Sunday, 24 February 2013

Perverted Pile of Meat

JournalWord: Seeing some anatomy.


Two weeks ago, one of the henchmen had dragged a bloody carcass into her med bay and dropped it on a gurney. Immediately, she had pounced on him, but her questions ("Who is that?" "Is that all his blood?" "What the hell happened?") seemed to roll off his wide shoulders like water off a duck's back. He merely turned his chilling eyes on her and growled, "Newbie, so fix him," before stalking out without a second glance at her complaints from his muddy and bloody boots.

She had sighed and turned dubiously to the pulpy mess of organs and skin, vowing to bring up his behavior to the Boss. She was flattered by the obvious faith the mafia had put into her healing abilities by bringing her this victim from a B-rated slasher film, but she was a medic, not a miracle worker.

The horrific mass of bone fragments and fleshy lumps on her gurney roughly resembled what the human body would have looked like if someone had dumped a person into a giant blender and slapped puree. Yet, to her utter surprise, and morbid medical fascination, he was still alive and breathing, albeit shallow. 

Rolling up her sleeves and snapping on a pair of latex gloves, she flashed to work healing and rebuilding the battered gangster.

Several intensive hours later, she has transformed the mess of bones and blood on her gurney into a young man with impeccable good looks.

He is tall and long-limbed, with muscles streaming throughout his body like koi in a river. His snow white hair flows messily around his sharp jaw, and as she wipes her washed hands on a dry towel, she wonders if it's his natural hair color. 

Suddenly, his long white eyelashes flutter, casting delicate shadows against his pale cheekbones before slowly flickering open. Sparkling violet eyes reveal themselves and instantly hone in on her with a sharp intensity. His lips crack apart, his eyes still focused on her.

"That uniform is sexy as hell, seriously," he states, voice hoarse from dehydration.

She blinks, certain she had not heard what she thought she has heard. "Excuse me?"

"What, are you fucking deaf? I said, you look hot as fuck in that nurse getup, bitch."

Her jaw drops and a vein in her temple throbs with an rhythm similar to a ticking pipe bomb. "Yeah," she starts, gritting her teeth. "First things first, watch your language. And second, a thank you is in order for saving the pile of meat on my examination table from the pearly gates of Hell," she seethes, straining the towel between her tight fists until the threads beg to snap.

He has the audacity to raise an eyebrow and quirk the corner of his full lips into a cocky smirk. "Well, if I had known an angel was waiting here, I would've arrived back sooner." He licks his lips tantalizingly slow, locking eyes with her as he braces his arms to lift himself up. 

"Lay back down," she scolds, her hands abandoning the towel to force him back down onto the examination table. "I just sewed you up. You could at least let the stitches have time to heal."

His hands trap hers on his shoulders and he easily overpowers her to sit up. He flashes a cocky grin and pulls her arms behind his head. She swings into his chest and he traps her, his hands sliding down her arms, over her shoulders, to settle at her waist. The wires and IV's attached to him strain at his swift movement. "I definitely need your healing," he reassures, his voice husky and smooth, "And it needs to be dealt with right now, if you know what I mean, nurse."

His hand slides lower and her hand whips across his cheek. 

His momentary shock is enough for her to wrench out of his hold and shove him down onto the metal table. He stares up at her, silent, but a strange mixture of sparkle and flame dancing through his eyes. 

"You'll stay right there if you know what's good for you," she heaves, her chest huffing, and he marvels at her mussed brown hair slipping from her high ponytail and her breasts rising and falling as she catches her breath. 

She catches his appreciative gaze and glares menacingly at him. Clenching her fingers into biting fists, she curses "perverted pile of meat" before swiveling and stomping out the med bay doors.

As the doors swing after her furious departure, he locks his arms behind his head, unperturbed by her hostility, and relaxes, tipping his head up to marvel at the ceiling. "Quite the bitchy spitfire," he comments and whistles low. "And, my, what a tight ass."


Something a little bit different. And full of swear words and comments that would make a feminist seethe (like the main character!). Haven't really thought of any names for the characters yet, as this was just something I popped together pretty quick as a middle-of-the-night brain drainer. 

I find that dreams start to become quite interesting after I've written something down with a set of mentally-unstable characters. They're the best! I have a strange fascination with bad boys... (Am I alone on that notion?)

Also, for some reason, that I am not entirely sure why, I have joined another writing site called Protagonize. So check that out and if you are on there, let me know and we could be friends! (My username on there is Randomnese.)

Drop me a hello and review,


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