PWP
Obsession, Possession
Hitomi/Dilandau
This is a what-if set in the world of KRL. A peek at what Hitomi's life would have been like if she hadn't saved Van. Warning: Dark lemon.You have been warned.
Warning: This fic is labeled dark for a reason. It is not happy, and borders on the side of masochism. If you don't like dark stuff, or you thought Suils Saifir's Man of Honor one shot from B & G was too dark then I highly advise against reading this.
It is difficult for her to discern from reality and make believe any more. She despises the nights. Too often the disgraced princess can not tell if the blood stains on her hands are real or not. Red is the only color she sees. Her world has been awashed in shades of gray, in pitchest black. She no longer feels the burning of the tonic as another vision is forced upon her. She wonders if, perhaps, this is madness.
She goes to him at night clothed only in a mantle of gossamer silk.
The shadows hide her nakedness as she slips into the empty room. She waits on the balcony, her hair falling in unbound curls down her back.
She stares out over a city wrought of twisted metal and iron. She does not hear him enter but she knows he is there. His presence is like death on her senses, bitterly sweet. His grip, as his arm snakes around her waist is painful. The delicate fabric rips as he tears the mantle off her shoulder. Hitomi doesn't fight back and doesn't resist. She arches her neck to give him easier access when his hand wraps around her neck in a manner that could be considered a choke hold. He doesn't kiss her—it can never be called anything so gentle—but his mouth still presses desperately against her lips with a bruising intensity. Her hands go to the buckles of his armor, not caring that they are exposed the eyes of any of the soldiers that patrol Zaibach's capital. She nips at his lip, drawing blood and rolls her hips when his hands slide down her hips and press against her. She moans into his mouth when he thrusts a finger inside of her and claws at his shoulders. When she pulls away for air he shoves her towards the glass door of the balcony.
Her viridian eyes are hot as she glares at him, a soft snarl escaping, and her nails chip as she pulls apart the ties and buckles that hold the last of his armor in place. It falls to the balcony with a dull thud and she wastes no time in removing the buckle of his leather pants. There is no time to remove his tunic. Not tonight.
Their love making—if it can even be called that—is something hot and wild and desperate. Her grips her breasts too hard and they ache. She cherishes the pain and the ache as she slides his pants over his hips, crying out when his fingers dig deep into the scarred skin of her back. Blood weeps out of the skin that he has broken and she wraps her arms around his shoulders and bites down hard. His groan is low, with the edge of a growl as his hands leaves her back to steady her hips.
When he enters her she cries out, not certain why it hurts so much when they have done this so many times.
Hitomi loses herself in the sensations as he fills her completely and roughly thrusts into her. His only concern is to find his own release, and he does not tend to her needs.
This is fine with her. She does not come to him each night, she does not fuck him each night on this balcony, to find that blissful release. This is the only thing in what is her life that is real. This is the only pain that she caqn feel. His fine silver hair and burning crimson eyes are the only that she can see any more. Silver and crimson, the only colors that make sense to her any more.
The glass door beneath her breaks and she cries out and arches into him when tiny slivers slice at her skin. Within moments the pain fades and she meets his thrusts with a savage desperation, her teeth grazing his neck and her jagged nails dig into his shoulder. He captures her lips again and she tastes blood. One of his hands snakes up her back, digging into the torn flesh and his fingers tangle into her hair and he forces her neck back enough to expose the bruised line of her throat to him.
Her world explodes into white stars as he continues to cut her and make her bleed. The crimson liquid almost burns as it crawls down her skin and she moans at the sensations. Her skin will be red and purple tomorrow, jagged and bruised, and no one will care. Her body still thrums with need when he spills into her and she doesn't try to stop him when he withdraws. She sinks to the floor, gasping. She will stay like this for a while, and wrap herself in what blankets she can find. She never sleeps in his bed.
In the pale morning of the pre-dawn hours Dilandau will drag her from the floor, as he does every morning. His breath will be hot against her skin as he drags her to the shower. He will take her again, as he lets the scalding water clean her blood off and it is only then that she will find the release, that the craving will be finally sated.
She will wander the rest of the day in a daze. If she is lucky someone will be kind enough to help her dress, and all she will be able to do is count away the hours and hope that, if she can't tell the difference between the melding realities of her vision that he will send for her again.
She can only pray that he will make her bleed.
Ok…that was a bit dark…and more morbid then I had intended. Depending on what the feedback is I may or may not continue this. There are some interesting angles that I can explore if I do.