Ria (kessie) wrote,

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Utena ficlet: Blood Bears Truth (NC-17)

...sheepishly owning up to this. I... I haven't written anything quite like this in some time, and I have no idea where it came from or how it tied together, but it did. All I can say is that something about Utena/Akio sets off all my danger, danger, very messed-up pairing ahead! bells. :/ I hope someone enjoys this at least.

(Written for the Anthy/Utena or Akio/Utena - bondage, knife play, cutting prompt in the Utena Kink Meme)

Blood Bears Truth
Pairings: Utena/Akio, Utena/Anthy
Rating: NC-17 (really, really NC-17)
Warnings: sex, bondage, blood-play, sex, some very uncomfortable knife-play, sex, allusions towards insanity.
Summary: Two broken princes try to reclaim what can never be theirs again.
Anthy/Utena or Akio/Utena - bondage, knife play, cutting

Blood Bears Truth

The bar is a curious mixture of low-life and attempted upper-class, smoky, dimly-lit, and one wall completely filled with glass that overlooks the city. She stands by the windows, pressing her fingertips against the glass and feeling the cold seep down to her bones, and gazes down at the streets far below, the twinkling lights glimmering the darkness like safety beacons.

She senses him before she speaks to him, a warm presence tinged with the scent of cinnamon and a sickly aftertaste of vanilla. His hand touches her shoulder, a gentle breach of personal space, and she stiffens before she can help herself; the touch disappears so quickly as if it were never there.

She abruptly turns to face him, tilting her head up to look into his green, green eyes. "You've been watching me all night," she says.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yes," he replies simply. "There is a lot to see."

She frowns, almost glares at him. "Pick-up lines don't work on me," she says, but she leaves with him anyway and fucks him in the back seat of his blood-red car. She fucks him so hard, her hair tumbling loose down her back, her dress slipping off one shoulder, that he shouts when he comes, comes, and comes again.

He takes her home, licks red wine from her nipples and ducks his head between her legs, slinging one of her legs over his shoulder. She digs her nails into his shoulder, hard enough to draw blood, and shrieks breathlessly when she spasms. She yanks his head up to kiss him, lets him peel her dress off and draw her to the floor, lets him move leisurely between her legs as she wraps them around his waist and moans.

He's very good at what he does, and he hums when she drags her nails down his back as their pace quickens, hisses at the pain and smiles. They fuck until she starts to wince and the pleasure disappears into pain and doesn't resurface; then he drops into a chair and she falls to her knees, wraps her hand confidently around him and bends her head.

She leaves before dawn, slipping her dress back on without showering. They lost her underwear somewhere between leaving his car and stumbling to his front door. He thinks of her walking through the city, fucked to an inch of her life and still wet, so horny she wants to jump anything with a cock; he moans, letting his hand drift down to gently fondle himself.

Two weeks later, she walks into her boss' office and finds him there, her boss on his knees and sucking. He smiles at her and licks his lips; she feels herself growing wet immediately, the memories of their night together making her whimper. The sound makes her boss jump like a frightening deer, scrambling to his feet and frantically smoothing his long red hair. He mutters about being late for a meeting and flees with his hard-on still visible. The door shuts behind him; she takes a step back, locks it, and hitches up her skirt, lets her underwear drop to the floor.

She allows him to wrap his tie around her eyes and bends over the desk, offers him her backside like a bitch in heat. He takes her over and over again, until she is on her hands and knees on the floor, pressing back against him with every thrust, whispering, "Yes."

They gather themselves quickly. She flicks her card at him and struts to the door.

He laughs. "Why would I call you?"

She turns, smirks at him. "Think about another person fucking you - giving you head - like I do. Think about it. Then call me."

The nightmares start soon after, things she hasn't thought about for years. She remembers the screaming - "I'm telling the truth, it was real, the swords were real." - clanging the bars, shouting, anything to be noticed.

No one notices the mad in the asylum. Until you do something beyond mad.

She dreams about the other girl in the cell trying to calm her down, hugging her, whispering, rocking her. She remembers the kisses, the feather-touch between her legs. She remembers the guards watching, leering, jerking off to their sex and moans as they fucked each other.

And then she remembers the girl, her green, green eyes perfectly blank, slipping the tip of a knife between her legs. The light press of the tip against her clit gives her the best orgasm she's ever had. It also brings the guards running at the amount of blood everywhere.

They believe her then, and the girl disappears.

She wakes up screaming and crying, the last vestiges of her orgasm making her legs tremble. But she never remembers her dreams anyway.

He calls her. They have dinner this time, before they fuck. The orgasm never seems to be as strong as her body desires, craves, needs, but she figures it's only a matter of time.

His eyes tell her so.

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