The Wallflower Fan Fiction ❯ Darkest Fantasy ❯ Darkest Fantasy ( One-Shot )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

DARKEST FANTASY
A Wallflower Challenge Fanfic

Written by Miyu, Vampire Princess

CHALLENGE: Living with friends and guests can elicit a variety of emotions. Show us what happens. (Week 22)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I blame Kashu for this. How many people on this list
DON'T say that at least once? *hugs to Kashu* But this is a good thing, as it gets more people in the fandom. ^_^ I just got book six, and have been inspired to write this piece. Told from Sunako's point of view. WARNINGS: A bit dark, and a little out of character. More lime then lemon. I beg forgiveness from those who know more about the series than I do. A Standard Disclaimer follows the piece.




No one knows. Not Hiroshi-kun. Not Josephine. Not Akira-kun.

Not even those creatures of light.

It's their fault! No one else is to blame but them. Because they are here, because of the ideas they're trying to put into my head, this has come to pass!

It is because of them -- because of HIM -- that I have a fantasy going on in my head.

Many would find it sick, and twisted. Even those who know me best. Hiroshi-kun would never look at me again. Neither would Akira-kun. Josephine would give me a stern lecture, disgusted with my imagination and with me. My tears would bring me no sympathy and they would turn their backs on me forever.

I tried to fight it! Please believe me, I have, I would say to them.

I just can't help myself.

I'm drawn, captivated by a creature of such blinding light that I fear going blind. Golden hair like the sun. Eyes like the sky. Even thinking about his beautiful features gives me a nosebleed. He is a treasured creature, a wonder of the natural world.

I am far from pretty. Ugly, hated, despised. I've lived in his world. I have tried to find my place in it. But there is none for me. Darkness is my home, the shadow of death my only friend. He hates my darkness, cannot possible fathom its riches and purities. And while he has tried to help me, to bring me into his world, I cannot fathom returning to such a filthy place.

I despise his light.

I loathe his world.

So I shall bring him into mine.

Oh how I have dreamed of so many things! Pull him into the darkness, place him in chains. No! Leather bonds. He would look more pathetic, more darkly beautiful. His hair blackened by soil and dirt. Clothes tattered, torn, ripped from seams in an imaginary struggle with fate.

But he is still far too bright. With a knife I swipe at his skin. With a candle, I pour wax over his smooth skin. With a whip, I mark him. Over and over, until his eyes are filled with tears. Sweat and blood stain his brilliance, making it much easier to look at him.

Nothing in the world looks more stunning. More beautiful.

In a position of no control, with no hope of escape, no prayer of being seen or heard, he is mine. If he whimpers I kiss his lips, touch his battered features. If he moans, I inflict pain. If he utters my name, I pull away. If he does not see me, he cries. If he closes his eyes, I reappear. And the torture starts all over again.

In a show of mercy I peel away his clothing, revealing bruises and cuts gained in fate's fight. He struggles so much, too. He wishes to be free. But I cannot free him. Not from his bonds. Not from his wounds.

Not from me.

Every wound receives a kiss. Licking at small cuts, suckling on black and blue marks, he groans. Is that pain? Pleasure? I leave no wound untouched. No piece of bare flesh is left unattended.

When that one part of him is revealed to me, I cannot see it clearly. Too bright? How can that be?! Still, I reach for it, grasp onto it with my hands. Watching his reaction, I become bolder, gently squeezing, pumping my fist, squeezing tighter. He begs for me to stop, but I don't. Not until he is at a precipice. I release him then, forcing him to groan, to whisper my name.

His moans only serve to excite me, to engage the fires within me. Bolder still, I release on of his hands. I expect him to slap me, throttle me. I do not expect him to touch me as I have touched him. Engrossed in his actions, I release his other hand. Still he causes me no pain.

Our lips touch again. This time there is more warmth, more need.

Then I am the one in bonds.

And I cannot stop him.

My clothes are torn from my body, leaving me completely open to his wondrous gaze. There is no insult in his eyes. For I have beaten it out of him. Now there is only a fire. A fire I put there. As he presses against me form behind, a shiver runs down my spine. Will he hit me, perhaps cut me in revenge? What sort of pain will he cause me?

It excites me to feel his bruised skin on mine. Feel his fingertips as they explore. He is not gentle, but not as cruel. His hands mold themselves to my breasts and squeeze hard, causing me to gasp. I can feel his engorged flesh against my lower back. I do not know why it excites me further, forces my stomach to melt and my lower regions to become damp. This is not the kind of pain I imagined he would give me.

But when he finally makes his move, pushing his enlarged staff inside of me, I realize why I was so excited. Pain erupts quickly, only to dissolve in a warm sea of darkness. I whisper his name as he forces himself in and out of me, pushing myself against him in hopes of recreating that twinge of pain. His speed increases, his depth reaching. That first pain never returns, but I am filled with a new pain.

An ache that wishes to be fulfilled.

When it is fulfilled, we both scream into the darkness.

And just before the fantasy ends...a light appears. A smile. His smile. But it is not so bright, not so horrible to look at. It is bearable. It is...comforting. Caring.

Loving.

Awake, I realize, with some mixed degree of terror and surprise, that I enjoyed myself. That I enjoyed being around this person. That hearing his voice made my insides turn to mush. That I wanted that moment to be real. I want those emotions and feelings to be real.

Then I come to the most horrifying realization of them all.

I love him.

Kyohei Takano.

My darkest fantasy.


~OWARI~

DISCLAIMER:
The characters mentioned in this story are not mine. Oh, no. I am using them for my own twisted purposes, but they are being used here without permission. "Yamatonadeshiko Shichihenge" is the creative genius of Tomoko Hayakawa, published in Japan by Kodansha, LTD (c) 2000. "The Wallflower" is translated and published by DelRey/Balantine Books/Random House for use in the United States. They own. Them! Not me.