[CMN] [Theme 4/100] [Dollie] [Rated M] Sex in Your Violence Title: Sex In Your Violence Theme: 004. Anguish Fandom/Pairing: CMN; Dollie Rating: ESRB Rating of M for Mature < implied sex, onscreen violence > Summary: Dollie is not as nice as she seems. Notes: This story does not make Eden happy.
The sweat on her back made the straw stick. It was irritating, made it difficult to concentrate on anything but surreptitiously rubbing her back against the loft's floor, which only got more straw stuck to her. An infuriating cycle. Dollie rolled onto her stomach, back onto the blanket. More straw. She looked over the edge of the loft at the animals that were sheltered in the stable. Wondered what her companion would look like, sprawled out at the bottom of the stable, if she pushed him over the edge.
But that would be too fast.
She tucked some of her hair behind her left ear, but took some of the other hair that had fallen over her shoulder, rolled it between her fingers, and began to chew on it. It was a habit she'd picked up from Eden, as so much of what she did she had learned from Eden. From Bahar Indu, as Archer and Gray had taught her.
The boy stared at her. She called him a boy, but he was probably older than she was. She thought back to the doll stuffed in the bottom of her saddlebag, rubbed a few fingers along the stubble that dotted his cheek. He was almost certainly older than she was.
"You never did tell me your name," he said, straw sticking to his ruddy-pale face. His eyes were blue like lightning in a clear sky and sweat had made his dark hair stick to his head in damp little ringlets.
She wasn't sure if she wanted to watch those blue eyes close or not.
"Don't have one," she said simply. "You can call me Doll."
"Doll," the boy said, and said again, and said one more time. He shook his head, smiling a cat's smile at her with his kitten eyes. "You've gotta get a proper name if you're going to stay here."
Dollie felt her eyes snap to look at the boy more intensely. That settled whether or not she was going to kill him.
There was a knife right underneath her limp pillow. She stretched her body alongside his and snaked her arms under the forlorn, feather-stuffed piece of cloth. Felt the nails she kept slightly long and obsessively clean curl over the cool steel. It was remarkably flat, almost like the letter-opener she had seen in Archer's office.
The knife went in rather easily, actually. Easy as sliding a key into a lock. First his side was there, and his liver was fine, and then her knife was in it.
His mouth opened, red, and he cried out with a wet voice. Sticky hot red blood leaked out and he let out a squeak, let the little boy noise dribble from his lips with a few blood drops.
"You never told me your name either," she told him as she pulled the dagger from his side.
He only looked at her, startled and betrayed and bleeding, and said nothing. One hand pressed itself weakly against his side, tried in vain to stem the blood flow. He stared at the red that caught in the space between his fingers, that smeared on his skin, and died.
Dollie snatched up her pillow--his head went thump on the wood of the loft--and wiped her dagger on his clothes. Both dagger and pillow went into the rucksack she left by the ladder, which she swung onto her shoulder, and she jumped down from the loft, sliding down to the ground along the sides of the ladder.
Her horse no longer protested at the scent of blood.