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... )
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shouldn't... you have so many better things to ...”
“Even assuming I did,” Tifa said reasonably, “I'm still sitting here
trying to talk you into bed. What does that tell you?”
He smiled. “That you're sweet.” He frowned, pensive, then shot her a sidelong,
unreadable glance. “Do you... do you really...?”
“Yes. I really.”
“I could... I think I saw... I'd need some time.” He bit his lip, deep in
thought. “Could you meet me upstairs? Say half an hour?”
“I could come with you.”
“No, I... I'd need some time,” he said. “If you really want to... want to try.”
She had to admit to herself that his insistent reticence made her a little
uneasy; pursuit was unfamiliar to her to begin with, and his strange request for
half an hour made no sense to her at all. Yet the sudden look of guarded hope,
of consideration, that he wore made it impossible to let that come to the fore.
“Your room, or mine?”
“Mine, I think.” He smiled briefly, squeezing her hand again. “And... if you ( ... )
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her head in wonderment; he had flat out told her that his whole problem was
pining after a dead woman with whom he'd had some kind of obsessive, violent
relationship; just the sort you want to bring home to mom and dad! And, speaking
of dads, he was more than twice as old as she was, though he didn't look it, and
she didn't really understand it. She knew he'd been out of commission somehow,
comatose, static, unknowing, maybe even un-aging... but she wondered if the
generation gap was dismissed that easily.
But he was so very, very sad... and the hard fact of the matter was that she
could easily see herself carrying a torch just like his. And, uneven as his
temperament might be, he'd been very nice once he'd warmed up to her... and
while he might be a little tatterdemalion, he wasn't bad-looking, not at all.
And she'd essentially bullied him into it, so she couldn't exactly back out now ( ... )
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door, leaning against it, and she could practically see the tension rolling off
him. “Did you get your errand taken care of?”
“I did.” He nodded sharply. “Quite easily, actually, I, ah...” He stopped, shook
himself. “Can I... get you anything? Or...”
She compressed her lips firmly to stifle the smile; his hesitancy was adorable,
but it wasn't going to get them anywhere. She crossed the distance between them
in two brief strides, laying her palms against his chest; he gasped, pressing
himself back against the door. “Sure you can,” she said coyly, reaching up to
trail her fingers along his cheekbone. He was breathing heavily, but she
couldn't make out his expression; his features were barely visible in the
darkness, only the pallor of his complexion reflecting the faint light.
“C'mere.” She slipped her hand around the back of his neck, gently pulling his
head down.
He flinched when their lips brushed, his heels digging into the carpet, but he ( ... )
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have said later what exactly transpired, but remembered it only as brief moments
and flashes of sensation: his hoarse, ragged breathing, the salt of his skin,
his teeth on her neck, the way the muscles of his stomach jumped as she pushed
him down on the bed and slipped her hands beneath the stretchy fabric of his
shirt. His hair tickled delightfully as it brushed against her breasts, the
fabric of her panties snagged as she rose to let him tug them down, and this was
nice, this was good, this was exactly what she'd been hoping for. It was a
little strange to be so aggressive, to take so much initiative, but she fell
into the rhythm easily enough; he responded eagerly, followed where she led, and
it was so much fun finding his good spots: a soft caress here got
a luxuriant sigh, but a scrape of nails there got a throaty moan.
Finally she reared back, sitting on her heels, and raked her sweaty hair out of ( ... )
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now wasn't the time to raise the issue. “Oh, I think we'll manage anyway.”
Pressing him back once more, she laid beside him, throwing a leg over his and
grinding her hips against him as she resumed kissing him. The unpleasant
interruption aside, she was growing urgent; she'd vowed to herself to give him
all the time that he needed... but there were limits, and she was reaching hers.
Fortunately, he seemed to be truly getting into the spirit of things, meeting ( ... )
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is one for the books, she thought with sudden hilarity as she eased it back,
pressing the bulb against her entrance. Pressure, easy, relax, and it was
in; she gasped at the sudden fullness, arching her back against it.
“Good?” he asked, reclining on the bed once more.
She crept forward on her knees, feeling awkward and ungainly with the rubber
member jutting before her, and rested her hands on his ribs. “This is...
something else,” she said thoughtfully, rolling her hips to feel it move within
her. “Takes a little getting used to.” She felt a gentle tug as Vincent grabbed
the shaft, stroking its length; she wondered at that until she caught the faint
glisten as his hand moved. That, at least, was a relief; she didn't care for
lube, couldn't stand the sticky, tacky feeling as it dried on the skin, and was
pleased not to have to deal with it. Satisfied, he laid back and looked up at
her. “How do you... do you need to roll over, or...?”
“If you like,” he repeated in that same sleepy tone, reaching up to graze her ( ... )
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increasing her confidence tenfold; she began to rock her hips back and forth,
trying to achieve a gentle, easy rhythm. He whimpered beneath her, and she felt
an answering flutter of lust at the sound. This was different than simply being
on top, merely being in control of the action; the realization that she could
make him feel this way was so heady as to be intoxicating, and she sped
up as his hands clutched frantically at her sides.
She was surprised at how quickly her abs got tired, but pressed through it ( ... )
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Sometimes, Tifa thought, there were certain benefits to falling into a routine, no matter how awkward or ungainly it might be.
Take this, for example: Vincent had never, from the very first night he'd joined them, slept anywhere near the rest of the group. Even when they were outdoors, and the looming shadows inclined even the bravest of them towards huddling around the campfire, he would steal off into the darkness on his own, nestling himself away into some lost hollow that somehow brought him comfort. Sometimes he'd even wander so far as to be out of earshot, and they'd have to leave without him, but he always followed their back trail, turning up an hour or two into the day's journey without a word of explanation.
It had frustrated them all on more than one occasion; who knew what sort of trouble he might fall prey to? Who knew if today was the day he'd decided to disappear for good, leaving them to their own devices? Who knew if he wasn't sneaking off to liaise with his former employers, landing them all in the soup that much ( ... )
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There. I'm a selfish, spoiled little girl who wants to have her cake and eat it too, and I need to grow up already. And there it was: the tail of the seemingly insurmountable circular argument she'd been having with herself ceaselessly these past few weeks. It was ugly, it was cowardly, but it was absolutely true, and she couldn't flinch from it forever.
But Tifa was deeply into the woods now, and by the faint gleam of starlight she spied a clearing ahead, a huge, jutting outcropping of stone slumped over its far end; it was quite likely... yes, there it was. Vincent's ragged red cloak streamed like the tattered flag of a defeated army from the branch he'd hung it on, the one concession he'd make to help her on the nights she chose to seek him out. She smiled as she made her way towards it; as strange as it was, even that had become endearing. She used to find him curled into his bedroll, the cloak pulled in after him as if it were a cork, a shield between him and the rest of the world; nowadays it always fluttered invitingly ( ... )
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She yawned as she wriggled herself into position for sleep, firmly reminding herself that she needed to be up with the dawn; that would give her plenty to get back to camp before anyone noticed her absence. Dishonest, sure... but nights like these, with the firm comfort of his body beside her, were worth far more than a little prevarication to her.
The trek to find him had invigorated her, but the steady, soporific hum of his breathing and the pleasant, enveloping warmth of their bodies in the bedroll soon had their effect. She blinked sleepily at the night sky, even the sight of clouds rolling in unable to disturb her deep-rooted sense of well-being; the last thing she remembered was the muddy maroon of Vincent's cloak, flapping in the steadily rising breeze, its tattered hem nearly close enough to brush their faces.
* * *
Dripping.
Drip. Drip.
Drip.
It must have started raining, Tifa thought to herself; but no, that couldn't be, for she was indoors, wasn't she? She looked around to reassure herself and, indeed, she was... ( ... )
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The walls were stacked, jagged stones, indifferently mortared together, giving them a slapdash, cobbled look; they were braced at uneven intervals by massive, splintered timbers that looked unequal to the task of supporting the structure. Wedged in between, wherever they would fit, were an inconstant collection of grimy, stained work tables and benches, crammed and cluttered with an incomprehensible variety of tools and implements, most seeming to be half-eaten with rust and slathered with... something. Something thick and dark.
The center of the room was the same, an island supporting the reciprocating saw, the router, and the other tools meant for large work, carefully illuminated by the orange work lights hung directly over it, but as she approached it, drawn by its familiarity, she realized that that wasn't so, either. The island was still there, still picked out by stark overhead light, but there were no heavy machine tools on it; it was a raised, narrow bed, framed in stainless steel. But it wasn't just a bed, she saw as she ( ... )
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