the final fantasy anonymous kink meme
I have made this post public again despite leaving LJ to allow people to save their own fics, etc.
Since this kind of thing seems to be spreading LJ-wide, I thought it was time we had one. ;) The original, I believe, is the Bleach Kink Meme, and there's a master list of others here. ;)
So...
The Final Fantasy Anonymous Kink MemeWhat is it? It's ( Read more... )
Since this kind of thing seems to be spreading LJ-wide, I thought it was time we had one. ;) The original, I believe, is the Bleach Kink Meme, and there's a master list of others here. ;)
So...
The Final Fantasy Anonymous Kink MemeWhat is it? It's ( Read more... )
“No.” She nearly opened her eyes when she felt the blade withdraw, but did not bother when she realized it was simply dissatisfied with its chosen implement. “No, that's not good enough!” It clattered to the floor with a muted jangle, and was followed by a heavy crash as it vented its frustration on some nearby table. “You were doing so well, you were almost there!” it howled. “Isn't this enough? What does it take?” There was a prolonged, tearing screech of metal.
It didn't matter. It was all distant now. It would be as it would.
“You just. Won't. See,” it gibbered, its furious, hateful voice more of a horror than any she'd yet seen. Then it laughed, splintered bone on copper pipes, a rising, obscene giggle. “No,” it sputtered with sick hilarity, “no, but you will.”
And even though her eyes were closed, even though she could hear nothing, she knew what it was doing, and she didn't mind; it was better to look death in the eye, surely, than to let it take her to pieces unresisting. With a weary, burdensome sense of predestination, she opened her eyes.
It stood at the foot of the bed now, its fingers digging into its own throat, shreds of flesh or particles of rotten gauze flaking down from its labors until with a final sickening rip it drew its hands away, long, pendulous streamers of fluid depending from its fingers. It tilted its head, studying her exhausted lack of reaction, and flicked its fingers; the thick ropy gobbets spattered her legs with a burning sizzle, but even that was not enough to bestir her. She knew there was more yet to come.
It seemed to share her desire to get on with it; leaning forward in the same serpentine twist no mortal spine could have borne, it reached behind its head to paw awkwardly at the bindings shrouding its face. Its hands came away with a thick, fleshy tearing sound, a stained bandage end in each. Its head stayed lowered, and Tifa watched in tired resignation as it began to unwind itself, peeling the sticky, ruined wrappings from its face with agonizing slowness. Soon. It would be done soon.
Soon. Please.
“Soon enough?” She did not know if she had spoken aloud or if had somehow understood her unspoken plea, the hopeful cry of exhausted prey, but it was suddenly over her, leaning at an impossible slanted angle. All she could see were its rheumy red eyes, the whites shattered with exploded blood vessels, but then... oh, but then...
If it grinned, it was only because it could do nothing else; its lips were gone, withered away into the gray, sere flesh of its countenance, and its black gums had receded so far the lower portion of its seemed nothing more than an endless, aching expanse of yellowed ivory. The rest of its... she supposed it must be called a face... was little more than a tortured map of grooved, excoriated hide; a portrait to make a coroner retreat in fear. This thing, this monster, had always been terrible; but it had not always been such a horror as she confronted now. Nothing could be.
She did not die.
It withdrew too quickly for the eye to follow, bracing its hands on either side of her hips, still leaning over her; it cocked its head this way and that, perhaps to consider her, perhaps merely to afford her a better view of the revolting visage it had uncovered for her. Unencumbered by the bandages, its breathing was a shallow, rapid harshness whistling through its clenched teeth that sawed at her nerves as painfully as its blade might have done.
She did not die, and it seemed as surprised as she.
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She let her head loll back; the restraints kept her from removing it from her field of vision, but far enough that it did not seem quite so all encompassing. The shock of its face had sent her mind reeling, but that warred with the unexpected revelation of its impotency. Insane, furious, and dangerous as it might be, it was not so dreadful that it could kill with a mere look; and that was the secret, she realized, that was the trick, that was... that was...
It gave a rippling shriek of rage, slamming its twisted fists down on either side of her, and Tifa's breath caught in her throat, the cowering, exhilarating terror returning full force for a handful of heartbeats as it wrenched the bed apart; her hips groaned, aching with tension as her legs were spread almost impossibly far... then stopped with a snap as the segments reached the end of their extension. It moved; she'd forgotten; it moved.
It stood between her thighs now, the foul mess it had made of Vincent's cloak pooling over her like a bloody oil slick, but she remained placid and unfocused beneath its hateful, burning gaze. It hated her to the very marrow of its dessicated bones, the implacable loathing of the damned, but... but only... She felt the answer flickering just out of her grasp, strove for it, struggled to make sense of the nagging surety that held her still, but could not.
Its eyes. Its eyes were a horror to more than match the rest of its gruesome appearance, mad with an unspeakable, unbearable truth; and that was the secret, she realized suddenly, that was what she needed to know.
It despised her so only because she did not hate it as much as it loathed itself.
Frightened, angry, unhappy, yes; but she could not muster true antipathy for a creature as broken and twisted as this one had become, any more than she could for a rabid dog. Under other circumstances, she might have pitied it.
It knew that; had known it all along, perhaps, but became inescapably aware of it as soon as she did, and it could not stand the knowledge. With a guttural howl it sank to its haunches, long, ungainly arms wrapped around its head, and for the first time Tifa strained uselessly against her bonds, throwing her body violently against the heavy leather straps. Its voice was full of ceaseless, inhuman anguish, an ululating wail of loss and realization that scourged her soul with raw, suppurating wretchedness, and she could not bear it; its pain and rue were beyond hearing, beyond bearing, beyond sanity. She would have done anything to quiet it; would have hugged it, petted it, soothed away its hurts despite those it had inflicted upon her, anything, anything at all simply to make it stop.
And perhaps it knew that, too, for it ceased its cry, its ruined voice subsiding into rasping, sobbing gasps. She breathed a sigh of relief, her thoughts scattered so wildly that she could not make sense of it, what had happened, why, why, why; barely registered it as unusual when she felt the dry, wrinkled scrabbling across her legs. Anything. Anything at all, anything but the resumption of its excruciating mourning.
Had she been naked all this while? Surely she had been clothed, for she still was, wasn't she? But she was exposed now, somehow, open and vulnerable, and its breath was frosty on the downy flesh of her upper thighs. Its broken, jagged nails drew trails of gooseflesh along her skin, and her hands balled into fists without her volition. She couldn't see it, wouldn't even try to raise her head high enough to do so, but she could still hear its strained breathing, each panting exhalation half a cry as it clutched awkwardly at her hips with trembling, scabrous palms.
Anything. Anything at all. It couldn't be worse.
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Its mouth was as hot as its breath was cold, and her body went rigid with the shock of mingled sensations as its tongue sloppily parted her labia. She tried to kick, to writhe away from its invasive caress, but the feverish leather held her fast as it clumsily explored her folds. A scream was locked behind her teeth, but she wouldn't fail herself by letting it escape. It couldn't last forever; she'd be free of it, or it would finish her. It would end.
She lurched again as its tongue penetrated her, meaty and muscular; she clenched her teeth so hard her jaws ached as it worked itself in and out, rhythmic and inescapable. All she knew was the fluid slide of flesh, warm, wet and deep inside of her as it increased its efforts, faster, harder, faster, so slippery and mechanical...
She couldn't restrain a gasp as it withdrew, lashing its tongue free of her confines, and she shivered at the sudden loss of sensation that had seemed ubiquitous. A few moments of silence, long enough for her to wonder if it had finally ceased, though it still gripped her hips tightly; she should not have been so foolish.
But its next touch was cautious, even delicate; the tip of its flexible tongue carefully circled her hood, and she could not deny the deep flutter of answering pleasure in her groin. She sagged uselessly against her bonds as it lapped softly at her clitoris, gentle and consistent. This was too much; terror and abuse she could stand from it, had come to expect, but its sudden concern and deftness were overwhelming, too much for her exhausted mind to make sense of. She squeezed her eyes shut once more, grasping desperately for the soothing, chilling apathy that had shielded her from its attentions before, but was unable to seize it in the steadily building onslaught of sensation it forced upon her.
Was that what it wanted? Was this only another weapon in its arsenal, brought out when its other attempts failed? The burgeoning feeling of intensity being fanned into embers between her thighs, spreading slow, warm tendrils of expectant tension between her hips, made it hard to focus, hard to think; she ceased trying, once more abandoning herself to experience. She roughly forced the details of the situation from her mind and melted into pure sensation, that languorous enervation that nevertheless coiled throughout her until every muscle was clenched with slithery bliss, tighter and tighter as her body grew closer to its inevitable conclusion.
She did cry out as she came, a low, throaty moan that escaped without her knowledge as her form strained against the straps without her consent, her limbs twitching and shivering with the sheer animal pleasure of release and fulfillment. Her hips bucked involuntarily as she sought to milk those last few precious moments of heady, throbbing contact, her flesh greedily seeking what her mind would never consciously reach out for.
But it was over. She relaxed against the bed with a breathy sigh, her pulse pounding in her ears as she sought to regain her breath, to gain some control over the drunken whirl of satiation that scattered her thoughts.
It was still licking her.
She let it continue its self-imposed task unimpeded for a few more moments; it was not as if she could have stopped it anyway. But the incongruity of its actions was too dissonant, such a sharp discord it wormed its way into even her own muddled confusion.
“Why?” she asked it again.
It stopped, though its hands remained on her thighs, and barring that rough contact, it was as if she were alone for long enough that her mind began to wander. She was so drowsy, so spent; a nap would be so nice, if only because it would render her insensible.
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Its palms pressed down on her as it rose to its full height, its grisly head lost in the unreliable shadows of the world beyond the work light. It stooped forward hesitantly, and she greatly wished it hadn't; its ruined excuse for a mouth was slick with her own juices, glistening wetly as it came into the light. But as her gaze skittered away in frightened revulsion, she caught sight of something even more deeply disturbing: another pair of twin gleams, at the corner of each of its deep set eyes.
It was crying.
That was the most terrible thing of all. Now she screamed, a wild, panicked shout of rejection and denial; she flailed hysterically against the bonds with a frantic need to flee, to escape this horror, to run from the need to confront--
* * *
She kicked so hard the sleeping bag's zipper parted with a metallic rip, spilling her out into the damp pre-dawn chill, and she rolled onto her hands and knees with clumsy desperation. Her fingers dug into the moist loam beneath her, and the sensation was so unbelievable that she froze for a moment, absolutely unable to comprehend what was going on. She sucked in ragged, sobbing breaths as she peered into the darkness, trying to make sense of what lay before her: trees, stones, tall grass that waved in the wind.
At the slight sound behind her she spun around so quickly she fell, barking her tail bone painfully on a rock. Vincent had flowed to his feet instantly, a pistol materializing in his hand as if by sorcery, and stood scanning the night around them, seeming calmly and casually ready to take on all comers.
Nightmare, she thought wonderingly, raising a hand to her chest in the futile hope of staving off her panting. Only a dream, she told herself, still shaky with the adrenalin flooding her system, but could scarcely make herself believe it. She did not dream like this; had never woken up screaming; had never fought or struggled in her sleep.
Until now.
“I'm sorry,” she gasped, reaching out to lay a hand on Vincent's bare foot. “I'm sorry, I-I must have heard something,” she finished lamely, for some reason mulishly unwilling to admit to what had just happened. It spun around her in wispy fragments now just barely out of the reach of her memory: darkness deep in the earth, rusty wet metal, and... and...
He raised the gun into a guard position beside his face, the only indication he gave that he had heard her as he continued to inspect their surroundings. Finally satisfied by the dearth of impending attack, he turned to look down at her and, though she could not have said why, a shiver ran through her as he reached up to wipe at his eyes.
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I hope the requester likes this as much as I did - if they don't, they're a dolt. Now to think up a sufficiently bent prompt that you'll do one of these for me!
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It's an even better treat because this meme is so old, I doubted this would even get read, but I've spent enough time on the great hulking thing I was going to post it SOMEwhere, by God!
So, yes, you have totally made my day. I'd be happy to take a whack at anything you'd care to throw out - I'll keep an eye out for anything particularly batrachian or mucilaginous. :D
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Such pleasant imagery in here, so fitting. From the fleshy squelching sounds her rotting shoes made, to the meaty thud on the floor when she fell, and the stark contrast between something wet and warm when the hands on her hips were so dry and dead. You couldn't have picked better adjectives, couldn't have created a better setting.
I felt like I'd fallen into one of Brom's darker paintings. She was so encumbered-I like how even her shoes were rotting, but in the end she was nearly the only thing not full of death and decay, until she'd been touched by it, too. Such a stifling atmosphere. It was so vivid, I could feel the ice cold breath and the dank, musty basement air.
From the moment you mentioned the silhouetted light at the top of the rafters, I knew this was going to be good. I love how you described so perfectly the thought process within the dream, how things morphed and changed out of her control. Slowly spun realizations, and then a sudden backtrack of thought-had it been this way? Was it what she remembered? Pinpointing what was different and slowly unraveling the mystery, but not quite fast enough.
The implements were a great touch. You didn't even have to go into great detail other than what they were encrusted with, for me to get a clear picture. I felt like I was in the Hewitts' slaughterhouse.
The line that about wrapped it up for me was how all of that disgust and disdain of his was directed at her because she didn't hate him as much as he hated himself. That's Vincent's ugliest side in a nutshell. That's something I can see coming to light between Vincent and Tifa in a less extreme scenario-he might think she's wrong for being so completely understanding or forgiving. But I always felt like his monsters were a fragmented and exaggerated interpretation of things that had always been there, ever since he was a Turk. Like you said, always horrible that monster, but never as horrible at it currently was.
And the realization in the end was perfect. I had hoped to see some of that-I really like knowing that she got the identity and the meaning behind it in the end.
I... I don't know how to do this without outing identities. I actually got a message on my person LJ today, telling me that this was up! I don't know who sent it, but I was grateful. I also don't know how it happened, so perhaps that person would be willing to help again? Maybe they know me. Maybe you do.
I run a Vin/Tifa shrine, and I'd really like to put this up there, if you don't mind. I can give you a pen name or you can keep it anonymously, if you wish. I've never seen anyone write a Tifa/Hellmasker piece except myself, and this was some kind of ugly-beautiful-amazing thrilling. I'm in awe of it-nay, in love with it.
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A friend of mine runs SEC.net, and she's setting up a shrine there for just his transformations. You should check it out, maybe submit the piece to the fic archive. I'm there, too! I would love to get in contact with you and chat.
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The imagery, I'll bring up first because I felt as though that's what really sold the story (if that word's appropriate). When I recall the story, it feels more like a visual experience than things read usually are for me. The descriptions and word choice was so utterly appropriate. I love reading stories like this, that are so different from what the fandom they center around usually spits out, I think they give a realism and meat to the fandom itself. The strange situations and emotions seemed to give more life to the characters, almost as though the fact that it would probably never happen canonically made it more normal, more believable. If I'm not making any sense, just know that I'm trying to say I loved the writing style!
The vocabulary was stunning, I had to look up more than a few words. It was interesting. I'm impressed with that. You took the prompt and ran with it, and I know for a fact that the writer of the prompt is proud! (Though be certain it wasn't me, I can't say Tifa x Hellmasker would be at the top of my to-ask-for list. Strangely refreshing, though).
Um...I could ramble on more, but I worry that I will turn into a bore, so I'll just stop here with a hearty good job!
(one more thing, I submitted this review, but clicked the wrong thread to reply to, so this review is floating somewhere in the kink meme page, randomly, with a quick apology I tagged on after it. Don't be surprised to find it after some other story and wonder what the hell :D.)
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I can't usefully express how gobsmacked and flattered I am by the responses this has garnered. I figured this was going to die an unnoticed death and, well, uh, wow.
Seriously, I am bowled over by the excellent feedback you guys have provided, and really happy the story proved so effective. I really ought to respond to you all individually but, as I said before, I feel weird about doing so anonymously; your words have been so appreciated I'd rather you knew where the thanks were coming from. :) So, to that end, I will post this to ff_smutathon in a day or so (I lost the HTML file!), and I'd love to hear from any of you that feel comfortable identifying yourselves.
(Of course, with my luck, a miscellaneous Hellmasker/Tifa story will pop up to confuse the issue; c'est la vie! :))
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And I'm really looking forward to seeing it there, and giving you a proper and unmasked review!
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