Disclaimer: I do not own D. Gray-man or its characters, but I do own this bit of prose.
Author's Note: I got this plotbunny stuck in my head earlier, and it grew and got really complex, but I managed to shrink it back to how it was originally. I kind of like how it turned out. I've taken lots and lots of liberties, but hey, it's fanfic. Warning: This contains vague references to necrophilia. The rating is there for a reason. If this offends you (though, to catch it you'd probably have to be looking for it), don't read. It's also pretty dark if you really truly understand it. That said, enjoy!
Stitches
He keeps a coffin, bound with chains.
It lies in the corner of his room – when he is there – propped up against the corner. When he is gone, he takes it with him, carrying the bulk on his back or dragging it by the chains. There was a time when his apprentice – an idiotic, white-haired boy – would lug it along as he struggled to catch up. And when they settled in a hotel or inn, he'd place it in the corner once more; a conversation piece for the many women he took to bed. Only in the thick silence of night does he open it; unwinds the chains and runs his palms over the smooth surface before opening the lid on old hinges.
The woman inside is gruesomely lovely, with thin, bone-white limbs and long, graceful fingers. His own fingertips trail up her body, trembling and hungry as they trace the seams between decaying flesh and fragile cloth. Her skin is cold now, so unlike the first time he touched her, kissed her; then, she'd been warm and inviting. And soft; oh, so soft. But she doesn't move, does not respond at all, for she cannot unless he wills her to.
His bare skin brushes gauze and satin, wrapped tightly round her skull. White surgical bandages and a large bow of red ribbon wind over her eyes, leaving only her mouth – her breathtakingly perfect mouth – visible. He hovers there, breathing in her scent, that of roses and death, and lingers, torn between closing the distance or forgetting this perverse matter altogether.
"Maria," he breathes, low and lusty, reveling in the way his voice reverberates against her own – Innocence pliant under his hands and words.
Soft footfalls behind him, and a hand on his bare shoulder – the contact searing – but he does not turn, only bends his head to press a kiss to the whip-worn fingers. "Cloud," he whispers, and the name suits her; a fleeting beauty, light and ever changing, ready to storm at a moment's notice. She's a cliché, but a beautiful one.
Her body, naked and warm, presses against him, skin on skin, long, fair hair tickling him. She smells of musk and wild animal, and he pauses, one hand on his saintly corpse and the other pulling her to him. He was never the type for choices; he operated on instinct, pleasure as his guide.
He loves her. She was an exquisite specimen; a talented Exorcist and songstress. Had anyone asked him, he'd swear she bewitched him with her voice. Perhaps that was why he'd kept her, much to the Order's disapproval. He couldn't give her up.
Rough palms guide him round and he faces her, running a thumb along old, white scars, another on her hot, heaving chest.
He loves her. And when she was lying half-alive on the pavement – her face and scalp mostly gone, strewn across the street in a river of akuma blood – he feared she, too, would find her place in some godforsaken casket on his back. He would collect them like dolls, lovely and tragic – lovers that bend to his every will.
He kisses her – a desperate, sensual affair – and she complies. She tastes of wine and sex and he doesn't mean to, but he's guiding her toward the bed. She doesn't fight him, and lets him push her back, falling into the rumpled bedclothes. Normally so cold and unyielding, she's different with him; soft and welcoming. His mouth moves, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses in its wake, and stops to suckle on the seam of her cheek, the patchwork porcelain skin that hides from sunlight beneath her hair. She tastes of Maria.
And should she ever be in peril again, he'd do the same. He'd lost his wonderful songbird, and he would not lose his Cloud. With every stitch, she becomes more like Maria, and he loves her more. And as his fingers thread through her hair – Maria's hair – he imagines it's her and kisses her cheek.
He loves her.
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