This is for the 100 themes challenge, and the pairing is AnkOro. Just to warn you, this isn't a nice fic, at all. In fact, I'm still slightly sickened with myself for writing it (my muse is sometimes scarily twisted, and has a fascination with unhealthy relationships). If you can handle consensual abuse, pedophilia, and a nasty ending...well, you might be okay reading this. If you don't want to know about that kind of thing, this isn't the fic for you. You have been warned.
58) Kick in the Head
She knew from the beginning it was a bad idea, but that's why she had to do it. He had never pretended to be a kind man, never pretended to care for her unless she was being useful to him. He was an addiction, everything from the hard edge of his smile to the way his fingers moved as he made hand seals so fast she could hardly see them. Knowing that he would probably break her and hurt her only made her keener than ever. Ever since her parents died, she'd longed to join them respectably, and what better than to be killed by the most perfect man alive?
There are bruises on her arms and legs, coiling and purple,like a tattoo of his summons.
He'd let her seduce him, it was clear he was in control all along, but that was okay. Even as she stumbled her way through innuendos and soft caresses, she knew he would punish her for it with biting and whipping eventually.
She can feel the heat of blood running down her skull, inside and out, burning hot in the darkness.
When she'd first plucked up the courage to take it further, to kiss and touch him, he'd finally stopped the game. There was no tiptoeing around what they were doing – it was wrong, it would hurt, and now she had shown her interest openly, he could take anything he wanted. It only seemed fair, a prepayment of the debt she owed him for revenging her parents' deaths. A punishment for her own weakness. It was happiness and acceptance, closure at last from her nightmares.
There must be shards of bone in her brain, even though she can't feel them. She will die before help comes, because that's only right.
Sex hurt. She knew what it was, vaguely, from the academy, but she hadn't expected this. It was like a kunai had been jammed into her, splitting skin and making nerves scream. She smiled and licked a drop of blood from her lips. "Harder, please, harder." It pushed her up, little explosions threading through her thighs until they all accumulated in that pain and she was nearly, nearly...he bit her shoulder and she screamed with the release, falling through clouds of pain.
She awoke later with burning skin, sore and aching, bite marks livid on her partially developed breasts. He had left her to wake alone, but that was how it should be. It hurt more that way, made it all so much more meaningful. She managed to walk, unsteady with the sensation of her sore core, to get herself some food. It was perfect.
Darkness is falling, but the sun is still in the sky. Death will be along soon.
She knew, in theory, that girl old enough could become pregnant. But the absurd brokenness of their relationship had pushed the thought from her mind. Of course she wouldn't get pregnant when everything was such a secret. But now here she was, looking every day for some sign of bleeding other than the scratches on her thighs or the bite marks half hidden by wiry curls. And she had no idea what to do. Maybe if he fucked her harder it would kill the child.
That night blood was trickling from between her legs, her neck crisscrossed with dark scabs, and she thought it would be okay. But next month there was no sign of any bleeding, or the one after that, and now she could even see the bump where the child – the being that should not be, that should not have been created in this way – was pushing through.
So she went to him, and told him, and trusted him. He tied her up and fucked her till she passed out, worn to unconsciousness by blood loss and orgasms. When she woke he was waiting, and he took her again, ripping flesh under his fingernails and biting her ears until the cartilage tore. She passed out faster, but this time he didn't stop, and on some level she felt the pounding of her broken flesh.
She woke again with broken limbs, untied and lying on a cold floor, feeling pure and almost happy. He stood above her, black and white and beautiful. And then he kicked her, in the stomach, the chest, the head, until everything was a blur of pain and she could feel the baby moving, could feel her aching muscles contracting as the back of her skull made a white hot splitting noise.
The drip of blood is slowing. Maybe there's none left. Finally, she can die in peace. The darkness falls further. No need to breathe now. No need to do anything. Just as it should be.
Flame me, by all means. I feel like I deserve it for writing something so twisted.