Between Sincerity and Falsehood: Ymir/Christa
A/N: Yeaah, spelled Christa cuz when I started reading SnK in whatever translation it was, it was Christa. So. First SnK fic of mine. Has to be YumiKuri cuz it's my OTP of the manga. ^_^
Disclaimer: I don't own Shingeki no Kyojin.
These eyes, the most exquisite of blues, deep with compassion, bright with certainty . . . don't they follow her to her dreams each night?
Dreams . . . however, she knows this isn't a dream; where her hands are now proves this isn't a dream; she can feel everything— texture, heat, and fuck— how she wishes that this is a dream. A dream so that maybe these heavy-lidded eyes and all of their crystalline blueness, all of their open emotions for the world to see, will fade. Won't seem as bright. Won't seem as sincere, so she won't feel as guilty.
These eyes, misty with passion, are gazing up at her now, vulnerable and churning with . . . with an emotion that shouldn't be there, an emotion that should be a sin to bear. Taboo.
These eyes . . . they blink slowly, long, golden lashes brushing faintly against flushed cheeks. Her lips are parted, beautifully swollen, and a soft, shuddering breath releases from between them, tickling the hairs on her neck. She's trembling, fingers digging into her bare shoulders, except . . . she doesn't feel it. Not really.
She's too busy being held hostage, enraptured or imprisoned, she isn't sure, by these eyes. These eyes— much too expressive. Within them, she can behold a soul so unbelievably benign, perhaps refreshing, but abnormal, in the twisted world they reside in.
Skin against skin.
A whisper in her ear. "Y . . . Ymir?" This voice, pitchy, corrupted with desire, causes her to loathe her being, her execrable existence even more (such a complication when she's to love only herself, live only for herself), for tainting such innocence. "Aren't . . . aren't you going to . . . f-finish?"
With a start, she recalls where her fingers are. When she moves them, even a little, the girl whose knees are straddling her thighs inhales sharply, back arching, melding into her touch.
She's smirking, aware of it blooming unconsciously across her face, cocky and satisfied at what naughty things she can make such an angel feel, however . . . however she can't stop wishing that this is a dream. She can't really be here, doing this to her— she wants to be, damn it, she wants to be— because even she's aware that she isn't worthy enough to have the honor.
She is selfish and she knows it. She is the absolute worst, despicable for craving these eyes, this body, this person as she does, born a . . . a goddess in comparison, however her self-hatred won't stop her, for what she wants, she gets, no matter what. It doesn't have to be meaningful. It doesn't have to be insignificant.
There doesn't have to be a reason.
When she blinks, she realizes that her gaze has fallen, resting on nothing in particular until a hand, warm, soft, and bearing no calluses whatsoever— the hand of something ethereal; it cannot possibly be from this world— caresses her cheek, thumb grazing over what she knows to be her freckles.
"Hey . . . are you alright, Ymir?" She has a voice of melody, orbs of cerulean probing, searching, oh, so concerned. "Am I asking too much of you?"
And sometimes, she just has to stare . . . stare and wonder at this girl before her, wonder if this girl is real, if someone this kind, this cherishable really exists. But she does, just as someone as horrible as her is allowed to be born into his world.
So she merely snorts a wry chuckle through her nose, averting her gaze from these eyes what can see right through her, before stealing a lingering kiss that is not at all gentle. "I . . . I really am the worst . . . to be taking your first time like this . . ." Tan fingers run sharply through soft, flaxen locks, as if to prove the point she's out to make. "Aren't I?"
On her own tongue, she can feel the other girl's words, — perhaps traded when their saliva's mixed— predict what she wants to say. How strange a phenomenon.
Moist lips begin to murmur against hers, "No. No, you're wrong, Ymir; you're the only one who I've ever wanted to—"
"This mouth your lips are against," she interrupts urgently, hoping to just be heard, "has tasted the flesh of your kind. These arms wrapped around you . . ." Her voice takes a desperate, pleading tone, yet she isn't exactly sure what she's begging for; begging has never been an ability of hers. "Does it not bother you that they aren't the ones I was born with?"
Sapphire eyes soften as a blonde head tilts, "Of—," but again, she silences her with a kiss, except this time, it's not at all bruising. Instead, it's something she's never thought herself capable of, something . . . sweet.
I am a monster, Christa, a monster, nevertheless . . . do you think I can change? Maybe if you . . .
"But even so . . . just let me— please just let me caress you, have you, pretend that this distortion we share can be even something as beautiful as love . . . ."
So this is where she's been going with this— the complete opposite of what her mind tells her— the truth, what she really feels, in her words instead.
The other girl leans forward, a flicker of . . . disappointment? . . . churning within seas of blue. "You don't believe it, then?" It's murmured softly, hardly audible, a whisper in the wind. "That this is love?"
"Lust, maybe," she responds blatantly, her tone dull, nearing a scoff, because how could it ever be love? Did . . . such an emotion even exist anymore? Could it thrive in a place like this, full of darkness? Sunlight is essential for all things to prosper, Titans included. Although, somehow, a hint of something deep inside her is convinced that . . . perhaps Christa can be the sunlight to illuminate the obscurity of her world. "I'm that terrible a person."
But maybe you can stop me.
There's a challenging arch in a golden eyebrow.
Ah. Her heart throbs at it's sudden exposure to prying eyes. Or knowing eyes, since they know and see what her heart feels, see right into it, as if it's a frigging open book.
"Is it lust or your terribleness that causes you to care for me, Ymir?" Always so persistent.
"Christa," she starts, voice insistent, ignoring the lips that cling to her collarbone— but oh, how lovely it feels— "You don't want my—"
A finger is pressed over lips. "Shhh, it's Historia, remember? At least let us just . . ." Such a wistful smile, yet doting nonetheless, genuine, and . . . and it does effectively lighten her heart, putting a penetrating crack in the shadows threatening to consume her. " . . . enjoy this sensation of utter bliss that may not be love, then, okay, Ymir?"
Something in her chest clenches in objection. May not be love . . . Perhaps she shouldn't have said that. It doesn't sound quite as true when spoken by the blonde. She doesn't feel quite as okay with it.
Nevertheless, she gives a grunt of affirmation, nodding as she leans her plain, brown head against imperial gold, basking in the lasting warmth of her lo— no, just Christa's embrace.
There is no love here. She is convinced. What is love? Nothing of importance. Nothing that exists.
"But say," she breathes lightly into her ear, "will you marry me after all of this is over with, Ymir?"
The brunette jolts and releases a near gasp— a reaction to the other girl's words. Is she . . . even aware of what she says sometimes? How impossible her request, hopelessly out of question, lovely, beautiful, so nice to hear her suggest to a monster like her . . . .
Something wet runs down one side of her cheek. Her breath catches. The body against hers starts.
"Hm? Ymir?" The wetness is instantly kissed away. "Ymir, are . . . are you crying?"
I-Idiot. Marriage is for people who love each other. . . .
A/N: Perhaps a random, vague, no-clue-when-this-takes-place, hard to follow piece, but I like it. Yesssh, couldn't ignore the cliche marriage thing for the life of me. It's necessary. *nods sagely* Review are appreciated.