Dante/Roze Darkfic 3/7
Title: Accepting Pain for Love
Character(s): Dante/Roze, Lust
Rating: Light NC-17
Prompt: 3 candle in the window from 7stages
Word Count: 2373
Summary: The long claws pressing against her skin uncomfortably, the sneer of the woman above her-it was almost too much to take. But something inside her was numb, and she didn't squirm, she didn't protest. She just kept her eyes open, refusing to cry, even when the sharpened nails pressed against her so hard she bled.
Author's Notes: mindfuckery (and fuckery), Dante isn't nice, Roze is not herself, and Lust has never been nice.
One moment, she had been with her child, alone, rocking him slowly in her arms, murmuring nonsense.
The next, the baby was in Lust's arms, and Roze felt mild confusion, looking at the sin, recognizing her, those blurry early memories at the mansion coming back, but it didn't make sense why the woman was holding her child... that mark, between her breasts.
He started crying.
"My baby!" (Lest he cry.) Those words, the words that seemed to be the only words she could bring to her lips and despair came over her. Everything seemed dark around her for a moment, then there was a brilliant flash of thunder.
When had it become night? Or were the clouds so heavy and thick that they were blurring out the sun she had just seen rise? Or was that just her fear blotting out the sun, cascading down in vibrant waves of electricity, followed by the rumbling timbre of anger? (Anger could be her redemption, yet the danger of redemption was something so dire it could not stay in her mind more than a few moments.)
The chandelier in her room swayed a bit, rocked by the wind from her broken window, passing through the bars.
She only heard the sound, the sound of breaking glass now, and she found voice enough to scream. Her baby boy was tossed aside, thrown to the ground next to the shards of glass and Lust just looked at him casually, making sure the baby wasn't dead. Oh, Dante would kill her if the baby was dead. She had been specifically told that the baby had to stay alive.
She wrapped one of those gloved hands around Roze's mouth. "Careful, you might break," she murmured, shoving the girl onto the bed, not another look at the baby.
Oh god, it was so dark, dark, and that was all Roze could feel and see, except for the pain. That was red and fuzzy, like old memories. She was splayed on the bed and didn't want to open her eyes, didn't want to see the looming figure above her, and above all, didn't want to believe this was happening.
"Look at me, Ornamental," Lust hissed, clawed fingers scraping (barely blood trails) up her neck. "You need to see this."
Roze just whimpered and opened her eyes slightly, seeing those inhuman, slit, purple ones leering at her. She tried to vocalize words to tell Lust to stop, to stop all this, but the words wouldn't come. She tried to struggle, but something was wrong and she couldn't move, paralyzed with fear and an odd sense of duty, like this was something she had to live through. Something more to survive.
(The alley. Bradley was drunk, but not with alcohol. Pride, swagger, so much more inebriating than any liquor. Just don't touch the children, she had begged. No... that's not what I'm looking for...)
"Much better," Lust practically purred, looking at Roze's wavering eyes.
Oh, she had lost so many memories, why was she remembering this right now? And why were those thoughts coming into her head? Not the time, not the place, just focus on what she was supposed to be doing... supposed to be taking care of her baby, her child...
Lust smacked her across the face, her long nails leaving blood trails, though they'd heal up quickly. Mark the girl, make her her own. "Pay attention," she spat, but Roze hadn't even noticed her eyes had shut again. The sense of duty was back and she opened them, looking into the homunculus' inhuman purple eyes, trying to blink away the few tears that had left.
Her baby wasn't crying; he was the only thing besides that awkward feeling this was something that had to happen in her mind. The long claws pressing against her skin uncomfortably, the sneer of the woman above her-it was almost too much to take. But something inside her was numb, and she didn't squirm, she didn't protest. She just kept her eyes open, refusing to cry, even when the sharpened nails pressed against her so hard she bled.
"Ornamental," Lust murmured, pressing her fingertips against the soft of Roze's stomach. This wasn't Dante, this wasn't her own, yet it was that name and she had to succumb. Yet simply succumbing, letting her mind blank out to the place she had been so often didn't seem to work, didn't seem to please the woman she was supposed to be pleasing. Her vacant expression only awarded her a slap upside the head (a treatment Dante would never have dealt out, too much like him, like Bradly, up against the wall of the alley, her baby crying, where was he?)
She whimpered, tasting the coppery taste of blood in her mouth, yet still refused to properly cry out.
"Cry for me," Lust hissed, dragging her claws slowly down the center of Roze's stomach, blood welling up in the scratches, and all the numbness melted away; Roze started hearing sobs, unable to recognize that they were her cries, her tears (things just fading away into another sinister background, another moment untouched by memory, yet somehow remembered). Though she was feeling the pain, though she was responding to the pain, it felt like it was being done to someone else, for someone else.
(The baby had come into the world pink and crying, just like her flushed face and teary eyes. Another product of-of a forced intrusion like this.)
It was all feeling and it started to overwhelm her, the softness of the bed compared to the sharp pain of Lust marking her, the wicked smile compared to her soft sobs, and she was just ready to let go. But she couldn't do that.
Dante wouldn't want that.
So she cried for Lust, her torso slick with blood, though the homunculus had been careful not to scratch her upper chest, her breasts completely untouched. This wasn't about her. This wasn't about her.
It was for her caregiver, her protector, the only one who could get her through the moments. Dante's smile (harsh, like Bradley's), her gentle touch, nothing like this (nothing so painful), her loving words (not jeering insults) would be what got her through this moment, her vision starting to fade, the corners of the room going black, her baby out of sight. Out of mind.
(She had to listen to the strings of the violin, filling in her gaps, the blazing trumpets strolling through her day.)
Just in the moment.
She was barely aware Lust was spreading her legs, scraping those dangerous nails against the tender flesh of her inner thigh, her whimpers, her sobs (more music?) adding to the dreaded silence of the room. Lust had stopped talking, stopped filling in her gaps and it was all starting to fade away like the room. Yet, no matter how much her vision failed, the woman was still there (always would be, in those back memories replaced by the static phonograph, that record that had been recorded just for her) forcing herself upon Roze's (unwilling) pliant body, the girl would be willing to do anything just to make the pain stop.
Just to keep the woman from telling her that she hadn't complied.
(There was no one here without a purpose.)
(Precious Doll.)
The intrusion itself didn't hurt, the claws having disappeared in the moment, but she still had a dull ache, the feeling that something was too big (no complaints) wrong (nothing here is wrong) wrong with her and there was nothing she could do to fix it. Her caretaker would help, teach her how to fill in where she was lacking.
Help her think more about others.
It was only a momentary relief of pain, however, the sudden shock of claws inside of her (just like the music, a trifling flute solo) scraping at her sensitive inner tissues, her body trying impossibly to come up with more space, a slicker space.
(She just wasn't able to accommodate, keep Bradley off of her, keep her baby from crying, keep Dante pleased...)
That memory.
Erased.
She bit down on her lip, just adding to the salty taste already flooding her mouth, blood leaking from the corner of her lips.
She sat at the window, her eyes glossed over and vacant, the chandelier on the floor, her baby in her arms. It hurt to walk (her fault) so she didn't want to move, darkness slowly taking over the room (as it had taken over her body).
Her baby was crying and she undid the top of that beautiful dress Dante had lent her, telling her to take care of it (better than the last one ripped to shreds), letting him suckle at her chest. Her body was clean of wounds, like a healing light had come over her, cleansing her of her sins for a simple correct act.
There was nothing Dante couldn't do for her.
She was her caregiver, her protector, the person who made sure there was a place in this world for her.
And her place was as her Ornamental, her China Doll, her plaything.
It gave her satisfaction.
She was on the bed, bleeding, her child knocked out on the floor, yet she couldn't even tell, her vision fading slowly, her body unresponsive, as if dead (yet truly that was the soul.)
She stared up at her ceiling, seeming so black, humming along to the small tune in her head (the twittering of flutes and deep brass and the dark hum of the cello). There was a woman she barely knew cleaning blood off of claws, yet it didn't interest her at all. She had done her duty. She had done what she wanted. And it sated her.
The room stank, the humid reek of sweat and blood and arousal permeating the vast area (her prison), yet she made no move to open the window. It wasn't her place. It wasn't right. (She was Ornamental.)
Roze stood up, aching slightly, but accepting the pain simply as a penance she had to pay for her life. Dante had done what she could for the sinful girl, yet she continued to sin. She held her baby close, listening to his soft breath, milk at the corners of his mouth, and managed, with trembling fingers to redo the catch, restoring her bit of modesty (imbued only when necessary).
Her caregiver had come to visit her today, finding her in a dank room, covered in sweat on the bed. It was blurry and leaving, tomorrow the only fitting memory-
She needed to forget, so Dante could be the only one left in her mind.
Dante was the only person suitable to think about, to talk to.
(Only the owner gets to hear the grace of her words-let her talk like a bird and sing for the masses, the holy mother out of holy matrimony, forced like a swine onto a bed stuck to bleed and redeem the world's sins...)
She leaned over, wondering why her fingers were still shaken.
I heard you had an accident in the kitchen, the only woman who cared about her had said, touching the slash marks on her face, a nasty meeting with a rack of falling knives. She had nodded, almost afraid to talk, not sure if her words were befitting of such a figure.
Yet she had reached out to touch her, a soft glow permeating her body and allowing her a moment of solid music (soft, romantic notes, hidden by menacing, brash bleats) a moment of solid genesis.
It was her chance to make things over, to forget whatever she had done to not deserve her. Her caretaker was the one who had reached out as she had carelessly wandered into the kitchen with a dish and allowed herself to trip, the scattering of knives falling onto her prone body.
(All the accidents can be blamed on a doll. Yet a doll has no will of its own.)
The woman had kissed her softly, taken her aches away, and left behind a residue of affection, adoration. (Every dog loves its master.) There was nothing she wouldn't do.
She paused, forgetting for a moment why she was leaning over, looking down at the chandelier that had come down in her room, staring at the last candle still managing to burn (the last straw is the one that broke the camel's back). She picked it up, not even feeling the hot wax drip over her fingers, walking back to the window and placing it in the candle holder.
She let it burn for a few more moments, rolling the greasy wax over her fingers, but blew it out, surrounding herself in darkness (the prime place to forget).
She had felt that everything would be alright if she could convert this into pleasure. The biting claws inside of her, the fingers too hard against her to cause real stimulation no matter where they were placed. (It was violence, nothing that pleasure should have redeemed.)
Even though she was leaking blood now, not arousal, her (warped) mind managed to force a shudder of pleasure through her, only instigating the woman above her to please (hurt) her more, until she was gasping and begging in wordless whimpers.
"Don't forget this," Lust finally said to the sated woman, leaving her to bleed on her bed. She turned once she had gotten to the door, looking at the broken woman Dante had taken such a fancy to. She picked up the child and placed him in Roze's arms, looking at her glossed over eyes, wondering what tune that was she was humming.
She didn't expect a response, but the humming, the glossed-over stare, they seemed to bother her, and she kicked the bed, yelling at her, screaming obscenities.
But it seemed that she either couldn't hear or, or she had made peace with herself.
For some reason, the woman reminded Lust of the broken chandelier on the floor, still serving her purpose, but not in the right place.
Character(s): Dante/Roze, Lust
Rating: Light NC-17
Prompt: 3 candle in the window from 7stages
Word Count: 2373
Summary: The long claws pressing against her skin uncomfortably, the sneer of the woman above her-it was almost too much to take. But something inside her was numb, and she didn't squirm, she didn't protest. She just kept her eyes open, refusing to cry, even when the sharpened nails pressed against her so hard she bled.
Author's Notes: mindfuckery (and fuckery), Dante isn't nice, Roze is not herself, and Lust has never been nice.
One moment, she had been with her child, alone, rocking him slowly in her arms, murmuring nonsense.
The next, the baby was in Lust's arms, and Roze felt mild confusion, looking at the sin, recognizing her, those blurry early memories at the mansion coming back, but it didn't make sense why the woman was holding her child... that mark, between her breasts.
He started crying.
"My baby!" (Lest he cry.) Those words, the words that seemed to be the only words she could bring to her lips and despair came over her. Everything seemed dark around her for a moment, then there was a brilliant flash of thunder.
When had it become night? Or were the clouds so heavy and thick that they were blurring out the sun she had just seen rise? Or was that just her fear blotting out the sun, cascading down in vibrant waves of electricity, followed by the rumbling timbre of anger? (Anger could be her redemption, yet the danger of redemption was something so dire it could not stay in her mind more than a few moments.)
The chandelier in her room swayed a bit, rocked by the wind from her broken window, passing through the bars.
She only heard the sound, the sound of breaking glass now, and she found voice enough to scream. Her baby boy was tossed aside, thrown to the ground next to the shards of glass and Lust just looked at him casually, making sure the baby wasn't dead. Oh, Dante would kill her if the baby was dead. She had been specifically told that the baby had to stay alive.
She wrapped one of those gloved hands around Roze's mouth. "Careful, you might break," she murmured, shoving the girl onto the bed, not another look at the baby.
Oh god, it was so dark, dark, and that was all Roze could feel and see, except for the pain. That was red and fuzzy, like old memories. She was splayed on the bed and didn't want to open her eyes, didn't want to see the looming figure above her, and above all, didn't want to believe this was happening.
"Look at me, Ornamental," Lust hissed, clawed fingers scraping (barely blood trails) up her neck. "You need to see this."
Roze just whimpered and opened her eyes slightly, seeing those inhuman, slit, purple ones leering at her. She tried to vocalize words to tell Lust to stop, to stop all this, but the words wouldn't come. She tried to struggle, but something was wrong and she couldn't move, paralyzed with fear and an odd sense of duty, like this was something she had to live through. Something more to survive.
(The alley. Bradley was drunk, but not with alcohol. Pride, swagger, so much more inebriating than any liquor. Just don't touch the children, she had begged. No... that's not what I'm looking for...)
"Much better," Lust practically purred, looking at Roze's wavering eyes.
Oh, she had lost so many memories, why was she remembering this right now? And why were those thoughts coming into her head? Not the time, not the place, just focus on what she was supposed to be doing... supposed to be taking care of her baby, her child...
Lust smacked her across the face, her long nails leaving blood trails, though they'd heal up quickly. Mark the girl, make her her own. "Pay attention," she spat, but Roze hadn't even noticed her eyes had shut again. The sense of duty was back and she opened them, looking into the homunculus' inhuman purple eyes, trying to blink away the few tears that had left.
Her baby wasn't crying; he was the only thing besides that awkward feeling this was something that had to happen in her mind. The long claws pressing against her skin uncomfortably, the sneer of the woman above her-it was almost too much to take. But something inside her was numb, and she didn't squirm, she didn't protest. She just kept her eyes open, refusing to cry, even when the sharpened nails pressed against her so hard she bled.
"Ornamental," Lust murmured, pressing her fingertips against the soft of Roze's stomach. This wasn't Dante, this wasn't her own, yet it was that name and she had to succumb. Yet simply succumbing, letting her mind blank out to the place she had been so often didn't seem to work, didn't seem to please the woman she was supposed to be pleasing. Her vacant expression only awarded her a slap upside the head (a treatment Dante would never have dealt out, too much like him, like Bradly, up against the wall of the alley, her baby crying, where was he?)
She whimpered, tasting the coppery taste of blood in her mouth, yet still refused to properly cry out.
"Cry for me," Lust hissed, dragging her claws slowly down the center of Roze's stomach, blood welling up in the scratches, and all the numbness melted away; Roze started hearing sobs, unable to recognize that they were her cries, her tears (things just fading away into another sinister background, another moment untouched by memory, yet somehow remembered). Though she was feeling the pain, though she was responding to the pain, it felt like it was being done to someone else, for someone else.
(The baby had come into the world pink and crying, just like her flushed face and teary eyes. Another product of-of a forced intrusion like this.)
It was all feeling and it started to overwhelm her, the softness of the bed compared to the sharp pain of Lust marking her, the wicked smile compared to her soft sobs, and she was just ready to let go. But she couldn't do that.
Dante wouldn't want that.
So she cried for Lust, her torso slick with blood, though the homunculus had been careful not to scratch her upper chest, her breasts completely untouched. This wasn't about her. This wasn't about her.
It was for her caregiver, her protector, the only one who could get her through the moments. Dante's smile (harsh, like Bradley's), her gentle touch, nothing like this (nothing so painful), her loving words (not jeering insults) would be what got her through this moment, her vision starting to fade, the corners of the room going black, her baby out of sight. Out of mind.
(She had to listen to the strings of the violin, filling in her gaps, the blazing trumpets strolling through her day.)
Just in the moment.
She was barely aware Lust was spreading her legs, scraping those dangerous nails against the tender flesh of her inner thigh, her whimpers, her sobs (more music?) adding to the dreaded silence of the room. Lust had stopped talking, stopped filling in her gaps and it was all starting to fade away like the room. Yet, no matter how much her vision failed, the woman was still there (always would be, in those back memories replaced by the static phonograph, that record that had been recorded just for her) forcing herself upon Roze's (unwilling) pliant body, the girl would be willing to do anything just to make the pain stop.
Just to keep the woman from telling her that she hadn't complied.
(There was no one here without a purpose.)
(Precious Doll.)
The intrusion itself didn't hurt, the claws having disappeared in the moment, but she still had a dull ache, the feeling that something was too big (no complaints) wrong (nothing here is wrong) wrong with her and there was nothing she could do to fix it. Her caretaker would help, teach her how to fill in where she was lacking.
Help her think more about others.
It was only a momentary relief of pain, however, the sudden shock of claws inside of her (just like the music, a trifling flute solo) scraping at her sensitive inner tissues, her body trying impossibly to come up with more space, a slicker space.
(She just wasn't able to accommodate, keep Bradley off of her, keep her baby from crying, keep Dante pleased...)
That memory.
Erased.
She bit down on her lip, just adding to the salty taste already flooding her mouth, blood leaking from the corner of her lips.
She sat at the window, her eyes glossed over and vacant, the chandelier on the floor, her baby in her arms. It hurt to walk (her fault) so she didn't want to move, darkness slowly taking over the room (as it had taken over her body).
Her baby was crying and she undid the top of that beautiful dress Dante had lent her, telling her to take care of it (better than the last one ripped to shreds), letting him suckle at her chest. Her body was clean of wounds, like a healing light had come over her, cleansing her of her sins for a simple correct act.
There was nothing Dante couldn't do for her.
She was her caregiver, her protector, the person who made sure there was a place in this world for her.
And her place was as her Ornamental, her China Doll, her plaything.
It gave her satisfaction.
She was on the bed, bleeding, her child knocked out on the floor, yet she couldn't even tell, her vision fading slowly, her body unresponsive, as if dead (yet truly that was the soul.)
She stared up at her ceiling, seeming so black, humming along to the small tune in her head (the twittering of flutes and deep brass and the dark hum of the cello). There was a woman she barely knew cleaning blood off of claws, yet it didn't interest her at all. She had done her duty. She had done what she wanted. And it sated her.
The room stank, the humid reek of sweat and blood and arousal permeating the vast area (her prison), yet she made no move to open the window. It wasn't her place. It wasn't right. (She was Ornamental.)
Roze stood up, aching slightly, but accepting the pain simply as a penance she had to pay for her life. Dante had done what she could for the sinful girl, yet she continued to sin. She held her baby close, listening to his soft breath, milk at the corners of his mouth, and managed, with trembling fingers to redo the catch, restoring her bit of modesty (imbued only when necessary).
Her caregiver had come to visit her today, finding her in a dank room, covered in sweat on the bed. It was blurry and leaving, tomorrow the only fitting memory-
She needed to forget, so Dante could be the only one left in her mind.
Dante was the only person suitable to think about, to talk to.
(Only the owner gets to hear the grace of her words-let her talk like a bird and sing for the masses, the holy mother out of holy matrimony, forced like a swine onto a bed stuck to bleed and redeem the world's sins...)
She leaned over, wondering why her fingers were still shaken.
I heard you had an accident in the kitchen, the only woman who cared about her had said, touching the slash marks on her face, a nasty meeting with a rack of falling knives. She had nodded, almost afraid to talk, not sure if her words were befitting of such a figure.
Yet she had reached out to touch her, a soft glow permeating her body and allowing her a moment of solid music (soft, romantic notes, hidden by menacing, brash bleats) a moment of solid genesis.
It was her chance to make things over, to forget whatever she had done to not deserve her. Her caretaker was the one who had reached out as she had carelessly wandered into the kitchen with a dish and allowed herself to trip, the scattering of knives falling onto her prone body.
(All the accidents can be blamed on a doll. Yet a doll has no will of its own.)
The woman had kissed her softly, taken her aches away, and left behind a residue of affection, adoration. (Every dog loves its master.) There was nothing she wouldn't do.
She paused, forgetting for a moment why she was leaning over, looking down at the chandelier that had come down in her room, staring at the last candle still managing to burn (the last straw is the one that broke the camel's back). She picked it up, not even feeling the hot wax drip over her fingers, walking back to the window and placing it in the candle holder.
She let it burn for a few more moments, rolling the greasy wax over her fingers, but blew it out, surrounding herself in darkness (the prime place to forget).
She had felt that everything would be alright if she could convert this into pleasure. The biting claws inside of her, the fingers too hard against her to cause real stimulation no matter where they were placed. (It was violence, nothing that pleasure should have redeemed.)
Even though she was leaking blood now, not arousal, her (warped) mind managed to force a shudder of pleasure through her, only instigating the woman above her to please (hurt) her more, until she was gasping and begging in wordless whimpers.
"Don't forget this," Lust finally said to the sated woman, leaving her to bleed on her bed. She turned once she had gotten to the door, looking at the broken woman Dante had taken such a fancy to. She picked up the child and placed him in Roze's arms, looking at her glossed over eyes, wondering what tune that was she was humming.
She didn't expect a response, but the humming, the glossed-over stare, they seemed to bother her, and she kicked the bed, yelling at her, screaming obscenities.
But it seemed that she either couldn't hear or, or she had made peace with herself.
For some reason, the woman reminded Lust of the broken chandelier on the floor, still serving her purpose, but not in the right place.