Kingdom Hearts Kink Meme
KINGDOM HEARTS KINK MEME
Indexed at kh-kinkmeme
and on delicious here
Rules:
1. Post a pairing plus a kink.
1a. One request per comment.
1b. The only kink not allowed on this meme is anything involving underage sex. What I mean by this is if, either in the request or fic, it is made clear (either by stating a number or giving a physical description) that ( Read more... )
Indexed at kh-kinkmeme
and on delicious here
Rules:
1. Post a pairing plus a kink.
1a. One request per comment.
1b. The only kink not allowed on this meme is anything involving underage sex. What I mean by this is if, either in the request or fic, it is made clear (either by stating a number or giving a physical description) that ( Read more... )
“And what,” she mocks viciously, “Is the way you work?”
Tifa folds her arms absolute; the final silent gesture of the night; and frowns curiously as Larxene’s teal eyes flit inquisitively over her body, from her fleece fur gloves to her breasts steady and unshaken under her taut tube top to her blushing thighs peeking out from under plain leather.
“Don’t you act like you’ve been wronged or something,” Tifa snorts derisively, sparing a quick, condescending glance to the trembling Namine. “See, this is a nudie bar, not a brothel.”
“Really? Because, the way you sluts drag yourselves about, I’d say it’s the darndest little whorehouse in Hollow Bastion.”
It’s like this; Larxene gets told to leave or get tossed out, ‘sick little rapist lesbo’ that Tifa deems her, and Tifa turns out to be the owner of the joint, so she’s no longer Tifa but Ms. Lockhart, the pissed old spinster who’s essentially only a year or two above Larxene (but Larxene is a bitter sick little rapist lesbo), and the next day Namine’s lips still taste of salt and denim and cherry like the blood on the countertops, because the world is like that sometimes.
So Larxene growls and stamps off, boot heels making little one-two-threes on the cheap lino tiling, and delves back through the doorway dripping of bamboo strands and shimmering plastic beads that tremble as her breath huffs upon, and into the ocean of sluts and whores that’ll shed their satin skins for a penny a prayer.
And she kind of thinks that she’ll never meet a girl as innocent as Namine, with petit breasts fresh of an immature teen and a waistline that she can tear down to the bowed arches of her hips as they swing and throw to the thump of oriental wine drums; but she does not miss her, because one day Namine will be another slut and whore and bitch lost to the best little whorehouse that wasn’t.
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So one day, she dresses up in her best; little black number, strapless and swaying just about the joint of her knees, leaves the jeans and suit pants at home and acts like a proper lady.
And she digs deep down into her drawer and fishes out of her wardrobe, and slips a pair of khaki cargo shorts into her handbag, crocodile faux scale shimmer and swinging from her shoulder to her hips; and she doesn’t bother with a shirt of any sort.
And Larxene makes off for the strip club, the nudie bar, the brothel or whorehouse or whatever it is, because Larxene doesn’t particularly know or care.
So she struts in, aloof and casual dressed in her best, heels five-inches high and up to the sky, and turns up her nose at the flickers of crimson neon signs; belle femme dans rouge, but the woman here are too coarse and rough round every edge that they try to polish and polish and force on a shine to know even the faintest trace of such an elegant language; and coolly observes her finely painted nails, chic static aqua, as compared to the girls parading, teasing and taunting pathetic men, panting and huffing and clawing at the petite toes peeking out from under squeaking plastic heels.
And Larxene knows this is disgusting; but she ignores the bemused stares directed from the staff and the models and the men to her; and she is a refined woman, clothed to genuinely impress, and she knows that the looks of those men are lustful.
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“Keep the change, lady,” Larxene calls over her shoulder as she swiftly makes for the bathroom, and whispers under her breath, “You look like you need it, slag.”
Mind you, they’re all slags caked in dried make-up, blush and mascara and lipstick bold reds and blues and pinks and blacks, clownish in all seriousness; and she almost expects to turn about and see on the catwalk not a young yet withered woman grinding her hips and fishing flows of dollar bills from her thong tossed upon the floor but Namine, innocent little Namine.
God, Larxene realises; but not so much realises as more dawns on her, because she thinks she knew it all along; I miss that girl. I fucking miss a girl I met in a strip club who looks fucking underage, and there’s no turning back now, god no.
The bathroom door sways shut; and the cubicle door swings open; marker black arcs of hearts and diamonds scrawled across this devil’s wall; and beneath her dress she hastily slips on the shorts buried in her bag, khaki invisibility beneath the hem.
And Larxene struts back to the circus tent; the freak house; and her eyes coldly flit across the room, to rest upon the door with askew plaque declaring Lockhart, golden sprays reminder of trainwrecks in the making; and with little to no regret or thought, barges inside against the strain of the lock.
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“See, Ms. Lockhart?” Larxene teases with her dress hiked up to the hip and her shorts tight against her pale thighs, fingers working worship from her collarbone to the sweep of her breasts, “Whatever your whores can do, I can do it for half the price.”
And here, she throws herself upon the desk, lean yet feminine frame coiled so as plump strawberry lips meet Tifa’s oversized plastic bosom;
“Or even for free.”
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“Namine, Namine dear,” Tifa pants of a woman exhausted by things that drain not physically but mentally; the very idea that any woman could lead her is insane, but yet it is proven; and Larxene watches with glee as the girl trembles and tremors in her Mary Janes. “Do take Ms. Larxene to the backroom for a moment; I need some alone time; and darling, don’t skimp on the special treatment.”
Larxene giggles gently, childish and sardonic and of confidence that many women cannot muster fully clothed; but Larxene lies in only shorts, no shoes, no shirt, shaved smooth legs straddling Tifa’s hips and breasts bouncing freely and teasingly in Lockhart’s flushed face.
Namine nods frantically; blush blooming steady like rose petals blossoming in spirals and wreathes on her pale cheeks; and snatches up Larxene’s hand, spider leg fingers tapping one-two-threes on her palms greasy with sweat.
And she leads her through to the hallway, stopping for seconds in the bathroom to avoid women returning from their shifts, exhausted and irritable from hours on end of swinging round and round poles and strutting endless laps down the catwalk; Namine knows it would only be worse for this relationship with a customer to come to light.
But in those seconds; when Larxene wants something, she gets it; and she flutters her ebony eyelashes to Namine and flexes her plump chest and slender waist against the marbled countertop and for a second, throwing her cunt in her pretty face and dancing to look don’t touch just seems so crude and unnecessary.
But she does it anyway; the first part, at least; and Larxene licks away all the bad thoughts and Brazilian wax and thinks it tastes of cherries and cream.
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Err, again I apologize for several things; OOCness, especially Tifa, crappy sex scenes, the Gay Bar inspired title, my strange and naive interpretation of a strip club, etc. ESPECIALLY THE CUNNING LINGUISTS WHAT WAS I THINKING LOL.
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