[Dissidia Final Fantasy] Breathless
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rose_in_winterCharacters: Kain/Lightning
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Breathplay, femdom, spoilers for the end of Dissidia 012
Wordcount: 2534
Notes: Written for the Chocobo Races, FFEX 2012.
Betas:who_shot_kr
Summary: When Kain catches up to the others at the end of the twelfth cycle, Lightning has some questions for him.
He has ever watched her too closely, too often.
There is something about Lightning that fascinates him. He tells himself it is her strange ways in battle—she can hit nigh as hard as he and Cecil, though she wears little armour and is as quick as her namesake—but even he knows that for a lie. He is inclined to say that she reminds him of someone, someone he cannot remember from the world whence he came, but that is not quite right either. His fragments of half-memory are of narrow, delicately-boned hands and a soft voice, gentle comfort. Lightning is not gentle.
Yet still she draws his eye; be it in battle or in camp, her deft movements and easy strength fascinate him. After the plan he concocted with Cosmos's first servant is revealed, her contempt is staggering; he very nearly basks in it, to know he has evoked so strong an emotion.
When the last of Cosmos's chosen ten are laid peacefully to rest, ready for the next cycle, he hurries onward to meet the others. His work is not yet done. He is weary in heart and in body, for hunting one's friends is no easy task, but he serves Cosmos above all. She yet needs him, so he may not falter.
He is certainly not hurrying to assure himself of Lightning's safety. She needs him not—her sword-arm is strong and her blade sure—but one does not leave a comrade's back unguarded. Thus he tells himself, even as he knows it for the baldest lie.
Their path is easy to follow, for it is the one of least resistance, with broken shards of manikins scattered in their wake. They have been slowed by the fighting, so he is able to reach them before they reach the source of the manikins. Laguna greets him warmly, and Lightning with a coldly turned shoulder. He deserves no better.
He will not permit himself to mourn the loss of her friendship, of a rough camaraderie he came to rely on. More important things are at stake than his feelings, and his task is not yet done.
She does not speak to him as they travel, nor as they make camp. He tries to be pleasant and sociable, as Jecht bade him so long ago, but Vaan and Laguna's foolishness grates on his nerves, and he excuses himself shortly after finishing the evening meal to tend to his weapons. He does not go beyond their sight, knowing they will misinterpret him. Rather, he strips himself of his armour and seats himself at the foot of a shattered glass tube. The flooring, made of metal grates, is an uncomfortable seat, but he has rarely asked for comfort.
He tends to his spear first, and in the silence after the whetstone stops scraping, he knows she is there.
He looks up, and she jerks her head to the side. "Let's go," she says, and no, her voice is not mellifluous or soothing, but he feels the muscles in his shoulders relax at the command. He rises and bows to her, knowing she will take it for mockery and knowing, too, that he could do naught else. She points past the experimental equipment to a darkened corner. He looks back at the camp, an unspoken question.
"I told Laguna we were going to have a talk," she says. "Go."
Orders are simple; orders mean he is not required to bear the burden of thought. He goes as she has bidden, and she follows him, boxing him into the tight and narrow space. Some part of him tries to rebel—he is meant for open skies, for free air to leap and the crispness of a cold wind slicing past his face—but he does not fight her.
"You keep watching me like that, I'm going to assume you're going to try to take me out too," she snarls, her voice low and harsh, and he cannot help the way he flinches.
"That is not—" He stops, requiring a deep and slow breath. "It would serve no purpose," he says carefully. "I told you why I did as I did."
"Own your actions," she says, and he flinches. "Call it what it was."
He nods, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "I have told you why I attacked our comrades," he says, and some of the fury ebbs from her face.
"Then why are you watching me?"
He knows it is a trap, but she has already told him to speak truthfully, and were he to be honest with himself, it would be a relief to say it, and have her know. Still, the words are hard. "I find you attractive," he says. "I would say that you remind me of someone, but it is true only in its opposite; you are unlike someone I cannot quite remember. Yet, it is not that alone; I admire you for who you are."
Her eyebrow arches higher than normal. There is a challenge implicit in the gesture, and it sends a shiver down his spine.
He thinks it is the first time he has ever seen Lightning truly surprised.
"That's too ridiculous to not be true," she says with a short, huffed laugh.
"I would not mock you," he says, and that is all he can say; his throat closes around further words.
She takes a step closer and he deliberately keeps his eyes locked on hers; he will not disrespect her by doing otherwise. "Why tell me now?" she asks.
"You asked," he says, and for a miracle, his voice remains steady. "I would not have intruded otherwise."
Her eyes narrow, and he steps back as she steps forward. His back strikes the cold metal wall, and he has nowhere to go. He fights the urge to strike out, take any action necessary to free himself from this cage. She must be able to see it, even in the dimness, but she says nothing of it. "And what would you do," she asks, her voice even lower, "if you were to act on it?"
The list is as long as she is tall, were he given free rein, but he does not think she wishes to hear it, so he chooses a more diplomatic course. "I should not like to cross any boundaries," he says. The silence spins out, and at length he lifts his hand, slowly, toward her.
She catches his wrist, quick as her namesake, and her eyes search his. "And if I told you exactly what I would have of you?" she asks, and he does not miss the way she mimics his inflections.
It takes an act of will not to simply go to his knees before her. "I will gladly do as you wish," he says, after swallowing twice to moisten his throat enough to speak.
He has seen her fight, knows her strength, yet still her grip surprises him when she clenches her hand around his wrist tight enough to rub bone, and his reflexive hiss is nearly as much pleased surprise as it is pain. She is close enough for him to feel her warmth. He waits, every nerve taut with anticipation, and dares not hope she will allow him to—he cannot even finish the thought.
Her kiss is quick and harsh. She grips his other wrist in her free hand and slams both his wrists back against the wall even as her teeth nip sharply at his lower lip. The moan catches in his throat and his fingers flex against the wall, longing to touch her, sink into her hair, make contact somehow. When she leans back, he is already finding it difficult to control his breathing, and she has scarcely touched him.
"Don't let them hear you," she says, and it carries the snap of an order. Tension drains out of his muscles like water from a bathtub, and he nods assent rather than speaking. Something that might almost be a smile curves her lips, and this time when she kisses him her body presses close. She does not let his hands free, but at times she murmurs a command in his ear, and he can only obey. He finds that she likes his teeth on her throat, likes to dig her nails into his wrists until his breath hisses out between his teeth. She pulls him down to the floor with her and pins him there, perched atop him, and kisses him until he can scarcely breathe.
Her hands are quick as she rearranges just enough of their clothing, and when her fingers close around him he clenches his hands around the metal grating beneath him and tries desperately not to make a sound. Her free hand is between her own legs and he can feel the shudders that ripple down the muscles of her thighs. He wants to touch her, wants to run his hands over lean muscles and curves. He dares not ask; she has bidden him to silence.
She raises an eyebrow at him, and he knows it for a challenge; he lifts his hands slowly enough that she could forbid it if she wished, and lays them against her thighs. She breathes out, slow and easy, her fingers still sliding between her legs. She does not stop him, and he lets himself touch, though only slowly and carefully. In half-remembered snatches he has dreamt of a woman soft and yielding against his hands, but this—her strength, her resilience, how real and solid she is—chases those ghosts out of his mind, leaving only her.
She lets him touch, even shows him with impatient hands what she likes, and then he is privileged to watch her throw her head back and move her hips hard in time with his hand. Still she makes no sound, and his own breathing sounds too loud in his own ears.
She leans forward, her sword-hand resting at the base of his throat, and his pulse leaps frantically. He wonders if she will tighten her grip. He desperately hopes she will.
"You like this," she murmurs, perceptive and sharp, and then her hand does tighten, not enough to endanger him but enough to send a thrill racing all through him, and without meaning to he arches up against her.
Her smile is as sharp as her blade as she eases herself above him, not quite taking him in. He dares not make a sound, though several cluster in his throat and try to escape. He makes himself draw a slow, careful breath past the pressure.
She leans forward until her breasts brush his chest and whispers in his ear, something that rarely fails to make him lose all track of his thoughts. "I want you to wait until I'm done," she says, softly, and between her hand on his throat and her lips at his ear it takes him a long moment to parse what she has asked of him. When he understands, he nods. She leans back just enough to meet his eyes, and he gives her another nod, this one slow and formal.
"And keep your hands to yourself," she murmurs, just before she leans back and starts to sink down onto him.
His breath hisses out between his teeth and his hands clench tight around the metal grating until it digs hard into his palms. Her hand does not tighten any more on his throat, but she does not need to; he is already lightheaded and feels as though he can scarcely draw air. She moves hard and fast, touching herself with one hand, and he watches her face as she drives herself. Whether it is toward him—he would mock himself for the arrogance in that thought, if he could think at all—or away from something else, he cannot tell, but she shudders above him and the feeling as she clenches tight around him makes him bite his lip hard to keep the sound buried. She is shaking, her entire body drawn taut as a bow as she rides him, and she shudders and lets out a long, low sigh as some of the tension eases.
He holds himself still, though it costs great effort, for she has not yet given him leave.
She almost smiles at him, and her fingers tighten fractionally, a reward more than a punishment. He shudders, gripping the metal grates tighter, and she begins to move again, slower this time. He is almost painfully close to the edge, and he has to look away from her face or lose himself entirely. He can feel the little shudders as she starts to touch herself again, and her hand flexes rhythmically on his throat, never tight enough to cause him harm, but enough to send sparks of sensation racing down his spine.
He is desperate to touch her, desperate to be released, and yet this confinement is perfect. He finds himself drawn back to her face, even as he knows he risks her displeasure if he cannot control himself, and his pulse stutters when he realizes she is watching him intently, her pupils wide and dark. He opens his mouth, to say what he knows not, and closes it again lest some sound escape. Her movements, formerly slow and even, speed up and she bites her own lip as she drives herself faster. He is nearly lost when she whispers, "now," and tightens her hand just enough to start him tipping over the edge. He covers his mouth with one hand because he does not trust himself, even as she tightens and shudders over him and he cannot wait any longer. His hand muffles the sound he makes, but he is not sure he has been quiet enough.
He lies on the cold metal grate, feeling it dig into him through his clothes, and watches her recollect herself. She breathes deeply and shifts off him—the metal must be murder on her knees, he should have offered to let her use his hands as padding—and the look on her face is almost content.
Attending to his disarranged clothing allows him a few precious moments' grace to collect his thoughts, and he knows not what to say to her. She leans her head back against the wall and looks younger than normal, some of the rage that ever drives her onward drained.
The silence spins out, broken by occasional spikes in the conversation the others are having. At last she draws a deep breath. "I still don't agree with you," she says, and the words grate over each other like rough stones, "but I understand what you tried to do."
He nods. It is as close as he thinks she will come to an apology—and better by far than he deserves.
When they return to the others, there is something like camaraderie between them. Kain thinks he has never been so lucky in any cycle before this; there is something like contentment in his bones, and he vows that he will defend her—defend them all, but her most particularly—unto his final breath.
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Breathplay, femdom, spoilers for the end of Dissidia 012
Wordcount: 2534
Notes: Written for the Chocobo Races, FFEX 2012.
Betas:
who_shot_krSummary: When Kain catches up to the others at the end of the twelfth cycle, Lightning has some questions for him.
He has ever watched her too closely, too often.
There is something about Lightning that fascinates him. He tells himself it is her strange ways in battle—she can hit nigh as hard as he and Cecil, though she wears little armour and is as quick as her namesake—but even he knows that for a lie. He is inclined to say that she reminds him of someone, someone he cannot remember from the world whence he came, but that is not quite right either. His fragments of half-memory are of narrow, delicately-boned hands and a soft voice, gentle comfort. Lightning is not gentle.
Yet still she draws his eye; be it in battle or in camp, her deft movements and easy strength fascinate him. After the plan he concocted with Cosmos's first servant is revealed, her contempt is staggering; he very nearly basks in it, to know he has evoked so strong an emotion.
When the last of Cosmos's chosen ten are laid peacefully to rest, ready for the next cycle, he hurries onward to meet the others. His work is not yet done. He is weary in heart and in body, for hunting one's friends is no easy task, but he serves Cosmos above all. She yet needs him, so he may not falter.
He is certainly not hurrying to assure himself of Lightning's safety. She needs him not—her sword-arm is strong and her blade sure—but one does not leave a comrade's back unguarded. Thus he tells himself, even as he knows it for the baldest lie.
Their path is easy to follow, for it is the one of least resistance, with broken shards of manikins scattered in their wake. They have been slowed by the fighting, so he is able to reach them before they reach the source of the manikins. Laguna greets him warmly, and Lightning with a coldly turned shoulder. He deserves no better.
He will not permit himself to mourn the loss of her friendship, of a rough camaraderie he came to rely on. More important things are at stake than his feelings, and his task is not yet done.
She does not speak to him as they travel, nor as they make camp. He tries to be pleasant and sociable, as Jecht bade him so long ago, but Vaan and Laguna's foolishness grates on his nerves, and he excuses himself shortly after finishing the evening meal to tend to his weapons. He does not go beyond their sight, knowing they will misinterpret him. Rather, he strips himself of his armour and seats himself at the foot of a shattered glass tube. The flooring, made of metal grates, is an uncomfortable seat, but he has rarely asked for comfort.
He tends to his spear first, and in the silence after the whetstone stops scraping, he knows she is there.
He looks up, and she jerks her head to the side. "Let's go," she says, and no, her voice is not mellifluous or soothing, but he feels the muscles in his shoulders relax at the command. He rises and bows to her, knowing she will take it for mockery and knowing, too, that he could do naught else. She points past the experimental equipment to a darkened corner. He looks back at the camp, an unspoken question.
"I told Laguna we were going to have a talk," she says. "Go."
Orders are simple; orders mean he is not required to bear the burden of thought. He goes as she has bidden, and she follows him, boxing him into the tight and narrow space. Some part of him tries to rebel—he is meant for open skies, for free air to leap and the crispness of a cold wind slicing past his face—but he does not fight her.
"You keep watching me like that, I'm going to assume you're going to try to take me out too," she snarls, her voice low and harsh, and he cannot help the way he flinches.
"That is not—" He stops, requiring a deep and slow breath. "It would serve no purpose," he says carefully. "I told you why I did as I did."
"Own your actions," she says, and he flinches. "Call it what it was."
He nods, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "I have told you why I attacked our comrades," he says, and some of the fury ebbs from her face.
"Then why are you watching me?"
He knows it is a trap, but she has already told him to speak truthfully, and were he to be honest with himself, it would be a relief to say it, and have her know. Still, the words are hard. "I find you attractive," he says. "I would say that you remind me of someone, but it is true only in its opposite; you are unlike someone I cannot quite remember. Yet, it is not that alone; I admire you for who you are."
Her eyebrow arches higher than normal. There is a challenge implicit in the gesture, and it sends a shiver down his spine.
He thinks it is the first time he has ever seen Lightning truly surprised.
"That's too ridiculous to not be true," she says with a short, huffed laugh.
"I would not mock you," he says, and that is all he can say; his throat closes around further words.
She takes a step closer and he deliberately keeps his eyes locked on hers; he will not disrespect her by doing otherwise. "Why tell me now?" she asks.
"You asked," he says, and for a miracle, his voice remains steady. "I would not have intruded otherwise."
Her eyes narrow, and he steps back as she steps forward. His back strikes the cold metal wall, and he has nowhere to go. He fights the urge to strike out, take any action necessary to free himself from this cage. She must be able to see it, even in the dimness, but she says nothing of it. "And what would you do," she asks, her voice even lower, "if you were to act on it?"
The list is as long as she is tall, were he given free rein, but he does not think she wishes to hear it, so he chooses a more diplomatic course. "I should not like to cross any boundaries," he says. The silence spins out, and at length he lifts his hand, slowly, toward her.
She catches his wrist, quick as her namesake, and her eyes search his. "And if I told you exactly what I would have of you?" she asks, and he does not miss the way she mimics his inflections.
It takes an act of will not to simply go to his knees before her. "I will gladly do as you wish," he says, after swallowing twice to moisten his throat enough to speak.
He has seen her fight, knows her strength, yet still her grip surprises him when she clenches her hand around his wrist tight enough to rub bone, and his reflexive hiss is nearly as much pleased surprise as it is pain. She is close enough for him to feel her warmth. He waits, every nerve taut with anticipation, and dares not hope she will allow him to—he cannot even finish the thought.
Her kiss is quick and harsh. She grips his other wrist in her free hand and slams both his wrists back against the wall even as her teeth nip sharply at his lower lip. The moan catches in his throat and his fingers flex against the wall, longing to touch her, sink into her hair, make contact somehow. When she leans back, he is already finding it difficult to control his breathing, and she has scarcely touched him.
"Don't let them hear you," she says, and it carries the snap of an order. Tension drains out of his muscles like water from a bathtub, and he nods assent rather than speaking. Something that might almost be a smile curves her lips, and this time when she kisses him her body presses close. She does not let his hands free, but at times she murmurs a command in his ear, and he can only obey. He finds that she likes his teeth on her throat, likes to dig her nails into his wrists until his breath hisses out between his teeth. She pulls him down to the floor with her and pins him there, perched atop him, and kisses him until he can scarcely breathe.
Her hands are quick as she rearranges just enough of their clothing, and when her fingers close around him he clenches his hands around the metal grating beneath him and tries desperately not to make a sound. Her free hand is between her own legs and he can feel the shudders that ripple down the muscles of her thighs. He wants to touch her, wants to run his hands over lean muscles and curves. He dares not ask; she has bidden him to silence.
She raises an eyebrow at him, and he knows it for a challenge; he lifts his hands slowly enough that she could forbid it if she wished, and lays them against her thighs. She breathes out, slow and easy, her fingers still sliding between her legs. She does not stop him, and he lets himself touch, though only slowly and carefully. In half-remembered snatches he has dreamt of a woman soft and yielding against his hands, but this—her strength, her resilience, how real and solid she is—chases those ghosts out of his mind, leaving only her.
She lets him touch, even shows him with impatient hands what she likes, and then he is privileged to watch her throw her head back and move her hips hard in time with his hand. Still she makes no sound, and his own breathing sounds too loud in his own ears.
She leans forward, her sword-hand resting at the base of his throat, and his pulse leaps frantically. He wonders if she will tighten her grip. He desperately hopes she will.
"You like this," she murmurs, perceptive and sharp, and then her hand does tighten, not enough to endanger him but enough to send a thrill racing all through him, and without meaning to he arches up against her.
Her smile is as sharp as her blade as she eases herself above him, not quite taking him in. He dares not make a sound, though several cluster in his throat and try to escape. He makes himself draw a slow, careful breath past the pressure.
She leans forward until her breasts brush his chest and whispers in his ear, something that rarely fails to make him lose all track of his thoughts. "I want you to wait until I'm done," she says, softly, and between her hand on his throat and her lips at his ear it takes him a long moment to parse what she has asked of him. When he understands, he nods. She leans back just enough to meet his eyes, and he gives her another nod, this one slow and formal.
"And keep your hands to yourself," she murmurs, just before she leans back and starts to sink down onto him.
His breath hisses out between his teeth and his hands clench tight around the metal grating until it digs hard into his palms. Her hand does not tighten any more on his throat, but she does not need to; he is already lightheaded and feels as though he can scarcely draw air. She moves hard and fast, touching herself with one hand, and he watches her face as she drives herself. Whether it is toward him—he would mock himself for the arrogance in that thought, if he could think at all—or away from something else, he cannot tell, but she shudders above him and the feeling as she clenches tight around him makes him bite his lip hard to keep the sound buried. She is shaking, her entire body drawn taut as a bow as she rides him, and she shudders and lets out a long, low sigh as some of the tension eases.
He holds himself still, though it costs great effort, for she has not yet given him leave.
She almost smiles at him, and her fingers tighten fractionally, a reward more than a punishment. He shudders, gripping the metal grates tighter, and she begins to move again, slower this time. He is almost painfully close to the edge, and he has to look away from her face or lose himself entirely. He can feel the little shudders as she starts to touch herself again, and her hand flexes rhythmically on his throat, never tight enough to cause him harm, but enough to send sparks of sensation racing down his spine.
He is desperate to touch her, desperate to be released, and yet this confinement is perfect. He finds himself drawn back to her face, even as he knows he risks her displeasure if he cannot control himself, and his pulse stutters when he realizes she is watching him intently, her pupils wide and dark. He opens his mouth, to say what he knows not, and closes it again lest some sound escape. Her movements, formerly slow and even, speed up and she bites her own lip as she drives herself faster. He is nearly lost when she whispers, "now," and tightens her hand just enough to start him tipping over the edge. He covers his mouth with one hand because he does not trust himself, even as she tightens and shudders over him and he cannot wait any longer. His hand muffles the sound he makes, but he is not sure he has been quiet enough.
He lies on the cold metal grate, feeling it dig into him through his clothes, and watches her recollect herself. She breathes deeply and shifts off him—the metal must be murder on her knees, he should have offered to let her use his hands as padding—and the look on her face is almost content.
Attending to his disarranged clothing allows him a few precious moments' grace to collect his thoughts, and he knows not what to say to her. She leans her head back against the wall and looks younger than normal, some of the rage that ever drives her onward drained.
The silence spins out, broken by occasional spikes in the conversation the others are having. At last she draws a deep breath. "I still don't agree with you," she says, and the words grate over each other like rough stones, "but I understand what you tried to do."
He nods. It is as close as he thinks she will come to an apology—and better by far than he deserves.
When they return to the others, there is something like camaraderie between them. Kain thinks he has never been so lucky in any cycle before this; there is something like contentment in his bones, and he vows that he will defend her—defend them all, but her most particularly—unto his final breath.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-03 05:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-03 03:21 pm (UTC)(always want. Caius = THE BEST FF VILLAIN, because he MAKES SENSE. I mean, Kefka and Golbez are the villains of my heart, but I love Caius. Because he is perfectly broken in all the ways that appeal to me and his Evil Plan has a logical root even if he didn't think it all the way through, and That Voice. ahem.)
Gleeee! I'm glad you liked. :D
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-04 01:50 am (UTC)Yes this so hard. Which makes me happy because more badass/badass hetships is something I need in my life.
Oh, man, Sephiroth and Golbez are the villains of my heart--- but Kefka? DUDE I LOVE TO HATE. Have not played any of the FFXIII games so can't comment on Caius but sharing a voice with Kain and doing Sensible Villainy = Awesome by Default.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-05 05:36 pm (UTC)Kefka is a delightful dude one loves to hate. So much cray-cray.
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-06 03:19 am (UTC)