A/N: So once upon a time in the faraway realm of LJ, there was an anonykink meme for Kingdom Hearts. Someone requested Marluxia and Namine, with vines. My mind went crazy. This appeared. Not too graphic, but hopefully still hardcore!1! enough to warrant the M rating I slapped on this puppy. Constructive criticism is a huge, huge thing for me, but especially so on this one, pretty pretty please.
She sits in her room, the way she is ordered to, white like a pretty bride who blushes and hasn't an idea about the way these things work. But her eyes are distant, cold. She is nothing but a pretty pale porcelain doll, but she's Marluxia's pretty pale porcelain doll, who belongs to him and him alone. He will not allow anyone else to touch her, and so she keeps her distance from the others and she follows his orders and she waits like a good little girl.
This has happened so often that she doesn't even try to run anymore.
She sits and she waits, breathing in slow, though she really doesn't have to; she hasn't a heart and he'll never understand why she keeps pretending to have one.
She hears the sound of the vines tearing up the white marble tile: it's her first warning, one she was stupid enough to run from the first time. She barely blinks when they break through the floor, only hisses slightly when the vines tear into her skin, her pretty pale porcelain skin he's broken before and will again.
She is suspended by them, the thorns biting her, ripping her apart while her master comes through the door, blue eyes glinting, mouth in a constant smile. And she knows he will not say a word to her, will only speak in smiles while the thorns rip at her, at her dress, sending shreds of fabric to the floor until she is finally left bare before him and his hungry eyes.
His mouth is rough on hers, he sees small rivers of blood trickle from the sides of her lips. Even now he knows it has gone too far.
He is destroying her.
But he doesn't find himself caring overmuch.
He takes what is his, runs hands over her bleeding baby skin, their blood mixing together on her breasts. He disrobes slowly while the thorns dig even deeper, and it is all she can do not to cry out in pain.
It is slow, torturous, painful: he knows that she will not dare tell a soul and so he takes his time thrusting in and out of her while she bites her lips and focuses on the ceiling and tries not to cry. He has to constantly force her legs further apart; her body is very small, almost too small for him, but he hardly cares about her or her comfort. He does it because he needs to control her, the little memory witch who's dying right in front of him.
She starts to lose focus once he sees white and exits her. She starts to smile almost deliriously, tries to reach her broken arms outwards to him. The loss of blood is making her giddy, like she has a heart, which he finds overtly disgusting.
He snaps his fingers.
The vines tear at her neck, break it in two, and the Venus flytraps are left to lick the blood off the floor that is stained with sorely missed color.
He leaves the room as if nothing has happened.