kingdom hearts | kink meme part one
The Kingdom Hearts kink meme ficlets, courtesy of kokanshu. Ratings, warnings, and-you guessed it-kinks, will all vary. Pretty disturbing stuff ahead. Consider yourself warned-check tags and prompts for more details.
Kingdom Hearts + Star Wars | Leon/Sora | 1300 words | scorch | unbeta'd. For eleventh_end.
Siths On A Sora
death star; lightsabers
It was the most high-rate, top-notch, classified mission, so Sora hadn't exactly expected it to be a breeze. Still, there were amounts of resistance even he found excessive.
"What the-" he dodged another laser, fired from the automated defense system mounted on the wall, and rolled to safety. The door bumped against his back for a moment, unyielding, then opened with a swish and dumped him inside.
Sora sat up, grimacing as the mechanism shut closed behind him. He wasn't even such a good Jedi, and infiltrating the Death Star had to be the worst idea ever.
"Huh."
His head snapped up: of course an arbitrary room in the most backwards part of the Death Star would be inhabited. The one room he'd managed to escape to would be the office of some drone, or a marauder, or-
A Sith Lord was sitting cross-legged in the center of the chamber, staring at Sora. He was holding an inactive lightsaber, and a polishing cloth. He did not look pleased.
"Uh," said Sora, painfully aware that he was dressed in the robes of a Jedi Knight, equipped with Jedi certifications and lacking absolutely anything else. "Uh, I, uh-"
"You know, I came here to relax." The Sith Lord said, not budging from his spot on the floor. "You can't relax with Jedi around. They spoil the mood."
"Uh, uh," said Sora, intelligently, then gave himself a mental shake and took things in hand. "Listen, uh, Sith Lord-surrender. Or, uh, just leave. Because otherwise I'll be forced to fight you and, uh. Fight you! And stuff."
He immediately sensed that this was the wrong thing to say. The Sith Lord visibly brightened, easily gripping the lightsaber handle and rising to his feet.
"Fight? Well, since you've offered, I guess..."
"What? No! What?" Sora scrambled upright, one hand fumbling at his lightsaber, the other pressed against the door. Infuriatingly and against all logic, it refused to open. He cursed silently, then felt immediate remorse as he felt his link with the Force faltering. Being a Jedi fucked you up something awful. "We can't fight-that is not the way. We must, er, seek peace. So please leave right now."
"Only Jedi and fools seek peace." The Sith Lord said serenely, and activated his lightsaber with a click. It made a smooth, quiet hum, and generally made itself known. Sora tried clicking his own inaptly-titled Keyblade, frantically, and of coursed failed to achieve anything whatsoever.
This is it, he thought in a sudden burst of clarity. I'm going to die.
"You're not going to die," the Sith Lord noted, sounding thoughtful. "Or at least, I'm not going to kill you."
"What?"
"Stand still." The Sith Lord said, and Sora complied, dutifully tilting his chin up when the Sith Lord gestured with his lightsaber.
"You're not half-ugly." The Sith Lord mused a moment later. He looked Sora up and down, and up, and down again. "A bit short, but you know. Fighting isn't the only way to relax."
What, thought Sora, and then, oh no, no way; except according to the Sith Lord, totally yes way, and oh crap, oh, Force, he was going to die of sex.
Somehow, it sounded less hideous in his mind than was proper.
"Undress," said the Sith Lord, and Sora stared into his flat gray eyes, at the brown hair and firm jaw and that weird scar, grit his teeth and said, "No."
The Sith Lord shrugged. "Okay," he said, and suddenly slashed twice down Sora's front, lightsaber a hair's breadth from his skin; the Jedi robes fell away from his body in three neat tatters, pants and everything. He yelped-shock! Horror! Disrobement!-but it was too late to grab anything, and there was no way to lean down while the Sith Lord still had his saber working.
"This is so wrong!" he yelled, but that only seemed to encourage the Sith Lord; he stepped closer, too close, seriously impinging on Sora's personal space, and his lightsaber was still activated.
"How-what-turn that thing off," Sora hissed, physical well-being temporarily usurping moral high ground on his list of priorities. "You'll cut us both in half!"
The Sith Lord, master of stoicism, shrugged again, apparently indicating anything from shut up to I've got steady hands to I like it that way, bitch. Sora found it extraordinarily unhelpful. Even more unhelpful was the Sith Lord swooping in, like a mad slow-motion hummingbird-monster, and kissing him on the mouth.
"Mmph-!" He said, faintly, then sort of didn't say anything for a while. The next time he could breathe properly, though, he glared in defiant indignation. "Evil temptations are everything the Force goes against. They're wrong and immoral and bad."
"Yeah." The Sith Lord grinned slightly. "That's what makes them fun."
And hey, Sora mused as a hand pressed against his chest, tripping sultry-smooth down his belly and further south, maybe that's part of what the Force is all about, you know? Accepting things as they are and moving on, yeah; taking part in current situations, not letting life pass you by.
He was enlightening himself here, damnit.
His companion seemed to think so, too: pressing Sora to the door and then pressing himself to Sora, worrying his earlobe and fondling his cock, erection pressed obscenely against Sora's hip and thrusting ever-so-slightly, making Sora blush and flinch and then, eventually, bite back.
"Feisty, eh," the Sith Lord whispered, and twisted Sora's nipples hard, then suddenly flipped him over, pressing his front against the cool smooth metal.
"What-" Sora began, for like the sixth time, seriously, but the Sith Lord just laughed, rubbing against his ass, and suddenly the persistent hum of the lightsaber flickered and was quiet.
"I said I was going to polish it," he whispered into Sora's ear, low and quiet and dangerously arousing; "but first it needs to be dirtied."
And this time Sora didn't ask or talk or anything really; he just shivered when the Sith Lord's fingers brushed over his ass, slipping deeper, then deeper still; the pace was slow but steady, and within minutes Sora was panting, flushed, shuddering like a pilot just stepped down from his racing pod, moaning wordless encouragements into the metal.
"N-name," he gasped once the Sith Lord's fingers withdrew, leaving him aching and needy and humping the door without finesse. "Your name."
The Sith Lord paused. "Darth Leon," he said warily; "and yours?"
"Sora," Sora tried to say, but it melted into a groan as something else nudged at his sphincter, smooth and cold and much, much bigger. His breath hitched as Leon pressed it further; whatever it was, it was not coming in-but then the Sith gave a sort of twist, simultaneously pushing in just so, and Sora felt himself unfolding like a newborn star, blossoming up and out in waves of white-blue fire.
"Auuughnngh," he said, and thrust against the door desperately. "Force; Leon, oh, Force-"
"Fuck," he heard Leon growl behind him, and then the thing-he had a terrible feeling it was the lightsaber handle, except he really couldn't bring himself to feel terrible about anything just now-hit that place, right there, and Sora arched up, pressed hard against the door and came all over the metal.
When he next woke up, he was on a shuttle heading away from the Death Star, bound and gagged but otherwise fully intact. Leon had even been kind enough to give him back his lightsaber, though of course, not the credentials or any sort of clothes. Sora knew such luck was the blessing of once in a lifetime. He disembarked on a neutral colony, salvaged some garments, and hitched a few rides back to the Academy.
After that everything-weirdly-returned to normal. Nobody cared about the encounter in the Death Star, only that he came back alive. Lessons resumed, and routine; he took up an apprentice named Roxas and started customizing his own Keyblade.
The only difference was, now he polished his lightsaber regularly.
Kingdom Hearts | Aerith/Selphie | 1200 words | scorch | unbeta'd. For girlshy.
They have a word for it in Japanese
glasses; Selphie's first time with a girl
After it was all over-though what "it" was, they never talked about-Aerith went to Destiny Islands, feeling a change of scenery was appropriate. Cid grumbled and Leon remained stonily aloof; Yuffie kicked them both in the shins and wished her all the luck. She set off with a bundle of clothes and a flower in her hair, and in a short week landed a teaching job at the local school.
The children were nice enough, the sunlight gold-bright, and if she saw Sora regularly-well, all blessings are mixed. She learned to file papers and grade tests, pick out the slackers and star pupils, live every day in two-hour periods. It was pleasant and even beautiful at times, despite what horrors the sea-salt winds did to her hair.
Twice a week, the students had a reading hour, which according to syllabus was dedicated to individual perusal of knowledge and acquaintance with the literary world. She'd guessed at their choices, matching books to people, and was not disappointed: The Little White Bird for Sora, Les Misérables for Riku, whilst Kairi had taken Mattimeo with great relish. She gave Tidus The Count of Monte Cristo and introduced Wakka to Mark Twain; figured the relationship would be mutually beneficial for both.
Selphie, Class President and member of the Student Council, had made a beeline directly for Alexander Pope, and started reading on the spot.
Aerith blinked. Not many people went to that section of the library, or with that amount of decisiveness. But it wasn't called a private hour for nothing, so she shrugged and looked away, turning back to the essays on her desk were awaiting the red pen.
A loud sound made her look up again almost immediately. Selphie had bent down, unzipped her bookbag sharply, and withdrawn a small case. From there she took out a pair of glasses, polished the lens and put them on in a businesslike fashion, crossing her legs and tilting her head just so. Then she resumed reading.
Aerith swallowed. The short yellow dress rode up Selphie's thighs, stretched taunt across the sides, but she wasn't looking at that, she was looking at the spectacles, perched right on the tip of Selphie's perfect nose, elegant and haughty and catching the light in small flashes. Private hour, as in, private, she recited to herself, but felt a nervous drop in the pit of her stomach, and knew no good could come of it.
The next thing of interest that happened that year-aside from Aerith developing a complex relationship with reading hour, and Selphie's increased interest in poetry, and Sora accidentally picking up Justine and scarring himself for life-was the day Selphie brought with her a slender volume of Sappho: Chosen Poems, and settled down to read.
Aerith whiled away an entire hour staring intensely at her ungraded tests, seeing nothing.
At the ring of the bell-for whom the bells toll? She'd once asked, then remembered the reply, for whom may be so ill, which had helped matters none-Aerith stood up instantly. She gathered her things at record speed, only looking down at her hands, muttering a faint "class dismissed," before leaving. Her back was turned as she walked through the door, but she still felt Selphie's inquisitive gaze, magnified by the glasses; a faint shiver curling down her spine.
She walked fast, clutching books and papers-but not fast enough, because Selphie caught up with her just outside the school walls, in a shady little corner between buildings which had existed long before the institute itself, trailing ivy and hyssop and long cool shadows across the ground.
"Um?" Aerith said, but her mouth was dry and Selphie had come distractingly close, a determined glint in her eye. "Um," she tried again; a bit more desperate, aiming for scholarly authority; but by then Selphie had pressed her against a wall, leaned in, and kissed her.
It may have been indicative-though of what is debatable-that the first thing Aerith thought was not oh no, inappropriate workplace dynamics or I'm going to get fired or even wow, her tongue, but rather her glasses are pressed against my eyelashes, and this was what caused her to groan into the kiss, writhe and squirm and tug Selphie closer.
She still wore those pink dresses, even now, when she'd heard about new fashions and feminism and the Island's summers, which had explained why everyone walked around in a perpetual state of half-dress. Selphie had long, clever fingers, and she had always been the impulsive one; Aerith felt the sudden cool air against her belly, rushing downwards like a shy-soft whisper with each undone button.
"Sel-" she tried again, but Selphie had already reached her mons, dragging gentle nails through the tangle of her hair and playfully licking at her mouth. The name became a wrangled gasp-which melted into a moan-which frayed around the edges and became a ragged breath-which capitulated into a series of long, wet kisses spanning forever.
"Mmm," Selphie hummed into her mouth, as Aerith's hands rose-of their own accord, surely; she had never been this bold-and gently grazed her breasts, rubbing against the fabric. She could feel Selphie's nipples, hard beneath the palm of her hand; this close, she could feel her own, as well-they were pressed together so tightly, every place touching; pulsing with a nameless, breathless feeling of want.
Her dress, her thighs; everything was wet, and Selphie's fingers slipped inside so easily, one hand pumping steadily, the other tracing delicate patterns around her clit. More, she wanted to say, greedy for touch; ever the bright one, Selphie seemed to understand on the spot. She grinned, unbelievably lewd, and pressed down exactly against that spot, right there, rubbing down in lazy circles which had Aerith thrusting in her hand, gasping and flushed a bright red.
It was too-fast and bewildering and tremulous all at once: Selphie chafing against her, dress riding up to reveal her panties, which Aerith pulled down; slender fingers curling inside her, causing her to clench and shudder; a kiss on her throat, delicate like sunlight; Aerith opened her eyes to Selphie's face, eyes wide, glasses misted with her own breath, and came in spasms, arching up and unfurling like the flowers at her feet.
She was left swollen and trembling, breathing deep and exhaling in an awed litany; oh, I, wow. She let her hands drift down to Selphie's own vulva, lips already spread opened on her thigh; in a few short moments Selphie gave a small gasp and stiffened, shaking with orgasm as her fingers tightened over Aerith's waist.
The chatter of students walking home washed over them, gradually, as if levels of reality were slow-bleeding colors, seeping back into their world. Selphie laughed; a short, breathless sound, and pushed her glasses up clumsily.
"Well," she started, but Aerith silenced her with a kiss, reaching over and plucking the glasses from her nose, pocketing them as she leaned back with a smile.
Kingdom Hearts | Demyx/The Kraken | 1000 words | scorch | unbeta'd. Warning: dubious consent issues. Title from T.S. Elliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. For anon.
In the chambers of the sea
tentacles; aquaphilia; erotic asphyxia
There are many secrets in the sea: powerful, dark and spiny as the corals nestled beneath the dunes of bone-white sand, hidden too deep for light or wind or prying eyes-and Demyx, he knows them all, paid for them body and soul, heart and mind and past and future and whatever the hell he had left after the Organization took away its share.
Glittering fountains don't come out of nowhere, and for every drop he spills, Demyx pays with interest; blood or sweat or spittle, dripping agony-slow into the ocean. Sometimes it's semen; once, his vitreous liquids. Logically, this process would kill him-but nobody said how long it had to take, and Demyx, he's got no immortal soul, he can afford to hang around. All he knows is he'll be paying for the rest of his days, submerged in endless blue, drop after drop after drop.
Now he can feel the waves lapping at his skin, inching up by degrees; first his fins, then gills, then eyes. He blinks, and the whole world has changed its scales; constantly wavering and sea-salt-sharp. Underwater has its own palette: dark blues and bottle-greens, turquoise, jade, shades of black. Umber and rusty gold, glinting treasure-bright; the rainbow multitude of fish, swarming in kaleidoscope patterns. He feels awed here-though not at home, never that.
It's only a matter of minutes-floating in the water, shivering at the completeness of it, gills working, legs-until he feels the first tentacle, snaking around his ankle like a live wire. He used to jump at it, though not anymore: just twists around, and looks up at the Kraken.
That, too, used to be a shock, and to be honest, he feels that same sick shiver every time, but by now, he's used to its enormity, to the way it completely dominates his field of vision. Humans through the ages have tried to capture the Kraken in prose or pictures: only he fully appreciates the impossibility of the task. To this day, he hasn't managed to count the number of arms it has. His estimate figures somewhere between "many" and "a lot".
The tentacle lazily winds up his leg, circling it like a ribbon, suction pads grazing the skin but not yet latching on. Once they do, he knows, the limb will be rendered completely at mercy: the Kraken is a force of nature in and of itself, and what it wants put stays that way. He doesn't struggle, not even when another tentacle begins crawling up his arm, and another, and another. Soon, he's wrapped from all sides, naked as the day he was born-naked, always naked underwater-and he feels that last, delicate one place itself on his dick.
It begins slowly, as slowly as the rhythm of the waves or the fall of sunlight through the deeper fathoms. More tentacles of varying sizes stroke his skin, some with suction pads, some without-his knowledge of Kraken anatomy is as lacking as his calculating skills; privately, he calls them "faceless" or "armed"-twining in his hair or around his waist. Two small armed ones latch onto his nipples, sucking, and he gasps, feeling himself blush. It feels good, so good-and he is surrounded by a forest of arms, the most private place in the world.
A small, curling touch at the small of his back: his legs are spread with beautiful control. There's a sudden rush of water into intimate areas, making his sphincter clench instinctively, but a faceless tentacle is already there, stroking, teasing, and it loosens slowly. Demyx shudders, full-bodied; the tentacles hold him in place, and he found over time that it only intensified the sensation.
The tentacle lingers around his hole, tracing circles, and then it sinks in deeper, though only just. He cannot help himself; he shudders again, straining, but the arms hold him firmly, and he is reduced to suspension. Then deeper in, and deeper-he cries out softly, then louder as it hits that spot, making him want to thrash out, to buck and laugh and keen.
It begins moving in him, thrusting in and out, dragging against his skin at a maddening pace. The rest of the arms loosen around him slightly, just enough to allow him to move with the strokes, though not enough to reciprocate. He almost gains back a shred of self-control-just got his breathing back in order-when it thrusts in deep and stays there, twisting against his prostate, curling and uncurling and oh fuck, he can't, it's too much; he's panting, sweating, gasping, twisting and trying to move away, closer, something, anything, he can feel himself scraped raw and red and burning-
The tentacle over his cock tightens; it's stiff and throbbing, leaking pre-come obscenely. One, two, it'll be over in a minute-but another tentacle snakes around his neck, lightning-quick, and tightens just as he breaths out: suddenly he has no oxygen, nothing, and he fights, lungs burning-the white-hot pressure in his ass, the suction on his dick, the scores of other fucking tentacles-he's so close to coming, he's so close, he can feel it in his whole body, flushed coral-red, breathless and light-headed, vision blurred-
And just as suddenly, it slips away, like a living noose: he takes a deep breath, and comes.
The next time Demyx opens his eyes, he's back above-water, body returned to normal, clean and smooth and too-pale in direct sunlight.
He rubs his eyes, dizzy and bone-tired. Tomorrow is another day of payment.
Kingdom Hearts | Axel/Roxas | 1100 words | AU | scorch | unbeta'd. For raihu.
FiRe In ThE HoLe
glowsticks; substance abuse
Axel has so many tattoos, so many skin tattoos splayed all over his body in red red ink like blood like ink like bloody ink so similar so running running crimson down his white his artist girl oH she couldn't see the difference kept sopping up the wrong liquid had to do that dO tHaT do that one on his pectoral like five times-fIvE-three times three plus one minus four plus one plus zero zero zErO-over-oVeR-over and over and over again until she got it right and Axel he just lay there like a cat-sprawled is the is a word the word he means-sPrAwLeD yes-and grinned through the pain like it was nothing nothing nothing and said-and he said-and he looked at Roxas and he said-well kid that's part of the fun fun fun-that's part of the fucking fun innit?
He dances and touches them now all the tattoos every single one or two or five-times-five-all of them by turn one after the other and he starts with the cheeks Axel's porcelain cheeks with two tiny triangles there like pyramids upside down-or was it downside up-he forgets forgets forgets but the triangles they have been there long before him and he'd never forget the story the story story story of their fire birth like pyramids-something about slavery nameless slaves cOcKsUcKiNg fucking nObOdIeS looking for their gods-but that doesn't sound like him like Axel that doesn't sound like them at all if only because they found their gods long ago-long long LoNg AgO they found theirs gods and burned their altars and smashed their image to the ground-to the wet bloody ground running-he remembers blue eyes brown hair and then forgets right after-right after and right into the ground ground ground-because it doesn't do it have competition.
But Axel's tattoos he calls them herrings as in red rEd HeRrInGs get it herrings that are red red like on his skin-and Roxas traces them curling and twisting in mad arabesque over his eyes his temples temples temples like the temples they burned down-red unfurling over his chest and running down his arms like broken broken lines of bRoKeN lines of empty fucking rooms-all the empty fucking rooms they've been in for so long long long before they left-in this light all the tattoos aren't red like blood or ink or his dementia they're like veins of chemical fire fire fire chemical fire burning in Axel's eyes all green and fucking dangerous-watch yourself boy or you'll get yourself all get yourself all get get get all BuRnEd and scars don't heal so easy anymore-more more he wants more more more of Axel-up against the wall sweaty mussed and fucking gorgeous chemical fire in his veins veins veins-or that may be the drugs-dRuGs he needs needs needs like Axel like he needs drugs needs Axel Axel Axel he needs Axel more.
And then he feels fingers Axel's fingers Axel's long deft clever fucking fingers around his fucking fingering his collar-he has a collar black spiky leather with a buckle just like on Axel's belt that buckles buckles bucks against his mouth oh baby there's nothing like it so electromagnetic they find when Roxas' head is level with Axel's hips oh yeah baby baby electric discharge instant attraction mOdErN sCiEnCe baby they like that a lot-and Axel's fingers around his collar pulling pushing and fingers down his pants pushing more fingers more fingers fucking fingers fucking fingerfucking him oh oh baby make it good make it easy so easy easy easy-chemical fire in his veins in Axel's fingers in his Axel's fingers in his veins twitch and dance baby eLecTrOmAgNetIsM shoot your electric discharge baby, gasp and arch and laugh.
Tongue is tingling tingling with tingling like fire everything is everything on fire fire FiRe iN tHe HoLe quite literally-he looks down and Axel's fucking fingerfucking fingers are gone gone gone and no more fire so why is he burning why why why but he looks down and down and down he sees a glow-bright neon nEoN glow between his legs glowing glowing glowstick between his legs legs legs spread apart he tries to close them tries but Axel Axel Axel holds him down-no no baby relax it'll be so good so easy easy easy baby just relax or you'll get yourself all get yourself all get get get all BuRnEd-and shoves in-and in-deep inside inside inside he's glowing from inside-cHeMiCaL fIrE deep in his veins bursting bright with electric discharge oh baby it's so easy but he's hard hard hard and fucking aching moaning moaning like a slut-he moans-writhes against the wall twisting-twisting twisted all inside twisted ramming up his-up-up inside InSiDe inside he's burning oh but baby it's so fucking good.
Mouth open and panting panting for it panting like a girl-Axel laughs and laughs and sticks his fingers in-fingers in his mouth oh the taste of him the taste himself tasting himself on Axel's fingers so sharp and bright and fucking chemical-he moans again and bites down bites like the bite of neon in his gut gut gUttEd LiKe A fIsH-fishing for Axel's crotch running fingers broken empty lines running running down like lava for it and Axel aches-he archs-he thrusts into Roxas' hand mad arabesque unfurling so fucking fucking fucking modern science electric discharge oh baby baby it's eLeCtRoMaGnEtIc-instant attraction between you and me and me and you and oh baby it's all fucking modern science in our pants.
He spasms spasm spasms like mad fucking arabesque-ejaculates to the neon glow glowing glowstick pulsing throbbing clenching deep inside him-shoots neon nEoN neon like chemical fire in his veins so good so easy baby oh god he set himself on fire-fire fire fire in the broken empty lines of Axel's tattoos as he screams screams sCrEaMiNg OrGaSm and screams-biting down on Roxas' neck like the neck of the bottle he was reamed with an hour ago-hour's a long time-long long time ago when the night had still been young.
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Kingdom Hearts + Star Wars | Leon/Sora | 1300 words | scorch | unbeta'd. For eleventh_end.
Siths On A Sora
death star; lightsabers
It was the most high-rate, top-notch, classified mission, so Sora hadn't exactly expected it to be a breeze. Still, there were amounts of resistance even he found excessive.
"What the-" he dodged another laser, fired from the automated defense system mounted on the wall, and rolled to safety. The door bumped against his back for a moment, unyielding, then opened with a swish and dumped him inside.
Sora sat up, grimacing as the mechanism shut closed behind him. He wasn't even such a good Jedi, and infiltrating the Death Star had to be the worst idea ever.
"Huh."
His head snapped up: of course an arbitrary room in the most backwards part of the Death Star would be inhabited. The one room he'd managed to escape to would be the office of some drone, or a marauder, or-
A Sith Lord was sitting cross-legged in the center of the chamber, staring at Sora. He was holding an inactive lightsaber, and a polishing cloth. He did not look pleased.
"Uh," said Sora, painfully aware that he was dressed in the robes of a Jedi Knight, equipped with Jedi certifications and lacking absolutely anything else. "Uh, I, uh-"
"You know, I came here to relax." The Sith Lord said, not budging from his spot on the floor. "You can't relax with Jedi around. They spoil the mood."
"Uh, uh," said Sora, intelligently, then gave himself a mental shake and took things in hand. "Listen, uh, Sith Lord-surrender. Or, uh, just leave. Because otherwise I'll be forced to fight you and, uh. Fight you! And stuff."
He immediately sensed that this was the wrong thing to say. The Sith Lord visibly brightened, easily gripping the lightsaber handle and rising to his feet.
"Fight? Well, since you've offered, I guess..."
"What? No! What?" Sora scrambled upright, one hand fumbling at his lightsaber, the other pressed against the door. Infuriatingly and against all logic, it refused to open. He cursed silently, then felt immediate remorse as he felt his link with the Force faltering. Being a Jedi fucked you up something awful. "We can't fight-that is not the way. We must, er, seek peace. So please leave right now."
"Only Jedi and fools seek peace." The Sith Lord said serenely, and activated his lightsaber with a click. It made a smooth, quiet hum, and generally made itself known. Sora tried clicking his own inaptly-titled Keyblade, frantically, and of coursed failed to achieve anything whatsoever.
This is it, he thought in a sudden burst of clarity. I'm going to die.
"You're not going to die," the Sith Lord noted, sounding thoughtful. "Or at least, I'm not going to kill you."
"What?"
"Stand still." The Sith Lord said, and Sora complied, dutifully tilting his chin up when the Sith Lord gestured with his lightsaber.
"You're not half-ugly." The Sith Lord mused a moment later. He looked Sora up and down, and up, and down again. "A bit short, but you know. Fighting isn't the only way to relax."
What, thought Sora, and then, oh no, no way; except according to the Sith Lord, totally yes way, and oh crap, oh, Force, he was going to die of sex.
Somehow, it sounded less hideous in his mind than was proper.
"Undress," said the Sith Lord, and Sora stared into his flat gray eyes, at the brown hair and firm jaw and that weird scar, grit his teeth and said, "No."
The Sith Lord shrugged. "Okay," he said, and suddenly slashed twice down Sora's front, lightsaber a hair's breadth from his skin; the Jedi robes fell away from his body in three neat tatters, pants and everything. He yelped-shock! Horror! Disrobement!-but it was too late to grab anything, and there was no way to lean down while the Sith Lord still had his saber working.
"This is so wrong!" he yelled, but that only seemed to encourage the Sith Lord; he stepped closer, too close, seriously impinging on Sora's personal space, and his lightsaber was still activated.
"How-what-turn that thing off," Sora hissed, physical well-being temporarily usurping moral high ground on his list of priorities. "You'll cut us both in half!"
The Sith Lord, master of stoicism, shrugged again, apparently indicating anything from shut up to I've got steady hands to I like it that way, bitch. Sora found it extraordinarily unhelpful. Even more unhelpful was the Sith Lord swooping in, like a mad slow-motion hummingbird-monster, and kissing him on the mouth.
"Mmph-!" He said, faintly, then sort of didn't say anything for a while. The next time he could breathe properly, though, he glared in defiant indignation. "Evil temptations are everything the Force goes against. They're wrong and immoral and bad."
"Yeah." The Sith Lord grinned slightly. "That's what makes them fun."
And hey, Sora mused as a hand pressed against his chest, tripping sultry-smooth down his belly and further south, maybe that's part of what the Force is all about, you know? Accepting things as they are and moving on, yeah; taking part in current situations, not letting life pass you by.
He was enlightening himself here, damnit.
His companion seemed to think so, too: pressing Sora to the door and then pressing himself to Sora, worrying his earlobe and fondling his cock, erection pressed obscenely against Sora's hip and thrusting ever-so-slightly, making Sora blush and flinch and then, eventually, bite back.
"Feisty, eh," the Sith Lord whispered, and twisted Sora's nipples hard, then suddenly flipped him over, pressing his front against the cool smooth metal.
"What-" Sora began, for like the sixth time, seriously, but the Sith Lord just laughed, rubbing against his ass, and suddenly the persistent hum of the lightsaber flickered and was quiet.
"I said I was going to polish it," he whispered into Sora's ear, low and quiet and dangerously arousing; "but first it needs to be dirtied."
And this time Sora didn't ask or talk or anything really; he just shivered when the Sith Lord's fingers brushed over his ass, slipping deeper, then deeper still; the pace was slow but steady, and within minutes Sora was panting, flushed, shuddering like a pilot just stepped down from his racing pod, moaning wordless encouragements into the metal.
"N-name," he gasped once the Sith Lord's fingers withdrew, leaving him aching and needy and humping the door without finesse. "Your name."
The Sith Lord paused. "Darth Leon," he said warily; "and yours?"
"Sora," Sora tried to say, but it melted into a groan as something else nudged at his sphincter, smooth and cold and much, much bigger. His breath hitched as Leon pressed it further; whatever it was, it was not coming in-but then the Sith gave a sort of twist, simultaneously pushing in just so, and Sora felt himself unfolding like a newborn star, blossoming up and out in waves of white-blue fire.
"Auuughnngh," he said, and thrust against the door desperately. "Force; Leon, oh, Force-"
"Fuck," he heard Leon growl behind him, and then the thing-he had a terrible feeling it was the lightsaber handle, except he really couldn't bring himself to feel terrible about anything just now-hit that place, right there, and Sora arched up, pressed hard against the door and came all over the metal.
When he next woke up, he was on a shuttle heading away from the Death Star, bound and gagged but otherwise fully intact. Leon had even been kind enough to give him back his lightsaber, though of course, not the credentials or any sort of clothes. Sora knew such luck was the blessing of once in a lifetime. He disembarked on a neutral colony, salvaged some garments, and hitched a few rides back to the Academy.
After that everything-weirdly-returned to normal. Nobody cared about the encounter in the Death Star, only that he came back alive. Lessons resumed, and routine; he took up an apprentice named Roxas and started customizing his own Keyblade.
The only difference was, now he polished his lightsaber regularly.
Kingdom Hearts | Aerith/Selphie | 1200 words | scorch | unbeta'd. For girlshy.
They have a word for it in Japanese
glasses; Selphie's first time with a girl
After it was all over-though what "it" was, they never talked about-Aerith went to Destiny Islands, feeling a change of scenery was appropriate. Cid grumbled and Leon remained stonily aloof; Yuffie kicked them both in the shins and wished her all the luck. She set off with a bundle of clothes and a flower in her hair, and in a short week landed a teaching job at the local school.
The children were nice enough, the sunlight gold-bright, and if she saw Sora regularly-well, all blessings are mixed. She learned to file papers and grade tests, pick out the slackers and star pupils, live every day in two-hour periods. It was pleasant and even beautiful at times, despite what horrors the sea-salt winds did to her hair.
Twice a week, the students had a reading hour, which according to syllabus was dedicated to individual perusal of knowledge and acquaintance with the literary world. She'd guessed at their choices, matching books to people, and was not disappointed: The Little White Bird for Sora, Les Misérables for Riku, whilst Kairi had taken Mattimeo with great relish. She gave Tidus The Count of Monte Cristo and introduced Wakka to Mark Twain; figured the relationship would be mutually beneficial for both.
Selphie, Class President and member of the Student Council, had made a beeline directly for Alexander Pope, and started reading on the spot.
Aerith blinked. Not many people went to that section of the library, or with that amount of decisiveness. But it wasn't called a private hour for nothing, so she shrugged and looked away, turning back to the essays on her desk were awaiting the red pen.
A loud sound made her look up again almost immediately. Selphie had bent down, unzipped her bookbag sharply, and withdrawn a small case. From there she took out a pair of glasses, polished the lens and put them on in a businesslike fashion, crossing her legs and tilting her head just so. Then she resumed reading.
Aerith swallowed. The short yellow dress rode up Selphie's thighs, stretched taunt across the sides, but she wasn't looking at that, she was looking at the spectacles, perched right on the tip of Selphie's perfect nose, elegant and haughty and catching the light in small flashes. Private hour, as in, private, she recited to herself, but felt a nervous drop in the pit of her stomach, and knew no good could come of it.
The next thing of interest that happened that year-aside from Aerith developing a complex relationship with reading hour, and Selphie's increased interest in poetry, and Sora accidentally picking up Justine and scarring himself for life-was the day Selphie brought with her a slender volume of Sappho: Chosen Poems, and settled down to read.
Aerith whiled away an entire hour staring intensely at her ungraded tests, seeing nothing.
At the ring of the bell-for whom the bells toll? She'd once asked, then remembered the reply, for whom may be so ill, which had helped matters none-Aerith stood up instantly. She gathered her things at record speed, only looking down at her hands, muttering a faint "class dismissed," before leaving. Her back was turned as she walked through the door, but she still felt Selphie's inquisitive gaze, magnified by the glasses; a faint shiver curling down her spine.
She walked fast, clutching books and papers-but not fast enough, because Selphie caught up with her just outside the school walls, in a shady little corner between buildings which had existed long before the institute itself, trailing ivy and hyssop and long cool shadows across the ground.
"Um?" Aerith said, but her mouth was dry and Selphie had come distractingly close, a determined glint in her eye. "Um," she tried again; a bit more desperate, aiming for scholarly authority; but by then Selphie had pressed her against a wall, leaned in, and kissed her.
It may have been indicative-though of what is debatable-that the first thing Aerith thought was not oh no, inappropriate workplace dynamics or I'm going to get fired or even wow, her tongue, but rather her glasses are pressed against my eyelashes, and this was what caused her to groan into the kiss, writhe and squirm and tug Selphie closer.
She still wore those pink dresses, even now, when she'd heard about new fashions and feminism and the Island's summers, which had explained why everyone walked around in a perpetual state of half-dress. Selphie had long, clever fingers, and she had always been the impulsive one; Aerith felt the sudden cool air against her belly, rushing downwards like a shy-soft whisper with each undone button.
"Sel-" she tried again, but Selphie had already reached her mons, dragging gentle nails through the tangle of her hair and playfully licking at her mouth. The name became a wrangled gasp-which melted into a moan-which frayed around the edges and became a ragged breath-which capitulated into a series of long, wet kisses spanning forever.
"Mmm," Selphie hummed into her mouth, as Aerith's hands rose-of their own accord, surely; she had never been this bold-and gently grazed her breasts, rubbing against the fabric. She could feel Selphie's nipples, hard beneath the palm of her hand; this close, she could feel her own, as well-they were pressed together so tightly, every place touching; pulsing with a nameless, breathless feeling of want.
Her dress, her thighs; everything was wet, and Selphie's fingers slipped inside so easily, one hand pumping steadily, the other tracing delicate patterns around her clit. More, she wanted to say, greedy for touch; ever the bright one, Selphie seemed to understand on the spot. She grinned, unbelievably lewd, and pressed down exactly against that spot, right there, rubbing down in lazy circles which had Aerith thrusting in her hand, gasping and flushed a bright red.
It was too-fast and bewildering and tremulous all at once: Selphie chafing against her, dress riding up to reveal her panties, which Aerith pulled down; slender fingers curling inside her, causing her to clench and shudder; a kiss on her throat, delicate like sunlight; Aerith opened her eyes to Selphie's face, eyes wide, glasses misted with her own breath, and came in spasms, arching up and unfurling like the flowers at her feet.
She was left swollen and trembling, breathing deep and exhaling in an awed litany; oh, I, wow. She let her hands drift down to Selphie's own vulva, lips already spread opened on her thigh; in a few short moments Selphie gave a small gasp and stiffened, shaking with orgasm as her fingers tightened over Aerith's waist.
The chatter of students walking home washed over them, gradually, as if levels of reality were slow-bleeding colors, seeping back into their world. Selphie laughed; a short, breathless sound, and pushed her glasses up clumsily.
"Well," she started, but Aerith silenced her with a kiss, reaching over and plucking the glasses from her nose, pocketing them as she leaned back with a smile.
Kingdom Hearts | Demyx/The Kraken | 1000 words | scorch | unbeta'd. Warning: dubious consent issues. Title from T.S. Elliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. For anon.
In the chambers of the sea
tentacles; aquaphilia; erotic asphyxia
There are many secrets in the sea: powerful, dark and spiny as the corals nestled beneath the dunes of bone-white sand, hidden too deep for light or wind or prying eyes-and Demyx, he knows them all, paid for them body and soul, heart and mind and past and future and whatever the hell he had left after the Organization took away its share.
Glittering fountains don't come out of nowhere, and for every drop he spills, Demyx pays with interest; blood or sweat or spittle, dripping agony-slow into the ocean. Sometimes it's semen; once, his vitreous liquids. Logically, this process would kill him-but nobody said how long it had to take, and Demyx, he's got no immortal soul, he can afford to hang around. All he knows is he'll be paying for the rest of his days, submerged in endless blue, drop after drop after drop.
Now he can feel the waves lapping at his skin, inching up by degrees; first his fins, then gills, then eyes. He blinks, and the whole world has changed its scales; constantly wavering and sea-salt-sharp. Underwater has its own palette: dark blues and bottle-greens, turquoise, jade, shades of black. Umber and rusty gold, glinting treasure-bright; the rainbow multitude of fish, swarming in kaleidoscope patterns. He feels awed here-though not at home, never that.
It's only a matter of minutes-floating in the water, shivering at the completeness of it, gills working, legs-until he feels the first tentacle, snaking around his ankle like a live wire. He used to jump at it, though not anymore: just twists around, and looks up at the Kraken.
That, too, used to be a shock, and to be honest, he feels that same sick shiver every time, but by now, he's used to its enormity, to the way it completely dominates his field of vision. Humans through the ages have tried to capture the Kraken in prose or pictures: only he fully appreciates the impossibility of the task. To this day, he hasn't managed to count the number of arms it has. His estimate figures somewhere between "many" and "a lot".
The tentacle lazily winds up his leg, circling it like a ribbon, suction pads grazing the skin but not yet latching on. Once they do, he knows, the limb will be rendered completely at mercy: the Kraken is a force of nature in and of itself, and what it wants put stays that way. He doesn't struggle, not even when another tentacle begins crawling up his arm, and another, and another. Soon, he's wrapped from all sides, naked as the day he was born-naked, always naked underwater-and he feels that last, delicate one place itself on his dick.
It begins slowly, as slowly as the rhythm of the waves or the fall of sunlight through the deeper fathoms. More tentacles of varying sizes stroke his skin, some with suction pads, some without-his knowledge of Kraken anatomy is as lacking as his calculating skills; privately, he calls them "faceless" or "armed"-twining in his hair or around his waist. Two small armed ones latch onto his nipples, sucking, and he gasps, feeling himself blush. It feels good, so good-and he is surrounded by a forest of arms, the most private place in the world.
A small, curling touch at the small of his back: his legs are spread with beautiful control. There's a sudden rush of water into intimate areas, making his sphincter clench instinctively, but a faceless tentacle is already there, stroking, teasing, and it loosens slowly. Demyx shudders, full-bodied; the tentacles hold him in place, and he found over time that it only intensified the sensation.
The tentacle lingers around his hole, tracing circles, and then it sinks in deeper, though only just. He cannot help himself; he shudders again, straining, but the arms hold him firmly, and he is reduced to suspension. Then deeper in, and deeper-he cries out softly, then louder as it hits that spot, making him want to thrash out, to buck and laugh and keen.
It begins moving in him, thrusting in and out, dragging against his skin at a maddening pace. The rest of the arms loosen around him slightly, just enough to allow him to move with the strokes, though not enough to reciprocate. He almost gains back a shred of self-control-just got his breathing back in order-when it thrusts in deep and stays there, twisting against his prostate, curling and uncurling and oh fuck, he can't, it's too much; he's panting, sweating, gasping, twisting and trying to move away, closer, something, anything, he can feel himself scraped raw and red and burning-
The tentacle over his cock tightens; it's stiff and throbbing, leaking pre-come obscenely. One, two, it'll be over in a minute-but another tentacle snakes around his neck, lightning-quick, and tightens just as he breaths out: suddenly he has no oxygen, nothing, and he fights, lungs burning-the white-hot pressure in his ass, the suction on his dick, the scores of other fucking tentacles-he's so close to coming, he's so close, he can feel it in his whole body, flushed coral-red, breathless and light-headed, vision blurred-
And just as suddenly, it slips away, like a living noose: he takes a deep breath, and comes.
The next time Demyx opens his eyes, he's back above-water, body returned to normal, clean and smooth and too-pale in direct sunlight.
He rubs his eyes, dizzy and bone-tired. Tomorrow is another day of payment.
Kingdom Hearts | Axel/Roxas | 1100 words | AU | scorch | unbeta'd. For raihu.
FiRe In ThE HoLe
glowsticks; substance abuse
Axel has so many tattoos, so many skin tattoos splayed all over his body in red red ink like blood like ink like bloody ink so similar so running running crimson down his white his artist girl oH she couldn't see the difference kept sopping up the wrong liquid had to do that dO tHaT do that one on his pectoral like five times-fIvE-three times three plus one minus four plus one plus zero zero zErO-over-oVeR-over and over and over again until she got it right and Axel he just lay there like a cat-sprawled is the is a word the word he means-sPrAwLeD yes-and grinned through the pain like it was nothing nothing nothing and said-and he said-and he looked at Roxas and he said-well kid that's part of the fun fun fun-that's part of the fucking fun innit?
He dances and touches them now all the tattoos every single one or two or five-times-five-all of them by turn one after the other and he starts with the cheeks Axel's porcelain cheeks with two tiny triangles there like pyramids upside down-or was it downside up-he forgets forgets forgets but the triangles they have been there long before him and he'd never forget the story the story story story of their fire birth like pyramids-something about slavery nameless slaves cOcKsUcKiNg fucking nObOdIeS looking for their gods-but that doesn't sound like him like Axel that doesn't sound like them at all if only because they found their gods long ago-long long LoNg AgO they found theirs gods and burned their altars and smashed their image to the ground-to the wet bloody ground running-he remembers blue eyes brown hair and then forgets right after-right after and right into the ground ground ground-because it doesn't do it have competition.
But Axel's tattoos he calls them herrings as in red rEd HeRrInGs get it herrings that are red red like on his skin-and Roxas traces them curling and twisting in mad arabesque over his eyes his temples temples temples like the temples they burned down-red unfurling over his chest and running down his arms like broken broken lines of bRoKeN lines of empty fucking rooms-all the empty fucking rooms they've been in for so long long long before they left-in this light all the tattoos aren't red like blood or ink or his dementia they're like veins of chemical fire fire fire chemical fire burning in Axel's eyes all green and fucking dangerous-watch yourself boy or you'll get yourself all get yourself all get get get all BuRnEd and scars don't heal so easy anymore-more more he wants more more more of Axel-up against the wall sweaty mussed and fucking gorgeous chemical fire in his veins veins veins-or that may be the drugs-dRuGs he needs needs needs like Axel like he needs drugs needs Axel Axel Axel he needs Axel more.
And then he feels fingers Axel's fingers Axel's long deft clever fucking fingers around his fucking fingering his collar-he has a collar black spiky leather with a buckle just like on Axel's belt that buckles buckles bucks against his mouth oh baby there's nothing like it so electromagnetic they find when Roxas' head is level with Axel's hips oh yeah baby baby electric discharge instant attraction mOdErN sCiEnCe baby they like that a lot-and Axel's fingers around his collar pulling pushing and fingers down his pants pushing more fingers more fingers fucking fingers fucking fingerfucking him oh oh baby make it good make it easy so easy easy easy-chemical fire in his veins in Axel's fingers in his Axel's fingers in his veins twitch and dance baby eLecTrOmAgNetIsM shoot your electric discharge baby, gasp and arch and laugh.
Tongue is tingling tingling with tingling like fire everything is everything on fire fire FiRe iN tHe HoLe quite literally-he looks down and Axel's fucking fingerfucking fingers are gone gone gone and no more fire so why is he burning why why why but he looks down and down and down he sees a glow-bright neon nEoN glow between his legs glowing glowing glowstick between his legs legs legs spread apart he tries to close them tries but Axel Axel Axel holds him down-no no baby relax it'll be so good so easy easy easy baby just relax or you'll get yourself all get yourself all get get get all BuRnEd-and shoves in-and in-deep inside inside inside he's glowing from inside-cHeMiCaL fIrE deep in his veins bursting bright with electric discharge oh baby it's so easy but he's hard hard hard and fucking aching moaning moaning like a slut-he moans-writhes against the wall twisting-twisting twisted all inside twisted ramming up his-up-up inside InSiDe inside he's burning oh but baby it's so fucking good.
Mouth open and panting panting for it panting like a girl-Axel laughs and laughs and sticks his fingers in-fingers in his mouth oh the taste of him the taste himself tasting himself on Axel's fingers so sharp and bright and fucking chemical-he moans again and bites down bites like the bite of neon in his gut gut gUttEd LiKe A fIsH-fishing for Axel's crotch running fingers broken empty lines running running down like lava for it and Axel aches-he archs-he thrusts into Roxas' hand mad arabesque unfurling so fucking fucking fucking modern science electric discharge oh baby baby it's eLeCtRoMaGnEtIc-instant attraction between you and me and me and you and oh baby it's all fucking modern science in our pants.
He spasms spasm spasms like mad fucking arabesque-ejaculates to the neon glow glowing glowstick pulsing throbbing clenching deep inside him-shoots neon nEoN neon like chemical fire in his veins so good so easy baby oh god he set himself on fire-fire fire fire in the broken empty lines of Axel's tattoos as he screams screams sCrEaMiNg OrGaSm and screams-biting down on Roxas' neck like the neck of the bottle he was reamed with an hour ago-hour's a long time-long long time ago when the night had still been young.
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