Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/534851.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Kingdom_Hearts
  Relationship:
      Vanitas/Ventus
  Character:
      Ventus, Vanitas
  Additional Tags:
      Carnival/Freakshow_AU, Dubious_Consent, Rough_Sex
  Series:
      Part 2 of Misfit_Carnival_(AU)
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-11 Words: 1108
****** Your Pain, My Pleasure ******
by absolutelyCancerous_(cal1brations)
Summary
     You won't be able to escape him tonight.
Notes
     this_babe came up with the Carnie/Freakshow_AU, I just end up writing
     junk for it.
You won’t be able to escape him tonight.
After your last show, as you’re helped out from your restraints, Vanitas comes
up to you, pretends he’s clapping your shoulder for a job well done. It hurts,
it really hurts, considering how stiff your shoulders feel at the moment, and
you grimace as he leans in just that little bit, against your ear.
“Fifteen minutes,” he whispers, his voice a deadly hiss, strange accent thick
in his mouth as he rolls his sadistic tongue to speak. He gives your shoulder a
rough squeeze, enough to bruise, before he lets go and saunters off, his casual
stride carrying a sort of swagger that leaves you baffled as you ruffle up your
untamed curls, and begin to trek back to your own wagon. He only gave you
fifteen minutes, anyway, and he’ll be there whether you’re ready for him or
not.
You’re quiet as you step inside the only place you feel comfortable calling
home, frown when your stomach growls for a legitimate meal. You promise
yourself you’ll get up early enough to grab a bite to eat that isn’t raw flesh,
because there are other foods you should be eating besides such.
You change into a loose-fitting nightshirt, one that slides down your shoulders
and hands limply from your figure. It’s a bit hot in here, but you don’t dare
open the windows, not tonight. You don’t want people to hear more than what is
absolutely inevitable. That would be of inconvenience to them, most likely, and
that’s not something you’re very comfortable with. You pull on a pair of
shorts, too, just for the sake of decency. You may be in your own wagon, but
you’re still modest.
You make sure to wash up in the bathroom before he comes, clean your face and
teeth, make sure your hands don’t have any dried blood on them. Although that
is something Vanitas enjoys, he doesn’t generally like seeing (or tasting) your
previous meals from the earlier evening. And, you agree, it is a little vile.
The second you hear Vanitas opening the door, you’re ready for him. You’re
sitting on the bed, eyes slowly drifting over to meet molten amber as he stares
at you, cold and thoughtful. His face is hard, angular, and angry as he steps
inside, makes sure he locks the door behind him.
“Clean?”
You nod. Offer to show him your hands, to prove yourself to him, but he shoos
the thought away with an uncaring shake of his head. He is not caring, and he
is not kind, and for a moment (you mentally chortle) you had
actually forgotten such a fact.
He’s already stepping out of his pants when you actually bother looking at him
again, socks and shoes being disposed of as well. This would normally be the
part where you undress, too, but Vanitas likes to do that for you, so you just
lay back against the bed and take in a few calming breaths, stare up at the
ceiling.
Try to tune out, to shut down.
Disappear.
He is not gentle, as he kneels on the bed, throwing one large, bony hand
against your throat to pin your down. It’s choking, sure, but it’s not
something you can’t handle. You gasp and worm a bit, but playing little things
up is in your job, it’s how you live. So making Vanitas’s advances, his
violence, seem real enough to make this end quicker, you’ll play on all that he
throws at you.
He hisses things in a language you’re not used to, one you don’t understand.
It’s not English, because the words sound too slurred, too low and poisonous.
They make the air harder to breathe, make your eyes shut at you pretend they’re
not meant to be so hideous, but instead a lustful murmur of love or something
of the sort. You’ve always been good at pretending.
He strips you in a greedy, rough way that leaves bloody scratch marks against
your stark-pale skin, leaves bruises that will make it hard for you to get
locked up for your act once more tomorrow. He does not kiss you, because there
isn’t pleasure in that for either of you. He is relentless as he rakes off your
shorts, your underwear—demands you make this worth his while, or he’s going to
give you something to scream about.
The actual act itself is not very long; Vanitas gets so wound up dragging nails
across your skin and watching the blood flourish and your eyes sting with tears
and other macabre actions that once he’s actually slamming into you, he has
little patience with much else. Hard thrusts, ones that make tears fall from
your eyes and pained noises fall dumbly from your mouth.
“Sí, sí, llora por mi.” He grunts between gritted teeth, eyebrows drawn tightly
together as he works you harder, faster to gain his own release. “Grita para
mí!”
His nails dig into you, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs. And you
unknowingly give him what he desires, throwing your head back with a pained
yelp before you end up shuddering with sobs; this is not sex, and this is not
love. This isn’t lust, and this is anything but fucking.
This is sensation.
The look on his face, the noticeable shudder that rolls up Vanitas’s spine as
he jerks his hips violently, gasping for breath. It’s not feeling, it’s
the pleasure that sends him into a star-seeing frenzy. It’s the pleasure of
watching you bleed, of watching you worm and whine and beg to him, plead in a
language foreign to his ears that makes him absolutely insane.
And when it’s done, he climbs off like it’s the most natural thing in the
goddamn world. Simply moves to sit on the end of your bed, a fist pressed to
his mouth as he trembles with tiny aftershocks of pleasure that have seemingly
no real effect on him. He doesn’t pant helplessly, he doesn’t thank you, he
doesn’t do much else besides simply sit there, staring intently at a heap of
nothing as he lets the “feeling” fade; tries to hold onto every single moment
of feeling he might have actually had.
But that’s simply ridiculous, and that’s a far-fetched dream that only you wish
for him. To be able to actuallyfeel something in the many, many times you spend
naked together, being slapped around and abused. Being a portal to Vanitas’s
own sick pleasures.
After all, he wouldn’t make much of a freak if The Boy Who Couldn’t Feel
anything actually began to feel something, would he?
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