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kinkfestTitle: Gentle, Tender Things
Author: anime_angel_ash
Pairing: Larxene/Namine
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual harassment and molestation.
Word Count: 903
Prompt: June 16 - Kingdom Hearts II, Larxene/Namine: teaching - "There's a strength in gentleness."
Summary: No one ever expects someone like Namine to be powerful, especially not Larxene.
Notes: Gave this one a higher rating, just to be safe. Also, sorry prompter. This went a leetle off prompt, and you kind of have to squint to see the 'teaching' part. Sorry about that!
“It doesn’t take brute strength to be powerful.”
She starts slowly, trailing a thin, graceful finger along the back of the girl’s chair. Gently, she lets her hands glide onto the girl’s shoulders, wispy as feathers and light as they tap, tap, tap over her little bones. The girl freezes, her pretty blue pencil freezing mid-stroke, and Larxene can feel her starting to shake already. There’s a sickly glee in Larxene’s wicked smile. “Actually, you could even say that something...gentle is more effective.”
Larxene sighs loudly, a woman without a care in the world as she tucks a bit of pale blonde hair behind the girl’s ear, runs a finger across the lobe until she sees the fine hairs on the back of the girl’s neck stand up.
“They never expect gentle things to be dangerous, you know. They always underestimate stuff like that,” she continues flippantly, lifting a hand to trace through the air. The girl relaxes a little, starts drawing again, though the lines are a little askew from before. “They think things like that are weak. They can’t brace themselves against”—she turns back to the girl, leans around the back of the chair, touches the hand holding the pencil, and she’s not sure if the girl is cold with fear of if that’s just how show-white little witches feel—“tender things.”
Larxene is impressed with her own skill, with the way her thumb rubs gentle circles on the back of the girl’s hand. Her Other must have been quite adept at seduction, or something of the like. Slowly—this sort of thing is always best when done gradually; it makes it that much more excruciating, and imprints every step of the process on the recipient’s helpless mind—she walks her fingers up the girl’s arm to her shoulders. However, there’s no innocence this time, which she makes clear by snaking her fingers under the neckline of the girl’s dress, pulling teasingly at its straps.
Larxene’s other hand joins the first, plants itself firmly on the girl’s opposite shoulder. The pencil has fallen cleanly from the girl’s hand, lays, forlorn, on the half finished page as the girl fists her hands around the hem of her dress. Larxene doesn’t doubt that her adventurous fingers would be able to feel the pathetic, terrified throbbing of the girl's heart if she had one.
“You, for instance.” Larxene's hand finally leaves the girl’s neck, but no time is spared for relief. Making to run back down the girl’s arm, Larxene’s hand quickly changes course, trails down over the girl’s chest and cups what little is there. The girl actually gasps this time, the pencil falling to the tile with a wooden clatter. Larxene’s smile widens. Her other hand takes up the other side, rubbing circles about the nub there as the girl squirms like an insect, a trapped kitten with torn-off claws. A poor little witch with crayons instead of magic.
“You have more power than you seem to know,” Larxene elaborates, though the picture before her suggests that it is a mere half-truth. Leaning down, she presses a kiss to the top of the girl’s head, gently kneading her small breasts, and the shaking is in the girl’s very breaths. Tugging suggestively, she starts pulling at the dress's front, gathering it at the girl’s chest and slowly dragging the hem up. The girl holds, tugging it down, but it’s a feeble effort; Larxene can already see the fabric slipping from her hands. Only a little more.
“Say,” Larxene breaths off a tongue that might as well be forked, “you were to put a fake memory in Marluxia’s mind that tells him he wants to die.” She leans next to the girl’s ear, her whisper a trap. “You could destroy him so much more easily than any of us ever could.”
“I-I can’t,” the girl finally says, and Larxene smirks at the thought that the girl still has a voice at all (that she ever did). “Marluxia, he-he’s not connected to Sora.”
Larxene smirks, letting go of the girl with one last, tormenting stroke from each hand. Circling the chair with something akin to a regal air, she fixes her eyes on the girl and smirks; humiliation doesn’t work quite so well, after all, if no one is watching. “Well, you’re obviously not trying hard enough.” Leaning over, she starts her finger at the girl’s collar and trails it up, starts to lift the girl’s chin as she reaches for the hem of the white dress. “If you really wanted to, you could mess with anyone’s memories. If you really tried—”
The chin is up at Larxene’s command, but the girl lifts it higher, and Larxene is suddenly, inexplicably fixed with endless eyes that do not waver. “I can’t.”
The slap nearly knocks the girl from her chair, and she yelps, tries to right herself. Larxene, however, likes to think it is her who steadies the girl as she grabs her roughly snatches up her doll’s chin. “But sometimes,” Larxene hisses, all fake tenderness abandoned and forked tone thick with serpentine venom, “little gentle things get crushed by big, brute strength, don’t they? Especially when they don’t do as they’re told.”
Namine stares back with big, blue, bottomless eyes. The next morning there is a picture, drawn all in blue pencil, sitting unapologetically on the table.
Author: anime_angel_ash
Pairing: Larxene/Namine
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual harassment and molestation.
Word Count: 903
Prompt: June 16 - Kingdom Hearts II, Larxene/Namine: teaching - "There's a strength in gentleness."
Summary: No one ever expects someone like Namine to be powerful, especially not Larxene.
Notes: Gave this one a higher rating, just to be safe. Also, sorry prompter. This went a leetle off prompt, and you kind of have to squint to see the 'teaching' part. Sorry about that!
“It doesn’t take brute strength to be powerful.”
She starts slowly, trailing a thin, graceful finger along the back of the girl’s chair. Gently, she lets her hands glide onto the girl’s shoulders, wispy as feathers and light as they tap, tap, tap over her little bones. The girl freezes, her pretty blue pencil freezing mid-stroke, and Larxene can feel her starting to shake already. There’s a sickly glee in Larxene’s wicked smile. “Actually, you could even say that something...gentle is more effective.”
Larxene sighs loudly, a woman without a care in the world as she tucks a bit of pale blonde hair behind the girl’s ear, runs a finger across the lobe until she sees the fine hairs on the back of the girl’s neck stand up.
“They never expect gentle things to be dangerous, you know. They always underestimate stuff like that,” she continues flippantly, lifting a hand to trace through the air. The girl relaxes a little, starts drawing again, though the lines are a little askew from before. “They think things like that are weak. They can’t brace themselves against”—she turns back to the girl, leans around the back of the chair, touches the hand holding the pencil, and she’s not sure if the girl is cold with fear of if that’s just how show-white little witches feel—“tender things.”
Larxene is impressed with her own skill, with the way her thumb rubs gentle circles on the back of the girl’s hand. Her Other must have been quite adept at seduction, or something of the like. Slowly—this sort of thing is always best when done gradually; it makes it that much more excruciating, and imprints every step of the process on the recipient’s helpless mind—she walks her fingers up the girl’s arm to her shoulders. However, there’s no innocence this time, which she makes clear by snaking her fingers under the neckline of the girl’s dress, pulling teasingly at its straps.
Larxene’s other hand joins the first, plants itself firmly on the girl’s opposite shoulder. The pencil has fallen cleanly from the girl’s hand, lays, forlorn, on the half finished page as the girl fists her hands around the hem of her dress. Larxene doesn’t doubt that her adventurous fingers would be able to feel the pathetic, terrified throbbing of the girl's heart if she had one.
“You, for instance.” Larxene's hand finally leaves the girl’s neck, but no time is spared for relief. Making to run back down the girl’s arm, Larxene’s hand quickly changes course, trails down over the girl’s chest and cups what little is there. The girl actually gasps this time, the pencil falling to the tile with a wooden clatter. Larxene’s smile widens. Her other hand takes up the other side, rubbing circles about the nub there as the girl squirms like an insect, a trapped kitten with torn-off claws. A poor little witch with crayons instead of magic.
“You have more power than you seem to know,” Larxene elaborates, though the picture before her suggests that it is a mere half-truth. Leaning down, she presses a kiss to the top of the girl’s head, gently kneading her small breasts, and the shaking is in the girl’s very breaths. Tugging suggestively, she starts pulling at the dress's front, gathering it at the girl’s chest and slowly dragging the hem up. The girl holds, tugging it down, but it’s a feeble effort; Larxene can already see the fabric slipping from her hands. Only a little more.
“Say,” Larxene breaths off a tongue that might as well be forked, “you were to put a fake memory in Marluxia’s mind that tells him he wants to die.” She leans next to the girl’s ear, her whisper a trap. “You could destroy him so much more easily than any of us ever could.”
“I-I can’t,” the girl finally says, and Larxene smirks at the thought that the girl still has a voice at all (that she ever did). “Marluxia, he-he’s not connected to Sora.”
Larxene smirks, letting go of the girl with one last, tormenting stroke from each hand. Circling the chair with something akin to a regal air, she fixes her eyes on the girl and smirks; humiliation doesn’t work quite so well, after all, if no one is watching. “Well, you’re obviously not trying hard enough.” Leaning over, she starts her finger at the girl’s collar and trails it up, starts to lift the girl’s chin as she reaches for the hem of the white dress. “If you really wanted to, you could mess with anyone’s memories. If you really tried—”
The chin is up at Larxene’s command, but the girl lifts it higher, and Larxene is suddenly, inexplicably fixed with endless eyes that do not waver. “I can’t.”
The slap nearly knocks the girl from her chair, and she yelps, tries to right herself. Larxene, however, likes to think it is her who steadies the girl as she grabs her roughly snatches up her doll’s chin. “But sometimes,” Larxene hisses, all fake tenderness abandoned and forked tone thick with serpentine venom, “little gentle things get crushed by big, brute strength, don’t they? Especially when they don’t do as they’re told.”
Namine stares back with big, blue, bottomless eyes. The next morning there is a picture, drawn all in blue pencil, sitting unapologetically on the table.
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