Author's Note: This was written for the Fire Emblem Kink Meme on Livejournal, and has since been expanded.
Prompt: Orson/Monica, necrophilia. ...He did say he loves her no matter what, right?
Started/completed: January 27, 2011
Posted: January 27, 2011 on LJ; June 24, 2011 on FF.n
Last Edited: June 24, 2011
Word Count: 670
Warning: Necrophilia.
The first time, he's as eager as he's ever been for her. Just the thought of her returned from the dead to him, because she loves him so much, makes him hard. It is his Monica waiting for him, her reward to him for all he's done to bring her back.
Her body is naked, and he takes her on the cold, unforgiving floor. He hasn't been this excited to take a woman since he was a squire. He snaps his hips forward, and she is dry. (He pushes against the thought that this is what it must be take an unwilling woman, but this is Monica, and she'd never be unwilling. She's only playing coy with him. She has to be.) She must be punishing him for not taking his time with her. She deserves more than a quick fuck. He thinks of taking her back to their bedroom, but fuck, he's so close and -
It is an empty pleasure when he comes inside her, tightly grasping her limp hands.
He tries to push into like he used to; all that he needed, then, were some carefully chosen words with a smile into her neck, and she'd be slick and ready for him.
Well, he says the words, and smiles sweetly into her neck like he used to. She still smells of her favorite perfume - her favorite because it was his. (He lets the memory of dabbing the oil below her ear slide away from his grasp as he focuses on her tight she is.) But it's not like it used to be. Her body lies waiting for him, but it's not the same.
There's something missing.
The next time he makes sure to coax her into wetness. Although she does not smile, and has been silent, he knows she must feel what he does: a dull, piercing ache whenever he is away from her, that is only soothed by an entirely different one when he pumps in and out of her. His fingers stroke and stroke until she's ready, but even then she doesn't wrap her legs around his hips. Her legs lie there, waiting. What is his Monica waiting for?
Hasn't he done enough? He's loved her through death and back, what more could she want for? She must be ignoring him because he's been busy with the people at the castle gates. He won't see them anymore; it'll just be her and him now.
He grunts his vow against his neck, clenching his fingers around her hip bones hard enough to bruise,, and at last she breaks her silence.
"Darling," she whispers. The word is all he has every looked for, absolution and love. For this, he has, and will give anything.
The orgasm she wrenches from him with the word is fierce and lasts an eternity as he spills his seed, leaving him gasping for breath.
He takes her against the wall, and it's difficult. Her body is languid, boneless, and he has to order her to cross her ankles behind his back.
Why does she do this to him? They should be in bed, there should be laughter, there should be her moans, her nails against his back. Instead, when they are done, and he takes her back to their room, his semen drips down her thighs and stains the sheets. She makes no move to clean herself, and he just watches.
God, he loves this woman.
He buckles his armor, preparing for the remnants of the Renaisian army at his gates led by the Prince with his spear sharpened to a point. As he leaves the room, she murmurs, "Darling, darling," over and over. He thinks of how thrilled she'll be with his birthday gift to her. What better gift for the queen she is than riding him for her pleasure on the throne? She will be thrilled, she'll cry his name, and above all, she – and he – will be happy.
He goes to battle with pre-cum staining his clothes.
