Author's notes: This is a rather short, very dark piece of Christie/Helena fiction, because I feel they have the most interesting connection, and that some deliciously angst, dark things are possible between those two. There is not much Dead or Alive fiction that goes deeper, so here is my attempt at being 'deeper', getting into the soul of Helena and portraying a character that was never explained well in the actual games. Helena's POV.
Rating: R, for darkness, seriousness, and some f/f sex (nothing too graphic though)
Feedback: Pretty please? Drop a line and make me one happy camper.
Disclaimer: I just borrowed the characters of Helena and Christie, but I promise to return them all new and shiny.
Edit June 2005: Okay, so since people have been pointing my bad grammar out to me, I did my bst to edit this. (I'm not native to English, but I tried. I've been trying to get a beta reader for some time now, so if anybody offered his or her services, I'd gladly accept.) I wish my other Christie/Helena got as much attention as this melodramatic piece. ;)
by Cosina Veloce
Not so long ago, you have betrayed me.
Even now, looking down at you laying next to me, the fathomless depths of your pale, pale eyes like a huskey's opened, seemingly lost in eternity and in nothing and everything at the same time, the thought keeps pushing back into my head, causing my muscles to tighten uncomfortably, my mouth to be flooded by that bitter taste of barely withheld desperation, sorrow and pain, and a cold, cold shower to trickle down my spine. Cold, as cold as your eyes always are, even when they are supposed to look full of love and emotions, even when all I wish them to be is full of feelings, of that humanity I've never seen you show, they never, ever do. They're dead, and bored. I wonder, is your heart like that, too?
I remember so clearly when you we fought against each other. When I saw that delicate layer of sweat trickling down your face and throat, flowing ever so slowly down your collarbone, to disappear in that familiar cleft between your luscious breasts. I remember the confidence evident in your facial expression as you were standing and looking at me. And then, just before I defeated you, that glint of genuine surprise and of shock, for lack of a better way to put it, in your eyes, the first and last time I have ever seen something other than the coldness of an English summer rain or the endless boredom of someone that has everything and nothing that she couldn't possess , of a spoiled brat, just like me, in your eyes. But the flicker of humanity, as delicate as the last flickering of a flame before it gets killed by the wind was gone before I could marvel it, and it only left that all-consuming feeling of betrayal behind. I felt like I couldn't breathe anymore. It was like I never would again.
A vaccuum built in my chest, it enveloped my heart and tucked on it from every side at the time, trying to tear it into pieces while at the same time pinning it to the ground with a stone heavier than my mansion.
You betrayed me. You bitch.
I can feel the anger cooking up within me, but I close my eyes and swallow it down. There's no need to feel that way. You indeed betrayed me, but there is no reason in dwelling over it, for that feeling will not go away as long as I'm with you. And with you I am.
We met again not long after the 3rd tournament, which neither of us has won. There you were, with your dark sensuality, with your cat-like movements, with your voice, so erotic and darkly enduring that it feels like hundreds of black velvet gloves running up and down my body. Cruel frost was cleverly hidden in that hypnotizing voice, as cleverly as you hid your true nature from me for all the time we were friends, and more.
Am I weak for not being able to leave you alone? I ask myself that while my long, manicured fingernails cut into my palms violently enough to be leaving those dreaded red streaks behind, that you would laugh at and circle with your strong but soft tongue. God knows I don't trust you. I laugh bitterly at the thought of that, and you don't even look up at me as I laugh that snicker of lost dreams and lost faith. No, I really don't trust you.
But I want you.
I close my eyes at this conession even though I've known it was true all along. I want you badly.
Am I so wicked for being intrigued by that? Is it really that strange to be drawn to darkness, is it so wrong? Am I just a bored child with more money than she knows what do to with, the assassinations on both her mother and father having fucked with her mind incurably, leaving her behind with no sense of what's tolerable and what isn't, thus having lesbian sex with a woman that might kill her every second, willingly being in danger every second she spends with her, but just coming harder because of that when the assassion goes down on her and she feels her hands and tongue all over her?
God, I am fucked up.
I have nobody left, except you, nobody but you from my old life who has made it. My parents are dead, so are most of my maids that ever meant anything to me, all the tutors my father paid millions to teach me the best Mathematis, Physics or English possible (and I need the best English with you, because you've never bothered to learn my mother tongue, French), and even the friends I did have, few and far inbetween as they were, have withered and faltered and eventually disappeared or died just like the rest of them have. Leaving me... alone.
When I met you again, on the beach that night on Zack's Island, both wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini, no words were exchanged before we lay down to have animalistic sex that night. I was wandering on the beach with a glass of Martini in my hand, slowly and sensually sipping on it while I was marvelling over the many stars on the horizon. I had smiled and felt at peace for the first time in a very, very long time, and it was just then when I noticed you approaching me with that same expression you always wear, coming with that slight sway of your hips, so utterly feminine all despite your usual manly behaviour that tries to hide the pure feminity your body is made of. You were wearing a black, rather simple bikini, and even though my heart literally skipped a beat and my veins felt like icy glass was coursing through them, I couldn't help but take in your flat belly, with the muscles playing and tightening just underneath that silky skin, and then go up to take in your big, round, heaving bust, with the nipples poking through the thin material, heating me up almost immediately. I hated you. I hated you so much. But I also wanted you, and that was an equally strong feeling that night.
Perhaps you came to kill me that night. I don't know. I don't even know if I really care.
I kissed you forecully, almost brutally, I shoved my tongue into your mouth almost desperately, wanting to feel and to explore the hot, velvety cavity of your mouth. I felt the softness of your breasts and the hardness of the rest of your body against mine as I pulled you down on top of me. Your body is light, but hard with muscles and that night, it was alsovery demanding. You effectively pinned me down on the sand as you claimed my mouth with yours and conquered the terrain of my chest with your hands as you grabbed and kneaded my breasts and stroked my nipples, not gently or thoughfully, but with a force and demand that it almost hurt. But in a good way. What followed is not much more than a blur to me. Your tongue in my mouth, the sharp peppermind flavour of your saliva in my mouth, your hard hands on my breasts and inside me, expanding my inner walls to insert your fingers into me, thrusting them inside me to make me moan and mutter nonsense unter my breath, all the while the feel of your unsupported weight on me, pushing against my lungs, making me wonder whether you would kill me after all. It was a blur, a fine line between pleasure and pain, life and death. And it was one of the best things I have ever experienced.
After that night, I got rid of the bow I'd worn for years on and off, wearing a new colour and different shape every day, and I had my hair falling loosely down my shoulders and back. I always had that bow as a symbol for innocence, for that child I still was trying to keep within me, so I wouln't grow up completely, so that being so small and infantile would keep me out of the corporate world of murder, of blood, of death, perhaps forever. I didn't need that anymore. I was ready to experience that world outside of the locked door in the Douglas mansion, outside of maids, of swimming, English, horse back riding lessons with elderly tutors, outside of the protecting hands my father had always held above my head. Before he was murdered, that is.
I let my long, blonde hair fall down and you it was then when you gave me the first compliment ever.
"It suits you when you leave your hair that way," you said with your drawling English accent, regarding me with your bored, languid eyes for only a second before turning back to the cigarette, the glass of tomato juice and the newspaper in front of you, that I'm without a doubt certain hold more value to you than I ever will.
I don't know why, but that simple throw-away comment you muttered under your breath, that didn't mean much, perhaps not anything, made me so happy I almost jumped. It was the first time you ever really said something nice to me, after the betrayal. The first hint of friendship after it, of course diminished very quickly by your usual dismissive sneers and biting comments about my behaviour, my style or my clothes. My feminity. You keep saying I'm too girly, too needy, a little spoiled brat as we're both so very fond of saying, that was thrown into a world of blood and confusion. You are right about that. I probably am not much more than that. But, what are you?
Why do you keep me around? Why do you keep sleeping with me, why do you keep bringing me to orgasm, but God, why am I so addicted to you? Why can't I let go? What is it that makes me stay with you?
Am I in love with you or in love with the idea of death?
My Russian Roulette.
That's what you are. That's what my fear tells of when you are angry without a visible reason and I can feel almost physically that you will kill me if I don't think my next steps or words over very carefully, hoping that I won't provoke the anger in you further.
I shiver as I remember the conversation we had a while ago. Timidly, almost shyly, I apporached you that day, you standing at the window, dressed in manly black leather pants and a simple white v-neck shirt, me staying in front of and looking up at you benath my eyelashes. I opened my mouth and I remember what I said, and what you answered me keeps echoing in my head even now, long after you said it.
"Do you need me, Christie?"
"I have my reasons for keeping you around."
"Then," you said, "I will kill you."
And I know you will.