[Final Fantasy IV] Façade
Pairing: Kain/Valvalicia
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex
Notes: Written for the February 2009 round of areyougame (IJ)
Summary: She is not human, though he pretends otherwise for his own sake.
Word Count: 358
Beta: None officially, though first_seventhe had a gander at it.
She is not human.
She looks the part, certainly, though she is perhaps overly tall for a woman. She has a mass of flowing hair, a generously curved body, the usual assortment of limbs, the correct arrangement of facial features (save that one looks too closely when she smiles and notes the fangs that her lips often conceal.)
She is not human.
Her skin is cool, never warm, and sparks and crackles with electricity in a way that no human woman's skin would do. Her hands, though they look normal, are sharp at the tips; not fingernails, but claws, dagger-points that draw blood when she forgets, or more likely does not care enough, to keep them sheathed.
She is not human.
Her tongue is warm and wet, and other parts of her equally so. She speaks and cries out and moves atop him like a human woman would. Sometimes when she is at her most gentle, the delicate spring breeze rather than the howling winter storm, he could almost believe that she is not the monster he knows her to be. He buries his face in her shoulder, sinks his hands into her hair, sinks deeper into her, and tells himself he does not feel the stinging pain of her claws raking down his back, that he does not find her alienness as much a goad to his desire as her similarity.
She is not human.
He tells himself that it disgusts him, even as he knows it for a lie. He looks at the façade, not the reality, and tries desperately to make her human, for if she is not human then neither is he, and of all the identities he once held near and dear, that is the last one he will relinquish. No longer is he King Odin's ward, a hero of the Dragon Knights, Richard Highwind's son--all these he has given up or had stripped from him. No longer is he even an honourable man; all that remains to him is this last thing. Yet for all his determination, for all his struggle, he knows it for mere façade.
He is not human.
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex
Notes: Written for the February 2009 round of areyougame (IJ)
Summary: She is not human, though he pretends otherwise for his own sake.
Word Count: 358
Beta: None officially, though first_seventhe had a gander at it.
She is not human.
She looks the part, certainly, though she is perhaps overly tall for a woman. She has a mass of flowing hair, a generously curved body, the usual assortment of limbs, the correct arrangement of facial features (save that one looks too closely when she smiles and notes the fangs that her lips often conceal.)
She is not human.
Her skin is cool, never warm, and sparks and crackles with electricity in a way that no human woman's skin would do. Her hands, though they look normal, are sharp at the tips; not fingernails, but claws, dagger-points that draw blood when she forgets, or more likely does not care enough, to keep them sheathed.
She is not human.
Her tongue is warm and wet, and other parts of her equally so. She speaks and cries out and moves atop him like a human woman would. Sometimes when she is at her most gentle, the delicate spring breeze rather than the howling winter storm, he could almost believe that she is not the monster he knows her to be. He buries his face in her shoulder, sinks his hands into her hair, sinks deeper into her, and tells himself he does not feel the stinging pain of her claws raking down his back, that he does not find her alienness as much a goad to his desire as her similarity.
She is not human.
He tells himself that it disgusts him, even as he knows it for a lie. He looks at the façade, not the reality, and tries desperately to make her human, for if she is not human then neither is he, and of all the identities he once held near and dear, that is the last one he will relinquish. No longer is he King Odin's ward, a hero of the Dragon Knights, Richard Highwind's son--all these he has given up or had stripped from him. No longer is he even an honourable man; all that remains to him is this last thing. Yet for all his determination, for all his struggle, he knows it for mere façade.
He is not human.