Just another little ficlet. A Mugen one this time, no this isn't the follow up to "When the Bough Breaks" its just something I've been thinking of writing. And don't worry about 'The Electra Complex' I'm halfway thru chapter 5, I just needed to stop and write this quick ficlet because its been grating on my mind.
Her skin was always so baby soft. Not that he had ever been in the situation to hold or touch a baby, but he imagined this would be exactly what it would feel like if he had. This feathery softness, warm and yielding against his hard, calloused, scarred body, like lying on a pile of swan down. Sometimes he took his time, running his hands along every inch of it, and other times he bit, slapped, and bruised it, so it would be more like his own. He hated the contrast of them. Her pale complexion unscarred and bathed in innocence; while his own was dark, filthy and flawed. He wanted her to be more like himself. Taint her, dirty her, hurt her until he was all she could depend on.
She was a child. Still just a little girl begging for love and tenderness from all who would never give it to her. Maybe that's why she never asked those things of him. Mugen imagined she looked at Jin the same way she would look at her father. With those wide, yearling eyes, glazed over with admiration and devotion. It made him want to vomit. He was always rougher with her on the days she looked at the stoic samurai that way. She needed to be punished for her infidelities. Something he found himself doing more often as her affections grew, even going so far as to almost throttle the very life out of her once. She had been staring at the other man an awful lot that day, but when he came to her that night she didn't fight him like she frequently did. Instead she closed her eyes and Mugen could see her lips moving, silently forming a name that wasn't his own. His large hands, still covered in dirt and sweat from the day's exertions, went to her throat, his thumbs slowly pressing into the base of her esophagus, he didn't realize he was slowly squeezing the breath out of her until she began to thrash, pull, and cry.
He thinks he likes it better slow, though he never minded taking her hard and violently. Her body was adolescent at best, lacking any sort of feminine curves, breasts, or any wiles remotely womanly, and yet he wonders why no one else has ever made him quite this hard. The littlest of things could send a craving twitch straight to his groin, her little fingers moving to brush strands of hair out of her eyes, her tender mouth opening unabashedly into a wide yawn, her eyes lighting up in fascination at something beautiful. Sometimes she says no, sometimes she says nothing at all. He honestly has no idea why she even bothers to say no anymore, the outcome is always the same. He prefers to come to her when she sleeps alone. There's just something that stirs him about entering her private space in the dark, pulling back her covers like a monster from the closet. He pins her to the matting, and she's helpless again, she can't stop him. Because he can't stop himself.
It reminds him of their first time. It was shortly after the incident with Mukuro and Kohza. Half drowned and exhausted on the shore, she was the first thing he saw, hovering over him with watery hazel orbs. He wanted to pull her down and lick the tears off her face. Leaving trails of thick, dripping, saliva along her cheeks. Of course he had seen tears many times before. People, men, women, and children, crying for their lives and the lives of their loved ones, crying out of terror, out of fear. But no one had ever cried for him before. And that night he showed her the price of her compassion.
Mugen needed rest and recuperation after that day, and they had managed to find a few cheap rooms. The sky was dark, the moon was high, and he waited, biding his time, and Jin gradually drifted to sleep a few feet away from him. Soundlessly standing up, he carefully slipped out, moving down the hall, counting the rooms along the way. 4, 5, 6, and he stopped at the seventh room, sliding the doors open, not caring if they made a sound or not.
She was there, in the middle of the floor, lying on her thin mat under a few sheets and a comforter. His eyes fought quickly to adjust to the darkness, and slowly the abyss twisted and sharpened into forms and shapes. She was on her stomach, hair down and thrown carelessly over her forehead and face, one knee drawn up by her torso, while the other stretched out behind her. Arms shoved under her pillow, she cuddled it in an unconsious hug. Stepping over to her, the details became clearer and more defined the nearer he got. Out of the sun and light, she looked smaller, paler, and so much younger. Her face was free of expression, fear, worry, and now only appeared smooth and youthful. Sleeping deep, and soundly, she was so trusting, not instantly awakened at a pin drop like he and Jin. She had no need to fear the dark and the unseen. Maybe after this, she would.
Pulling down the sheets, Mugen easily climbed over her, straddling her shapeless hips, leaning down until his bare chest touched her back. One hand glided down her little body, bunching the bottom of her yukata up around her stomach. She didn't begin to wake until his fingers came up to wrap themselves around her forearms, gripping them tightly, pinning them where they lay. Immediately feeling an unfamiliar burden weighing her down, her eyes shot open, her mouth ready to scream for help that she probably expected to come from him. He quickly stifled her cry with one hand, as the other looped around her upper body, trapping her arms underneath her. But that didn't stop her from thrashing and bucking madly, like a wild sparrow locked in a cage much too small.
She must have caught sight of the tattooed rings around his wrist, or maybe she just recognized the body on top of her, because her struggling came to a halt and her head tilted to the side to look at him with startled and questioning eyes. He was somewhat surprised, because this was not the look of a person who thought they were in danger. She seemed shocked, disgruntled, and confused, but not afraid. Not of him at least. He was curious if this was where a normal person would feel guilt, or shame for betraying such unwavering faith. After a moment or two of waiting he gave up because the feelings never came.
Using his weight, he pushed his chest against her fragile form, forcing her firmly into the mattress, his hand still clamped tightly over her mouth. She didn't fight, not even when he used the hand covering her lips to press her head against the floor. He wanted to laugh at her stupidity. She honestly thought he was changed. That he was a better person since their journey started, that he was a 'good man' now. Did she really believe she had taken a murderer and turned him into a hero? No, men like him didn't magically become different with a kind word or two. You can't erase 19 years of conscienceless existence and heartless pillaging in a few months.
His body easily spanned the small length of her own, and he briefly wondered if he was cutting off her air. Releasing the thought from his mind as quickly as it had come, he shrugged his hakama off his narrow hips. Pausing for a moment, he could feel her stiffen under him as he positioned his pelvis snuggly between her legs. A panicked flood of muffled noises reverberated under the hand over her mouth. She writhed and wriggled frantically, like a mouse trying desperately to get out from underneath a cat's paw, but he was simply too heavy, much too heavy.
A short breath caught in his throat when her fanatic squirming caused certain parts of her to brush against his hardness. Suddenly rearing up he slammed both hands into the middle of her back, right between her shoulder blades, shoving her brutally against the floor. He had, had enough of this. It was time for her to grow up. Her mouth was already open and ready to scream, but was cut off with a hot searing pain piercing her like a branding iron. He thrust violently into her, inside a place that seemed impossibly too small for him. He heard her choke on her own cries for help, the pain pummeling down any coherent thought. There was no lubrication to keep him from ripping and tearing her child walls apart as he beat himself into her without a care.
Leaning back down, laying his chest against her back, he again covered her mouth, moving his own to touch her jaw line, whispering filthy, repulsive, debaucheries quietly into her ear. Telling her how he loved the feel of her around him, how he would remember the sensation of her maidenhead tearing on his tip for the rest of his life, how he was going to fuck her forever and there was nothing she could do to stop him. She was wailing now, sobbing the oddest things. Begging him to stop, crying that it hurt, but the thing that stuck in his mind was her bawling 'why?' Why was he doing this to her? She thought he was her friend, how could he hurt her? An uncontrollable lightning-like sensation shot up his spine, making his toes curl, his muscles lock, and the backs of his legs go numb.
The next thing he knew he was spent, laying on her back, his head over hers, his seed dripping slime down their thighs, slithering down the backs of her legs like a sinful muck. She was still now, crying quietly, as he caught his breath. His lungs returned to him and he lazily opened his eyes, watching the dark room blur and fuzz before coming back into focus. A warm liquid was gliding over his hand now and he realized he was still cupping her mouth. She coughed and sniffled, dried tears caking onto her face, and snot crusting around her nostrils and upper lip. He was struck with the strangest impulse to wipe her cheeks and tell her she was okay, that she would be fine. Quickly shaking the inclination off he found that he couldn't get her voice out of his head. 'Why?' why was he hurting her? What had she done? Why was he doing this?
Wiping the sweat off his forehead he climbed off of her lithe body and to his feet, tugging on his hakama, before starting towards the doors. Opening the panels he stopped to take one last look at her, and she was staring him. She was looking at him with pained doe-eyes brimming with tears as though he had just said something to hurt her feelings. Seeing that he had caught her staring she quickly hid her face into her pillow, resuming her weeping. Why was he doing this? He was Mugen. He was a pirate, a thief, a murderer, a rapist, a drunk, it was just what he did. People like him didn't change, they couldn't be redeemed and he didn't want to be. It was like the story of the scorpion and the swan, some people just couldn't be helped. No matter what you did they always went back to their basest nature. But why was he doing this to her? Mugen shook his head and stepped out the doors, heading back to the room he shared with Jin. He just couldn't stop.
And he didn't. Every chance he got, he came to her again and again. Slowly, she stopped fighting so much, but she never stopped crying. At this point he didn't know whether she was crying for her or for him. Perhaps it was a mixture of the two. He thought it strange that the samurai still hadn't noticed anything, but if he had he didn't make it known or try to stop it. Every now and then she would ask him 'why' again. He never answered her, but the question lingered in his mind. Why her? What was it about her that dragged him back every time? Sometimes, after he had come to her, he would watch her sleep, curled into a little protective ball, as he got dressed. She was so small, so young, and not so innocent anymore. And he wanted to cover her, absorb her, mold her into him, and maybe fucking her was the only way he knew how to do that.
If he stopped now, she would forgive him, he could tell just by the way she looked at him. Like she was begging him to stop, pleading that she would forget the whole thing and let it all go back to normal. It was becoming irritating fast, because she simply didn't get it. This was normal. What was abnormal was the way things were before. Now he was back to himself, back to what he knew. What was different was her. He had never had such a fascination with a woman before, but she wasn't a woman, not really. She was still just a little girl. A little girl being taught dirty, womanly things. Things she shouldn't have had to learn so soon. Things he knew she was desperate to forget.
Fuu had jumped him once, pounding on his chest when he came for her, wailing and sobbing for him to leave her alone, that he was driving her insane and she couldn't do it anymore. Ignoring her hysteria, he knocked her to the ground, stripping her like a man gone wild before driving home inside her womb. Inside her, he found peace, sedation, euphoria. It was like an opiate heaven when he was cumming within her, his world blurred and reality seemed to shift. And then he came down, gently, floating back to earth to rest on her feathery body. His head moving up and down with the breathing inside her chest. He wanted to curl into her and never come out, stay in that shifted reality forever.
And for a moment he thought that was actually possible. The last time, she was so tender and docile as his hands moved over her chest, her stomach, her legs. She even wrapped her arms around him at the end. Her hips pivoted and bucked against his own, and it was unbelievable. His breath was lost and he was afraid he would never get it back. Her fingers flexed over the span of his shoulders and she pushed him, turning them so she was on top. He watched her, guided her, as she gyrated against him, her hands splayed across his chest. It was an erotically disturbing sight, but he couldn't tear himself away. He couldn't stop. She looked so wrong up there, on top of him, riding him like a lessoned whore, doing things she had learned from him. It was supposed to be alluring and should have set him off like a rocket, but it didn't. She didn't look right; she didn't look like a sex goddess but rather a child being forced to perform the grown-up tricks she was trained.
When it was finally over, when he was spent beyond consciousness, he collapsed against the grass, raping the world of its oxygen. Gathering her in his bronzed arms, he welcomed sweet oblivion. That night he dreamed of her. She was smiling at him, wrapping herself around him and even kissing him. And then, just like that, her image faded into the darkness and she slipped through his fingers like black sand. Groaning as the sunlight peeked through the forest canopy, his eyes fluttered reluctantly open. He rubbed his forehead, still exhausted from the prior night, and that was when he noticed that his arms were very empty.
Scanning the ground he stopped, finding her lying in a pile of his clothes. He yawned, not remembering when she had left, and got up, strolling over to her before kneeling by her side. She was in a tight ball and tangled in some of his clothing. Gripping her shoulder he gave her a light shake. His mouth working into a frown when she didn't respond, and he noted that she had gone a snowy white and felt cold and hard to the touch. He swept his hakama and haori away from her body and his heart froze in his chest. His own sword was protruding, grotesquely from her stomach, skewering her through the midsection and out her back.
He couldn't breath as he pulled her to him, her head falling limply back over his forearm. She was cold and stiff and no longer Fuu. She was so little; he felt more like he was holding a tiny doll than an actual person. He had never noticed how rounded her cheeks were, she still had much of her baby fat. Her eyes were closed, but she didn't look peaceful. She looked dead.
Laying her back onto the ground, he yanked the jutting weapon from her belly, unflinching as a spray of blood spattered onto his face with a disgusting 'pitter-patter'. Throwing the sword to one side he leaned down to her, resting his head against her cold naked chest, shutting his eyes. Her body was icy and pimpled his arms with goose bumps as he lay against her. In his head, she was warm, and looking down at him with watery eyes. Her skin was still so baby soft.