Faye (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
said_scarlett) wrote2007-05-29 10:37 am
said_scarlett) wrote2007-05-29 10:37 am
Possession; Dante/Scar; R
Title: Possession
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
theladyfeylene
Genre: PWP
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Dante/Scar
Spoilers: Full Series
Word Count: 1,266
Summary: The scarred man didn't realize it, but he belonged to her. She had shaped him, after all.
The desert. Harsh, unchanging, desolate. It stretched like eternity out from the city, reaching for the horizon with sun-bleached fingers. Timeless, ageless, the desert slept in the early morning’s light. Pre-dawn painted it in silver tones. When the sun came up it would be gold - blinding. It would burn the eyes.
Dante stretched her hand out the window, fingers uncurled and reaching for the sinking moon. She laughed, the sound echoing like death in the empty city. Everyone slept. Dante never slept - not anymore.
The Scarred Man didn’t sleep either. Her false prophet, her handsome Ishbalan puppet. Had she ever been given so perfect a tool before? So malleable, so quick to leap to her directions. It was almost too easy.
She knew he was behind her. She heard him at night, pacing, footfalls heavy as he passed through the night. That hulking beast of Ishbal, scarred and marked and as harsh and desolate as the desert from whence he came.
He could be hers, once she had the girls body. She’d entertained the idea. How perfect they would look, on one another’s arm. The giant Ishbalan and his delicate desert rose. But… he wouldn’t remain so simple to control. Once the stone was made and his revenge had, her hold on him would slip. Such a pity - he was a dog who would soon be rabid.
“It’s a beautiful night,” Dante spoke as she turned, her smile innocent. She was Lyra, a woman-child, an idealist… oh, but it was such a fun mask to wear. A pity she couldn’t have Scar. So virile a man….
Perhaps she could play with him before he outlived his usefulness. Of course it was the little mute girl he wanted, or perhaps the memory of his brother’s sin, but men were hardly picky. A willing woman was a willing woman, after all.
He made no response. He stood in the doorway, framed by the wooden beams, staring passed her. What went on in that mind of his? Did he not sleep for fear of visions of blood and death? Such a tortured man.
“It’s early still,” she went on, moving to lean against the wall beside the door. She thrust out her hip, angling her body into a smooth arch that drew the eye. “No one else is up, won’t be for hours.”
“You are awake.”
“I don’t sleep.” She shrugged. “Nightmares. There’s something terrifying about the night, isn’t there?”
He looked at her. Red eyes, hate-filled eyes, blood-filled eyes. She had shaped him, as much as she’d shaped her homunculi. She had filled those eyes with hate and anger. The soldiers had been her tools. The world was her tool.
Scar belonged to her.
“So silent, Scar.” She laughed, flushed, flirted as an innocent maiden would. “Don’t you get lonely, spending nights alone? I do.”
“It does not bother me.”
“I suppose it’s different for men.” Dante shrugged. She turned to him, reaching for him. “We women…we hate to spend our nights alone.”
He grunted, a noncommittal noise. She touched him, her hand on his arm. He didn’t pull away from her. She moved close, pulling herself to him. How hard he was, beneath her touch. Like iron. What would he look like, naked? Bronzed skin, defined muscles, arcane tattoos… she wanted to see him in all his glory. To feel him, to have him inside of her. What would it feel, to ride him beneath the desert sun?
“Both of us lonely… we could share the nights, you know.”
No response. He stared towards the window as though he hadn’t heard her. No flicker of response, no word, nothing. He was like a statue, graven and immobile. Her hand moved up his arm, sliding over wind-roughened skin. She traced the muscles in his arms, shuddering at his strength. So strong, so virile, the desert outcast. The last true son of Ishbal.
Her fingers reached his neck. He remained still. Her fingers found his jaw line. He was rigid beneath her touch. His lips were chapped beneath her fingertips. She turned, small body twisting like a dancer’s to press against him. She may as well have been cleaving to stone.
“Nothing to say?” She asked, looking up. His eyes remained on some spot on the lightening horizon. She traced his body with slender fingers. His shoulders, his chest, his abdomen, his hips… flat and taut and coiled with muscle. No god could ever make a man so perfect! Fire forged and war tempered, he was perfection. And Dante wanted him.
She pressed her lips to his throat, standing on tip toe, tasting the salt of sand and sweat on his skin. She gripped his hips, body tight against his, feeling every inch of him through the layers of their clothing. Not completely immobile, was he? She felt him against her, aroused. But still he made no move, to embrace her or push her away.
Her hands slipped beneath the folds of his garments, seeking bare flesh. She licked along his neck, sucking, tasting, teasing. Her breasts were pressed flat against him, her lips left his skin slick, her fingers brushed against the hot hardness of his erection. She moved to take him in her hand, wrap her fingers around his erection, force him to move, to moan, to acknowledge her…
She gripped him tightly. She felt his arousal twitch against her palm. What woman had touched him before now? Had any? She felt his body tighten - so stiff, he was. His jaw was clenched, shoulders thrown back, hands tightened into fists. Dante sucked at the hollow of his throat, her fingers working along his length, stroking him with practiced motions....
“Enough!”
He took her by the shoulders and pushed her away, roughly. Dante’s eyes narrowed, angry at being denied. But it was gone in a flash, her face smoothed into a confused pout - an innocent girl, confused as to why the object of her affections spurned her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, raising one shoulder and shifting her weight, hr pose subtle and seductive.
“I have no wish to spend my nights with anyone,” Scar snapped. “Keep your hands off of me.”
“But… you enjoyed my touch…” Perplexed, innocent.
“The body betrays,” he mumbled. “Find someone else to warm your bed.”
“How cruel,” Dante responded, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s because I’m an outsider, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be a fool. I will have no woman. It… is not personal. I have things I must see to.”
And with that, he was gone, turning away and slipping out like a shadow. Foolish, stubborn man. How could he turn her away? No man turned her away. She would touch him again, and again, and again until she had him completely. He had wanted her, he could deny it all he wanted but his body had yearned for her. She would have other chances, other nights.
But for now… Dante contented herself with the stifled moan she heard, muffled through the walls that separated his room from this.
Author:
theladyfeyleneGenre: PWP
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Dante/Scar
Spoilers: Full Series
Word Count: 1,266
Summary: The scarred man didn't realize it, but he belonged to her. She had shaped him, after all.
The desert. Harsh, unchanging, desolate. It stretched like eternity out from the city, reaching for the horizon with sun-bleached fingers. Timeless, ageless, the desert slept in the early morning’s light. Pre-dawn painted it in silver tones. When the sun came up it would be gold - blinding. It would burn the eyes.
Dante stretched her hand out the window, fingers uncurled and reaching for the sinking moon. She laughed, the sound echoing like death in the empty city. Everyone slept. Dante never slept - not anymore.
The Scarred Man didn’t sleep either. Her false prophet, her handsome Ishbalan puppet. Had she ever been given so perfect a tool before? So malleable, so quick to leap to her directions. It was almost too easy.
She knew he was behind her. She heard him at night, pacing, footfalls heavy as he passed through the night. That hulking beast of Ishbal, scarred and marked and as harsh and desolate as the desert from whence he came.
He could be hers, once she had the girls body. She’d entertained the idea. How perfect they would look, on one another’s arm. The giant Ishbalan and his delicate desert rose. But… he wouldn’t remain so simple to control. Once the stone was made and his revenge had, her hold on him would slip. Such a pity - he was a dog who would soon be rabid.
“It’s a beautiful night,” Dante spoke as she turned, her smile innocent. She was Lyra, a woman-child, an idealist… oh, but it was such a fun mask to wear. A pity she couldn’t have Scar. So virile a man….
Perhaps she could play with him before he outlived his usefulness. Of course it was the little mute girl he wanted, or perhaps the memory of his brother’s sin, but men were hardly picky. A willing woman was a willing woman, after all.
He made no response. He stood in the doorway, framed by the wooden beams, staring passed her. What went on in that mind of his? Did he not sleep for fear of visions of blood and death? Such a tortured man.
“It’s early still,” she went on, moving to lean against the wall beside the door. She thrust out her hip, angling her body into a smooth arch that drew the eye. “No one else is up, won’t be for hours.”
“You are awake.”
“I don’t sleep.” She shrugged. “Nightmares. There’s something terrifying about the night, isn’t there?”
He looked at her. Red eyes, hate-filled eyes, blood-filled eyes. She had shaped him, as much as she’d shaped her homunculi. She had filled those eyes with hate and anger. The soldiers had been her tools. The world was her tool.
Scar belonged to her.
“So silent, Scar.” She laughed, flushed, flirted as an innocent maiden would. “Don’t you get lonely, spending nights alone? I do.”
“It does not bother me.”
“I suppose it’s different for men.” Dante shrugged. She turned to him, reaching for him. “We women…we hate to spend our nights alone.”
He grunted, a noncommittal noise. She touched him, her hand on his arm. He didn’t pull away from her. She moved close, pulling herself to him. How hard he was, beneath her touch. Like iron. What would he look like, naked? Bronzed skin, defined muscles, arcane tattoos… she wanted to see him in all his glory. To feel him, to have him inside of her. What would it feel, to ride him beneath the desert sun?
“Both of us lonely… we could share the nights, you know.”
No response. He stared towards the window as though he hadn’t heard her. No flicker of response, no word, nothing. He was like a statue, graven and immobile. Her hand moved up his arm, sliding over wind-roughened skin. She traced the muscles in his arms, shuddering at his strength. So strong, so virile, the desert outcast. The last true son of Ishbal.
Her fingers reached his neck. He remained still. Her fingers found his jaw line. He was rigid beneath her touch. His lips were chapped beneath her fingertips. She turned, small body twisting like a dancer’s to press against him. She may as well have been cleaving to stone.
“Nothing to say?” She asked, looking up. His eyes remained on some spot on the lightening horizon. She traced his body with slender fingers. His shoulders, his chest, his abdomen, his hips… flat and taut and coiled with muscle. No god could ever make a man so perfect! Fire forged and war tempered, he was perfection. And Dante wanted him.
She pressed her lips to his throat, standing on tip toe, tasting the salt of sand and sweat on his skin. She gripped his hips, body tight against his, feeling every inch of him through the layers of their clothing. Not completely immobile, was he? She felt him against her, aroused. But still he made no move, to embrace her or push her away.
Her hands slipped beneath the folds of his garments, seeking bare flesh. She licked along his neck, sucking, tasting, teasing. Her breasts were pressed flat against him, her lips left his skin slick, her fingers brushed against the hot hardness of his erection. She moved to take him in her hand, wrap her fingers around his erection, force him to move, to moan, to acknowledge her…
She gripped him tightly. She felt his arousal twitch against her palm. What woman had touched him before now? Had any? She felt his body tighten - so stiff, he was. His jaw was clenched, shoulders thrown back, hands tightened into fists. Dante sucked at the hollow of his throat, her fingers working along his length, stroking him with practiced motions....
“Enough!”
He took her by the shoulders and pushed her away, roughly. Dante’s eyes narrowed, angry at being denied. But it was gone in a flash, her face smoothed into a confused pout - an innocent girl, confused as to why the object of her affections spurned her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, raising one shoulder and shifting her weight, hr pose subtle and seductive.
“I have no wish to spend my nights with anyone,” Scar snapped. “Keep your hands off of me.”
“But… you enjoyed my touch…” Perplexed, innocent.
“The body betrays,” he mumbled. “Find someone else to warm your bed.”
“How cruel,” Dante responded, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s because I’m an outsider, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be a fool. I will have no woman. It… is not personal. I have things I must see to.”
And with that, he was gone, turning away and slipping out like a shadow. Foolish, stubborn man. How could he turn her away? No man turned her away. She would touch him again, and again, and again until she had him completely. He had wanted her, he could deny it all he wanted but his body had yearned for her. She would have other chances, other nights.
But for now… Dante contented herself with the stifled moan she heard, muffled through the walls that separated his room from this.
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Did you have Dante get one of the homunculi to wrestle him to the ground and chain him for you?no subject
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