3rd dream [agony in her body]
WARNINGS: possibly triggering material (rape), rough sex, incest
[Soundtrack: Sage Francis - Agony In Her Body (please click)]
It was something you discovered entirely on accident. Back then, when you were still having clandestine trysts, you covered her mouth out of necessity. You didn't think about what you were doing. Just that she was being noisy and if you were caught now, if you were caught now she'd never hear the end of it. So, while you were fucking her (amazing/indescribable/immoral/wonderful/irresistible) you covered her mouth. And her eyes went wide as saucers and she snapped her hips up against you. Horrified, you drew your hand away, but she grabbed you by the wrist and put it back.
Restraint. You shouldn't have done that to her. She was too good for that.
You came harder than you ever had. Right inside her, and she trailed her fingers along her inner thigh, dipped up into her battered sex to draw out your seed. She painted her own lips with it, then yours, with a lazy smile.
(I'm sorry.)
That little house in a new town, right at the edge, was perfect. Because she could hold onto the headboard and really. Really scream. And she did, more often than that. She'd outright shout when she rode you and you didn't know how, how it was possible for her to squeeze you from within while she was focusing so hard on undulating, and her breasts are round and fit perfectly in those slender hands of yours.
She's groaning like an animal in heat and she falls forward. Her fair hair is a curtain, damp with sweat. Your eyes meet. "How does it feel to be inside me, Gonou?"
"Amazing."
"That's right. Fuck me. I love you."
"I love you too," you hissed out. "But now I think you'd better shut up."
And you rolled her over and slammed over and over until it felt raw. You were both nothing but bundles of raw nerves and meat and she wasn't careful about where her nails went, so you'd be wearing high collars to work for the next week or so. Yes. It was a good thing you picked the little house on the edge of town.
(Forgive me.)
This is Kanan in your mind:
She is dressed modestly in a sweater and a long skirt. Her little wooden cross dangles between her breasts on a cord. Her hair is in a braid over one shoulder. She is smiling at you, forever. She is teaching you how to cook. She is complimenting what a nice job you did on the laundry. She is laughing with a sound like flowers from warm, damp earth. She is pulling off your glasses and kissing you.
This is Kanan in your mind:
She is peeling off her sweater and then her bra. She is cupping herself in small and skillful hands. She is crouching between your legs. And then--
(I love you.)
"It's true. These are our birth certificates."
There's a stray wisp across her forehead. Honey-colored, glowing in the early-evening light. She leans forward, peering over your shoulder at the papers on your desk. Her breasts press to your back, and you can feel her breath against your ear. You're finding it difficult to read what's on those papers. Even more difficult to care. She kisses your ear and then your neck.
You push all the papers off the desk and drag her to sit on it instead. Panties down, no, off. And it really takes only about 15 seconds to get inside her and she's ready, she's ready because she knows you, she knows how you want it even better than you do. "Don't you think this is wrong?" It's the only time you'll discuss it with her. "I'm your brother."
"Nothing about loving you could ever be wrong."
In all the sordid bits of literature you've read, it talks of the woman sighing and surrendering to passion. Kanan is not surrendering. You are surrendering to her. Being drawn in, deeper deeper deeper. This is your home, buried deep inside her. The only truth you know, this little house, this enormous pleasure. Your thighs are scraping the edge of the desk. She's panting. You grab her braid and tilt her head and bite her, mark her. Repaying the nail scratches, even though they're just faint etches of memory now.
(I can't help it.)
It may have been an accidental discovery, but perhaps it was better suited to be called accidental fortune. She's got bruises on her hips from the last time you did this, and she still crawls across the bed looking lean and feral, a fire ready to consume you. And you don't flinch when the leash goes on because it's her turn this time, and when she bites your lip she always kisses it better.
You explode in her like fireworks and she doesn't care, why doesn't she care?
Afterward, you admire her bare shoulder in the moonlight, and she's smoothing your hair with such warm, steady fingers.
"You never got much affection in your childhood, did you?" There's something in her voice both laughing and sad. "Sometimes I think I got too much."
You don't know what that means so you draw her close. "All that matters is what exists between us. I'll take care of you. We're family now."
She turns around and slides one leg over yours. "Closer than that," she says.
True.
(You're everything.)
My demon friends and I raped her.
And you didn't want to think about it. You thought of how you put your hand over her mouth. You thought of the slaps, the hair-pulling, the bites and the rawness.
And then you thought of her with him and them, crying out in pain as they violated her. She shouldn't cry in pain. Not her.
You want it out of your mind, the thought of them with her.
As one of them shoves into her mouth, another undoes her braid and the brassy locks spill over battered shoulders. She's crying. You didn't want to - you don't want to - oh, Kanan, no.
(You can't leave me.)
And the blood is the warmest thing you've felt in what seems like years. Warmer than Kanan's hands. When it washes you, it's liquid and it's silk, it smells copper and sick and at the same time, of cigarettes and alcohol. It spills over your face, into your mouth, all over you.
It feels good. You're more alive than you were a moment ago, with those horrifying images.
(I'm sorry.)
(I'm sorry. Forgive me. I love you. I can't help it. You're everything. You can't leave me. I'm sorry.)
(Blood can embrace you when she's gone forever.)
[ Hakkai rises very quickly from the bed, stumbling over to the bathroom in the dark. A lamp goes on, casting a long shadow, and splashing can be heard as he climbs into the tepid bathwater. ]
[Soundtrack: Sage Francis - Agony In Her Body (please click)]
It was something you discovered entirely on accident. Back then, when you were still having clandestine trysts, you covered her mouth out of necessity. You didn't think about what you were doing. Just that she was being noisy and if you were caught now, if you were caught now she'd never hear the end of it. So, while you were fucking her (amazing/indescribable/immoral/wonderful/irresistible) you covered her mouth. And her eyes went wide as saucers and she snapped her hips up against you. Horrified, you drew your hand away, but she grabbed you by the wrist and put it back.
Restraint. You shouldn't have done that to her. She was too good for that.
You came harder than you ever had. Right inside her, and she trailed her fingers along her inner thigh, dipped up into her battered sex to draw out your seed. She painted her own lips with it, then yours, with a lazy smile.
(I'm sorry.)
That little house in a new town, right at the edge, was perfect. Because she could hold onto the headboard and really. Really scream. And she did, more often than that. She'd outright shout when she rode you and you didn't know how, how it was possible for her to squeeze you from within while she was focusing so hard on undulating, and her breasts are round and fit perfectly in those slender hands of yours.
She's groaning like an animal in heat and she falls forward. Her fair hair is a curtain, damp with sweat. Your eyes meet. "How does it feel to be inside me, Gonou?"
"Amazing."
"That's right. Fuck me. I love you."
"I love you too," you hissed out. "But now I think you'd better shut up."
And you rolled her over and slammed over and over until it felt raw. You were both nothing but bundles of raw nerves and meat and she wasn't careful about where her nails went, so you'd be wearing high collars to work for the next week or so. Yes. It was a good thing you picked the little house on the edge of town.
(Forgive me.)
This is Kanan in your mind:
She is dressed modestly in a sweater and a long skirt. Her little wooden cross dangles between her breasts on a cord. Her hair is in a braid over one shoulder. She is smiling at you, forever. She is teaching you how to cook. She is complimenting what a nice job you did on the laundry. She is laughing with a sound like flowers from warm, damp earth. She is pulling off your glasses and kissing you.
This is Kanan in your mind:
She is peeling off her sweater and then her bra. She is cupping herself in small and skillful hands. She is crouching between your legs. And then--
(I love you.)
"It's true. These are our birth certificates."
There's a stray wisp across her forehead. Honey-colored, glowing in the early-evening light. She leans forward, peering over your shoulder at the papers on your desk. Her breasts press to your back, and you can feel her breath against your ear. You're finding it difficult to read what's on those papers. Even more difficult to care. She kisses your ear and then your neck.
You push all the papers off the desk and drag her to sit on it instead. Panties down, no, off. And it really takes only about 15 seconds to get inside her and she's ready, she's ready because she knows you, she knows how you want it even better than you do. "Don't you think this is wrong?" It's the only time you'll discuss it with her. "I'm your brother."
"Nothing about loving you could ever be wrong."
In all the sordid bits of literature you've read, it talks of the woman sighing and surrendering to passion. Kanan is not surrendering. You are surrendering to her. Being drawn in, deeper deeper deeper. This is your home, buried deep inside her. The only truth you know, this little house, this enormous pleasure. Your thighs are scraping the edge of the desk. She's panting. You grab her braid and tilt her head and bite her, mark her. Repaying the nail scratches, even though they're just faint etches of memory now.
(I can't help it.)
It may have been an accidental discovery, but perhaps it was better suited to be called accidental fortune. She's got bruises on her hips from the last time you did this, and she still crawls across the bed looking lean and feral, a fire ready to consume you. And you don't flinch when the leash goes on because it's her turn this time, and when she bites your lip she always kisses it better.
You explode in her like fireworks and she doesn't care, why doesn't she care?
Afterward, you admire her bare shoulder in the moonlight, and she's smoothing your hair with such warm, steady fingers.
"You never got much affection in your childhood, did you?" There's something in her voice both laughing and sad. "Sometimes I think I got too much."
You don't know what that means so you draw her close. "All that matters is what exists between us. I'll take care of you. We're family now."
She turns around and slides one leg over yours. "Closer than that," she says.
True.
(You're everything.)
My demon friends and I raped her.
And you didn't want to think about it. You thought of how you put your hand over her mouth. You thought of the slaps, the hair-pulling, the bites and the rawness.
And then you thought of her with him and them, crying out in pain as they violated her. She shouldn't cry in pain. Not her.
You want it out of your mind, the thought of them with her.
As one of them shoves into her mouth, another undoes her braid and the brassy locks spill over battered shoulders. She's crying. You didn't want to - you don't want to - oh, Kanan, no.
(You can't leave me.)
And the blood is the warmest thing you've felt in what seems like years. Warmer than Kanan's hands. When it washes you, it's liquid and it's silk, it smells copper and sick and at the same time, of cigarettes and alcohol. It spills over your face, into your mouth, all over you.
It feels good. You're more alive than you were a moment ago, with those horrifying images.
(I'm sorry.)
(I'm sorry. Forgive me. I love you. I can't help it. You're everything. You can't leave me. I'm sorry.)
(Blood can embrace you when she's gone forever.)
[ Hakkai rises very quickly from the bed, stumbling over to the bathroom in the dark. A lamp goes on, casting a long shadow, and splashing can be heard as he climbs into the tepid bathwater. ]