Joined another comm... Go me...
Title: Glorious Concerto, beyond the Static of the Phonograph
Characters: Dante/Roze
Rating: Light NC-17 for sexual contact
Prompt: Set 1 from 7stages newspapers
Word Count: 2242
Summary: (the tubas, the tubas were overtaking the band, big, brassy and making her heart flutter)
Author's Note: Welcome to the world of mind-controlled Roze. Warnings, besides the obvious mind control: yuri (that's about it and it should have been obvious too)
Perhaps... you could afford a packrat habit when you lived in a mansion with a maid. Was she the maid? She wasn't sure. She was dressed a bit too nicely, perhaps, to be the maid. Yes, Dante gave her beautiful dresses, antiquated dresses, just like the newspaper clippings that were strewn about that one room.
It looked like the master bedroom; no, it was the master bedroom at one point. She had gotten the baby to stop crying, finally, finally stop crying and so she wanted to know more about this place of captivity, mansion, the euphemism might be.
Keys. She was holding them, and hadn't realized at first. Keys, keys to almost every room in the house.
But no, she didn't have a key to the newspaper room. Was that what she was calling it now? But then how did she know... it was full of newspapers?
Sometimes her head got so fuzzy, and now the baby was crying again, so she had to go away from that ornate door, go, go and tend to the child, comfort him silently.
...no, it didn't seem she was the maid. Perhaps she was the nanny.
Dante found her, sitting in the room, staring vacantly at the crib. The baby had stopped crying, though it took her quite a long time to calm his fussiness. Was Dante here, because the child had cried too long?
She tore her eyes from the bars of the crib-like the bars on the window, there for protection. (Was that another euphemism? Or was there another word for that? Lie?) It wasn't like she wanted to leave. She smiled softly as she looked up at Dante, hoping the look on the woman's face would be mild, or at least remotely kind.
Saying it was mild was an understatement, but Roze couldn't fathom what the look was. There were flashes in her head, pictures she didn't understand, suddenly giving her a headache. But she kept the pain to herself, not wanting to cause the woman she served so meekly any reason to worry.
"You have such a beautiful body," she heard Dante say, though it sounded like it came from a faraway place, perhaps a memory. Yes, this seemed so much like a memory, or maybe a replication. One of those silent pictures, redone, now to be a talking picture, but losing some of its glory, some of it's... majesty as it transgressed into the future. The memory was what a record was to a live band playing (the static was missing).
No, the room had been carelessly unlocked one day. Perhaps by a maid. Was she a maid? She couldn't remember.
She felt a new emotion, in the pit of her stomach as she swung the ornate oak door open, but she couldn't name it. She couldn't remember what it was. As the door creaked open, the papers fluttered everywhere, newspaper birds, cranes, bats, insects, flying through the sky.
There was a king-sized bed in the middle of the room, covered in the clippings and she wondered for a moment if she should clean it up?
...no, she wasn't a maid. Was she the nanny? It didn't matter. She knew she wasn't supposed to be in the room, but now the papers were all in a mess and she needed to do something about it!
She picked up one of the yellowed pieces of paper, trying to make out the type.
The baby cried too much. Dante never said anything, but Roze was sure that the woman disapproved. She wished she could remember how she had gotten into a household of such a beautiful young lady.
She was almost certain the woman had to have some money in the family; how else could she afford the extravagance she lived in? And the dresses, the dresses she gave Roze were just so beautiful.
Sometimes it made her wonder. She knew she wasn't the maid. She had finally met the girl. She had a child, but Dante dolled her up too much to be a servant, taking care of her hair in the morning, tying the corset on the dresses tight to show off her curves, making sure her sleeves ruffled properly.
Oh, it made her wonder. Was she the plaything of Dante? No, that was the opposite of euphemism. Dante had never done anything to hurt her and she only cared for her. Plaything just seemed to be so negative. But what little girl doesn't take the tenderest care of her porcelain dolls to make sure she never chips?
She felt like she wasn't a good mother. She had slipped some of Dante's brandy into his formula so he would sleep well tonight. Oh, and he was sleeping well. A good mother would never do that, would she? For all she knew, he could have died. And she didn't even know his name.
Footsteps. Outside the door. Too heavy to be the maid.
Dante opened the door to her room, her private hovel, sunshine leaking in through the barred window, falling on her face.
"You have the most beautiful body," Dante murmured.
There was no static (the tubas, the tubas were overtaking the band, big, brassy and making her heart flutter) but no, there were no tubas, it was Dante's hand stroking down the crush velvet of the bodice of her dress that was making her... no, she didn't know the word for the emotion. It was just pictures, pictures in her head, suddenly, flashes, though she didn't have any headache this time.
Did she put the brandy in the boys' bottle? Or did Dante?
It was hard to remember things sometimes. What had she eaten for dinner? Was there anything in her food, not to make her sleep, but to allow her heart to flutter like that with the gentlest of touches?
No, she didn't have a key to this room, but she didn't have a key to Dante's room either. Perhaps the draft hadn't come from her opening the door suddenly. The window in this room was unbarred, no holds, open, a purple butterfly flying into the room, settling on the dusty bedcovers.
She stepped up to look at it closer, but it wasn't there, and the window was shut. So was the door. She seemed confused for a moment, but let it go, dropping the yellowed clipping she had been clenching (the sweat on the palm of her hands had been terrorizing it, threatening to pull it apart, thread by thread) to the floor.
The floor was dusty, and all the newspapers were stacked, neatly on the bedspread, moth-eaten holes on the cover (the afghan seemed to have fled, half on the floor, half on the bed, all in tatters) and were those bloodstains on the pillows?
Newspaper clippings, everywhere, on every shelf, in the cabinets one would normally keep collectors' dolls (those porcelain dolls she wished she could have afforded when she was younger those porcelain dolls Cain had promised her he would show her when they were young those porcelain dolls that chipped and broke so easily, falling to the floor in a thousand gentle pieces, never to be picked up again) there were whole newspapers, a smiling young woman on the cover of one, a blank landscape on the cover of another.
Each and every one was dated further and further back. Where had Dante gotten these papers? They were like old stamps (useless, but continually collected) or gadgets you could order from a catalogue (that would never work, but were too expensive to throw away).
She took a step forward, trying to read one of the headlines of one of the clippings laid out on the bed, a dark substance (a euphemism for blood?) staining the corner.
No, Dante wasn't poisoning her. But then again, she wasn't poisoning the boy, just wanting him to sleep. No, Dante was her caregiver, and only wanted the best for her. She wanted her to be beautiful, and to take care of herself. Too often the woman remarked that Roze was losing too much weight, and should take better care of herself. Too often she found that Dante was spoon feeding her when she had forgotten to feed herself.
...how much had she forgotten? And why was her heart beating so fast?
Dante was just here to undress her for the night (the flutes had chimed in, were the tubas being taken over?) like every night that she could remember, though the memories were full of the static of the phonograph, nothing like the band in her mind, loud, brassy, beating out her other thoughts.
"You have a beautiful body," Dante said, and Roze wasn't sure what night it was. The baby was asleep in the crib, looking innocent (but breakable, like all those porcelain dolls with real hair, donated by orphans, needing the extra money) and here she was, suddenly able to breathe again, Dante unlacing the bodice of her dress.
"Perfection down to its finest," Dante murmured, slipping the dress off of her. Roze lounged in her panties and bra on the bed, not touching the garments herself. Dante was the one who dressed her (Roze was her plaything) and she had no right to mess with such things.
Dante was just watching her now, that odd look back in her eyes, like when she told her she had a beautiful body and Roze just wished the picture flashes (pain, death, suffering, love, feathers... feathers everywhere... her name being called in the voice of a bird... a mockery of a loved one...) would go away, but this time, she didn't just avoid a headache.
She recognized the look.
Need.
But why would Dante need her dress-up doll, her plaything, no matter how beautiful she looked in fancy dresses or... Roze couldn't remember the rest of her thought and Dante moved to sit on the bed, the ritual of the night going smoothly. (As only a woman could) Dante removed the bra from Roze, allowing her full release, the bodice and bra gone, but now she was chilled, some draft in the building bringing blood to the forefront of her skin (or was that a blush, modesty, an unremembered trait?) her nipples perking up in the cold.
"You're just what I want," Dante said, stroking Roze's hair (and the record, full of static was stuck now, jolting the same fuzzy memories over and over, not sure what to do with this new course of events), leaning in to kiss her softly.
Want and need were not the same thing (when it came down to connotation) but Roze accepted the kiss mildly, not kissing back, just letting a soft whimper escape as Dante stroked her breasts, squeezing a nipple softly. (Oh the band was playing an entirely new tone now, a violin solo, backed up by just two cello players...)
She had a son, but her mind was a virgin, fuzzy (collapsed in the snow?) and her panties were getting sticky and she didn't complain at all when Dante removed them.
"Whose are you?" Dante asked, and Roze inherently knew the answer to that question, but couldn't answer, her silent voice and the violin not audible to anyone but her. The only way she knew how to answer it was with a soft kiss to the other woman, the beautiful woman who took care of her, and whether she was her porcelain doll or not, she just wanted to be taken care of. That's what she was meant for.
She needed someone to love (no, that word was too strong) care about her, the concerto in her mind dulling as Dante touched her, spreading her wetness, long, beautiful fingertips penetrating her (memorably) virginal entrance, her knuckles brushing up against her clit, the woman's tongue suckling hard at one of her nipples, feeling nothing like when the baby had nursed (until she had lost so much weight her body stopped producing milk) and more like the final pull of the bow on the cello, her orgasm (for Dante) marked with flashes of white (no pictures making the white so blissful) and a soft whimper.
No words came from the girl.
Dante, given award for service to community-using alchemy to save lives, rather than to waste them.
There was a smiling woman above the clipping and she wondered who this Dante was. The clipping was tattered (and possibly bloodstained) so it couldn't possibly be her Dante, the woman who cared for her. And the picture above looked nothing like her.
She took a few steps back (and maybe, if her mind wasn't so fuzzy she could have fit the pieces together) and must have slipped on the dusty floor because everything blacked out.
"It's a shame to cover such a precious body with a nightgown," Dante said, tugging the frilly white thing over Roze's head. Roze was in heaven. She didn't even feel the bruise on the back of her skull from when Dante had caught her in his room, knocking her out with a quickly alchemized rod.
When she passed the oaken door again, she found it so odd that she didn't have a key. Well, she had other things to attend to. No need to waste time pondering things that didn't matter. Dante couldn't eat dinner alone. No, she needed her porcelain doll with brown hair and misted eyes, dressed up in her Sunday best.
Characters: Dante/Roze
Rating: Light NC-17 for sexual contact
Prompt: Set 1 from 7stages newspapers
Word Count: 2242
Summary: (the tubas, the tubas were overtaking the band, big, brassy and making her heart flutter)
Author's Note: Welcome to the world of mind-controlled Roze. Warnings, besides the obvious mind control: yuri (that's about it and it should have been obvious too)
Perhaps... you could afford a packrat habit when you lived in a mansion with a maid. Was she the maid? She wasn't sure. She was dressed a bit too nicely, perhaps, to be the maid. Yes, Dante gave her beautiful dresses, antiquated dresses, just like the newspaper clippings that were strewn about that one room.
It looked like the master bedroom; no, it was the master bedroom at one point. She had gotten the baby to stop crying, finally, finally stop crying and so she wanted to know more about this place of captivity, mansion, the euphemism might be.
Keys. She was holding them, and hadn't realized at first. Keys, keys to almost every room in the house.
But no, she didn't have a key to the newspaper room. Was that what she was calling it now? But then how did she know... it was full of newspapers?
Sometimes her head got so fuzzy, and now the baby was crying again, so she had to go away from that ornate door, go, go and tend to the child, comfort him silently.
...no, it didn't seem she was the maid. Perhaps she was the nanny.
Dante found her, sitting in the room, staring vacantly at the crib. The baby had stopped crying, though it took her quite a long time to calm his fussiness. Was Dante here, because the child had cried too long?
She tore her eyes from the bars of the crib-like the bars on the window, there for protection. (Was that another euphemism? Or was there another word for that? Lie?) It wasn't like she wanted to leave. She smiled softly as she looked up at Dante, hoping the look on the woman's face would be mild, or at least remotely kind.
Saying it was mild was an understatement, but Roze couldn't fathom what the look was. There were flashes in her head, pictures she didn't understand, suddenly giving her a headache. But she kept the pain to herself, not wanting to cause the woman she served so meekly any reason to worry.
"You have such a beautiful body," she heard Dante say, though it sounded like it came from a faraway place, perhaps a memory. Yes, this seemed so much like a memory, or maybe a replication. One of those silent pictures, redone, now to be a talking picture, but losing some of its glory, some of it's... majesty as it transgressed into the future. The memory was what a record was to a live band playing (the static was missing).
No, the room had been carelessly unlocked one day. Perhaps by a maid. Was she a maid? She couldn't remember.
She felt a new emotion, in the pit of her stomach as she swung the ornate oak door open, but she couldn't name it. She couldn't remember what it was. As the door creaked open, the papers fluttered everywhere, newspaper birds, cranes, bats, insects, flying through the sky.
There was a king-sized bed in the middle of the room, covered in the clippings and she wondered for a moment if she should clean it up?
...no, she wasn't a maid. Was she the nanny? It didn't matter. She knew she wasn't supposed to be in the room, but now the papers were all in a mess and she needed to do something about it!
She picked up one of the yellowed pieces of paper, trying to make out the type.
The baby cried too much. Dante never said anything, but Roze was sure that the woman disapproved. She wished she could remember how she had gotten into a household of such a beautiful young lady.
She was almost certain the woman had to have some money in the family; how else could she afford the extravagance she lived in? And the dresses, the dresses she gave Roze were just so beautiful.
Sometimes it made her wonder. She knew she wasn't the maid. She had finally met the girl. She had a child, but Dante dolled her up too much to be a servant, taking care of her hair in the morning, tying the corset on the dresses tight to show off her curves, making sure her sleeves ruffled properly.
Oh, it made her wonder. Was she the plaything of Dante? No, that was the opposite of euphemism. Dante had never done anything to hurt her and she only cared for her. Plaything just seemed to be so negative. But what little girl doesn't take the tenderest care of her porcelain dolls to make sure she never chips?
She felt like she wasn't a good mother. She had slipped some of Dante's brandy into his formula so he would sleep well tonight. Oh, and he was sleeping well. A good mother would never do that, would she? For all she knew, he could have died. And she didn't even know his name.
Footsteps. Outside the door. Too heavy to be the maid.
Dante opened the door to her room, her private hovel, sunshine leaking in through the barred window, falling on her face.
"You have the most beautiful body," Dante murmured.
There was no static (the tubas, the tubas were overtaking the band, big, brassy and making her heart flutter) but no, there were no tubas, it was Dante's hand stroking down the crush velvet of the bodice of her dress that was making her... no, she didn't know the word for the emotion. It was just pictures, pictures in her head, suddenly, flashes, though she didn't have any headache this time.
Did she put the brandy in the boys' bottle? Or did Dante?
It was hard to remember things sometimes. What had she eaten for dinner? Was there anything in her food, not to make her sleep, but to allow her heart to flutter like that with the gentlest of touches?
No, she didn't have a key to this room, but she didn't have a key to Dante's room either. Perhaps the draft hadn't come from her opening the door suddenly. The window in this room was unbarred, no holds, open, a purple butterfly flying into the room, settling on the dusty bedcovers.
She stepped up to look at it closer, but it wasn't there, and the window was shut. So was the door. She seemed confused for a moment, but let it go, dropping the yellowed clipping she had been clenching (the sweat on the palm of her hands had been terrorizing it, threatening to pull it apart, thread by thread) to the floor.
The floor was dusty, and all the newspapers were stacked, neatly on the bedspread, moth-eaten holes on the cover (the afghan seemed to have fled, half on the floor, half on the bed, all in tatters) and were those bloodstains on the pillows?
Newspaper clippings, everywhere, on every shelf, in the cabinets one would normally keep collectors' dolls (those porcelain dolls she wished she could have afforded when she was younger those porcelain dolls Cain had promised her he would show her when they were young those porcelain dolls that chipped and broke so easily, falling to the floor in a thousand gentle pieces, never to be picked up again) there were whole newspapers, a smiling young woman on the cover of one, a blank landscape on the cover of another.
Each and every one was dated further and further back. Where had Dante gotten these papers? They were like old stamps (useless, but continually collected) or gadgets you could order from a catalogue (that would never work, but were too expensive to throw away).
She took a step forward, trying to read one of the headlines of one of the clippings laid out on the bed, a dark substance (a euphemism for blood?) staining the corner.
No, Dante wasn't poisoning her. But then again, she wasn't poisoning the boy, just wanting him to sleep. No, Dante was her caregiver, and only wanted the best for her. She wanted her to be beautiful, and to take care of herself. Too often the woman remarked that Roze was losing too much weight, and should take better care of herself. Too often she found that Dante was spoon feeding her when she had forgotten to feed herself.
...how much had she forgotten? And why was her heart beating so fast?
Dante was just here to undress her for the night (the flutes had chimed in, were the tubas being taken over?) like every night that she could remember, though the memories were full of the static of the phonograph, nothing like the band in her mind, loud, brassy, beating out her other thoughts.
"You have a beautiful body," Dante said, and Roze wasn't sure what night it was. The baby was asleep in the crib, looking innocent (but breakable, like all those porcelain dolls with real hair, donated by orphans, needing the extra money) and here she was, suddenly able to breathe again, Dante unlacing the bodice of her dress.
"Perfection down to its finest," Dante murmured, slipping the dress off of her. Roze lounged in her panties and bra on the bed, not touching the garments herself. Dante was the one who dressed her (Roze was her plaything) and she had no right to mess with such things.
Dante was just watching her now, that odd look back in her eyes, like when she told her she had a beautiful body and Roze just wished the picture flashes (pain, death, suffering, love, feathers... feathers everywhere... her name being called in the voice of a bird... a mockery of a loved one...) would go away, but this time, she didn't just avoid a headache.
She recognized the look.
Need.
But why would Dante need her dress-up doll, her plaything, no matter how beautiful she looked in fancy dresses or... Roze couldn't remember the rest of her thought and Dante moved to sit on the bed, the ritual of the night going smoothly. (As only a woman could) Dante removed the bra from Roze, allowing her full release, the bodice and bra gone, but now she was chilled, some draft in the building bringing blood to the forefront of her skin (or was that a blush, modesty, an unremembered trait?) her nipples perking up in the cold.
"You're just what I want," Dante said, stroking Roze's hair (and the record, full of static was stuck now, jolting the same fuzzy memories over and over, not sure what to do with this new course of events), leaning in to kiss her softly.
Want and need were not the same thing (when it came down to connotation) but Roze accepted the kiss mildly, not kissing back, just letting a soft whimper escape as Dante stroked her breasts, squeezing a nipple softly. (Oh the band was playing an entirely new tone now, a violin solo, backed up by just two cello players...)
She had a son, but her mind was a virgin, fuzzy (collapsed in the snow?) and her panties were getting sticky and she didn't complain at all when Dante removed them.
"Whose are you?" Dante asked, and Roze inherently knew the answer to that question, but couldn't answer, her silent voice and the violin not audible to anyone but her. The only way she knew how to answer it was with a soft kiss to the other woman, the beautiful woman who took care of her, and whether she was her porcelain doll or not, she just wanted to be taken care of. That's what she was meant for.
She needed someone to love (no, that word was too strong) care about her, the concerto in her mind dulling as Dante touched her, spreading her wetness, long, beautiful fingertips penetrating her (memorably) virginal entrance, her knuckles brushing up against her clit, the woman's tongue suckling hard at one of her nipples, feeling nothing like when the baby had nursed (until she had lost so much weight her body stopped producing milk) and more like the final pull of the bow on the cello, her orgasm (for Dante) marked with flashes of white (no pictures making the white so blissful) and a soft whimper.
No words came from the girl.
Dante, given award for service to community-using alchemy to save lives, rather than to waste them.
There was a smiling woman above the clipping and she wondered who this Dante was. The clipping was tattered (and possibly bloodstained) so it couldn't possibly be her Dante, the woman who cared for her. And the picture above looked nothing like her.
She took a few steps back (and maybe, if her mind wasn't so fuzzy she could have fit the pieces together) and must have slipped on the dusty floor because everything blacked out.
"It's a shame to cover such a precious body with a nightgown," Dante said, tugging the frilly white thing over Roze's head. Roze was in heaven. She didn't even feel the bruise on the back of her skull from when Dante had caught her in his room, knocking her out with a quickly alchemized rod.
When she passed the oaken door again, she found it so odd that she didn't have a key. Well, she had other things to attend to. No need to waste time pondering things that didn't matter. Dante couldn't eat dinner alone. No, she needed her porcelain doll with brown hair and misted eyes, dressed up in her Sunday best.