Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2012-08-04 12:23 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2012-08-04 12:23 pm
Entry tags:
Sailor Moon | Messiah of Silence/Messiah of Light | R | Messiah
Title: Messiah
Fandom: Sailor Moon
Characters/Pairings: Messiah of Silence/Messiah of Light
Rating: R
Contents: Imprisonment, (skip) torture, non-con
Disclaimer: Sailor Moon's characters and plot aren't mine.
Super Sailor Moon doesn't win. (A deeply creepy scene from the aftermath.)
For my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hc_bingo round 3 card, prompt "restrained." Also here on the AO3.
The girl who would have sealed the fate of the world hangs suspended in a dark room, bare feet floating well above the metal-and-chaos panels.
She's tilted forward, head and torso angled so that untrimmed hair streams in front of her face. Her legs dangle from iron bands fastened around her upper thighs, covered by the pleats of a ragged skirt; matching bands clamp around the joints of her shoulders and elbows, spreading her arms in a parody of welcome or salvation. The largest support covers a handspan's worth of the white fabric over her torso, hugging the undersides of her breasts, where a bow droops fastened by nothing more than a half-dozen loose stitches.
The beams that hold her extend toward the ceiling like monstrous spider's legs. They're a nice match for the tangle of silver wires that stream from her spine.
Nobody gives her food these days, nor water. There's no need. The power buried deep within her body generates just enough energy to sustain it; any excess is siphoned off immediately. For safety, of course. Her weapon was destroyed long ago, as completely as such things can be.
She doesn't move when a visitor teleports in.
There's no door. Technically speaking, there's nowhere for there to be a door to: this sealed dimension turns back in on itself once you reach the walls. It has light, but precious little, the blue and violet pinpricks of indicator lights and readouts forming miniature constellations above the prisoner's head.
Not a problem. The visitor's brought her own light.
A soft rosy-blue glow fills the space, and at last the prisoner raises her head. The motion jostles a white feathered clip clinging to the tangles in the hair falling past her shoulders.
"Hello, Messiah," says her captor, sweeping forward in an elegant rustle of tight skirts and endless ink-black hair. "Did you miss me?"
Sailor Moon looks away. "Hello, Mistress."
The woman who did seal the fate of the world smiles with dark lips. It took so long to train that reflex into her little pet, and it was worth every minute.
Not that she's feeling any more generous as a result. Tormenting her poor sweet plaything is just too much fun. And there are so many possibilities, treated as she is to both the humiliating remains of the girl's warrior uniform and the vulnerability of that lovely trapped body. She can play with the absurdly huge bow still pale as angels' wings, or pull it and the skirt aside and smack the tender flesh underneath. Straighten the ever-neat sailor collar that used to be a warrior's callsign, or press her thumbs into the windpipe of the once-proud column it frames. Fondle the point of the trim at the girl's waist, where even the impotent decorative brooch has been torn away, or slide her fingers lower and watch blue eyes go glassy and distant with the effort not to feel them.
Her hand is still damp when she shoves aside the mess of blonde tangles and presses it to Sailor Moon's breast, pausing long enough to savor the heart's rabbity flutter before the star on her forehead glows dark.
The non-space is filled with piercing screams and the wild light of instruments overcome with a surge of power that defies probability, radiating from a body writhing fit to snap bones. The readouts in turn are drowned in blinding star-white, the brilliance of a heart so pure you could choke on it, so delicious she's getting a contact high just from having it against her palm.
She savors it, quakes with ecstasy at the wails of pain, and only wonders for a brief instant why her helpless doll hasn't started to taste defiled, already.
The girl passes out without even having her heart crystal ripped out all the way. Mistress Nine relinquishes it unconcerned, sated and then some. Nothing to worry about here. Let the girl stay pure the next thousand years! All it means is more for her to savor.
She's making a languid preparation the transport spell back when the deadened stillness is broken with a sharp intake of breath. Blue eyes rise to meet hers, shining in a face that should have been unbearably grimy and marred with old scratches from her Mistress' nails.
The girl rasps, "H-Hotaru-chan...."
She shuts up with a blow to the side of the head. There's an unhealthy snap that could have been taken for fatal if not for the indicators overhead continuing to shine.
"This stupid hope will only make it more satisfying when you break," hisses Mistress Nine, and fades out.
Fandom: Sailor Moon
Characters/Pairings: Messiah of Silence/Messiah of Light
Rating: R
Contents: Imprisonment, (skip) torture, non-con
Disclaimer: Sailor Moon's characters and plot aren't mine.
Super Sailor Moon doesn't win. (A deeply creepy scene from the aftermath.)
For my
hc_bingo round 3 card, prompt "restrained." Also here on the AO3.The girl who would have sealed the fate of the world hangs suspended in a dark room, bare feet floating well above the metal-and-chaos panels.
She's tilted forward, head and torso angled so that untrimmed hair streams in front of her face. Her legs dangle from iron bands fastened around her upper thighs, covered by the pleats of a ragged skirt; matching bands clamp around the joints of her shoulders and elbows, spreading her arms in a parody of welcome or salvation. The largest support covers a handspan's worth of the white fabric over her torso, hugging the undersides of her breasts, where a bow droops fastened by nothing more than a half-dozen loose stitches.
The beams that hold her extend toward the ceiling like monstrous spider's legs. They're a nice match for the tangle of silver wires that stream from her spine.
Nobody gives her food these days, nor water. There's no need. The power buried deep within her body generates just enough energy to sustain it; any excess is siphoned off immediately. For safety, of course. Her weapon was destroyed long ago, as completely as such things can be.
She doesn't move when a visitor teleports in.
There's no door. Technically speaking, there's nowhere for there to be a door to: this sealed dimension turns back in on itself once you reach the walls. It has light, but precious little, the blue and violet pinpricks of indicator lights and readouts forming miniature constellations above the prisoner's head.
Not a problem. The visitor's brought her own light.
A soft rosy-blue glow fills the space, and at last the prisoner raises her head. The motion jostles a white feathered clip clinging to the tangles in the hair falling past her shoulders.
"Hello, Messiah," says her captor, sweeping forward in an elegant rustle of tight skirts and endless ink-black hair. "Did you miss me?"
Sailor Moon looks away. "Hello, Mistress."
The woman who did seal the fate of the world smiles with dark lips. It took so long to train that reflex into her little pet, and it was worth every minute.
Not that she's feeling any more generous as a result. Tormenting her poor sweet plaything is just too much fun. And there are so many possibilities, treated as she is to both the humiliating remains of the girl's warrior uniform and the vulnerability of that lovely trapped body. She can play with the absurdly huge bow still pale as angels' wings, or pull it and the skirt aside and smack the tender flesh underneath. Straighten the ever-neat sailor collar that used to be a warrior's callsign, or press her thumbs into the windpipe of the once-proud column it frames. Fondle the point of the trim at the girl's waist, where even the impotent decorative brooch has been torn away, or slide her fingers lower and watch blue eyes go glassy and distant with the effort not to feel them.
Her hand is still damp when she shoves aside the mess of blonde tangles and presses it to Sailor Moon's breast, pausing long enough to savor the heart's rabbity flutter before the star on her forehead glows dark.
The non-space is filled with piercing screams and the wild light of instruments overcome with a surge of power that defies probability, radiating from a body writhing fit to snap bones. The readouts in turn are drowned in blinding star-white, the brilliance of a heart so pure you could choke on it, so delicious she's getting a contact high just from having it against her palm.
She savors it, quakes with ecstasy at the wails of pain, and only wonders for a brief instant why her helpless doll hasn't started to taste defiled, already.
The girl passes out without even having her heart crystal ripped out all the way. Mistress Nine relinquishes it unconcerned, sated and then some. Nothing to worry about here. Let the girl stay pure the next thousand years! All it means is more for her to savor.
She's making a languid preparation the transport spell back when the deadened stillness is broken with a sharp intake of breath. Blue eyes rise to meet hers, shining in a face that should have been unbearably grimy and marred with old scratches from her Mistress' nails.
The girl rasps, "H-Hotaru-chan...."
She shuts up with a blow to the side of the head. There's an unhealthy snap that could have been taken for fatal if not for the indicators overhead continuing to shine.
"This stupid hope will only make it more satisfying when you break," hisses Mistress Nine, and fades out.
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