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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She flinched back as something brushed against her face, reaching up to bat frantically at whatever clung to her, but it fell away easily. The tables and shelves here were shrouded, as the previous room had been, but the great white sheets had been dispensed with here; ragged swathes of rotten, greasy material hung from the walls, torn scraps, shredded fabric, hanging wherever it might be snagged. Tarps, mostly, but there were a few pieces recognizable as tablecloths, blankets... a shirt dangled lifelessly from what might have been a rake. She looked up at the piece she had just walked into, and saw with little surprise that it was a suit jacket, speared on a pitchfork through one lapel. She fingered it, wondering; it had been a lovely item, once, deep blue and pinstriped, soft and crisply tailored... but it wasn't anymore, she learned as her fingers found the dry, crusty stain that obliterated its front. No, no, no, not at all.
Releasing it with a small cry of revulsion, she quickened her pace down the seemingly endless room, ( ... )
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She flinched back as something brushed against her face, reaching up to bat frantically at whatever clung to her, but it fell away easily. The tables and shelves here were shrouded, as the previous room had been, but the great white sheets had been dispensed with here; ragged swathes of rotten, greasy material hung from the walls, torn scraps, shredded fabric, hanging wherever it might be snagged. Tarps, mostly, but there were a few pieces recognizable as tablecloths, blankets... a shirt dangled lifelessly from what might have been a rake. She looked up at the piece she had just walked into, and saw with little surprise that it was a suit jacket, speared on a pitchfork through one lapel. She fingered it, wondering; it had been a lovely item, once, deep blue and pinstriped, soft and crisply tailored... but it wasn't anymore, she learned as her fingers found the dry, crusty stain that obliterated its front. No, no, no, not at all.
Releasing it with a small cry of revulsion, she quickened her pace down the seemingly endless room, ( ... )
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It turned suddenly, its left arm flicking out faster than thought; she did not see its movement, but instead the shower of golden glints that fell from it. Treasure, then, a pot of gil for the girl brave enough to beard it in its lair, just like a fairy story... but neither gil nor gold coins rang like that as they struck the ground, a high, teeth-chattering whine like a wet finger around a glass rim. Bracelets, she thought, seeing one of them land almost flat, rotating on its rim until it settled to a halt; but it shook its hand again, and a rain of hooked triangles fell after it, and she knew that it had stolen Vincent's arm as well, stolen it and dissected it. Whatever would he do without it?
It flexed the fingers of its left hand, pumped them in and out as it raised the hand to its mercifully shadowed face, as if it to admire the job it had done. She didn't want to see this; this was private. But as if her realization had drawn its notice, it slowly turned its gaze back to the wall.
“It wasn't supposed to go like this,” it ( ... )
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It snarled at the sound, and its fingers bit into the soft flesh of her throat like icy wires. She gasped, gagging, and reached up to try to pry its punishing grip from her neck, but her fingers only scrabbled uselessly, her nails rending dead, dry flesh from its hand. It clamped down all the harder, and she could no longer even do that; her arms dropped to her sides, twitching feebly as she focused on the thin, whistling breaths razoring in and out of her lungs, not enough, nowhere near enough. Spots danced before her eyelids and she wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but she could do nothing but kick her feet; it choked the breath from her, the air, the life. All of it gone, gone, gone; she'd join the others, soon, everyone she'd known and loved, everyone who waited and waited and waited for her... but she wanted to see, first, to know what had done this to her.
If it was death to look upon it, she had nothing more to fear by opening her eyes.
But even that surcease was denied her, for it still hid its evil, basilisk countenance ( ... )
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She screamed so hard her back arched with the force of it, writhing and kicking, trying to yank her hands free of its viselike grip, but it would have none of it. Its hands seemed to be everywhere, holding her down, shoving her roughly back into place wherever she managed to wriggle free as it whipped the straps over her body, binding her with implacable authority. They seemed to sink into her flesh, feverishly warm with an animal heat; her neck, her collarbone, her ribs, her waist, her hips, each thigh, each knee, each ankle, she couldn't get away, couldn't strain free, everywhere, everywhere. She moaned despairingly, bunching her muscles as hard as she could, but if anything it only made the straps pull tighter; and it was touching her, handling her, its hands were all over her--
It stopped.
She was secured. Immobile. Frozen. Bound. Completely, utterly helpless.
The futility of her situation drifted over her like a poisoned soporific; peace in the face of complete and total subjugation. It was out of sight, but she could ( ... )
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“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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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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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