over her with every stroke of the blade.
It's the weakness leaking out, Thekla says, and Kris, floating on the up and down waves of pain that are the only other things that exist right now, thinks maybe it's the love, or maybe they're the same thing, or maybe she shouldn't be thinking at all.
There's blood sheeting down her chest, sticky as it dries. Thekla is moving against her thigh with more intention now, the heat of her cunt indistinguishable from the blood. The knife is steady, quick tiny stab wounds across the top of her chest — in and out, to match Thekla rocking up and down.
Blood at the corner of her eyes, turning Thekla a radioactive pink. Kris licks her lips, tenses her leg and Thekla groans, low and deep enough to set the slices across her forehead throbbing again.
It echoes through her body, the sensation of suspension. Thekla keeps here there longer than anyone else, and Kris chooses it every time. Hands fisted in the sheets, unwilling to do anything that might bring this to an end. Past the point where pain is registering as pain, all she can do is wait for Thekla to hurt her more.
Another cut, another dip. Blood bubbling up to the surface, drawn by Thekla's fingers, her laugh.
Again, Kris says. Again, and—
Thekla obliges. She always does.
femslashfete #083 'loveless' and bring her bleeding heart to meBlame the belt, blame Harley announcing to the whole wide world that my parents are back together and then choosing only Willow over their family over and over—
(Kris is thinking about love, these days, about the absences it defines and requires around itself. About how, having gone through what too many people have told her she should be so grateful for — having, and losing, and regaining Willow's love — she's just tired.)
Blame Thekla, maybe. She spreads her collection of blades out in front of Kris and says, do you want to hurt, and it feels like the sort of choice Kris has gone too long without, so of course she answers.
I want to bleed, she says, and it makes Thekla laugh. They fit together, that way, neither of them fully human in all of the ways that matter. Their bodies fit too, but that's the easy part, the extra that neither of them need to talk about.
They're good with bodies, have to be, in their jobs. And Thekla's one of the few who brings Kris back into her own with ease, even and because she splits the skin open and watches all the insides spill out.
Thekla likes the way head wounds bleed, likes to slice along the sides of Kris's face in all the places that makeup can hide. Kris likes the way the blood trails down the whole length of her body, warm and ticklish and grounding. Sometimes it pools on her thighs where Thekla straddles her, overflows the crease between their bodies where it moves with their movement, a heavy dark weight to the bright glimmers of brightness that flash over her with every stroke of the blade.
It's the weakness leaking out, Thekla says, and Kris, floating on the up and down waves of pain that are the only other things that exist right now, thinks maybe it's the love, or maybe they're the same thing, or maybe she shouldn't be thinking at all.
There's blood sheeting down her chest, sticky as it dries. Thekla is moving against her thigh with more intention now, the heat of her cunt indistinguishable from the blood. The knife is steady, quick tiny stab wounds across the top of her chest — in and out, to match Thekla rocking up and down.
Blood at the corner of her eyes, turning Thekla a radioactive pink. Kris licks her lips, tenses her leg and Thekla groans, low and deep enough to set the slices across her forehead throbbing again.
It echoes through her body, the sensation of suspension. Thekla keeps here there longer than anyone else, and Kris chooses it every time. Hands fisted in the sheets, unwilling to do anything that might bring this to an end. Past the point where pain is registering as pain, all she can do is wait for Thekla to hurt her more.
Another cut, another dip. Blood bubbling up to the surface, drawn by Thekla's fingers, her laugh.
Again, Kris says. Again, and—
Thekla obliges. She always does.
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