Hey everybody!
I decided to write a little something about Mr. Fifty Shades of Han himself. It's a drastic departure from my usual Humor offerings for MysMe. The inspiration (and first line) for this fic came from a post on Pinterest about Victorian clothing.
Warnings: this is going to be fairly dark. This fic deals with obsession, angst, and reader death. Proceed with caution. Enjoy! ^^;;
Disclaimer: I don't own Mystic Messenger. All characters and plot are property of Cheritz.
There is something intensely evocative and oddly erotic about a high-necked, button-up in the back lace shirt.
It's whimsical yet strict, chaste yet sultry, and most of all…
Unrelenting in its capture.
It throttles your pretty, slim neck in a way that I catch myself envying at times.
Interesting.
Even now, with tears streaming down pallid cheeks, dressed exactly the way I want you to be, so infinitely and perfectly mine…
You're beautiful.
Beautiful in the most pure and perfect way because you are my vision in lace, a captured bride, a siren in a golden cage.
I love dressing you up. My perfect little doll.
I love seating you in front of me, before the gold-gilded vanity that I bought just for you, and simply stroking your hair with the finest of combs and brushes.
You never meet your own gaze in the reflection.
It may be out of fear.
I imagine it's out of respect for me.
I just adore that.
You do it for me.
Everything you do is just for me.
This high-necked blouse and long pleated skirt.
Your beautiful hair, styled just the way I like.
Wearing those perfectly chained heels, locking you inside my house and heart forever.
Forever.
Such a wonderful word.
Even now, that lace-choked neck beckons to me.
How I just want to reach out…
"Jumin…?"
I want to reach out and just… just…
"Jumin, what are you doing?"
Milky and pale...
"Jumin… Jumin?!"
Could I dare touch a goddess and make her completely mine? Just feel her pulse throb beneath my fingertips?
Could that heart beat for me until it stutters to a stop?
"Jumin, no! Stop!"
I can't bear to hear that voice. Broken and pitiful. Full of fear and longing.
Can't that longing be for me instead of for freedom?
"Stop resisting."
Signs of asphyxiation...
"No… No!"
Such an interesting shade of purple…
"Stop!"
My hands can feel your pulse through white lace.
What a beautiful laceration I'm leaving on your skin.
That pulse is fluttering, fluttering, fluttering…
Arms thrashing, eyes wide, mouth agape.
Then…
Stillness.
"Darling?"
Silence.
"My… love? My love…? Are you…? Are you….?"
Are you now finally mine?