So my writerbrain is being slow to start up
I feel somewhat on writerly fire today, but this is the day I must write for kink_las. Will try to get back to prompts. Will try. In between writing Crowns.
Which is finally cast and detailed character hints are out the door. I know how I write games; sheets will probably be going out week of the con. So I basically summarized them for character hints, along with costuming notes.
Speaking of kink_las, btw, I have a backlog of fic to post here from the last two challenges...
Round 1, Challenge 3
Kink: Fantasies
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIII
Story Title: Lightning Would
Character/Relationships: Hope wanting Lightning.
Warnings: Hope's fourteen.
Notes: The only one of my stories so far that's gotten negative votes and not placed second. (Aside from this, I have a hilarious trend of coming in second place with exactly three votes. Which is fine...until the last round. -.-;;) Which I understand. There's no fucking plot.
***
The Gapra Whitewood at night, Hope discovers, is strangely beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful than by day. It's never truly dark on Cocoon, just dim blue, and the white crystalline branches of the artificial trees form gray fractal outlines against the sea of false stars, giving off faint light that pulses with their computerized rhythms.
Behind him, Lightning sleeps. He looks out to the forest, so that he isn't overwhelmed with beauty.
She's let him take watch, talk her into getting some much-needed sleep, convince her that he's reliable enough to stay awake and alert. And he is; he stays up late all the time, with the extra stuff he does for school.
She's let him borrow her knife, and it's heavy in his back pocket, digging into his spine, but he doesn't mind. Likes the pain because of what it means.
She's let him call her Light.
This doesn't mean anything, he tells the stupid part of his brain that's saying come on, a girl lets you use a nickname, you got a chance. It's Lightning, she isn't some girl from school, she's a woman, she's a soldier...
He'd never want girls at school like this. None of them were like this. Couldn't be. Just children.
Like you, dumbass.
He peeks over his shoulder. She's unclipped the dangling sheath of her gunblade and sleeps curled around it, like he used to with his stuffed sheep. Her breathing is low, steady, a tiny strand of pink hair fluttering by her cheek.
Even asleep, there's a hint of danger in her wiry form. But her face looks different when she's relaxed, less angular. Almost pretty--not something he'd ever think when she was awake. Beautiful, yes, always beautiful. Even snarling with rage she glows, white-hot...
Why in the name of Eden did he have to be wearing these old pants when all this happened? These pants he was about to throw out because they were getting too small, too tight, but they fit in his suitcase, so Mom said--
Even thinking of her is like tripping a smoke bomb in his mind, clouds of emotion, so intense that he shakes.
He curls his hands into fists, and keeps watch.
Nutrient lines pulse slowly up the trees, glowing in the gloom.
His mind wanders.
Lightning has the force net that she uses for landing parachute jumps, but she doesn't use to ease her movements, make her body lighter. How does she even do half that stuff? He's seen slower track stars and clumsier ballerinas. Watching her fight is--Eden, he wishes he could do half of that. He's getting better with the damn l'Cie magic, enough to hold his own, but...
He can never tell, with Lightning, whether he wants to be her or just wants...her.
He'd never have her. He tries to imagine the sort of strong, dashing man who could sweep her off her feet--but it wouldn't happen. She'd have a man, not the other way around. A real man, a fellow soldier, not some kid...
Or does he want to be the soldier by her side? He wants her respect, so desperately. But a soldier would be able to tear his eyes off her when she turns a fearless backwards somersault, when she outlines some balls-out plan without hesitating, when she breathes. A soldier wouldn't be thinking that her hair must be that pale dusty pink all over...
Stupid pants.
He screws his eyes shut as he pops the buttons, and then snaps them wide open again. He's on watch. He can't--
She trusts him to be on watch. The thought roils him with guilt and makes him so hard that he aches when his hand brushes by, all at once.
He can't close his eyes. He yanks the soft scarf out from around his neck and stuffs a corner of it in his mouth, because he knows he makes these stupid little whimpers, and he doesn't want to wake her, he would die of shame. The cloth smells of sweat and smoke and ozone, the heady stink of combat with l'Cie magic thick in the air, the metallic backburn of Lightning's gunblade, the electricity crackling from her hands. She must smell like this always, thick in her hair, all this mixed with girl-scent...
Even with his eyes open, darting round the shadowy wood, he sees her. He'd never thought that he had a vivid imagination. That such little things would be so clear: the buckles on her uniform would dig in as she straddled him, the glowing rank stripes on her shoulder would light up his fingertips, she would bite his lower lip as they kissed. She would tangle her fingers in his hair, and strands would catch on the knuckles of her gloves, and it wouldn't matter that it hurt. She wouldn't take off all her uniform. She'd tug off his gloves with her teeth.
He stares wide-eyed into the darkness, wraps a hand around his dick, and holds perfectly still, because he doesn't want to come too early, not for her, and it's the most nonsensical thought he's had in a while. Because she's sleeping behind him, and the Lightning who would shove his back against a plasteel tree-trunk and wrap strong legs around his waist and hold him down--she isn't real. It doesn't matter whether he--
Comes all over his hand just from squeezing his dick.
His body tingles head to toe in the misty night, and he clenches his teeth on the scarf.
Lightning would, he thinks. Lightning would just shake her head, yank his hair, and steer his face down between wiry thighs. She'd have a man; she'd use him however she could. She'd be slick under her uniform, smell thickly of sweat and musk, and it would last forever...
A beast calls in the distance, and Hope stiffens in reflexive alarm, and starts hastily scrubbing his hand.
***
Challenge 4 I skipped. It was prod week for Jekyll & Hyde. (Which means I haven't posted the above since before prod week. Go me.) The challenges got delayed for a bit because the mod is going through crap (and yet heroically keeps them running 'cause she's awesome), and then there was...
Round 1, Challenge 5
Kink: Age differences
Fandom: Xenosaga
Story Title: Bodies
Character/Relationships: Junior/MOMO
Warnings: Er, age foo out the yin-yang? A twenty-eight-year-old in a thirteen-year-old's body, and a fifteen-year-old whose body just aged overnight from twelve to eighteen. Probably something counts as underaged by your standards somewhere in there.
Notes: I had promised myself back when the challenge started that if any age difference/age play/age whatever kink came up, I would write this pairing. It's just so rife with possibility. And lo, there it was. I was really off my writing game when this challenge came around, 'cause I was still drained from Stars Over Atlantis and Intercon in general. I also ran into moment after moment when I had to strip out Xenosaga canon references and subtleties of characterization to fit under the word count limit and keep things clear to non-fandom voters (which would be, um, everybody in the challenge.) So I'm not particularly happy with this, but it got me through the round in my usual second place and only annoyed one commenter, so yay.
***
"You've just had sixteen hours of surgical upgrades, MOMO. You sure you're up for this?"
MOMO's three strides ahead of him on brand-new legs, bouncing. "I feel fine, Junior." She'd been out like a light; he'd been pacing the waiting room feeling time move like molasses. Ziggy, her bodyguard, had been a monolith in the corner while Junior--her, what, boyfriend? Wannabe boyfriend? Chaste childhood companion? Dead human sister's sloppy seconds?--climbed the walls. Even if he hadn't been worried like hell--MOMO was a unique model, and so were her upgrade procedures--his damn body wouldn't stay still. The first rush of puberty, fifteen years late, was doing a number on him.
"Seriously? Doesn't it hurt? Hurt like a bitch when I grew five centimeters last month..."
"Junior." She rounds on him, takes him by the shoulders, and looks--down at him. Shit, she's tall. Not even that tall. He's just still fucking short. "You're being a butt." Said in that calm, cheerful way she's learned--practically the same way he says no to his dog.
He blinks, and suppresses laughter. Here's MOMO, most amazing girl in the universe, with gorgeous golden eyes and--
MOMO has tits.
His brain cracks slightly.
They're very nice tits.
He's known her for two years now. Two years in her original body, modeled after a twelve-year-old girl. Aging slightly, subtly, as Realians can--she's a biological construct, after all, not an android, and a very realistic one at that. An awesome, badass, tough-as-nails twelve-year-old who could survive anything and still be sweet, whom he'd loved madly in what he'd prayed was a suitably chaste fashion, but. Twelve. Now she's a head taller than him and has tits. Overnight.
"Of course I'm being a butt. I'm thirteen."
"Your body's thirteen." She smiles warmly. "You're twenty-eight."
He groans. "Don't remind me." That he'd been marching into war, test-tube super-soldier clone, before she'd even been created. That he'd killed and bled and sent his brothers to their deaths before she'd been a gleam in her daddy-scientist's eye. "My hormones are thirteen. Never had to deal with that before."
She goes still for a moment, then hugs him. "Oh, Junior." She nuzzles his hair; his face is right. There. "I'm tall enough to go on the super-speed coaster, finally--"
"For which I officially hate you."
"Love you too." She kisses the top of his head. Oh, hell. "And then we're going to. Um. Talk."
His thirteen-year-old lizard brain translates 'talk' to something else entirely, and he stands there red-faced as she skips off to stand in line.
***
MOMO comes off the coaster thrumming with excitement, hair tangled, heart soaring.
Junior's waiting for her, always faithful.
Her stride is long, awkward. Her body moves in ways she's not used to yet, hips widened, breasts shifting under her dress. The top of Junior's head is a novel sight. He feels small in her arms, strangely miniature. She swings him, platform boots off the ground, like he used to swing her when she was--
A child.
She doesn't know what she is anymore.
They have dinner at his place, with Alby pawing her knee for scritches, drinking good wine that she isn't legal for and he isn't big enough for. He gets very red.
He looks so different. Not just aging--that she's been growing used to, running its natural course after he finally worked through fifteen years' worth of morbid terror that he'd destroy a planet if he grew up. Fifteen years of small-grip pistols, custom-fit pants, and compromising for the frustration he felt, adult soldier in a child's body, with an unbelievably phallic warship. Fifteen years of acting like a kid because before then, child soldier, he never could.
No, he looks different now. She's gone from twelve to eighteen overnight, and here's a boy that she loves, barely out of childhood, but her sensors feed her data on physical responses, hormone levels, read him as sexually maturing, and it makes her want. Her body hums with strange heat. Her body that she's too young for. She squirms in her seat. It's powerful, heady. No wonder Junior's red.
"Junior," she says, "I do love you, you know."
He spills his wine.
"If I," she presses on. "Oh, this is complicated. I'm sorry."
"It's always complicated with us," he mutters. "Us. Listen to me. Is there an us?"
She touches his hand. "Do you want there to be?"
"That's the least fair thing you've ever asked me." He's babbling, and he doesn't care. "I'm a twenty-eight-year-old virgin, I'm thirteen, and this stupid little body insists it's all grown up and ready to--"
"You're not thirteen," she whispers, and kisses him. Really kisses him, first time, all tongue and fumbling enthusiasm. He shakes with arousal, wraps around her with super-human strength.
"Are you," he blurts.
"This body. It wants."
"Ohffuck. Are we actually--"
"Why not?"
He stares at her with bright blue eyes and can't find an answer.
Their bodies tumble to the floor with wills of their own. She's grinding against his knee without even realizing it--she with sensors that can analyze DNA at forty meters--and he's running child-soft gun-callused hands over her breasts, hypnotized. Her fingers tug at his pants, reach inside, scattering of hair, dick still small but terribly hard.
He flares at her touch, mindless with want. Telekinetic energy crackles, and his eyes flash red, and he shouts "oh fuckfuckfuck," but it stops there. She modulates her emitters with an absent thought and bathes them in cool white wavelengths, canceling him out. He looks up at her with wide eyes, a little scared, a little helpless; she kisses him, and his foreskin slides, and he comes slippery on her hands.
"Sorry, oh god, MOMO..."
She rolls him over on top of her. "Oh, Junior. Your body--"
"Impatient thing."
She guides his hands under her skirt. "Doesn't matter. Still want you. Always."
He goes very still for a moment, eyes wide, then buries his soft young face in her breasts. "Always."
***
Which is finally cast and detailed character hints are out the door. I know how I write games; sheets will probably be going out week of the con. So I basically summarized them for character hints, along with costuming notes.
Speaking of kink_las, btw, I have a backlog of fic to post here from the last two challenges...
Round 1, Challenge 3
Kink: Fantasies
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIII
Story Title: Lightning Would
Character/Relationships: Hope wanting Lightning.
Warnings: Hope's fourteen.
Notes: The only one of my stories so far that's gotten negative votes and not placed second. (Aside from this, I have a hilarious trend of coming in second place with exactly three votes. Which is fine...until the last round. -.-;;) Which I understand. There's no fucking plot.
***
The Gapra Whitewood at night, Hope discovers, is strangely beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful than by day. It's never truly dark on Cocoon, just dim blue, and the white crystalline branches of the artificial trees form gray fractal outlines against the sea of false stars, giving off faint light that pulses with their computerized rhythms.
Behind him, Lightning sleeps. He looks out to the forest, so that he isn't overwhelmed with beauty.
She's let him take watch, talk her into getting some much-needed sleep, convince her that he's reliable enough to stay awake and alert. And he is; he stays up late all the time, with the extra stuff he does for school.
She's let him borrow her knife, and it's heavy in his back pocket, digging into his spine, but he doesn't mind. Likes the pain because of what it means.
She's let him call her Light.
This doesn't mean anything, he tells the stupid part of his brain that's saying come on, a girl lets you use a nickname, you got a chance. It's Lightning, she isn't some girl from school, she's a woman, she's a soldier...
He'd never want girls at school like this. None of them were like this. Couldn't be. Just children.
Like you, dumbass.
He peeks over his shoulder. She's unclipped the dangling sheath of her gunblade and sleeps curled around it, like he used to with his stuffed sheep. Her breathing is low, steady, a tiny strand of pink hair fluttering by her cheek.
Even asleep, there's a hint of danger in her wiry form. But her face looks different when she's relaxed, less angular. Almost pretty--not something he'd ever think when she was awake. Beautiful, yes, always beautiful. Even snarling with rage she glows, white-hot...
Why in the name of Eden did he have to be wearing these old pants when all this happened? These pants he was about to throw out because they were getting too small, too tight, but they fit in his suitcase, so Mom said--
Even thinking of her is like tripping a smoke bomb in his mind, clouds of emotion, so intense that he shakes.
He curls his hands into fists, and keeps watch.
Nutrient lines pulse slowly up the trees, glowing in the gloom.
His mind wanders.
Lightning has the force net that she uses for landing parachute jumps, but she doesn't use to ease her movements, make her body lighter. How does she even do half that stuff? He's seen slower track stars and clumsier ballerinas. Watching her fight is--Eden, he wishes he could do half of that. He's getting better with the damn l'Cie magic, enough to hold his own, but...
He can never tell, with Lightning, whether he wants to be her or just wants...her.
He'd never have her. He tries to imagine the sort of strong, dashing man who could sweep her off her feet--but it wouldn't happen. She'd have a man, not the other way around. A real man, a fellow soldier, not some kid...
Or does he want to be the soldier by her side? He wants her respect, so desperately. But a soldier would be able to tear his eyes off her when she turns a fearless backwards somersault, when she outlines some balls-out plan without hesitating, when she breathes. A soldier wouldn't be thinking that her hair must be that pale dusty pink all over...
Stupid pants.
He screws his eyes shut as he pops the buttons, and then snaps them wide open again. He's on watch. He can't--
She trusts him to be on watch. The thought roils him with guilt and makes him so hard that he aches when his hand brushes by, all at once.
He can't close his eyes. He yanks the soft scarf out from around his neck and stuffs a corner of it in his mouth, because he knows he makes these stupid little whimpers, and he doesn't want to wake her, he would die of shame. The cloth smells of sweat and smoke and ozone, the heady stink of combat with l'Cie magic thick in the air, the metallic backburn of Lightning's gunblade, the electricity crackling from her hands. She must smell like this always, thick in her hair, all this mixed with girl-scent...
Even with his eyes open, darting round the shadowy wood, he sees her. He'd never thought that he had a vivid imagination. That such little things would be so clear: the buckles on her uniform would dig in as she straddled him, the glowing rank stripes on her shoulder would light up his fingertips, she would bite his lower lip as they kissed. She would tangle her fingers in his hair, and strands would catch on the knuckles of her gloves, and it wouldn't matter that it hurt. She wouldn't take off all her uniform. She'd tug off his gloves with her teeth.
He stares wide-eyed into the darkness, wraps a hand around his dick, and holds perfectly still, because he doesn't want to come too early, not for her, and it's the most nonsensical thought he's had in a while. Because she's sleeping behind him, and the Lightning who would shove his back against a plasteel tree-trunk and wrap strong legs around his waist and hold him down--she isn't real. It doesn't matter whether he--
Comes all over his hand just from squeezing his dick.
His body tingles head to toe in the misty night, and he clenches his teeth on the scarf.
Lightning would, he thinks. Lightning would just shake her head, yank his hair, and steer his face down between wiry thighs. She'd have a man; she'd use him however she could. She'd be slick under her uniform, smell thickly of sweat and musk, and it would last forever...
A beast calls in the distance, and Hope stiffens in reflexive alarm, and starts hastily scrubbing his hand.
***
Challenge 4 I skipped. It was prod week for Jekyll & Hyde. (Which means I haven't posted the above since before prod week. Go me.) The challenges got delayed for a bit because the mod is going through crap (and yet heroically keeps them running 'cause she's awesome), and then there was...
Round 1, Challenge 5
Kink: Age differences
Fandom: Xenosaga
Story Title: Bodies
Character/Relationships: Junior/MOMO
Warnings: Er, age foo out the yin-yang? A twenty-eight-year-old in a thirteen-year-old's body, and a fifteen-year-old whose body just aged overnight from twelve to eighteen. Probably something counts as underaged by your standards somewhere in there.
Notes: I had promised myself back when the challenge started that if any age difference/age play/age whatever kink came up, I would write this pairing. It's just so rife with possibility. And lo, there it was. I was really off my writing game when this challenge came around, 'cause I was still drained from Stars Over Atlantis and Intercon in general. I also ran into moment after moment when I had to strip out Xenosaga canon references and subtleties of characterization to fit under the word count limit and keep things clear to non-fandom voters (which would be, um, everybody in the challenge.) So I'm not particularly happy with this, but it got me through the round in my usual second place and only annoyed one commenter, so yay.
***
"You've just had sixteen hours of surgical upgrades, MOMO. You sure you're up for this?"
MOMO's three strides ahead of him on brand-new legs, bouncing. "I feel fine, Junior." She'd been out like a light; he'd been pacing the waiting room feeling time move like molasses. Ziggy, her bodyguard, had been a monolith in the corner while Junior--her, what, boyfriend? Wannabe boyfriend? Chaste childhood companion? Dead human sister's sloppy seconds?--climbed the walls. Even if he hadn't been worried like hell--MOMO was a unique model, and so were her upgrade procedures--his damn body wouldn't stay still. The first rush of puberty, fifteen years late, was doing a number on him.
"Seriously? Doesn't it hurt? Hurt like a bitch when I grew five centimeters last month..."
"Junior." She rounds on him, takes him by the shoulders, and looks--down at him. Shit, she's tall. Not even that tall. He's just still fucking short. "You're being a butt." Said in that calm, cheerful way she's learned--practically the same way he says no to his dog.
He blinks, and suppresses laughter. Here's MOMO, most amazing girl in the universe, with gorgeous golden eyes and--
MOMO has tits.
His brain cracks slightly.
They're very nice tits.
He's known her for two years now. Two years in her original body, modeled after a twelve-year-old girl. Aging slightly, subtly, as Realians can--she's a biological construct, after all, not an android, and a very realistic one at that. An awesome, badass, tough-as-nails twelve-year-old who could survive anything and still be sweet, whom he'd loved madly in what he'd prayed was a suitably chaste fashion, but. Twelve. Now she's a head taller than him and has tits. Overnight.
"Of course I'm being a butt. I'm thirteen."
"Your body's thirteen." She smiles warmly. "You're twenty-eight."
He groans. "Don't remind me." That he'd been marching into war, test-tube super-soldier clone, before she'd even been created. That he'd killed and bled and sent his brothers to their deaths before she'd been a gleam in her daddy-scientist's eye. "My hormones are thirteen. Never had to deal with that before."
She goes still for a moment, then hugs him. "Oh, Junior." She nuzzles his hair; his face is right. There. "I'm tall enough to go on the super-speed coaster, finally--"
"For which I officially hate you."
"Love you too." She kisses the top of his head. Oh, hell. "And then we're going to. Um. Talk."
His thirteen-year-old lizard brain translates 'talk' to something else entirely, and he stands there red-faced as she skips off to stand in line.
***
MOMO comes off the coaster thrumming with excitement, hair tangled, heart soaring.
Junior's waiting for her, always faithful.
Her stride is long, awkward. Her body moves in ways she's not used to yet, hips widened, breasts shifting under her dress. The top of Junior's head is a novel sight. He feels small in her arms, strangely miniature. She swings him, platform boots off the ground, like he used to swing her when she was--
A child.
She doesn't know what she is anymore.
They have dinner at his place, with Alby pawing her knee for scritches, drinking good wine that she isn't legal for and he isn't big enough for. He gets very red.
He looks so different. Not just aging--that she's been growing used to, running its natural course after he finally worked through fifteen years' worth of morbid terror that he'd destroy a planet if he grew up. Fifteen years of small-grip pistols, custom-fit pants, and compromising for the frustration he felt, adult soldier in a child's body, with an unbelievably phallic warship. Fifteen years of acting like a kid because before then, child soldier, he never could.
No, he looks different now. She's gone from twelve to eighteen overnight, and here's a boy that she loves, barely out of childhood, but her sensors feed her data on physical responses, hormone levels, read him as sexually maturing, and it makes her want. Her body hums with strange heat. Her body that she's too young for. She squirms in her seat. It's powerful, heady. No wonder Junior's red.
"Junior," she says, "I do love you, you know."
He spills his wine.
"If I," she presses on. "Oh, this is complicated. I'm sorry."
"It's always complicated with us," he mutters. "Us. Listen to me. Is there an us?"
She touches his hand. "Do you want there to be?"
"That's the least fair thing you've ever asked me." He's babbling, and he doesn't care. "I'm a twenty-eight-year-old virgin, I'm thirteen, and this stupid little body insists it's all grown up and ready to--"
"You're not thirteen," she whispers, and kisses him. Really kisses him, first time, all tongue and fumbling enthusiasm. He shakes with arousal, wraps around her with super-human strength.
"Are you," he blurts.
"This body. It wants."
"Ohffuck. Are we actually--"
"Why not?"
He stares at her with bright blue eyes and can't find an answer.
Their bodies tumble to the floor with wills of their own. She's grinding against his knee without even realizing it--she with sensors that can analyze DNA at forty meters--and he's running child-soft gun-callused hands over her breasts, hypnotized. Her fingers tug at his pants, reach inside, scattering of hair, dick still small but terribly hard.
He flares at her touch, mindless with want. Telekinetic energy crackles, and his eyes flash red, and he shouts "oh fuckfuckfuck," but it stops there. She modulates her emitters with an absent thought and bathes them in cool white wavelengths, canceling him out. He looks up at her with wide eyes, a little scared, a little helpless; she kisses him, and his foreskin slides, and he comes slippery on her hands.
"Sorry, oh god, MOMO..."
She rolls him over on top of her. "Oh, Junior. Your body--"
"Impatient thing."
She guides his hands under her skirt. "Doesn't matter. Still want you. Always."
He goes very still for a moment, eyes wide, then buries his soft young face in her breasts. "Always."
***