Vision Of Escaflowne Fan Fiction ❯ Upon Reflection ❯ Upon Reflection ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Karre 
After a long day, Dilandau just wants to be left alone...(self-love, violence, disturbing themes)
Anime/Manga: Vision Of Escaflowne Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 04.24.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 792 | Status: Completed
After a long day, Dilandau just wants to be left alone...(self-love, violence, disturbing themes)
Anime/Manga: Vision Of Escaflowne Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai / Drama | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 04.24.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.2K | Visits: 792 | Status: Completed
A/N: 'Afternoon everyone. This idea came to me during gym class, one can really see the connection between crunches and pyromaniac masturbation... Anyway this is probably more disturbing than erotic, but then again this is Dilly-chan. I always felt that his sexual appetites were far from normal...Upon ReflectionDisturbing themes, violence, masturbation, psuedo-sexual obsessionsDon't own it, never will...::the esca-crew sigh in relief::now for our feature presentation....
Alone at last Dilandau hissed with relief as he leaned against his door, locking it absently. He hated these formal affairs. It was alright for Folken to stand about near walls and corners looking for all the world like a great, unhappy bat. But the very second Dilandau tried it some damn fool would come and bore him by regaling tales and tactics of bygone wars, as if he hadn't already heard them. Or some vapid woman would flatter him in an attempt to get him to pay attention to her, which was a far more grievous sin as far as Dilandau was concerned.
A red eye twitched and he gently began to massage the bridge of his nose. He released a steadying breath, forcibly calming himself. No use in calling further attention and have to deal with people he would just as soon slit from groin to throat. Gods, he wanted to return to his quarters in the Vione. As soon as the war was over, he promised himself, each and every one of those idiotic, grinning faces would be rolling past his feet.
A small smile spread itself delicately onto his lips and his eyes fluttered shut, a delicious fantasy taking hold.
He loosened his sheath and leaned his katana against the wall, tugged off his gloves and diadem, tossing them onto a chair. He smirked, lips curving dangerously around his teeth. What he would do to those women, those vacuous servile creatures He'd slip his fingers into that perfectly coiffed hair, viciously straightening the curls, feeling the golden strands snap under his hands. And the tears he licked his lips, the hand once massaging his nose slipping up to his hairline. Tears shed over a few knotted locks, poor stupid things. He'd show them what they should have saved their tears for.
His hand slid down his neck and over his shoulder, caressing cool skin and metal, his calluses catching at the fabric. His hand stopped at his overskirt, undoing the ties and allowing it drop about his boots. He stripped slowly to his waist, watching in the mirror across from the door as each inch of new flesh was exposed.
His hands twitched as he took in his own pale form. He closed his eyes and let his head sink back towards the door, resuming his lovely diversion.
He would restrain her back against his chest in front of a mirror. Wherever she looked she would see what was happening. He would yank her arm out and away from her body, and she'd whimper, but not fight. No, she'd be too frightened to fight. He brought a hand to his wrist and rested his fingertips on the bones there. Slowly, slowly, he would reveal the knife he had concealed in his hand and draw it up her arm. A tapering finger glided up toward his elbow.
And the blade would dip in just there, starting the blood to flow. Dilandau leaned more heavily against the door and let his hand wander toward his stomach. Crimson liquid sliding over and framing the curves of her hands and his knuckles, gathering at her fingertips and dripping off onto the floor. He chuckled softly and gazed into the mirror once more, seeming entranced by the sight of his hands toying with his waistband.
He would burn the men to ashes, throw them on a pyre started by the bodies of their daughters and wives. He would breath deeply, taking in the sharp bite of burning flesh and reveling in the climbing height of the flames. The heat thrown off from such a fire would sear the delicate hairs on his body, warming him to the core.
A deep groan sounded from low in his throat and his hands began to rub at himself through his pants. He stared at himself, legs splayed, cheeks pleasantly flushed, eyes half lidded, lips parted and panting. He toed off his boots and slid his pants off.
He stalked toward the mirror, bare feet sinking into the carpet. The wan moonlight peeking through the curtains played across his naked body, highlighting the planes and lines of his muscles. Standing in front of the mirror, he examined himself. Soft, pale hair, unusual red eyes, fine patrician features. "Beautiful." Long lean body, small hips, shapely legs. "Gorgeous."
He leaned his forehead against the glass and ran his fingers lightly across his reflection. They skittered over his stomach and he dropped them to his own thighs, massaging the warm skin. He looked up into his own eyes, eyes the color of his one true love. He recalled the fires of Fanelia, burning hot and fast, rising into the sky, consuming, burning, purifying. Flames lapping at his skin, embracing him, melting away the imperfections. Fire wrapping around his body, forging him into something stronger, something perfect. It crept over his skin, sinking into his blood, marking him as its sacred, worthy lover. The orange tongues caressed his thighs and erection, boiling and sweet. He was needed, wanted, dominated, owned. This was his true master, his love. He gasped and dropped to his knees, fingers curling desperately around his cock. He pumped frantically, wanting, needing release.
He felt powerful, strong, beautiful. He was invincible. He could tame a dragon. A mop of unruly, dark hair, those wide, innocent eyes before him, beneath him. Screaming, begging, pleading for mercy. Laughter, blood running beneath his hands, striking again and again, relentless pounding. Revenge, passionate, perfect revenge.
"I hate you," he whispered, sweat glistening in the moonlight. One hand came up and brushed the scar on his right cheek. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" So close, he was so close. Something deep and dark tightened with every stroke and finally broke loose. "Die!" he shrieked hoarsely. He knelt silently on the floor for some time, shuddering in the backwash of his climax. Fingers gripped at the carpet, knuckles suddenly white. He lifted his face to the mirror once more, face contorting into an animal snarl. He brought both fists up and slammed them into the glass, the crystalline shards raining down.
"I hate you!"
I am a very sick person. But that was pretty fun anyway. So click the review button and tell me just how sick and twisted I am! Thanks for reading!
Alone at last Dilandau hissed with relief as he leaned against his door, locking it absently. He hated these formal affairs. It was alright for Folken to stand about near walls and corners looking for all the world like a great, unhappy bat. But the very second Dilandau tried it some damn fool would come and bore him by regaling tales and tactics of bygone wars, as if he hadn't already heard them. Or some vapid woman would flatter him in an attempt to get him to pay attention to her, which was a far more grievous sin as far as Dilandau was concerned.
A red eye twitched and he gently began to massage the bridge of his nose. He released a steadying breath, forcibly calming himself. No use in calling further attention and have to deal with people he would just as soon slit from groin to throat. Gods, he wanted to return to his quarters in the Vione. As soon as the war was over, he promised himself, each and every one of those idiotic, grinning faces would be rolling past his feet.
A small smile spread itself delicately onto his lips and his eyes fluttered shut, a delicious fantasy taking hold.
He loosened his sheath and leaned his katana against the wall, tugged off his gloves and diadem, tossing them onto a chair. He smirked, lips curving dangerously around his teeth. What he would do to those women, those vacuous servile creatures He'd slip his fingers into that perfectly coiffed hair, viciously straightening the curls, feeling the golden strands snap under his hands. And the tears he licked his lips, the hand once massaging his nose slipping up to his hairline. Tears shed over a few knotted locks, poor stupid things. He'd show them what they should have saved their tears for.
His hand slid down his neck and over his shoulder, caressing cool skin and metal, his calluses catching at the fabric. His hand stopped at his overskirt, undoing the ties and allowing it drop about his boots. He stripped slowly to his waist, watching in the mirror across from the door as each inch of new flesh was exposed.
His hands twitched as he took in his own pale form. He closed his eyes and let his head sink back towards the door, resuming his lovely diversion.
He would restrain her back against his chest in front of a mirror. Wherever she looked she would see what was happening. He would yank her arm out and away from her body, and she'd whimper, but not fight. No, she'd be too frightened to fight. He brought a hand to his wrist and rested his fingertips on the bones there. Slowly, slowly, he would reveal the knife he had concealed in his hand and draw it up her arm. A tapering finger glided up toward his elbow.
And the blade would dip in just there, starting the blood to flow. Dilandau leaned more heavily against the door and let his hand wander toward his stomach. Crimson liquid sliding over and framing the curves of her hands and his knuckles, gathering at her fingertips and dripping off onto the floor. He chuckled softly and gazed into the mirror once more, seeming entranced by the sight of his hands toying with his waistband.
He would burn the men to ashes, throw them on a pyre started by the bodies of their daughters and wives. He would breath deeply, taking in the sharp bite of burning flesh and reveling in the climbing height of the flames. The heat thrown off from such a fire would sear the delicate hairs on his body, warming him to the core.
A deep groan sounded from low in his throat and his hands began to rub at himself through his pants. He stared at himself, legs splayed, cheeks pleasantly flushed, eyes half lidded, lips parted and panting. He toed off his boots and slid his pants off.
He stalked toward the mirror, bare feet sinking into the carpet. The wan moonlight peeking through the curtains played across his naked body, highlighting the planes and lines of his muscles. Standing in front of the mirror, he examined himself. Soft, pale hair, unusual red eyes, fine patrician features. "Beautiful." Long lean body, small hips, shapely legs. "Gorgeous."
He leaned his forehead against the glass and ran his fingers lightly across his reflection. They skittered over his stomach and he dropped them to his own thighs, massaging the warm skin. He looked up into his own eyes, eyes the color of his one true love. He recalled the fires of Fanelia, burning hot and fast, rising into the sky, consuming, burning, purifying. Flames lapping at his skin, embracing him, melting away the imperfections. Fire wrapping around his body, forging him into something stronger, something perfect. It crept over his skin, sinking into his blood, marking him as its sacred, worthy lover. The orange tongues caressed his thighs and erection, boiling and sweet. He was needed, wanted, dominated, owned. This was his true master, his love. He gasped and dropped to his knees, fingers curling desperately around his cock. He pumped frantically, wanting, needing release.
He felt powerful, strong, beautiful. He was invincible. He could tame a dragon. A mop of unruly, dark hair, those wide, innocent eyes before him, beneath him. Screaming, begging, pleading for mercy. Laughter, blood running beneath his hands, striking again and again, relentless pounding. Revenge, passionate, perfect revenge.
"I hate you," he whispered, sweat glistening in the moonlight. One hand came up and brushed the scar on his right cheek. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" So close, he was so close. Something deep and dark tightened with every stroke and finally broke loose. "Die!" he shrieked hoarsely. He knelt silently on the floor for some time, shuddering in the backwash of his climax. Fingers gripped at the carpet, knuckles suddenly white. He lifted his face to the mirror once more, face contorting into an animal snarl. He brought both fists up and slammed them into the glass, the crystalline shards raining down.
"I hate you!"
I am a very sick person. But that was pretty fun anyway. So click the review button and tell me just how sick and twisted I am! Thanks for reading!