Series: Kingdom Hearts: Chain of Memories(-ish)
Word Count: 924
Summary: She thinks she has him figured out, but she’s wrong.
Warnings: angst, some adult content, a bit of a creepiness factor, dub-con.
Notes: For mah Papaya-chan, written (late) for her birthday~! I hope you like it, sweetheart. Prompt was: “Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining.” She wanted something Naminé-centric, and of course I had to write these two. I feel a bit rusty. x_x
He saves her from the cold and brings her to a castle that is as pristine and white as the dress he gives her, and she wonders if he is a prince, like in the fairytales that she read before (she doesn’t remember when she read them, but she remembers the stories themselves, and she thinks that’s good enough).
She poses this question to Larxene, who looks at her as if she is incredibly stupid. She hides her giggling mouth behind her hand as she replies, “I suggest you look elsewhere for your fairytale prince, little girl. You won’t find him here.”
She keeps looking at him anyway, because she is certain (somewhere deep down, between her empty chest and her stomach) that Larxene is wrong.
She watches him more often than not when he is within her line of sight. She thinks that he is beautiful and yet is also undeniably male. He’s charming and witty and he makes her laugh sometimes even though she knows that her laughter shouldn’t mean anything at all—but to her, it does.
Sometimes he catches her looking. Sometimes, she catches him looking, too.
She always blushes and casts her gaze aside when this happens, fiddling with the hem of her white dress.
And when he resumes his work, she finds herself watching him again, not quite able to look away.
She is privileged enough to be allowed inside of his garden, and she finds his beauty to be even more astounding when he works here, tending to his flowers and helping them grow.
He gently tucks a tuberose into her hair, above her left ear, and his touch makes her breath catch in her throat. He seems pleased over her reaction.
“You can be my most precious flower,” he purrs to her, his honey-coated words making her shiver.
“Will you take care of me?” she queries, naïve and trusting and wanting to feel more than anything.
“But of course,” he replies with a sweet smile, and she believes him.
She doesn’t know any better, after all.
“Do you find me to be beautiful?” he asks her one day, and she blushes dark pink like his azaleas, but she nods anyway, eyes open but not looking at him.
His fingers comb through her hair as he chuckles, and her eyes close as she unconsciously leans into his touch.
“Remember something for me, my little flower,” he murmurs as he trails gloved fingers down the column of her throat before just barely dipping under the neckline of her dress to touch the skin there (and it burns and it sends goosebumps erupting all over her skin, and it makes her feel something different—something hot and coiling and twisting and unfamiliar low in her belly).
Her breath quickens and she thinks that she wants more; she finds herself imagining what kissing him would feel like—wonders if it would be like when the prince and the princess kiss in storybooks.
“What do you want me to remember?” she asks, and bites her lip at the look of hunger in his eyes.
He touches where she’s bitten, and she once again finds herself unable to breathe.
“That even the most beautiful of roses have thorns,” he replies, his smile belying his ominous words.
“I will,” she promises, but she doesn’t really think about it again until some time later.
She imagines that he tastes sweet, like those strawberries out in his garden.
What she forgets is this: Every now and again, she finds a berry that isn’t sweet at all.
She discovers that her idea of him is very, very wrong when he comes to her bed for the first time. She realizes that his game all along has been to lure her in and then to trap her, and she has gone willingly to his web—she has let him bind her with his threads.
He isn’t gentle when he takes her. There are a thousand little pinpricks of pain as his teeth and nails sink into her skin, and there’s a different sort of pain between her legs when he moves there, fitting his hips against hers.
She recalls his statement about thorns, and wonders if this is what he’d been talking about.
Her body is still whole when he’s finished, but she is broken in other ways.
He is her savior and her destroyer in one, and he lies beside her, walking his fingers along her spine. He is gentle again, but this is all part of the illusion that he exudes—it is false. She would say that she won’t fall for it again, but she’s already fallen, and in this case, you can’t fall twice. He’s already got her right where he wants her.
She closes her eyes, knowing now with every fiber of her (non-)being that he is not her prince, and she is not his princess.
He is only the spider. She is only the fly.
“You tricked me,” she hisses after she thinks that he’s fallen asleep.
But he hasn’t. His blue eyes open slowly and then narrow to slits. “Oh, but I didn’t,” he replies. “I told you the truth, little flower. You chose to ignore it. You tricked yourself.”
He leans in to kiss her, tongue pushing roughly past her lips, and she can’t help but think that he is right.
He draws back, and then pulls her tight against him. “Good girl,” he says, praising her.
And the taste in her mouth is as bitter as his smile.