"Marluxia, you're obsessed."
"I am not."
"Ever see the way you look at her? It's absurd."
"It's not absurd. Mind your own fucking business…"
Stoic navy eyes watched carefully as delicate pale fingers etched blue paint into the fluorescent white paper. The paint bled and smeared, forming the unmistakable sky. Shades of whites and pinks were added in, twisting together and blending to create an island-like sunset. Her breathing was clam and even, eyes focused on her work.
"You were watching her again."
Gloved fingers slowly ran through her sunshine hair, her hand suddenly stopping as soft azure eyes narrowed in recognition. Even though the hand was warm, her skin felt cold and detached. A shudder streaming down her spine as the smell of spring invaded her senses. She heard the soft sound of leather bunching as he leaned down, gentle lips kissing her temple lightly.
"Don't touch her. She's not your fucking plaything."
"Are you jealous, Axel?"
"Hell no. It's just…she's afraid of you."
Naminé was silent as a clothed arm draped around her bare shoulder, his gloved hand feeling up and down the skin on her upper arm. She stayed completely still, her hand clenching the paintbrush lightly. Eyes devoid of emotion, she listened to his rhythmic breathing closely. It shouldn't have come to a surprise that he was there. His presence seemed to be one of the only constant things in her life.
Always haunting, always watching.
The man moved his lips down, kissing her cheek affectionately. She winced as she moved her head to the side and away from his prying lips.
"Are you really afraid of me, Naminé?"
No response. Marluxia looked to her in what would be a pitying expression. Although he lacked the notions to truly feel sorry for her. All he knew was that he wanted her for himself. He wanted to hear her soft melodic voice, to feel her unblemished skin beneath his bare fingertips. She was as pure as the white of her dress; a rare Nobody without fault or hatred. An artist in all respects.
She was unique; a far cry from the burning nothingness that seared his nonexistent heart. She could cry. She could have compassion. She was the beautiful white flower of the Organization, prized for her witchcraft and artistic abilities.
"You're frustrated with Naminé again, aren't you?"
"Why would you give a damn?"
A laugh, a cocky grin as hands pushed against his chest while emerald eyes narrowed darkly, "You only fuck me when you're angry."
The paintbrush dropped to the floor in a soft patter, blue paint staining the sickly white floors. Her pale hands reached up to stop him, holding against his chest wearily. "Please…"
Marluxia looked down to her once more, his form cool and collected but yet burning with ache and fixation. The way her large doe-like eyes stared up at him sent chills of delight throughout his veins, his lips suppressing a hungry smile. His fingers twirled through her silk like hair, admiring the shine it let off in the overpowering light.
"Paint me something, Naminé." he murmured, eyes glazed with allure and distraction.
"A-all right…" Naminé replied in a whisper, blue eyes still wary and careful, "What do you want me to paint? A sunset? A flower?"
"No…" Marluxia frowned, eyes glaring into hers intensely. A sickly sweet smile slowly formed on his lips, her hands becoming weak as he advanced over her, his arms wrapping around her petite form, "I want you to paint me a heart."
She shivered, averting her gaze to the side as his lips brushed against her cheek, trailing carefully to her ear where he allowed butterfly kisses to roam down her neck. His hands gripped either of her arms, thumbs pressing in circular motions.
"Why the hell did you fucking rape her? She's just a child."
"Why are you so angry? You shouldn't have a heart to care."
"She's crying, Marluxia. Because of you, the plans will get screwed up."
"Plans? Is that truly what you care about?"
The chair hit the ground, her back smashing against the white table in a loud thud. She whimpered, eyes closed as she tried to ward off the pain and focus on nothing but memories that were never hers to call her own. Black gloves were thrown to the ground haphazardly as he moved in between her, kisses growing hot and impatient against her ivory skin.
Her finger tangled through his godlike hair, her voice frantic and soft as she begged for him to stop. Begged him to go slower, to calm down, to think about what he was doing. Paint toppled over as his arm brushed them aside, her fresh drawing slowly fluttering to the floor face down. Blue paint spilled over onto the table, staining her beautiful white dress.
"What color is that?"
"It's blue."
"You always seem to use it when you draw. Why?"
"Because Blue is the color of sorrow…"
Her dress slowly slid off her thin body, blue paint seeping through the coated fabric to stain her skin like splattered ink. She shuddered as one of his warm hands moved up and down her bare legs, the other brushing up and down her back roughly. He wanted to feel. He wanted to have an emotion to give and call his own. She wanted to pity his desperate attempts, but was instead left with burning fear and hatred.
Her hands shook as she gripped his shoulders, tears streaming down her youthful face in abundance. Her nails ran down his clothed back, the sound of splitting leather echoing in her ears. She felt sick and dizzy, the white ceiling spinning over them as his fingers began to undo her small laced bra.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry harder. She wanted to forget everything and recoil back into the images of an island and of friends and of cold sea water that she knew would never be hers.
Blue is the color of sorrow.
Blue is the color of my eyes.
Blue is the color of his eyes.
He moved in and out, his skin perspiring with sweat and heat as his breathing grew erratic and forced. His lips crashed against her skin, teeth brushing against her pulse, a hand steadying her hips as the other gripped the back of her skull. He groaned in pleasure as she cried in pain. His body was heavy and overpowering against her. Her small frame shook with throbbing ache and anger. Anger that she could do nothing as he forced himself inside her.
His lips found hers again, eyes closed in a flurry of passion and desire as his tongue slipped through her bloody bruised lips.
I sorrow for you.
I sorrow for you who knows not what happiness is.
He groaned out her name, head tucking into the space between her neck and shoulder as he rode out his orgasm. Her nails dug through his skin, legs shaking and body aching as he came. He murmured her name over and over until his form slumped against her.
Her fingers relaxed, body clenched around him as she trailed soft fingers into his brunette layered hair.
"Marluxia…."
I sorrow for myself, who envies the memories of another's happiness.
He looked up at Naminé lazily, his high slowly beginning to plummet. He sighed in frustration, pulling out of her with a quick jerk that left her choking back a sob. His body was lax and satisfied as he pulled his pants back on, cursing the blue paint that marked his skin. Once his jacket was on and zipped up, he grabbed her ruined dress and threw it to her.
"Sorry." he shrugged. It wasn't an apology. He never had a heart to care about his actions, no matter how destructive they were. He had no hope of an acceptance for forgiveness or for open arms to hold him and tell him everything would be okay. He merely said it out of habit. As if the one word would erase everything that happened and allow them to start anew like a blank canvas.
Naminé clutched the dress against her swollen form, eyes to the ground. He moved towards her, kissing her forehead quickly before turning to take his leave. As silently as he had entered the room, he left with the same unfaltering grace.
Her eyes stayed to the color splattered ground where drops of blue had trickled down from the table and twisted with the white paint to produce a soft pastel azure. She stared at the mix of colors, lips parted as her breathing began to calm.
Blue. The color of sorrow. The color of the sky and of the always churning sea. It is the color of mourning and of spirituality, of protection and of depression.
Blue, the color a bride secretly wears on her wedding day out of tradition.
Blue is the color of his eyes.
Author's Note: Wrote this all in one sitting, so sorry for any spelling errors. I wanted to do some literature experimentation and tried the themes "Blue" and "Obsession". I'm a sucker for Marluxia x Naminé stuff.
Ironically in history/folklore, Blue was used as protection against witches, who supposedly dislike the color. I find that entertaining.