(this is your LANDING)

He fucks me for the first time on a holiday. It is December, and the cold wind batters bitterly against the worn stone of the house. Freezing drafts seem to follow me everywhere, and my hands are icy to the touch no matter what I do.

But I don't really notice the chill when my hands are fisted against his chest  as my whatever-he-is (I can’t think of him like that anymore. My thoughts are wild: heisnotandhasneverbeenmyfather - that involves thinking the word 'incest', and I really can't bring myself to do so. I already think too much, and I don't want to peruse old memories to find evidence that either proves or disproves...that. O already thinks too much, and he feels this is supposed to be her distraction. That is how I justify it, anyway. Yes, I am that stubborn and desperate) presses me against walls and makes me whimper quietly from lips that are almost constantly kiss-swollen and red.

No one notices. No one knows. (At least, no one I am acquainted with.)

No one knows, and I like it that way. I don't know what He thinks about it, but I trust my not-father to follow my wishes in this (because I am a child and I trust all the wrong people. I always haves - my mum once told me it would get me killed one day – if only).

It (the fucking - though I would call it something else, that is all it will ever be to the not-father, and I do not understand my lover yet; do not understand what I have gotten myself into – or rather, what he has dragged me into) happens for the first time over Christmas Break. He moves quickly, and I have no defenses. (Later - later later later - I wish that I could have stood a chance.)

It goes like this: we are kissing, liquid and heat and in the same corner of my room where this first started with a stroke of my cheek, coincidentally enough. I recognize nothing but the taste and the slick movement, and I am too entranced to protest when he slowly unbuttons my jeans. I moan helplessly, loud and desperate, when his thigh slides between mine and up, and he bites my lower lip as he does it. The kiss breaks off as I starts panting heavily, whimpering just a little (enough to let Him think privately that, yes, he chose correctly), and my head falls back, hitting the wall with a crack, as he moves his thigh harder and faster and - God, the world is blurring. I grind down mindlessly, meeting him movement for movement, and slumps against the wall and whines throatily when the not-father is suddenly not touching me. I blink rapidly and opens my mouth to (not beg) ask (in a very unclear way) what is going on, but then he is touching me again and unbuttoning his slacks and I can't stop the moan as he takes mine off. My knickers nearly go with them in his haste, but he smirks (I doesn't see it, but I can hear it and feel it, like a subtle vibration in the air) and ghosts his fingers lightly over the plain white cotton. I shudder and nearly slide down the wall as my knees get weak, but my not-father is suddenly holding me up and his elegant, aristocratic fingers are inside my knickers and stroking like - like the indescribable. I slam my head against the wall as I scream (something incoherently like IDON’TWANTTHIS), and then his mouth catches mine - only he sucks my tongue for only a moment before trailing that wicked mouth down my pale neck to my shoulder and biting -

Right as his fingers are inside and outside and stroking and caressing, and nothing should feel this good; I am falling and blinded and -

(Only the devil tastes so good.)

. ... .

January. I am a little closer to eleven now than ten, and I forget to count my wisdoms in the midst of the whirling fugue that is Him. He fascinates and entrances me (I don’t know any better), and I begin to enjoy when the not-father plays his unique little games. They are mind games - power games, and isn't it so novel for me to actually grasp power? (I am powerless, usually.) I love the perpetually half-lidded eyes that survey everything, judging (and I managed to draw this interest? That is power) and languid - I love and hate the way our bodies move and the way he tastes and the way I can taste him lover, drive him wild (but that is so rare. He so rarely allows that) – but all of this is wrong.

I love how life is becoming an amusing game - it so much easier to look at it that way rather than care and kill myself with worry and stress (so life is a game).

"I like your games," I voice lazily. We are lying - well, I am lying naked on his bed, staring at the ceiling blissfully; He is traipsing lazily across the room and retrieving miscellaneous articles of clothing. He looks back at me when he hears the my words.

And then he smiles (like a cougar would smile, no one at all thinks) and says, "You like my games, lovely?"

Too satisfied to feel irritated, I reply with only a hint of sarcasm. "Well, yes. That is what I said."

I hear him padding across the carpet floor and turn my head to meet his gaze. "Well, lovely Anna," he says, crawling over the bed and kneeling between my still spread knees, "how would you like to play a new one?"

He leans over and kisses me - skillfully but lazily, and I don't understand how this is new - but then he slips his hand between warm folds and rakes his other hand viciously down my outer thigh. My hips jerk in reflex and I scream into his mouth - and Sweet Mother does that feel good. I pump my hips and ignore the liquid warmth trickling down my leg, spiraling into hazy pleasurepain.

It is the start of something else, and I was never very wise in the first place (just quiet and clever and the wise is still growing. I fear but not for myself, and I don't understand the wicked like I think I do. Foolish child).

January. I am closer to eleven now than ten, and I forget to count my wisdoms (however few they are, they might have sa - ) in the midst of the whirling fugue that is Him.

. ... .

It isn't the fall that kills you, I read somewhere one beautiful summer day. It's the landing.

It is February now, and I don't think about this. I look at my sleeve-covered, rope-torn wrists as if I can see through the thick cloth and I don't think about it.

But I really do think about this (not the fall) because I am thinking about how He was always so fascinating and entrancing and playful in the beginning and how now - well, now my hips are bruised and there are cuts in fanciful shapes decorating my thighs (the landing). The gloss has been bled off, and I (not the fall it's the landing) am still there.

I didn't know why at first - and I still don't - but I am (addicted) in love (with pain and darkness) and I trust my not-father (I trust all the wrong people) not to take it too far. (And this is me: controlling the fear and the darkness and the fear of darkness by having decidedly rough sex with the closest thing to the personification of darkness I can find - because headaches are so debilitating and circled eyes cause questions. I think too much, so I have decided not to think. So foolish.)

See, she is past the point of saying no. That point was a long time ago, and it was part of the story. There are so many stories, and my choice was quietly and blindly made in that dark, dusty corner that didn't matter - and shouldn't that mean that everything created there didn't matter? So I had never been worried, and I didn't even know that there was a choice. I still don't.

Choices like that don't exist to me. (I can't understand that perhaps there will be consequences - I am afraid for others, you see, but I still have a child's belief in my own immortality. Nothing can harm me, and I don't realize that I think like that.) All that exists is the present, and I am not going to think about it because I think too much.

There is no thought of saying no. Not anymore - and as he leads me into the bedroom,  pockets clinking lightly as heavy handcuffs and new toys collide, I follow as if blindfolded.

(As if blind, and this - this tonight is when everything changes.)

And then they are in one of that mysterious room, and he still hasn't looked at me.

I am uncertain - is he angry? So I say, against my better judgment, "Dadd - "

And He has thrown me against the wall before I even finish saying his name (that rolls off the tongue like diamonds, cold and sharp and beyond anything - beyond beyond beyond). My blonde curls fly, glinting in the dim light, and my skull collides with the wall and makes an awful sound.

(The not-father is crazy strong - and almost crazy, but not yet.)

When I can see again (when the lights have mostly stopped flashing and I am only seeing two of everything instead of five) I see his tall figure standing over me. His eyes are cold and half-lidded, staring down at me, and his lips are stretched into an ugly smile (...and isn't this going a little far?). "Who - " kick "are you - " kick "to call me that?"

I am curled up in a ball now, turned on and losing myself in the pain. (No, not too far. He knows what he's doing, surely. I trusts him.) I pants out my line: "Nothing. I'm nothing. Just a –a whore."

(How has it come to this? How have I come to this? I don't know and can't think about it because it's all in fun, see. It's just some pain to put an edge on the maddening pleasure, and I enjoy it. I could say no.)

He pulls me up by my hair (and the blood stands out against the pale gold, but no problem) and the world is shifting and the only solid is Him. I feel something warm along my hairline and that is the not-father’s tongue licking away blood. "Yes," he says. "That is all you are. Get on the bed, lovely.”

And the world is tilting and the pain is everything, but I trust him to turn it all into pleasure. I stumble to the bed.

I black out for a moment. When I come to myself, there is cold metal encircling my ragged wrists. There is cold metal touching her stomach, and I look down (ignoring the dizziness) to see him straddling me and lazily cutting away my blouse with a dagger.

(This dagger is special - it is the not-father’s favorite, and he always uses it for blood play.)

The brunette sees me looking at him and, with a smirk, removes the torn fabric with a flick of his elegant right wrist. "Anna." Usually when he says my name, it drips with you-are-mine and you-are-nothing and obey-me-now. Now, though - now all that is there is indifference, and for the first time I get the sense that I am worthless. It had always been role-play to me, but now - now it isn't?

I don't have time to examine it, however, because then his warm weight is gone and so are his slacks - and my vision goes black for a second, but when it comes back I see an expression near vile hatred on his face.

For the first time, a hint of fear cuts through the pain and lust. For the first time, I am sensible. For the first time - but I don't say no.

I could have said no, but it isn't an option to a big girl like me. (That word is not in my vocabulary in regards to Him. And would he even listen...?)

But I could have said no.

. ... .

I wake up the next morning alone (only He is usually there with bandages and potions and aristocratic sarcasm, and why isn't he this time?) and still chained to the bed. The previous night is a blur, and the throbbing in my head is worse than any of the tension migraines I still sometimes get. (They mostly stopped when she and the not-father...started. I am smart enough that I could realize that this is because I was letting out my stress, fbut I am weak Anna and don't think on it. Avoidance is such a beautiful thing, isn't it?)

It takes me a long, cold half hour to get out of the handcuffs, and that is at the cost of a little blood magic; the new slices sear with heat and pain, and I nearly scream. I try to sit up before giving up on that right quick. My entire body hurts. There - there aren't any words for the utter pain I am in. The formerly white sheet is sticking to the dried cuts on my back (when did those happen?), and it takes fifteen long, painful minutes to try to peel it away gently. In the end, I give up (my head is in agony) and rips the sheet away without a sound – I don't scream only because I am beyond that at the moment. Warm blood runs down my back, and I wait a few seconds before I try to stand up again.

Zen. Zen. I am zen. Calm. White. Floating. Blank. Pain is nothing.

I stand - and immediately collapse to the floor.

The world goes black.




A/N: Okay. This is bondage and S&M all wrong - it's not like that and it shouldn't be like that. It has a bad rep, but with trust and full knowledge and consent, it's a perfectly good thing. Here, He is simply mad and without finesse and - well, that would be giving things away (and if you can't read the writing on the wall, you don't deserve tits). But: YES, he is going too far.

The End

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