Long Live the King

Long Live the King
TheGoddessofDeath

A/N: Written for my beloved girlfriend.

Her clothes reek of gunpowder and airline food; her hands of cologne. Delicate fingertips throb underneath ebony gloves from where she had clutched fuchsia cloth for what seemed like hours. There is still blood on her palms, where she had run the fabric encasing them over seeping gunshot wounds. And even though she watched him take his final intakes of breath almost two days ago, she still feels her father's heavy presence as she enters her childhood home.

The manor is eerie after her year of absence, not as she remembers it at all. Most of the servants have either moved on to better jobs or went back to their families. Only a few maids remain upstairs playing a quiet game of cards, and a butler whom welcomes her home and takes his leave when he is told to. He never asks about her father. No doubt they all heard the news. America - that damn foolish country! - is famous for spreading their grievances throughout the world.

Germany is different than America, different than Los Angeles. It's quieter here, and she feels like she is actually at home. The pictures on the mantle are the first things that catch her violet eyes. A small girl with sky blue hair is dolled up in one picture, sitting beside an adolescent silver-haired boy. Her and her "brother". Oh, she missed him already. She had almost openly wept when he returned to hold her three nights ago, out of nowhere like a phantom. "Frani, tears do not suit you," he muttered, and she gasped. "Miles Edgeworth... Miles..."

Lips had met in a desperate affirmation that they were both just... there and alive and -oh. Oh he tasted like the most expensive teas from some foreign yet familiar country, but his presence was how she had remembered it, his urgency and caresses. But it was short-lived, eyes meeting again. "Miles... Papa..."

"I know," is all he allowed her, pulling her into a surprisingly suffocating embrace. "I know."

And he had held her while the roaring exclamation had been administered, not able to watch the body of her father torque in ways that a human body did not find itself in normally.

Ten shots. She had counted each bullet wound in his still body, tracing each one with a curse upon herself.

Oh, how could she forget? She loathed herself for letting this happen.

Now here she is, back in the home where he had raised her and her adoptive brother for fifteen years, and all she wants to do is crawl into bed and hide. He's still there, that disapproving air that he carried within him radiates from the walls, and Franziska finds she cannot hide even if she wants to.

So she finds her way up to his study, pushing the heavy oak door open and greeted with the smell of inactivity, of old matches and her father's aftershave. It makes her whimper.

Trembling fingers fumble with a small brass key, trying to unlock the desk drawer. She then doesn't remember why she opened it and slams it shut, shouting a loud curse in her native tongue.

It's then she remembers what he keeps on the wall. His most valued possession, aside from the whip he had given her when she started her prosecuting career: a riding crop. He had been fond of beating perfection into her and Miles, but Franziska never minded it. In fact, usually after a beating, red and scorned, she would walk like a straight edge to her bedroom, where she rubbed herself and grasped her small, barely budding- later ample - breasts, rolling her nipple between eager fingers. She would feel that sting and cry out as she reached orgasm. At other times, she would find Miles in a willing mood to satiate and would be riding his cock before the dinner bell rang, their bodies entwining behind her closed bedroom door.

A touch, that soft leather, the mahogany contrasting with the stained charcoal of her gloves.

Pride comes before a fall, she can hear his words hissed into her ear, how she had grit her teeth hard and stood straight as a board as he circled her like a wolf would a fawn. And even though she apologizes humbly, she has spoken out of turn and he whacks her across the face with that riding crop, a resounding smack echoing throughout her father's large study.

Another instance that resounds in her mind is when her father had called her to the study one afternoon. The maids tell me they saw you entering Miles Edgeworth's room last night. Franziska was nearing her seventeenth birthday, and had been frequenting her brother's room more and more as she had matured, her womanly needs hounding her until she had taken care of them. Her own fingers could only do so much before he yearned for the touch of another, and Miles was glad to help his little sister out.

Still, she knows she'll be punished more if she lies, so she admits to her wrongdoing. And she was smacked until her skin was bright red, welts rising from where she had been struck, her chest heaving. Your perfect body, my schön stieg, is not to be touched by his imperfect hands. I've beaten him for touching you before. Don't try me, because I will beat him until he cannot walk straight. Understand? he asked, that leather slashing her cheek again. She mustn’t falter... Manfred von Karma's daughter will not be weak...

Grasping for the riding crop and tearing it off the wall, anger and lust mixing themselves within her body. You wanted to fuck me yourself, you wretched old man.

But she wouldn't dare to say that out loud, oh no. She regarded her father as a God. A God that had been torn from her and she just-

Twack.

Before she can even think, the riding crop has cut the air and smacked her forearm. That sting... it doesn't hurt like when he used to punish her. But she is overcome by hatred, so she'll just pretend it does.

Papa...

Dropping the riding crop to the desk, she unbuttons the two buttons fastening her vest and the smaller buttons on her blouse. The black bra that is heaving in time with her chest is regarded with a snort, pushing the straps down her shoulders to reveal her breasts to the air. It's almost like an offering to the presence and scorn she feels around her, and her nipples pucker almost instantly.

In her unsure fingers, she takes the riding crop back up and stares at it for a moment. She presses an almost nonexistent kiss to the tongue before striking herself again as hard as she can.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Across her breasts, her stomach, her thighs; she lashes. Nothing can mock that sting she felt whenever he hit her. Nothing. Still, she is gasping, her eyes wide open as she continues.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

She will not scream. Oh, she wants to bleed. She wants to just ache, she wants his hands around her throat. She wants... she wants...

Nine. Ten.

It is still not enough. She has whipped herself as many times as he had been shot when they put him to death, but she still is angry, lustful.

Feet touch the floor and she yanks her panties down around her ankles, settling back on her father's cherry wood desk. The wood is warm, surprisingly, but she is barely giving consideration to the temperature of the surface. The crop is long enough, she deems.

Franziska's tiny mouth takes the handle of the crop willingly into her mouth, swirling the tongue around it gently. It is pretend, but if she shuts her eyes she hears that gravelly voice.

Franziska...

She cannot take the taste of leather for very long, and she lets out a moan at her fantasy. His strong hands grasping her waist, kisses ghosting her chest as she felt the sudden invasion.

The crop's handle is greeted by her muscles guarding her organs from the entry, but her lust finally wins and she opens her thighs, moving the riding crop deeper into her tight cunt.

"Papa," she moans out loud, pushing the crop into her hard that it bumps her cervix. She gasps, a sensation racing through her body. It hurts, oh it stings, and she grits her teeth. She cannot get it deep enough, hard enough, fast enough. She wants blood. She wants to bleed for him.

She will.

"Papa, fuck me harder..." she mutters under a gasp, pushing the riding crop into her as far as her body will allow. It feels as if she is spearing her insides, and it causes her to shudder. Faster the motion goes, the pain causing her to see white in front of her eyes. But she doesn't care. He deserves this.

She feels the blood finally spilling from her, a rivulet on the desk and down her legs. Yes, yes. She wants this. "Make me bleed, Papa..."

Her orgasm hits her not a moment later, but her anger has not been satiated and she continues to pound the bloody crop in and out of her, a frustrated growl as she muttered a prayer of forgiveness in German.

Then all of a sudden she stops, howling from behind clenched teeth as she feels massive hands no longer of a phantom's touch, but of flesh and bone. She falls lifeless into Miles' embrace, the riding crop pushed from her body with her contracting muscles. It doesn't make a sound as it hits the carpet.

Franziska doesn't know why he's here, how he got all the way to Germany so quickly, or where his sense of timing came from. All she can do is quake in his strong arms, whimpering in a rare showing of how weak she can be.

And only then does she realize that without her father, she is not perfect.

But then there's Miles. And even though he'll never be Manfred von Karma, she feels that heavy presence meld and fasten itself to him, as does a suit of armour to a knight. He'll never be a king, but he'll do. For now, he'll have to do.