Title: Isolent Disobedience
Fandom: Trinity Blood
Pairing: Isaak x Dietrich, I think?
Synopsis: Bite marks and defiance are merely ingredients in a recipe for disaster. Or punishment.
The blood-soaked shirt slipped off his shoulders, dropping silently to the ground. There was a soft groan as his body slipped into warm water, eyes slipping shut. The water was almost immediately tinged red from sticky residue on his neck, shoulders and chest. Dietrich hissed softly as warm water came into contact with still open wounds, raising a hand to his neck and pressing against the dual puncture wounds there.
"Flamberg certainly bit hard..." Hazel eyes opened slightly, hand lifting a soaked towel to the wounds, rinsing dried blood off. The wounds stung, but it would close in time. Dietrich rose from the bath, water trailing down his lithe form, grabbing a towel from a rack and drying himself off as he left the bathroom. He would have to bind and deal with the wounds, and conceal the one on his neck. Especially the one on his neck.
Slender fingers rummaged through the first aid kit, drawing out several rolls of white bandages. He groaned softly as the bandage covered lacerated skin, then tugged his shirt on over the now bandaged skin. His fingers still bore some of the scrapes the methuselah's teeth had inflicted on him, but at least the gloves could hide that. Dietrich got dressed, buttoning up his coat and arranging the belts to look more presentable. He had just been about to open the door when the knob turned, and a black-garbed magician materialized in the doorway.
"You didn't show up." Gloved fingers stole across the puppetmaster's cheek, trailing down to rest on his neck. Eyes roamed around the room, taking in the sight of a barely concealed blood encrusted shirt, remnants of the white bandage scattered near the table. "Got into a fight again, puppetmaster?"
Dietrich showed no outward sign of discomfort as Isaak's grip tightened slightly, even though it hurt. Beneath the bandage, the barely healed wounds started to bleed again, crimson seeping out and onto the bandage. He reached up, fingers gripping Isaak's wrist. "I was careless."
Fingers crept over Dietrich's collar, loosening the tie and flicking the button open. Fingers crept into the puppetmaster's shirt, feeling the coarse bandage and dampness of blood. "Careless enough to get your throat slit?" Isaak's lips curled into a smirk, his slender fingers starting to apply pressure against the wound. His lips came dangerously close to Dietrich's ear. "Or have you been doing something else? Because..." Out of nowhere, there was a flash of silver, and Dietrich felt blood trickle from a single, razor thin cut on his throat. Bloodied bandages fluttered to the ground.
"Fights don't leave methuselah bite marks on one's throat."
Dietrich stiffened visibly. Behind him, the magician's lips curled into a smile. His fingers wrapped tightly around Dietrich's throat, and in an instant, the puppetmaster found himself pinned to the wall. "So it's true, then? Who was it, hm? Flamberg? Or was it some other methuselah..." Cold velvet drawled sarcastically, the razor sharp point of the knife resting on Dietrich's collarbone. Fingers deftly undid and removed Dietrich's belt. His coat followed shortly, black fabric dropping to the ground at Dietrich's feet.
"Hmph. What I do in my personal life isn't your concern."
The knife slid down, hooking in the first button and severing the threads holding it. The magician's smile grew wider. "On the contrary, your personal life is one of my utmost importance. A leader should always look after their subordinates, no?" Razor sharp steel pressed down further, this time slicing through the fabric and catching slightly on the bandages beneath. White, tinged red with blood, parted to reveal raw flesh, lacerations made by vampire nails and fangs marring pale skin.
Dietrich reached up, catching hold of Isaak's hand, stopping the knife from moving any further. Within seconds, the magician found himself bound with strings. He raised an eyebrow, finding it strange to be restrained with the puppetmaster's uncanny strings, yet, at the same time, didn't find them too much of a nuisance.
"Mind your own business, Panzer Magier." The strings tightened ever so slightly around the magician's now captive form.
Those were the wrong words to say, perhaps, as the magician rematerialized from shadows right next to the puppetmaster, just out of the grip of his strings, gripping his throat and pushing him down onto the bed, straddling his hips at the same time. "You're never satisfied until you've gotten under my skin, until you've agitated me, are you? And you think you know the right strings to pull... Oh, my dear puppetmaster, you've made a mistake this time round."
"Oh, is that so?" There was a cocky grin on the puppetmaster's face.
Isaak's smile was as cold as ice. "Oh, most certainly so."
Shadows wrapped around Dietrich's wrists, arms, waist, ankles, and even his neck. But suddenly, at the same time, Isaak felt a strange sensation in his body, as though something not of his making had gripped him. His eyes narrowed, gaze coming to rest on the cocky grin which remained on Dietrich's young face. Then, it struck him.
"Checkmate." Dietrich smirked. He couldn't move his limbs, but it didn't matter. Isaak wouldn't be moving either, his strings held the magician hostage, a prisoner in his own body, a body which was now a puppet of Dietrich's.
Isaak barely managed a smile. The boy was smart, perhaps too smart for his own good. "Don't think you've won yet, Marionettenspieler. Oh, you'll regret this later. Or have you forgotten, each action has a consequence? There will be some form of discipline for this insolent actions of yours."
The puppetmaster's smirk merely widened. "I'll be looking forward to it."
