![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Tsubasa Fanfiction :: Bad Dreams
Jan. 6th, 2007 12:38 amTitle:Bad Dreams
Rating: PG:13+
Warnings: slight post Vol 18 spoilers
Pairing: KuroFai
Status: complete (one shot)
Summary: What does Fai dream about in a world where nightmares cannot exist. ***Fai's POV
They say you can’t have nightmares in this world. You cannot have bad dreams. No dark alleys or ugly monsters, or evil men chasing you with knives. But what about flashes of the happy memories you can never experience again? Or images of the people you love who you will never see again? Or excerpts of a future you know you can never have?
I’d have thought those would be called nightmares as well.
But apparently I was wrong.
“Ouch!” he yelps angrily in typical Kurogane fashion, “Not so hard.”
I mutter some half-hearted apology in his ear before continuing, leaving a bright red stain of blood in the very place I had whispered. I’m making a mess in this particular position, but I don’t care. Its so much better this way.
His neck is closer to his beating heart, so the blood is slightly warmer. I’m sure I couldn’t have been bothered to notice something like that before, but now, in my particular condition, I find the taste difference is significantly greater.
He’s much taller than me however, so he sits patiently while I feed, comfortably perched on his lap; my legs all but pinning him to the couch. He has little else to do with himself, so he occupies his mind by drawing designs across my back – his fingers tracing the phantom lines of the tattoo that I once possessed as if he actually knew what it had looked like.
I’m nearly finished with my meal. Just cleaning up my plate now; secretly, it’s my favourite part of the whole thing. Blood that has dripped down the side of his neck and pooled in the dip of his collarbone just waits to be licked away and I take extra care to make sure every last inch is as clean as if he had just stepped out of a shower. Every stretch of skin on his long tan neck, the ear I stained, all of it is gone over with delicate, slow and careful detail.
He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t make a sound. But he’s stopped drawing lines on my back with his fingers now and has instead, fisted them into the fabric of my shirt. Its so unlike him to not say anything when he isn’t sure what sort of mischief I’m up to, but I have no doubt that he would let me know if there was something that bothered him. So I take his indifference as a sign that I can continue.
In all my dreams, I’ve never kissed him. I suppose that’s because I cannot even imagine what that would really be like.
I keep to his neck, his ears, and anything below that strong jaw line. And in turn, he sticks to mine. Licking, nipping, kissing, sucking, biting. Anything that I feel like doing, and he says nothing. He just lets me do as I please, and in return, I let him do the same.
“You’re such a mess,” he grumbles with his eyes cast down, focusing on the lapel of his shirt. There is a tiny splash of red where there shouldn’t be.
“I’m sorry,” I say without a hint on sincerity.
“Good,” is all I hear before the growl escapes his throat as I trace his inner ear with my bloodstained tongue. I love that sound and I wish I was able to see the face that goes with it, but for now I am content with the growl. So I do it again.
I smirk into his ear and give a small purr as one of his hands slips beneath my t-shirt and the other grips the back of my belt.
And I do it again.
This time it’s him to attack my neck, though not quite in the same way I suppose. I purr against him, nipping at his earlobe and press my knees further into the couch to make sure he cannot escape me; my legs locked tightly around his hips. His mouth is hot against my skin and seems to lull my eyes closed. I don’t have to see him to know what I’m doing.
He yelps in surprise as I bite a bit harder than I should at his ear. “Damn it. Warn me before you do that!”
A few perfect drops form and run down his neck, but I do nothing about them for the moment, just watch the crimson trail slide down his skin and onto his shirt.
“Oh no,” I point dramatically. “I made another mess. Kuro-woof needs this washed right away!”
“Just take it off already, idiot,” he grumbles. He didn’t even look. How discouraging. But who am I to argue with him?
Stupid buttons. They take so much time. But it is well worth the effort. And all he has to do is give one tug and mine is gone, that isn’t very fair. I also have suspicions that he’s removed a shirt or two off of someone else before.
“You’re so damn skinny, Magician,” he grumbles, both of his hands now free to trace every inch of my bare skin; his fingers grazing over places where scars should be, but instead is nothing but perfect, smooth white.
Maybe that is why he is letting me do this. Because I am slender, because I am smooth, because my hair is long and falls to my shoulders and if he closes his eyes he can pretend I’m a girl. I can’t decide just yet if that bothers me.
“Maybe you should eat more.”
“If I eat too much I’ll kill you,” I tease. “And then I would have no one to play with.”
I’m bored with his jaw line. His ears. His neck. His shoulders. There is so much else left for me to explore and I have every intension of doing so. I’ve taken it upon myself to find places that make the best sounds. So far, my favourite noise he has made comes from his hip bone.
I don’t know when I lost control over things, but I’m not surprised in the lest that he doesn’t let me keep it for too long. I find soon that I also enjoy other sounds; like the sound of my own belt being thrown across the room as though it had been some kind of snake he had to get rid of, or the bump of his knees hitting the ground not a moment after he pushed me to the floor.
It is only at this moment that I am assured he doesn’t mind that I am not female, even though it might be arguable that I am still being treated as one; laying beneath him as I cling on desperately while he rocks us both back and fourth.
It’s this moment that I cannot stand. This moment that I hate him for. Because this…
This isn’t real.
I am dreaming.
I cannot even bring myself to finish before I wake up, staring at the ceiling, frustrated as all hell. And there he is, asleep in the chair across the room, haloed in silver moonlight.
Obviously, if there is a god in this world or any of the ones to follow, he hates me.
So I’m stuck here at this godforsaken hour of the night, frustrated and unable to sleep anymore and left to stare at the object of my demented fantasies while he sleeps, probably passed out from too many glasses of wine.
And my stomach growls. For a split second the thought of “he might not even notice if you had a little midnight snack,” pops in my head.
You have got to be kidding me.
I’m going for a walk….
Rating: PG:13+
Warnings: slight post Vol 18 spoilers
Pairing: KuroFai
Status: complete (one shot)
Summary: What does Fai dream about in a world where nightmares cannot exist. ***Fai's POV
They say you can’t have nightmares in this world. You cannot have bad dreams. No dark alleys or ugly monsters, or evil men chasing you with knives. But what about flashes of the happy memories you can never experience again? Or images of the people you love who you will never see again? Or excerpts of a future you know you can never have?
I’d have thought those would be called nightmares as well.
But apparently I was wrong.
“Ouch!” he yelps angrily in typical Kurogane fashion, “Not so hard.”
I mutter some half-hearted apology in his ear before continuing, leaving a bright red stain of blood in the very place I had whispered. I’m making a mess in this particular position, but I don’t care. Its so much better this way.
His neck is closer to his beating heart, so the blood is slightly warmer. I’m sure I couldn’t have been bothered to notice something like that before, but now, in my particular condition, I find the taste difference is significantly greater.
He’s much taller than me however, so he sits patiently while I feed, comfortably perched on his lap; my legs all but pinning him to the couch. He has little else to do with himself, so he occupies his mind by drawing designs across my back – his fingers tracing the phantom lines of the tattoo that I once possessed as if he actually knew what it had looked like.
I’m nearly finished with my meal. Just cleaning up my plate now; secretly, it’s my favourite part of the whole thing. Blood that has dripped down the side of his neck and pooled in the dip of his collarbone just waits to be licked away and I take extra care to make sure every last inch is as clean as if he had just stepped out of a shower. Every stretch of skin on his long tan neck, the ear I stained, all of it is gone over with delicate, slow and careful detail.
He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t make a sound. But he’s stopped drawing lines on my back with his fingers now and has instead, fisted them into the fabric of my shirt. Its so unlike him to not say anything when he isn’t sure what sort of mischief I’m up to, but I have no doubt that he would let me know if there was something that bothered him. So I take his indifference as a sign that I can continue.
In all my dreams, I’ve never kissed him. I suppose that’s because I cannot even imagine what that would really be like.
I keep to his neck, his ears, and anything below that strong jaw line. And in turn, he sticks to mine. Licking, nipping, kissing, sucking, biting. Anything that I feel like doing, and he says nothing. He just lets me do as I please, and in return, I let him do the same.
“You’re such a mess,” he grumbles with his eyes cast down, focusing on the lapel of his shirt. There is a tiny splash of red where there shouldn’t be.
“I’m sorry,” I say without a hint on sincerity.
“Good,” is all I hear before the growl escapes his throat as I trace his inner ear with my bloodstained tongue. I love that sound and I wish I was able to see the face that goes with it, but for now I am content with the growl. So I do it again.
I smirk into his ear and give a small purr as one of his hands slips beneath my t-shirt and the other grips the back of my belt.
And I do it again.
This time it’s him to attack my neck, though not quite in the same way I suppose. I purr against him, nipping at his earlobe and press my knees further into the couch to make sure he cannot escape me; my legs locked tightly around his hips. His mouth is hot against my skin and seems to lull my eyes closed. I don’t have to see him to know what I’m doing.
He yelps in surprise as I bite a bit harder than I should at his ear. “Damn it. Warn me before you do that!”
A few perfect drops form and run down his neck, but I do nothing about them for the moment, just watch the crimson trail slide down his skin and onto his shirt.
“Oh no,” I point dramatically. “I made another mess. Kuro-woof needs this washed right away!”
“Just take it off already, idiot,” he grumbles. He didn’t even look. How discouraging. But who am I to argue with him?
Stupid buttons. They take so much time. But it is well worth the effort. And all he has to do is give one tug and mine is gone, that isn’t very fair. I also have suspicions that he’s removed a shirt or two off of someone else before.
“You’re so damn skinny, Magician,” he grumbles, both of his hands now free to trace every inch of my bare skin; his fingers grazing over places where scars should be, but instead is nothing but perfect, smooth white.
Maybe that is why he is letting me do this. Because I am slender, because I am smooth, because my hair is long and falls to my shoulders and if he closes his eyes he can pretend I’m a girl. I can’t decide just yet if that bothers me.
“Maybe you should eat more.”
“If I eat too much I’ll kill you,” I tease. “And then I would have no one to play with.”
I’m bored with his jaw line. His ears. His neck. His shoulders. There is so much else left for me to explore and I have every intension of doing so. I’ve taken it upon myself to find places that make the best sounds. So far, my favourite noise he has made comes from his hip bone.
I don’t know when I lost control over things, but I’m not surprised in the lest that he doesn’t let me keep it for too long. I find soon that I also enjoy other sounds; like the sound of my own belt being thrown across the room as though it had been some kind of snake he had to get rid of, or the bump of his knees hitting the ground not a moment after he pushed me to the floor.
It is only at this moment that I am assured he doesn’t mind that I am not female, even though it might be arguable that I am still being treated as one; laying beneath him as I cling on desperately while he rocks us both back and fourth.
It’s this moment that I cannot stand. This moment that I hate him for. Because this…
This isn’t real.
I am dreaming.
I cannot even bring myself to finish before I wake up, staring at the ceiling, frustrated as all hell. And there he is, asleep in the chair across the room, haloed in silver moonlight.
Obviously, if there is a god in this world or any of the ones to follow, he hates me.
So I’m stuck here at this godforsaken hour of the night, frustrated and unable to sleep anymore and left to stare at the object of my demented fantasies while he sleeps, probably passed out from too many glasses of wine.
And my stomach growls. For a split second the thought of “he might not even notice if you had a little midnight snack,” pops in my head.
You have got to be kidding me.
I’m going for a walk….
