[Fanfiction] - Isaak/Dietrich - Doll (Repost)
I'm reposting this, almost against my better judgement, because much as I'm not a huge fan of it myself...it was one of the first fics I wrote.
Title:Doll
Fandom: Trinity Blood
Beta: kashibanohikari
Characters/Pairing: Isaak/Dietrich, implied Dietrich/Esther, Dietrich/Gyula and Dietrich/Radu (Dietrich really gets around. XD)
Rating: M
Warnings: Adult themes, Methuselah!Isaak (because when I wrote this I was under the impression he was a methuselah, and if he's not then this all gets a bit creepy), biting.
Summary: In the aftermath of the incident with the Star of Sorrow, Dietrich and Isaak discuss the consequences of failure, and Isaak wonders just who is pulling the strings.
Dedicated to adela_nightmoon, who always has a comment for me that will make me laugh, and who recommends excellent manga with wonderful fanservice. <3
A/N: This takes place just after the scene in the anime with the...hologram or whatever it is Dietrich uses to talk to Esther and Gyula. In that scene, Esther calls him a perverted abomination. This may be true, but what Esther forgets to mention is that he is also smokin' hot, and has a power which is, let's face it, made for kink. XD Though there is none of that sort of carrying on in this fic. Only in my head :P.
‘Perverted abomination? Why Dietrich, I do believe she likes you.’ Impetuous boy, curled up on his throne in a mix of long-limbed elegance and innocent beauty, the salacious glint in his slumberous eyes giving him a wicked sort of loveliness. The cant of his head and the flush of his cheeks; a temptation, pink poisonous candy full of saccharine promises and sweet venom. That smile, equal parts of heaven and hell, a creature from the inferno dressed up as a doll, with his liquorice black jacket and ebony boots glossy as beetle’s backs.
Isaak stepped from the shadows, preceded by ephemeral wisps of cigarillo smoke which convulsed and shattered as the evening breeze crept capriciously beneath the shuttered windows. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Dietrich’s mouth - that luscious mouth, which curled so becomingly around taunting word games and gasped obscenities - as he tilted his head to regard the Methuselah. A shameless coquette, feigning blissful ignorance as he stretched, tipping his head back to bear a tantalising expanse of throat.
Dietrich laughed lightly. ‘She was entertaining. So trusting. So naïve. So stupid.’ He smiled, as though the last part pleased him more than anything else.
‘How delightful.’ Dietrich nodded, his hair tumbling forward into his brilliant eyes.
‘I betrayed her, and she still believed me. She was such a lovely little puppet.’ He sighed softly. ‘I really did love her, you know.’ Love. It made wise men fools and fools wise men, brought down empires, toppled cities, murdered dreams. A thousand sentimental poems and ten thousand sickly-sweet confessions, the cancer at the heart of the human condition. Isaak doubted Dietrich knew the meaning. Love to him was the rush that came with his sadistic little games, the warped pleasure as he toyed with hearts and souls. The crack as sanity snapped, that was his love song.
‘Her face,’ he continued, ‘her face when she realised what I’d done…it was delicious.’ He smiled, if it could be called a smile, sadistic satisfaction sparking in his eyes. He flicked his hair off of his face, his elegant fingers rising to push and errant lock out his eyes.
‘Did you enjoy your time with Gyula?’ The smile shifted, turned languorous.
‘You know I did,’ he said, almost teasingly. The soft light in the room turned his face to a portrait of shadows and glimmering dark eyes, a touch of the fey in his high cheekbones and pale skin. A forest nymph, bound up in a black military uniform. Nobody else wore the uniform as Dietrich did; with a blatantly provocative saunter, an arrogant assurance that turned the black blazer and boots into a costume rather than a constriction. Dietrich knew, knew all too well how the fabric hugged the contours of his body, how the severity of his garb only served to emphasise the fragility of his beauty. Knew it, and exploited it ruthlessly.
Isaak wondered, for a moment, how it had gone with Gyula - poor Gyula, tortured and alone, a perfect victim for a predator who loved weakness almost as much as he loved strength. A blind man wandering the rain slicked streets, blissfully unaware that the leather-clad hand in his own was guiding him gently down the primrose path to hell as a silver tongue breathed sweet little lies to reassure him. And this Esther, with her hair like a bloody halo and her wide blue eyes swimming with unshed tears. Two more victims to add to the long list, one dead, one broken. Oh, seductive rose, black velvet petals and rich scent concealing the vicious barbs until too late. He took another drag on the cigarillo, watching Dietrich closely.
‘Mein Herr was not happy to hear of your failure.’ A brief flicker of fear passed over that angelic face. Vulnerability, as compelling as his usual languid sensuality, danced in his eyes.
‘It was the Vatican. Everything was going perfectly to plan until that priest arrived.’ A child’s petulance at carefully laid schemes foiled at the last moment. He smiled suddenly, something of his previous smug smirk returning. ‘He was almost as shocked as Esther when he found out the truth. Though I don’t think he would have believed me the second time…’ he frowned, biting his lower lip absently. Isaak swallowed.
‘Why do you think it is?’ Dietrich asked, shifting a little on his throne and crossing his legs. ‘Why do people go back to those who will only cause them pain?’ He looked at Isaak through lowered eyelashes, a picture of gothic temptation. Isaak took a step forward, dropping the cigarillo and crushing it beneath his boot. Something in the air shifted, taking on an altogether darker flavour.
‘Hmm…perhaps they believe things will change. Perhaps they believe they won’t be hurt again. Or perhaps,’ he reached the chair, close enough now to see the faint marks of exhaustion beneath Dietrich’s arresting eyes. Terrans, such fragile creatures. So easy to break. ‘Perhaps,’ he repeated, ‘they like the pain.’ He though he saw Dietrich’s eyes widen infinitesimally as he laid his hands on the armrests, trapping the puppet master against the back of the chair. Dietrich looked at him, heat flashing in his eyes, then lowered his head in what Isaak knew was a mockery of true submission. Insolent boy, the faint mark of fingerprints still etched on his slender wrists.
‘Don’t you think,’ he murmured, delightfully conscious of the increase in Dietrich’s heart rate, ‘that such a failure deserves some sort of punishment…’ he trailed off delicately, lifting one hand to trace a gloved finger down Dietrich’s cheek. He enjoyed this. The puppet master, feared and desired in equal measure, yielding beneath his touch. He raised his fingers to his lips slowly and tugged off his glove with his teeth one finger at a time, keeping his eyes on Dietrich’s face. Carefully, with deceptive tenderness, he traced his bared fingers back down Dietrich’s cheek, sketching out the curve of his lip then trailing them down to caress his pale throat. Dietrich shivered. Isaak could almost taste his confusion, as his need for power warred with his need for this pain, his darling little masochist, perched on a throne surrounded by the bodies of those he’d slain for his own perverse amusement.
‘Isaak.’ Half pleading, half warning. Those elegant fingers twitched, as though Dietrich was fighting the urge to reach for invisible strings. A wise choice. He let his fingers rest on the faint scars on the column of Dietrich’s throat, the faint white marks barely discernible against his pale skin. Terrans. Everything scarred. Still, he liked to see his brand on Dietrich’s body. A reminder that it was he, not the puppet master, who was in control. A reminder of what he could do without mussing his clothes or snarling his hair. A reminder of what it was like to become a marionette - gasping, panting, begging on the end of silvery stings. He leant in slowly, savouring the sound of Dietrich’s heartbeat and suddenly ragged breathing.
He bit down hard without warning, one hand coiling itself in Dietrich’s hair and jerking his head sideways, the other sliding up to pull his collar aside, fingers resting against the jut of his collarbone. Dietrich gasped, his own hands clenching the sides of the chair. Isaak drank deeply, his grip on Dietrich’s hair deliberately painful. Dietrich groaned, arching into Isaak’s grip. The magician smirked against his throat. Such a lovely little doll. Such a taste for this. He slackened his grip a little, disentangling his hand from those silky brown locks and trailing his fingers to Dietrich’s mouth, brushing a mockery of a kiss over those succulent lips. Dietrich’s hands, limp on the armrests, came up to twine around his neck. He bit down harder and Dietrich cried out, his fingers digging in to Isaak’s shoulder.
He tasted sweet, almost too sweet, like some sort of decadent liqueur, the flavour almost masking the harsh bite of the alcohol. Isaak slowed his drinking, taking leisurely drafts as his little puppet master wriggled in his grasp, wrapping his booted legs around Isaak’s waist and pressing himself to the body above him. Isaak pulled back, watching the blood run in rivulets from the wounds on Dietrich’s throat. Dietrich lolled on the chair, dizzy from blood loss and lust, lips parted slightly, eyes fevered. The neat lines of his uniform were ruined, his tie pulled loose, his collar askew and smeared with blood. But as always, there was a guile in his eyes that belied his surrender, a cunning that no amount of seduction could erase. It made Isaak wonder exactly who was pulling the strings here.
‘I’m afraid I have a concert to prepare for,’ he said, feigning nonchalance. He could still taste Dietrich in his mouth, the beguiling flavour urging him to lean forward and crush his lips to the ones parted so invitingly. He pulled his glove back on, Dietrich watching his every move.
‘You’re leaving?’ Was that a hint of frustration in Dietrich’s voice? Perhaps. He wasn’t used to being denied his whims. Isaak smiled. For all his games and power plays, he would never be able to resist the allure of unravelling in the magician’s arms. He shrugged, shaking out his long hair. ‘Of course. I have preparations to make.’ Dietrich pulled himself upright, the pleasure-soaked languor fading from his face. He matched Isaak’s shrug, tilting his head back to rest against the back of the chair.
‘Hmm.’ Dissatisfaction, bordering on irritation. Isaak hid a smirk. He turned, feasting his eyes one last time on the ethereally beautiful figure curled up on his throne, then walked away, pulling another cigarillo from his pocket. As he reached the door, Dietrich’s mocking voice caught him.
‘If you see Radu Barvon, please do send him to me. He might be able to alleviate my boredom.’
He ignored the taunt, and quashed the temptation to turn back and show the infuriating boy just who owned him, body, strings and soul.
Title:Doll
Fandom: Trinity Blood
Beta: kashibanohikari
Characters/Pairing: Isaak/Dietrich, implied Dietrich/Esther, Dietrich/Gyula and Dietrich/Radu (Dietrich really gets around. XD)
Rating: M
Warnings: Adult themes, Methuselah!Isaak (because when I wrote this I was under the impression he was a methuselah, and if he's not then this all gets a bit creepy), biting.
Summary: In the aftermath of the incident with the Star of Sorrow, Dietrich and Isaak discuss the consequences of failure, and Isaak wonders just who is pulling the strings.
Dedicated to adela_nightmoon, who always has a comment for me that will make me laugh, and who recommends excellent manga with wonderful fanservice. <3
A/N: This takes place just after the scene in the anime with the...hologram or whatever it is Dietrich uses to talk to Esther and Gyula. In that scene, Esther calls him a perverted abomination. This may be true, but what Esther forgets to mention is that he is also smokin' hot, and has a power which is, let's face it, made for kink. XD Though there is none of that sort of carrying on in this fic. Only in my head :P.
‘Perverted abomination? Why Dietrich, I do believe she likes you.’ Impetuous boy, curled up on his throne in a mix of long-limbed elegance and innocent beauty, the salacious glint in his slumberous eyes giving him a wicked sort of loveliness. The cant of his head and the flush of his cheeks; a temptation, pink poisonous candy full of saccharine promises and sweet venom. That smile, equal parts of heaven and hell, a creature from the inferno dressed up as a doll, with his liquorice black jacket and ebony boots glossy as beetle’s backs.
Isaak stepped from the shadows, preceded by ephemeral wisps of cigarillo smoke which convulsed and shattered as the evening breeze crept capriciously beneath the shuttered windows. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Dietrich’s mouth - that luscious mouth, which curled so becomingly around taunting word games and gasped obscenities - as he tilted his head to regard the Methuselah. A shameless coquette, feigning blissful ignorance as he stretched, tipping his head back to bear a tantalising expanse of throat.
Dietrich laughed lightly. ‘She was entertaining. So trusting. So naïve. So stupid.’ He smiled, as though the last part pleased him more than anything else.
‘How delightful.’ Dietrich nodded, his hair tumbling forward into his brilliant eyes.
‘I betrayed her, and she still believed me. She was such a lovely little puppet.’ He sighed softly. ‘I really did love her, you know.’ Love. It made wise men fools and fools wise men, brought down empires, toppled cities, murdered dreams. A thousand sentimental poems and ten thousand sickly-sweet confessions, the cancer at the heart of the human condition. Isaak doubted Dietrich knew the meaning. Love to him was the rush that came with his sadistic little games, the warped pleasure as he toyed with hearts and souls. The crack as sanity snapped, that was his love song.
‘Her face,’ he continued, ‘her face when she realised what I’d done…it was delicious.’ He smiled, if it could be called a smile, sadistic satisfaction sparking in his eyes. He flicked his hair off of his face, his elegant fingers rising to push and errant lock out his eyes.
‘Did you enjoy your time with Gyula?’ The smile shifted, turned languorous.
‘You know I did,’ he said, almost teasingly. The soft light in the room turned his face to a portrait of shadows and glimmering dark eyes, a touch of the fey in his high cheekbones and pale skin. A forest nymph, bound up in a black military uniform. Nobody else wore the uniform as Dietrich did; with a blatantly provocative saunter, an arrogant assurance that turned the black blazer and boots into a costume rather than a constriction. Dietrich knew, knew all too well how the fabric hugged the contours of his body, how the severity of his garb only served to emphasise the fragility of his beauty. Knew it, and exploited it ruthlessly.
Isaak wondered, for a moment, how it had gone with Gyula - poor Gyula, tortured and alone, a perfect victim for a predator who loved weakness almost as much as he loved strength. A blind man wandering the rain slicked streets, blissfully unaware that the leather-clad hand in his own was guiding him gently down the primrose path to hell as a silver tongue breathed sweet little lies to reassure him. And this Esther, with her hair like a bloody halo and her wide blue eyes swimming with unshed tears. Two more victims to add to the long list, one dead, one broken. Oh, seductive rose, black velvet petals and rich scent concealing the vicious barbs until too late. He took another drag on the cigarillo, watching Dietrich closely.
‘Mein Herr was not happy to hear of your failure.’ A brief flicker of fear passed over that angelic face. Vulnerability, as compelling as his usual languid sensuality, danced in his eyes.
‘It was the Vatican. Everything was going perfectly to plan until that priest arrived.’ A child’s petulance at carefully laid schemes foiled at the last moment. He smiled suddenly, something of his previous smug smirk returning. ‘He was almost as shocked as Esther when he found out the truth. Though I don’t think he would have believed me the second time…’ he frowned, biting his lower lip absently. Isaak swallowed.
‘Why do you think it is?’ Dietrich asked, shifting a little on his throne and crossing his legs. ‘Why do people go back to those who will only cause them pain?’ He looked at Isaak through lowered eyelashes, a picture of gothic temptation. Isaak took a step forward, dropping the cigarillo and crushing it beneath his boot. Something in the air shifted, taking on an altogether darker flavour.
‘Hmm…perhaps they believe things will change. Perhaps they believe they won’t be hurt again. Or perhaps,’ he reached the chair, close enough now to see the faint marks of exhaustion beneath Dietrich’s arresting eyes. Terrans, such fragile creatures. So easy to break. ‘Perhaps,’ he repeated, ‘they like the pain.’ He though he saw Dietrich’s eyes widen infinitesimally as he laid his hands on the armrests, trapping the puppet master against the back of the chair. Dietrich looked at him, heat flashing in his eyes, then lowered his head in what Isaak knew was a mockery of true submission. Insolent boy, the faint mark of fingerprints still etched on his slender wrists.
‘Don’t you think,’ he murmured, delightfully conscious of the increase in Dietrich’s heart rate, ‘that such a failure deserves some sort of punishment…’ he trailed off delicately, lifting one hand to trace a gloved finger down Dietrich’s cheek. He enjoyed this. The puppet master, feared and desired in equal measure, yielding beneath his touch. He raised his fingers to his lips slowly and tugged off his glove with his teeth one finger at a time, keeping his eyes on Dietrich’s face. Carefully, with deceptive tenderness, he traced his bared fingers back down Dietrich’s cheek, sketching out the curve of his lip then trailing them down to caress his pale throat. Dietrich shivered. Isaak could almost taste his confusion, as his need for power warred with his need for this pain, his darling little masochist, perched on a throne surrounded by the bodies of those he’d slain for his own perverse amusement.
‘Isaak.’ Half pleading, half warning. Those elegant fingers twitched, as though Dietrich was fighting the urge to reach for invisible strings. A wise choice. He let his fingers rest on the faint scars on the column of Dietrich’s throat, the faint white marks barely discernible against his pale skin. Terrans. Everything scarred. Still, he liked to see his brand on Dietrich’s body. A reminder that it was he, not the puppet master, who was in control. A reminder of what he could do without mussing his clothes or snarling his hair. A reminder of what it was like to become a marionette - gasping, panting, begging on the end of silvery stings. He leant in slowly, savouring the sound of Dietrich’s heartbeat and suddenly ragged breathing.
He bit down hard without warning, one hand coiling itself in Dietrich’s hair and jerking his head sideways, the other sliding up to pull his collar aside, fingers resting against the jut of his collarbone. Dietrich gasped, his own hands clenching the sides of the chair. Isaak drank deeply, his grip on Dietrich’s hair deliberately painful. Dietrich groaned, arching into Isaak’s grip. The magician smirked against his throat. Such a lovely little doll. Such a taste for this. He slackened his grip a little, disentangling his hand from those silky brown locks and trailing his fingers to Dietrich’s mouth, brushing a mockery of a kiss over those succulent lips. Dietrich’s hands, limp on the armrests, came up to twine around his neck. He bit down harder and Dietrich cried out, his fingers digging in to Isaak’s shoulder.
He tasted sweet, almost too sweet, like some sort of decadent liqueur, the flavour almost masking the harsh bite of the alcohol. Isaak slowed his drinking, taking leisurely drafts as his little puppet master wriggled in his grasp, wrapping his booted legs around Isaak’s waist and pressing himself to the body above him. Isaak pulled back, watching the blood run in rivulets from the wounds on Dietrich’s throat. Dietrich lolled on the chair, dizzy from blood loss and lust, lips parted slightly, eyes fevered. The neat lines of his uniform were ruined, his tie pulled loose, his collar askew and smeared with blood. But as always, there was a guile in his eyes that belied his surrender, a cunning that no amount of seduction could erase. It made Isaak wonder exactly who was pulling the strings here.
‘I’m afraid I have a concert to prepare for,’ he said, feigning nonchalance. He could still taste Dietrich in his mouth, the beguiling flavour urging him to lean forward and crush his lips to the ones parted so invitingly. He pulled his glove back on, Dietrich watching his every move.
‘You’re leaving?’ Was that a hint of frustration in Dietrich’s voice? Perhaps. He wasn’t used to being denied his whims. Isaak smiled. For all his games and power plays, he would never be able to resist the allure of unravelling in the magician’s arms. He shrugged, shaking out his long hair. ‘Of course. I have preparations to make.’ Dietrich pulled himself upright, the pleasure-soaked languor fading from his face. He matched Isaak’s shrug, tilting his head back to rest against the back of the chair.
‘Hmm.’ Dissatisfaction, bordering on irritation. Isaak hid a smirk. He turned, feasting his eyes one last time on the ethereally beautiful figure curled up on his throne, then walked away, pulling another cigarillo from his pocket. As he reached the door, Dietrich’s mocking voice caught him.
‘If you see Radu Barvon, please do send him to me. He might be able to alleviate my boredom.’
He ignored the taunt, and quashed the temptation to turn back and show the infuriating boy just who owned him, body, strings and soul.