seeds of uncertainty: [06] consequences
[ The first in a three-part birthday gift for omjchx! I have nothing else to offer but my writing (because my PS skills are shit let's be real sobs), so I offered to write 3 things for her, whatever prompts she wanted. This one she asked to be about Vartouhi, and was to be based on this picture [nsfw but it's art so] and two lines: "She drifts." and "She feels small under the starlight." I hope you like it, bb! ^^ ]
The sun beats down from above, merciless, and she feels his heat wrapped around her naked limbs like he's ready to pry her open. There's nothing gentle in the warmth against her skin. It's oppressive and persistent, rising to a scorching level. Her pale skin ruins under the tight grip he has on her, pulling taut over lean muscle. It itches when it's tugged beyond the limits of its elasticity, and it tears. Blood and water rise to fill up the gap and her body slowly but surely becomes lined with little red fissures. The trickle of water that falls across her skin withers away into vapor as he inhales her. He means to conquer her.
She hears the ocean's laughter all around her. The waves throw themselves against the rock her body is splayed upon. Barbaric revelry it is; fiends cheering on at the spectacle of him taking her. Their spittle flies up onto her body and into her face, and she winces at the sting of the salt on her dehydrated skin and in the crevices of raw flesh.
She wants to escape. She can see on the horizon that there is land she could fly to, if only she had the strength. Her body is so stricken with dehydration that her eyes flicker with white light but inevitably go out within seconds. He's drugged her with his heat; her mind can barely function properly, and certainly cannot muster the ability to fly, let alone lift herself. She wonders why she is on this rock in the middle of the ocean in the first place. Why is she naked, and why didn't she fill herself to excess with fresh water before venturing here? These questions are meaningless now. Whatever poor decision making brought her here, she knows there is no changing it. He will devour all that she is.
She never imagined she would die this way.
She drifts. Eyelids twitching, eyelashes fluttering, she can feel her body floating.
The scene grows hazy. There is darkness as if she's closed her eyes, though she doesn't remember doing so. She doesn't remember anything that just happened. When she opens her eyes, she's home. She lies in a bathtub of lukewarm water, naked, but she knows that's a normal state to be in when bathing, so she is not alarmed. Her body is supple and beautiful and pale under the water. She feels a strange warmth. It's more than just the water seeping into her hydrotubules. It's in her cheeks, her neck, her chest, and the pit of her belly.
A tanned hand reaches into the water and cups her breast and oh--. She arches her back dramatically because she's never been touched like this before. The reason for the mystery warmth is solved as her black onyx eyes meet his chocolate-colored ones--and she thinks chocolate specifically, because like chocolate he is everything warm and satisfying and tempting and sinful, and she knows it despite how frequently her words have denied it. She expects a smug look of triumph to be glinting in his eyes to complement a proud smirk. But there is no such thing. The tug of his full, pillowy lips is one of muted eagerness and anticipation. There is only a lecherous admiration and perhaps a hint of reverence, though she's unsure why. She's even more unsure why it makes her heart pound against her chest, as if it wants to break free and prostrate itself before him with breathless whispers of offering itself up to him. A pulse between her thighs impossible to ignore calls for him, begs him to touch her more.
His voice is deep and its reverberations off the bathroom tile and porcelain shake her spine into shivering. She doesn't know what he said. Her mind is hazy with imagination; images of what she wants him to do next flashing through her mind too quickly for her to comprehend, but making her cheeks flush rosier all the same. His hand slides down over her ribs and belly, and her breath hitches, the muscles in her stomach jumping back reflexively. He presses his index and middle fingers to that pulse and she exhales a sound somewhere between a sigh of relief and a moan of desire. He chuckles and she has enough wits about her to feel somewhat embarrassed. In the next moment, however, any embarrassment is forgotten, completely flushed out by the wave of excitement that runs through her when he climbs into the tub with her, covering her body with his.
She looks on expectantly as he watches the quick, pronounced rise and fall of her chest for a long moment, before looking up at her face again. His look is calculating, as if debating if he really wants to do this, and she panics, afraid he will leave her. Her thighs part for him to show him as much as she's denied it to him and to herself, she wants him. Her small hands grip his biceps gently, a silent plea for him to stay. She worries it isn't enough, because the look hasn't left his face yet, so she whispers, "Please."
The look fades away almost instantly. She wonders if he'd been thinking over whether this would complicate their living situation. She should be considering the same, but she can't think properly. Every part of her is fixated completely on him. His fingers press closer against that pulse, and she bites her bottom lip as it throbs against them in response. She can feel that he's beginning to crook his fingers. The tips of them are just barely probing a part of her she's aware of but has never explored in this way. She's ready. Her breath lies still in her lungs.
Her eyes close and there's darkness. She has no idea if he took the plunge. In fact, the memory of him and the bathtub fades away. The heat she felt intensifies. A dread grips her heart. She still can't see anything but there is the sense that something is very wrong; doom is approaching or already here.
When her eyes open, the left stings, and she grunts in pain as she squeezes her eyes closed again in reaction, quickly pushing herself up into a sitting position. She rubs a fist against her shut, smarting eye, and when the moment of pain finally passes, she pulls her fist away to open both eyes again. She doesn't even notice her fist is covered in blood. Her jaw hangs open at the sight of something much more devastating.
Between bodies of fallen brethren, the familiar red grasses of her home glisten, and she realizes it's with blood, not dew. Fire eats away at village homes in the foreground, and off in the background, flames engulfing the palace reflect off the rock of the mountain behind it, casting golden glow over the entire area. It's like looking into the sun, and her eyes water and sting as if she were.
The darkness comes on instantaneously this time. She's breathing hard and she feels hot and wet--a coat of sweat clinging to her skin, and something else entirely smeared between the insides of her upper thighs. As she tries to roll onto her back, she realizes there's a solidness pressed up against her, and she then becomes aware of the tan, strong arm curled around her waist. Om's breath is against the crook of her neck where it begins to curve into the slope of her shoulder, and it's scorching to her overheated body and she thinks he may have even drooled on her. With complete disregard as to whether it wakes him or not, her hand wraps around his wrist and she throws it off her body with a hint of irritation before quickly scrambling out from underneath the blanket. She doesn't even look at him as she leaves their home, making her way outdoors and into the darkness of the very early morning.
She lifts herself up to the rooftop and sits, knees bent and feet pressing against the shingles. She lies back to stare up at the sky, letting the chill of winter wash over her. The short night dress with its ribbon straps does nothing to protect her from the cold, but she prefers it this way for now, even as her body shudders periodically.
Usually, Vartouhi can remember her dreams. This time, she woke too distressed, and her thoughts were drawn away from the dream so abruptly, she can't recall a thing. There are vague images or feelings floating around aimlessly in her head. Heat. Ocean. Dying. Warmth. Desire. Touch. Blood. Fire. Ruin. In her mind's eye she can see the glinting of sunlight off of waves, and of fire in wide-open, dead eyes. She can remember rock digging into her skin, and her thighs brushing against someone's hips. She blushes, and cuts off her thought process. She sighs, because the last time she had a nightmare, she woke in her large bed in the palace, and she had a balmy breeze to envelop her as she strolled through the gardens to calm her mind.
Vartouhi stares up at the sky. She feels small under the starlight.
There's silence and stillness, and then she curls onto her side, and weeps quietly.