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... )
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The lass pretending to be a lad is pretending just well enough for Jack to let her onboard. She knows nothing about ships, although she’s evidently been around Tortuga long enough to pick up the proper clothes and stench. And rum; that’s important, the rum that she carries around like a proper pirate who has been around Her Ruthlessness, King Elizabeth, Burner of Rum, for any unbearable amount of time.
Jack appoints her as cabin boy, and watches her for a very long time. The others don’t like it, but when they question the lass on the ship, Jack merely smiles sunnily at them and asks, “What lass?” After several months at sea, they learn to drop the matter. After all, the lass is getting better, and she presents the men with some very nice opportunities to get the ship to port faster, and with more gold. None of them will touch her, not even the stupidest sailor among them, because Jack has his eye on her.
Everyone knows it before the first month is out. Jack is almost disappointed; he thought he was better than that. Or maybe he thought they were better than that. Or maybe he thought...oh, to hell with it. Rum is better than that, and that is God’s own truth.
(Never let it be said that Jack is an ungodly man. He is a very godly man. He just appreciates god in a different way than most, especially since his god has just recently been freed from Her hell. And the others wonder why he occasionally throws odd things - baubles and gizmos and sometimes even rum - into the sea. Dutiful offerings from a dutiful worshipper, and Calypso knows that Jack is a very dutiful worshipper. He proved that to her- Well, that is another story. A-very-nother story, from a long time ago... Speaking of stories from yesteryears, have you heard of the one about sea turtles?-)
It is a hot day, almost scorchingly terrible by midmorning and much worse by noon, when Jack takes to swigging down a gulp of rum before every conversation - to lubricate his silver tongue, of course. Many of the others are drinking similarly, although most of those seem to prefer the water. Ah well, port isn’t too far off, so it shouldn’t hurt too much.
Jack notices the lass drinking heartily as well, and an idea forms in his drunken mind. Jack’s mind, when drunk, can be a very devious thing - which is why he is half-drunk at all times, and more so when there are certain sticky situations looming on the horizon. Say, for instance, Elizabeth was to meet him in the next port, well, that would obviously require much more than his usual deviousness, and so he should promptly and with all due haste get himself as drunk as physically possible before she says a single word. Besides, he helped make her King; the least she can do is pay for his rum.
So, the lass is drinking, and Jack has been drinking but is not anymore, and there’s this idea. It’s a very nice idea, Jack thinks, and so he retreats to his wonderful cabin and invites the cabin boy in.
“Rum,” he tells her as he rummages for a Very Special Object, “is a very wonderful thing.”
“Yeah, it is,” the lass agrees fervently, and Jack watches as she takes a sip of her own.
After several minutes of both of them singing the praises of rum and Jack failing to locate his Object, he finally reaches into his pocket and sets his compass to the task. It unhelpfully starts to swivel towards the lass, and then in the direction that Jack would assume Elizabeth is in - damn her - and then, finally, settles on a third.
Sure enough, the dress is there.
It isn’t a dress like one of Elizabeth’s dresses. It is, in fact, a dress designed by and for whores; he hopes the lass doesn’t recognize that and get offended. She ought to be glad that Jack has a dress made specifically for bodice-ripping, actually, considering how expensive dresses can be these days.
“Come here, lass,” he says, then frowns. “Or lad, rather. Or - you’re not a eunuch, are you?” That would throw all his plans awry.
The lass looks startled. “Ah, no. I’m not a eunuch.”
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The lass still looks startled, but the captain’s orders are the captain’s orders and so she walks over to stand in front of Jack. Her expression turns curious as he reveals what it is in his arms.
“Now, lad, I’m sure you - and a great many gentlemen besides, don’t get me wrong! - have at some point or other wondered what a lass must feel like, in one of her fancy dresses. No, no,” Jack raises a hand when the lass opens her mouth, “let’s not quibble over inconsequentials, shall we?”
“Don’t you mean inconsistencies?” the lass asks, frowning.
“Let’s not argue about those either,” Jack agrees amiably. “Now, lass - er, I should say, lad - I am going to present to you a wonderful opportunity to fulfill those unfulfilled desires that are no doubt flitting through your head at this very moment.” He grins and hands her the dress.
“You want me to wear this,” she says, voice flat.
“Do I want you to wear it? Of course not! No, my lad, I want you to realize your dreams.”
The lass stares at him hard for several longish moments. Jack takes the opportunity to down some more rum.
She sighs. “Whatever. I guess it can’t hurt.” And she downs her own rum, which makes Jack think that perhaps he should begin to take an interest in how well lubricated she is - meaning her tongue, of course.
“As a perfect gentleman, and because I happen to be no help whatsoever with the dreadful - I mean, wonderful - things, I believe I will excuse myself.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the lass grumbles. “What, do you want me to call you in or something?” Her eyes are sharply suspicious, and Jack’s fairly sure he likes the look of those sharp blue eyes. Cutting eyes, he might call them, made to rip men and lesser women open with a glance. Yes, those could be very useful eyes to have on his crew indeed. Anamaria had eyes like that, he recalls...
He says something glib to the lass on his way out, though he honestly can’t remember what it is after the words leave his lips. Hm. An unfortunate side-effect of drinking - surely not! - or the lass, or age? No matter; he shall have the means to eliminating the latter soon, and hopefully the former will eliminate herself in time. Elizabeth did just that, and lucky timing too, though the circumstances were far from lucky.
He has finished his rum and been reduced to biting his nails when there comes a discreet couch from the other side of the door, and a knock. He grins and lets himself in.
There is something not-right about the lass, but he can’t quite but his finger on it. She looks stunning - the dress is a very pretty dress, and its color nicely complements her complexion. Her eyes are less sharp and more uncertain now, but her delicate facial features - there is something familiar about those, but he has seen that from the first moment he saw her - have not changed. Her hands are fisted in the skirt of her dress, and as he looks at her critically, she turns a lovely shade of red.
He never had been able to make Elizabeth or Anamaria, or especially Calypso, turn quite that shade by simply looking at them. This promises to be a good night indeed.
He says nothing, only grins a grin that is more smirk than grin and steps forward. She steps back. He maneuvers her so that, in less than a dozen steps, she is sitting on his bed.
“Now, darling,” he purrs to her, leaning over her, leaning into her. “Let’s see it come off.”
The lass is does not even struggle when Jack reaches for her, when Jack starts to rip that lovely, lovely bodice from that lovely, lovely lass. All of a sudden, however, Jack’s plans are brought to a screeching halt.
“You’re no lass,” he accuses.
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And indeed, she - he - never had; her build and face and voice and demeanor said enough for her. Jack frowns, and thinks.
It takes him time to compose an appropriate plan, and to mentally assemble what materials he will need for said plan from what he has. And while he is doing that, the lad needs distracting. Jack delivers on all three points.
The lad is whining and writhing underneath a half-ripped bodice and skirts. Jack, meanwhile, has a jar of foul-smelling stuff that Tia Dalma had gifted him with a very, very long time ago. He still remembers her knowing smile, and, with more than a little discomfort, he wonders if she had seen, all those years ago, this very moment.
Cabin boy, whining and writhing, bodice and skirts - right.
Jack smirks at him and runs his hand over the skirts, pressing down, until he hears a hiss and the lad jerks. He repeats the action, much to the lad’s pleasure, it seems.
He works the lad - through the skirts, no less, and that is no mean feat - until the lad is quite vocal, and then he, oh-so casually, pulls the lad up and turns him over, so that he supports himself on his own hands and knees. He hears the lad’s breath pick up and smirks again.
He says something cocky to the lad - again, he doesn’t remember it beyond being quite proud of his own outstanding wit and poetic language in a time like this - and the lad snorts and mutters something up speeding up.
Jack sighs and, loathingly, dips a finger into the jar. He then pushes the lad’s skirts up, past his waist, and unceremoniously sticks it in the lad.
The reaction is immediate and as unpleasant as the stuff, and Jack waits for him to quiet down before he moves the finger. He is not, contrary to some popular beliefs, at all ignorant in the ways of man and man, as well as those of man and maid, and maid and maid. The last is, unfortunately, only an observational knowledge. The rest, however, is very not.
He slips one two three four fingers into the lad, and is more than a bit surprised, but does not ask questions. If the lad has experience - and it seems now that he does - then who is Jack to look a gift horse in the mouth? The sounds that the lad is making are almost appreciation enough; the thigh that he presses back against Jack covers the appreciation quite nicely.
Jack pulls his hand away long enough to push his pants down before returning to the lad. His fingers once again coated, he pushes them in and up and out, brushes the lad in the right spot and many more besides. He rubs against the lad’s leg, lace from the skirts teasing him, and reaches a hand to stroke the lad.
The lad, by the pretty moans he make at that, appreciates the gesture.
When the lad is close, and Jack as well, he pulls his hand away from the lad’s length and smirks at the lad’s groan.
“Now, now, be a good lad,” he coos in the lad’s ear, lightly mocking and lightly commanding and more than lightly drunk; he can smell the lad’s breath and his own.
He considers ripping the bodice, but does not; he considers stroking the lad through his skirts, but does not. He considers plunging his length into the lad’s warmth, but decides that that can be done another time. There are more days between now and when they arrive at port, after all.
Instead, he jerks the lad’s chin and kisses im, very messily, with rum-flavored saliva on their lips and the lad’s chin and Jack cannot seem to care. He thrusts, shallowly, against the lad’s leg.
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Ah well, he has others. He rips it off the lad and tosses it after a cursory swipe over both his and the lad’s lengths. He re-fastens his pants and spoons up behind the lad.
“I suppose you’ll want to tell me your name now,” he says pleasantly, like the buzz between his ears.
“Roxas,” the lad says shortly, before rolling and pinning Jack to the bed. “And I hope you’ve got more where that came from.”
In light of the smirk now on the lad’s features, Jack is not sure whether he should pray to Calypso for fair currents or foul. He supposes he’ll find out soon enough, however.
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Also, this writer-anon was not the other claiming-anon. So hopefully there will be better more fic?
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"Her Ruthlessness, King Elizabeth, Burner of Rum" made me laugh so hard. For your first time writing Jack, you have done masterfully. Especially at the "You're not a lass" part. *shrug* "Oh well, sex anyway." XD
Roxas at the end is such a pretty pushy thing. :3 I love how he's definitely badass!Roxas, not the strange milksop version I've seen going around in places. Overall, you win.
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Eee, I'm glad! And that seemed like a very Jack thing to me, too. >_>;;
Oh, phew. I was sorta worried about making Roxas OOC, and yeah, the milksop version is very much Do Not Want, so instead of a happy cuddly ending (which is what Jack was totally expecting), the Roxas!muse said, "Okay, now Jack wears a dress, right?" <3
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