Broken [Escaflowne, Dilandau/Vaan, OT]
Title: Broken
Author: sumthinlikhuman
Rating: OT
Warnings: dark, Dilandau being a crazy
Prompt: Escaflowne - Dilandau/Vaan; wingkink; "pinned like a butterfly"
Summary: Angels were never meant to be this sensual.
Notes: Dilandau is FREAKIN’ INSANE. Also, uh, I’ve never written wingkink before, so this definitely became not-wingkink. And also, I wasn’t sure how I would work in Dilandau’s, er, CONDITION, so there’s no sex. Just Dilandau being FREAKIN’ INSANE. Takes place during Van’s capture in episode 5. And the title sucks, sorry. THIS IS ALSO LATE; AGAIN, SORRY ABOUT THAT.
Lord Folken has gone his way for now, and Dilandau cannot help but watch their young prisoner spread out, unconscious, on the bed. This is hardly a prison cell, but Dilandau isn’t about to say anything untoward to the Strategist, lest he find himself in some unsavory company without the aid of his men.
The boy-and, really, Dilandau has no room to call this king that; they are likely of a comparable age-looks peaceful in unconsciousness, all spread out like an angel. But angels, Dilandau thinks, were never meant to be this sensual.
He perches on the stool across the room, curled up on himself, and watches as Van wakes.
That is when the wings come, and really, then, all Dilandau can think of is doves and hawks and angels. Van wears a look like he’s guilty about showing his wings, and when they fold against his back, he preens his fingers through the feathers.
They are retracting, and Dilandau moves without thinking; he takes in the look on Van’s face, the feel of the bed giving under their combined weights, and the rustle of clothing and feathers. A few flutter off from his wings, and Dilandau grabs one. He traces it down Van’s face to his neck, and feels his mouth spreading in a grin.
He’s hot like burning, like he hasn’t felt in years. Perhaps ever. Van shoves at his shoulder, rotates under him, but to no real avail; the wings are strong and the muscles in his shoulders and chest and back are defined, but Dilandau is a weight that cannot be compensated for, even with this difference in body structure.
Never, as he grabs knives from his belt and stabs them through Van’s shirt into the mattress, does he think of kissing the other boy. It never crosses his mind. He does not even really think of having sex with him. All he wants to do is look and touch. Van, stuck there to the mattress and still trying to fend Dilandau off, is a feral thing, but there is beauty there. Beauty is a thing Dilandau can appreciate, even in a terribly mundane thing like Van.
Van’s wings flare, flap and pull, and it’s obvious he has given up fight against Dilandau; now he is just fighting. One of the wings slaps him in the face. The feathers are infinitely soft, like cat’s hair. Dilandau takes another knife from his pocket. It takes all of his strength to hold Van down, to hold the wing down.
It makes a sickening, bloody noise. Van does not scream, but his breathing speeds and his eyes sparkle with tears. Dilandau thinks that look is most appropriate on their little prisoner. He doesn’t even really think about it when he pulls the second knife. It makes the same noise in the other wing.
Van’s eyes are shut, and Dilandau slaps him a few times until he opens them again. He caresses Van’s cheek, wipes away the tears that have leaked out of the corners of his eyes, slaps him again when Van tries to pull back and bite him.
Beautiful things should be docile. Van should be docile. Van should be in too much pain to fight back. Van is a beautiful thing and should not want to fight back against another beautiful thing. Still, Van is fighting.
Dilandau thinks of a butterfly he saw once. Something had caught one of its wings, and it couldn’t fly. It still tried. He’d killed it to save it from suffering. The blood on the mattress, the blood staining Van’s wings-these things remind him of the butterfly. But he cannot quite bring himself to kill Van.
He’ll let the other boy do that himself.
As Van calms and finally stills, staring blankly over Dilandau’s shoulder, Dilandau loses his interest in their little game. He remembers that there is still Van’s Guymelef in the hanger.
He removes the knives from Van’s shirt first, sheathing them blindly and swift. Van’s muscles are tense between Dilandau’s thighs, and he enjoys the feeling of all that strength; it makes him think about having sex with Van for a split second.
When he removes the knives from Van’s wings, Van grimaces and grunts. Dilandau smears the blades across Van’s shirt; the color of the fabric and of his blood are almost exactly the same. Dilandau licks the last of the blood off the blades before he sheaths them as well.
Before sheathing the last of those two blades, he pops Van across the temple, hard and precise. Van reels, and then his eyes shut. His wings disappear like they were never there, but the blood is still on the mattress. Dilandau supposes that’s good enough.
Author: sumthinlikhuman
Rating: OT
Warnings: dark, Dilandau being a crazy
Prompt: Escaflowne - Dilandau/Vaan; wingkink; "pinned like a butterfly"
Summary: Angels were never meant to be this sensual.
Notes: Dilandau is FREAKIN’ INSANE. Also, uh, I’ve never written wingkink before, so this definitely became not-wingkink. And also, I wasn’t sure how I would work in Dilandau’s, er, CONDITION, so there’s no sex. Just Dilandau being FREAKIN’ INSANE. Takes place during Van’s capture in episode 5. And the title sucks, sorry. THIS IS ALSO LATE; AGAIN, SORRY ABOUT THAT.
Lord Folken has gone his way for now, and Dilandau cannot help but watch their young prisoner spread out, unconscious, on the bed. This is hardly a prison cell, but Dilandau isn’t about to say anything untoward to the Strategist, lest he find himself in some unsavory company without the aid of his men.
The boy-and, really, Dilandau has no room to call this king that; they are likely of a comparable age-looks peaceful in unconsciousness, all spread out like an angel. But angels, Dilandau thinks, were never meant to be this sensual.
He perches on the stool across the room, curled up on himself, and watches as Van wakes.
That is when the wings come, and really, then, all Dilandau can think of is doves and hawks and angels. Van wears a look like he’s guilty about showing his wings, and when they fold against his back, he preens his fingers through the feathers.
They are retracting, and Dilandau moves without thinking; he takes in the look on Van’s face, the feel of the bed giving under their combined weights, and the rustle of clothing and feathers. A few flutter off from his wings, and Dilandau grabs one. He traces it down Van’s face to his neck, and feels his mouth spreading in a grin.
He’s hot like burning, like he hasn’t felt in years. Perhaps ever. Van shoves at his shoulder, rotates under him, but to no real avail; the wings are strong and the muscles in his shoulders and chest and back are defined, but Dilandau is a weight that cannot be compensated for, even with this difference in body structure.
Never, as he grabs knives from his belt and stabs them through Van’s shirt into the mattress, does he think of kissing the other boy. It never crosses his mind. He does not even really think of having sex with him. All he wants to do is look and touch. Van, stuck there to the mattress and still trying to fend Dilandau off, is a feral thing, but there is beauty there. Beauty is a thing Dilandau can appreciate, even in a terribly mundane thing like Van.
Van’s wings flare, flap and pull, and it’s obvious he has given up fight against Dilandau; now he is just fighting. One of the wings slaps him in the face. The feathers are infinitely soft, like cat’s hair. Dilandau takes another knife from his pocket. It takes all of his strength to hold Van down, to hold the wing down.
It makes a sickening, bloody noise. Van does not scream, but his breathing speeds and his eyes sparkle with tears. Dilandau thinks that look is most appropriate on their little prisoner. He doesn’t even really think about it when he pulls the second knife. It makes the same noise in the other wing.
Van’s eyes are shut, and Dilandau slaps him a few times until he opens them again. He caresses Van’s cheek, wipes away the tears that have leaked out of the corners of his eyes, slaps him again when Van tries to pull back and bite him.
Beautiful things should be docile. Van should be docile. Van should be in too much pain to fight back. Van is a beautiful thing and should not want to fight back against another beautiful thing. Still, Van is fighting.
Dilandau thinks of a butterfly he saw once. Something had caught one of its wings, and it couldn’t fly. It still tried. He’d killed it to save it from suffering. The blood on the mattress, the blood staining Van’s wings-these things remind him of the butterfly. But he cannot quite bring himself to kill Van.
He’ll let the other boy do that himself.
As Van calms and finally stills, staring blankly over Dilandau’s shoulder, Dilandau loses his interest in their little game. He remembers that there is still Van’s Guymelef in the hanger.
He removes the knives from Van’s shirt first, sheathing them blindly and swift. Van’s muscles are tense between Dilandau’s thighs, and he enjoys the feeling of all that strength; it makes him think about having sex with Van for a split second.
When he removes the knives from Van’s wings, Van grimaces and grunts. Dilandau smears the blades across Van’s shirt; the color of the fabric and of his blood are almost exactly the same. Dilandau licks the last of the blood off the blades before he sheaths them as well.
Before sheathing the last of those two blades, he pops Van across the temple, hard and precise. Van reels, and then his eyes shut. His wings disappear like they were never there, but the blood is still on the mattress. Dilandau supposes that’s good enough.