covered in your blood, it's ritualistic pt. 1
Title from Perverted by Elita from Diwa's playlist.
There are times where Junior’s propensity for inactivity irritates Diwa into a state of passive aggressive silence punctuated by slamming drawers and heavily placing objects. But, during moments like this, when really neither of them need to be busying themselves with mundane chores or tiresome responsibilities, Diwa finds herself appreciating that Junior’s most natural state is horizontal. On the comfort of their couch, she can sink her weight into him, slotting her limbs and jutting hips into the divots and curves of his body, merging into him as much as the confines of physics will allow. Every breath Junior takes, Diwa’s body moves in tandem, rising and falling; his thoughtless act of breathing, of living, influencing where she spatially exists. With her head resting where his chest meets his clavicle, she can both see and feel the essence of life running through him. If she closes her eyes, her body begins to thrum in tandem with his beating heart, vibrating and throbbing with a pleasant sensation indicative of not only the warm life of his body, but also their irrevocable, undeniable connection. Like this, she knows that if his heart were to stop, if his body went still, hers would too, so tied are they.
Eyes open, she can see his vitality in the faint blue paths curving beneath membranes of pale skin. When she looks closely enough, tracing her fingertip along the blue lines with the precision of a surgeon, she swears she can see the blood pumping through his veins. If only she could feel the movement of his blood within him. Really feel it. Not just the rhythm of his heartbeat, but the sticky heat of that which keeps him alive. If only she could have it on her skin, coating her, protecting her. On her tongue. Tasting him. Oh, how she loves the taste of him. To have part of him linger on her taste buds, changing the taste of everything that comes next. But his saliva, his sweat, his semen, they aren’t enough. They’re bodily and they’re him, but they aren’t the reason he’s alive. They aren’t the reason Diwa’s body throbs like this.
Diwa’s fingertip strays off the arterial path, looping into a messy cursive as they spell their own name on his skin, so ephemeral that no mark remains. Junior’s arm, curved around Diwa’s shoulders, gives a light squeeze in response. Diwa stares perturbed at Junior’s unmarked skin. Of course, their light touch isn’t going to leave anything noticeable, but shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t there be something there to signify that his body is as much part of theirs as their body is his? They push their fingertip hard against a hickey they left beneath his right collarbone, and he makes a displeased noise in response, twitching his shoulder slightly. Hickeys. Also ephemeral. There should be something permanent. He is hers. Forever and ever. So, why can’t she see that when she looks at his body? When she separates her body from his, which she inevitably will have to do, whether for dinner or some other stupidly human reason, there will be no indicator that they are one. How revolting.
“Junior?” they say quietly with an unsure inflection, raising their head to look at his face. His eyes are peacefully closed, a small, absent smile hooking the edge of his lips.
“Mmm?” he hums in response. He doesn’t move.
“Junior,” they say again. Their voice is hushed, a tight strain in their throat as the fear of him slipping away latches onto their thoughts. They could be separated. They could be separated. “You love me, right?”
Junior wraps his other arm around her and gives her another squeeze as he says, “Always.”
His tone is lazily loving. So casual. As if this is an unremarkable concern and not a carnal matter of life and death.
Diwa shifts, wanting a better view of his face. They fold their arms over his chest, careful not to dig their elbows into tender muscle. They absently tap a finger against his skin, wanting to leave a permanent mark on him.
“Will you prove it?” she asks. Her gaze narrows in on his face, eyes unblinking and carnivorous.
Junior opens one eye to look at her, a slight frown creasing his brows. “How?”
The frown. What if he says no? What if he doesn’t really love her?
“Would you get a tattoo of my name?”
There’s a beat of silence that feels like an eternity, though in reality, it’s less than a second. “Sure,” he says, letting his open eye fall closed again.
Diwa’s heart jolts. So readily he agrees to have her name on his skin. But, a tattoo isn’t what she wants. Not really. Anyone can get a tattoo. She has plenty of tattoos of her own, decorating and adorning her skin, making her body more comfortable to live in. If Junior only agreed to a tattoo, she would do it herself, just as she had done her own, but even with that personal touch, a tattoo seems too detached. Too removable. Sure, without the assistance of magic, the process of removing a tattoo is painful and grueling, but most can be removed. Or they could be covered. No, she wants something more permanent. Something he can never get rid of.
“What about a scar?” she asks.
Junior silently processes the question. At the other end of the couch, he sways his foot lazily, unfazed by Diwa’s proposition. “Like you carve your name into my skin?”
“Not as crude as that,” they say. They don’t know much about scarification, but they’re fairly certain it’s more delicate and thoughtful than carving. They’re not trying to butcher him, cut him apart like a piece of meat. They want to adorn him. They want him to wear their name.
After another beat of silence, he asks, “Will it hurt?”
The question tastes bitter. If he loves her, shouldn’t he be willing to endure pain for her? Shouldn’t the pain be part of the experience? At the same time, she doesn’t want him to suffer.
“It doesn’t have to,” she says quietly.
Junior shrugs, “The answer is yes either way.”
The answer is yes either way. Thrill and affection douse Diwa’s brain, flooding through her nervous system so her hands start to jitter. He does love her. He loves her so much that he’ll bleed for her. Endure pain for her. Wear her name forever. For her.
Bitch is crazy
