Kingdom Hearts } We are Turning into Dust
Word Count: 960
Genre: Introspective, Angsty Romance
Ships?: Luxord/Tifa
Characters: Luxord, Tifa Lockhart
→Mentions: Marluxia, Demyx
Rating: PG-13 for blood/themes?
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts or any related characters. This was written out of enjoyment of the series, and no profit is being made.
Notes: Originally posted to two_ofcups. Takes place in a ficverse connected to Song for the Lovers, if only the first four scenes. Also, could be related very very very vaguely to Here's Looking at You, Kid.
Title and summary taken from "Broken Strings" by James Morrison. Because I'm super creative like that.
When I love you, it's so untrue.
We are Turning into Dust
Luxord was limping through the streets of Hollow Bastion.
He wondered if his powers were getting away from him or if it was just the wounds that were causing him to remember the fight in shuttering skips and flickers. Getting into a fight with Marluxia in the middle of the night, then stubbornly turning down Demyx’s offer for help and warping away to planet-hop was not a good idea, in hindsight.
Unable to turn back due to hard-headed pride, but in need of help, he started heading toward the only place he could think of.
He leaned heavily on the door of the café, and knocked his knuckles against the glass panes. There was a light still on, and he desperately hoped from whatever reaches of him that could still hope that she was in there. He winced as the deep cut in his right leg caused his knee to give out. He switched his weight to his other leg and the door opened.
Tifa Lockhart kept her door open just wide enough so she could fit comfortably into the space between the door and its frame. Her red eyes raked up and down his form, saw the cuts in his coat and his bad knee. There wasn’t a lot of space between them. He shivered, loosing blood. “I know that we are nothing more than sparring partners, but… I need your help.”
“I can see that,” she said without hesitation. She deliberated - her lips tightened - then she grabbed one of his arms and dragged him inside.
They passed the counter and upturned chairs leaning on their respective tables and into the back kitchen. She pushed him towards a small table with wooden stools beneath. Apparently the café was attached to her home; he could see evidence of personal meals being eaten in the place across from him. But that thought was quickly dismissed as she set a first aid kit down beside him and unzipped his coat in a swift upwards stroke. She pushed it back from his shoulders and he hissed as the leather unstuck itself from the torn skin.
She stared at him as he went to press his gloved fingers to his bleeding left shoulder. “Ramuh, what happened?”
“You’re not the only one I spar with, Miss Lockhart.” She uncorked a vial of potion, and its yellow glow suggested the more concentrated hi-potion. “Un-emotions are just as dangerous - and far less logical - than the real things.”
She put the vial in his hand and got him to drink it before crouching in front of his knee with bandages in her hand. “Still doesn’t give you much of an excuse to get into this bad of a fight.”
“There is a great deal of things you don’t know about us. I had my motivations.”
Several minutes passed in silence and he wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep. He jolted awake in pain either way when she touched his shoulder, going over the line the scythe had made with cure magic, turning the dried-blood line into a flattened mark of pain and healing against his skin. She was leaning in close to see better and to work the black wife-beater he wore underneath his coat out of the way.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked.
“You may not have emotions, but you still have a life, don’t you?” she asked, and he was surprised to find that her voice held the faintest notes of gentleness, not the sting of irony or sarcasm.
He kissed her, easily, her lips being so close. And then something whirled and clicked inside him, gears moving too quickly. He stood up, momentarily forgetting about the bandages around his knee, stumbled as he pushed her back into her counter.
Their battles had started because she had been tired of waiting for him to attack when he never had entertained the thought. But now that someone so strong had foolishly let down their guard to help him, he had to take advantage of it, had to try, had to show her that she was gambling with him and he always won.
His gloved fingers brushed her throat, her jaw line, skirted across the span of skin between the bottom of her white shirt and the waist of her black pants. He realized slowly that she was refusing to react beneath him, despite the hammering heartbeat he could feel within her throat. Her hands were not on him, but clenched beside her, to the ridge of the counter, knuckles white. He took his lips off hers, but just barely. His personas of gambler and gentleman had conflicted dangerously here.
“I’m… That was…”
“Not consented,” she said.
He nodded and found himself unable to face her. He backed up, far enough that he bumped into the stool he had been sitting on.
“Leave,” she said. Her voice wasn’t cold but didn’t show a single hint of hidden warmth either. It was ferociously bland and if there was one thing he knew, it was that Tifa Lockhart of Hollow Bastion was anything but bland.
He did leave, and he stayed away from anything that reminded him of gambling for the rest of the night. Not once did he shuffle his deck of cards. Not once did he roll a die or flip a coin. Because Tifa had proved him wrong.
She had lost the battle of the kiss. But she had conquered him in two words, reminding him why he had gotten into a fight with Marluxia in the first place. He had only proved himself right when he had told her that their echoes of emotions were illogical.
She had beaten him by losing to him, and that baffled him more than anything ever had.
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Genre: Introspective, Angsty Romance
Ships?: Luxord/Tifa
Characters: Luxord, Tifa Lockhart
→Mentions: Marluxia, Demyx
Rating: PG-13 for blood/themes?
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: I do not own Kingdom Hearts or any related characters. This was written out of enjoyment of the series, and no profit is being made.
Notes: Originally posted to two_ofcups. Takes place in a ficverse connected to Song for the Lovers, if only the first four scenes. Also, could be related very very very vaguely to Here's Looking at You, Kid.
Title and summary taken from "Broken Strings" by James Morrison. Because I'm super creative like that.
When I love you, it's so untrue.
We are Turning into Dust
Luxord was limping through the streets of Hollow Bastion.
He wondered if his powers were getting away from him or if it was just the wounds that were causing him to remember the fight in shuttering skips and flickers. Getting into a fight with Marluxia in the middle of the night, then stubbornly turning down Demyx’s offer for help and warping away to planet-hop was not a good idea, in hindsight.
Unable to turn back due to hard-headed pride, but in need of help, he started heading toward the only place he could think of.
He leaned heavily on the door of the café, and knocked his knuckles against the glass panes. There was a light still on, and he desperately hoped from whatever reaches of him that could still hope that she was in there. He winced as the deep cut in his right leg caused his knee to give out. He switched his weight to his other leg and the door opened.
Tifa Lockhart kept her door open just wide enough so she could fit comfortably into the space between the door and its frame. Her red eyes raked up and down his form, saw the cuts in his coat and his bad knee. There wasn’t a lot of space between them. He shivered, loosing blood. “I know that we are nothing more than sparring partners, but… I need your help.”
“I can see that,” she said without hesitation. She deliberated - her lips tightened - then she grabbed one of his arms and dragged him inside.
They passed the counter and upturned chairs leaning on their respective tables and into the back kitchen. She pushed him towards a small table with wooden stools beneath. Apparently the café was attached to her home; he could see evidence of personal meals being eaten in the place across from him. But that thought was quickly dismissed as she set a first aid kit down beside him and unzipped his coat in a swift upwards stroke. She pushed it back from his shoulders and he hissed as the leather unstuck itself from the torn skin.
She stared at him as he went to press his gloved fingers to his bleeding left shoulder. “Ramuh, what happened?”
“You’re not the only one I spar with, Miss Lockhart.” She uncorked a vial of potion, and its yellow glow suggested the more concentrated hi-potion. “Un-emotions are just as dangerous - and far less logical - than the real things.”
She put the vial in his hand and got him to drink it before crouching in front of his knee with bandages in her hand. “Still doesn’t give you much of an excuse to get into this bad of a fight.”
“There is a great deal of things you don’t know about us. I had my motivations.”
Several minutes passed in silence and he wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep. He jolted awake in pain either way when she touched his shoulder, going over the line the scythe had made with cure magic, turning the dried-blood line into a flattened mark of pain and healing against his skin. She was leaning in close to see better and to work the black wife-beater he wore underneath his coat out of the way.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked.
“You may not have emotions, but you still have a life, don’t you?” she asked, and he was surprised to find that her voice held the faintest notes of gentleness, not the sting of irony or sarcasm.
He kissed her, easily, her lips being so close. And then something whirled and clicked inside him, gears moving too quickly. He stood up, momentarily forgetting about the bandages around his knee, stumbled as he pushed her back into her counter.
Their battles had started because she had been tired of waiting for him to attack when he never had entertained the thought. But now that someone so strong had foolishly let down their guard to help him, he had to take advantage of it, had to try, had to show her that she was gambling with him and he always won.
His gloved fingers brushed her throat, her jaw line, skirted across the span of skin between the bottom of her white shirt and the waist of her black pants. He realized slowly that she was refusing to react beneath him, despite the hammering heartbeat he could feel within her throat. Her hands were not on him, but clenched beside her, to the ridge of the counter, knuckles white. He took his lips off hers, but just barely. His personas of gambler and gentleman had conflicted dangerously here.
“I’m… That was…”
“Not consented,” she said.
He nodded and found himself unable to face her. He backed up, far enough that he bumped into the stool he had been sitting on.
“Leave,” she said. Her voice wasn’t cold but didn’t show a single hint of hidden warmth either. It was ferociously bland and if there was one thing he knew, it was that Tifa Lockhart of Hollow Bastion was anything but bland.
He did leave, and he stayed away from anything that reminded him of gambling for the rest of the night. Not once did he shuffle his deck of cards. Not once did he roll a die or flip a coin. Because Tifa had proved him wrong.
She had lost the battle of the kiss. But she had conquered him in two words, reminding him why he had gotten into a fight with Marluxia in the first place. He had only proved himself right when he had told her that their echoes of emotions were illogical.
She had beaten him by losing to him, and that baffled him more than anything ever had.
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