Prompt: “Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.” – Sigmund Freud.
Warnings: Sex (including oral), dub-con, angst, a bit dark.
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies.
Summary: And this is his greatest illusion of all, for she knows that beneath that beautiful face, there is nothing gentle within Marluxia.
Comments: Don’t ask, you guys, just don’t ask. XD Yes, this is me, writing Kingdom Hearts het. I love this pairing though. Let me know your thoughts.
She sits in her white chair at her white table in the middle of her white room at the top of Castle Oblivion—everything is white here. White ceilings, white staircases, white doors, white walls. This is a place where everything is the color of purity, and yet nothing is pure. Nothing, including her (the white dress is a lie, too).
There are splashes of color in this room, and this room alone. Her drawings. It’s the only enjoyment they allow her: her reward for doing what they tell her to do. It’s a means of escape (in the figurative sense) for her.
She draws pictures of Sora – courage exemplified – with his friends (his real friends). She draws Kairi, with a smile that reaches her eyes and thinks of kindness. She draws Riku, with hooded eyes and a sad smile (he’s running from things he can’t forget). She draws Axel, with his fiery red hair (he talks and talks but doesn’t really say a whole lot about anything that matters), and she draws Larxene with her emerald eyes (she thinks she sees lightning flash in them sometimes). She draws pictures of the others, too. Well—she draws pictures of the ones that she has seen, at least.
Except for Roxas. She has not seen Roxas, but there are pictures of him in this room as well. She tends to draw him with Axel more often than not.
Today, she is working on a picture of Riku, and she hopes for no interruptions though she knows that that wish will more than likely not be granted.
(She should know better—should know that asking to be left alone is asking for too much. They need her, they say. They need her for what she can do; they need her to dabble in other’s memories. They need her to make Sora theirs, because with him, they can achieve what they desire.)
She hears the all-too-familiar sound of a key turning and the door behind her opens. She doesn’t mind if it’s Axel, because he talks to her (the first time they met, he had a faraway look in his eyes and she told him: “You’re worried about someone you’ve left behind.” He slips up and talks about Roxas sometimes—mostly about how ‘stupidly comfortable’ he feels around him). She doesn’t mind if it’s Zexion or Lexaeus. They hardly ever talk to her, but they don’t really bother her, either. She even tolerates Vexen, even though the look in his eyes often makes her uncomfortable.
She doesn’t like to be in the same room with Larxene—her temper is as sharp as the knives that she brandishes, and as quick as the lighting that she can call to strike down those who stand in her way.
Larxene yells at her sometimes. She doesn’t like it. She wonders if she will get yelled at today.
She is in the middle of trying to mentally prepare herself for Larxene’s possible anger when she picks up on the sound of the footsteps behind her. She listens – really listens – and she realizes that the footsteps are too heavy to be Larxene’s; too light to be Axel’s. She knows these footsteps, and knows them well.
She stiffens, sitting straight up in her chair, though it isn’t enough. She would welcome Larxene’s yelling if it would mean that she would not have to contend with what she knows is about to take place.
No matter how hard she tries, she can never quite prepare herself for his visits.
“Naminé.” He greets her smoothly, almost politely, with one hand on her shoulder as a seemingly friendly gesture. It isn’t friendly. Things are not always what they seem.
She knows he is not oblivious to how tense she is (he notices everything)—he simply isn’t commenting on it.
“Marluxia,” she returns, voice small. She does not look up at him, but instead continues to stare down at her drawing (which she knows she will not finish now), pencil clutched tightly within her fingers.
“What are we doing today?” he asks her, and now both of his hands are touching her, one on each shoulder, and she can feel his lips against the top of her head as he brushes a kiss there and she thinks, Illusion, illusion, illusion.
She wants to tell him, The same thing I do every day in this place—the only thing you let me do, aside from tearing memories apart piece by piece. She wants to tell him this, but she does not. Instead, she answers, “Drawing,” but only manages to do so after swallowing twice and then quietly clearing her throat.
“That fake boy?” Marluxia scoffs, and she knows that he is thinking of the Riku Replica, but that is not the Riku she is drawing. She is drawing the real one—the one from Sora’s memories, with no fear in his eyes (but there’s fear in his heart; he fears losing those he holds most dear to him—Sora. Kairi.). He’s running, she knows. He’s running away from Sora and running to him at the same time.
“I’m drawing the real one,” she explains. “The one from Sora’s memories.” She draws him the way Sora thinks of him: strong and brave and alive and troubled… and also precious. Sora is searching for him.
She can feel him lift his head. She knows without looking that his eyes are sweeping the room, finding and zoning in on the drawings that are there, taped to the walls of her prison.
He is even closer then, breathing in her scent, and she holds her breath as he inhales, shivering on his exhale as his breath tickles her skin. She waits, and he rises to his full height. She feels his hands on the back of her chair, and she feels him pull the chair – and her along with it – backwards, away from the table. He does so effortlessly, as though she is as light as a feather. She does not say anything; she knows better than to speak at this moment. Knows better than to ask what he is doing.
He moves so that he is standing in front of her, and then he kneels with fluid grace that does justice to his well-earned nickname, and when her eyes don’t quite meet his, he touches her cheek with a gloved finger. The light, barely-there caress dares her to do anything other than look at him, and so she looks at him, because she would rather not face the alternative.
His eyes are like the sea on a stormy day sometimes, she thinks, even though she’s never seen the sea—not with her own eyes. His eyes are a little hypnotizing, and she finds herself staring at them, pencil clutched even tighter between her fingers now, and she worries that she might break it, though she cannot seem to relax her grip. His eyes are beautiful, as is his smile (and it’s a knowing smile—he knows entirely too much; knows that she is crippled in ways that aren’t even remotely physical and will never tell him no) and his face, and she doesn’t like it. She dislikes how she lets herself become fixated on his physical beauty (it’s outward, merely outward, for there is no beauty to be found on the inside of him).
“You never draw me, precious,” he tells her (it is not a question), and he’s never said it before, though she knows that he has noticed it.
She shakes her head, blonde hair falling into her face, and he brushes it back tenderly, his smile encouraging. “Why?” he prompts, and now it is a question, and she stumbles over the words that form in her mind, hesitating. She doesn’t know how to answer—doesn’t know what he wants to hear.
She doesn’t need to draw him. She doesn’t need to put his memory on paper, because it rewrites itself again and again in her mind no matter how many times she tries to forget it (the feel of his lips, his tongue, his teeth, his hands—the feel of him inside her, and of his nails digging into her hips). If she tries to eradicate it from her mind, he scribbles it onto her body, over and over and over again, as though he is the artist and she is his canvas.
(Sometimes he is a story-teller, too, but there is no Happily-Ever-After to be found in his tales. She thinks he doesn’t know what that is, but perhaps she doesn’t, either.)
She hesitates too long, and he reaches for her hand, the one that is clutching the pencil. As soon as he touches her fingers, she drops it, and he smiles, keeping his eyes on hers as he brings her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “Tell me why, Naminé.”
She thinks she can feel him – his presence, his touch – in her very bones sometimes.
(But never, ever in her heart, because that is one thing she does not possess and neither does he… and that is why she is here.)
The feel of his lips on the inside of her wrist – where her pulse would be but isn’t – makes her gasp softly and the feel of his teeth there (gently, oh so gently) sends her thoughts scattering, like his rose petals when he summons his scythe. He’s doing this on purpose. Always on purpose. Everything he does with her - to her – is very deliberate.
“Will you not answer?” he queries, and he touches her legs, her thighs, which spread a little for him automatically, because it is what he wants. It isn’t what she wants, though, she tells herself. She ignores the nervous fluttering in her belly.
She is mute as his hand slides beneath the hem of her dress, fingers touching her through the softness of her panties, and then she releases a sound that isn’t quite a whimper and isn’t quite a gasp, but something somewhere in-between.
“Is this what it is going to take to get an answer from you, my pretty little witch?” he asks her then and she still does not answer, but she watches him, lashes fluttering as he urges her to lift her hips (and she doesn’t fight him, either—stopped doing that long ago). Apparently, for now, her silence is the answer that he seeks. Her complete lack of an answer is what he wants.
He pushes her dress up and her panties down, and she shivers from the chill and then from the heat as his mouth follows the invisible trails that his fingers have forged. He tastes her there, makes comments about ‘sweet nectar’ and she squeezes her eyes shut, embarrassed, as his hands hold her thighs apart and his tongue continues to explore.
He delves inside before moving back out, following the line of her slit, and when his tongue and his lips find her clit, she muffles her soft cry with her hand, and she doesn’t let her hips buck upwards and doesn’t let her fingers tangle in his hair to pull him closerclosercloser. It doesn’t matter—her sound of pleasure (for him) makes him smile, anyway. She can feel it against the most private part of her.
Marluxia eventually draws back and licks at his lips, and she thinks of a cat licking cream. It makes her want to look away from him again, but she doesn’t. She knows that he wants her to look at him right now.
“You obviously have not lost your voice,” he drawls, and his fingers are now where his mouth was only a moment ago. She doesn’t know when he removed his gloves, but she feels bare skin – as opposed to leather – against her, inside of her, and she whimpers.
“Perhaps I shall help you remember,” he continues, but she knows that that is not what he means. It’s trickery, but she doesn’t truly fall for it, though she goes along with it. He means to make her forget everything. Everything but him.
(She doesn’t tell him that he’s already accomplished his task—what’s the point?)
“Would you like that?” he asks her then, and she nods slowly because she cannot shake her head. Well, she can, but she can’t. She won’t. He knows this, too.
He stands, and she watches as buttons and zippers are undone, not even looking away when he frees his erection (she used to look away, once upon a time, but she knows he likes it when her eyes are on him). He strokes himself a few times and hisses through his teeth, pre-cum beading at the tip of his length, and she feels the warmth in her belly spread, feels herself tremble.
She thinks that she dislikes this most of all (she wishes she could say that she hates it, but she doesn’t have the right to say such a thing, does she?). She doesn’t like how he can make her shiver in anticipation instead of in fear. She wishes she could simply fear him and be done with it, but given the fact that she doesn’t have a heart, she shouldn’t even be capable of fearing him, should she?
She hates that he can make her want--or perhaps she just hates that he makes her think that she wants what he always gives her (it’s all an illusion, a trick of the mind [but not of the heart, never the heart]).
“Let me sit in the chair, Naminé. You may straddle my lap.” He is waiting expectantly and she is frozen for a moment, because he has never wanted this position before. He has always been in complete control—he has always been the one to judge how fast and how deep to thrust into her. He has always been the one to decide when she’s had enough. He has always been the one looming over her, shoving inside, and she has always been the one on her back or her hands and knees.
She stands on somewhat unsteady legs and moves aside, waiting for him to sit down before she almost nervously moves close to him again. He helps her arrange her arms and legs, and she lowers herself down onto him slowly, letting him slip inside of her inch by inch. She is more than wet enough (and she hates herself for this, too), so it doesn’t hurt so much, and he lets her go as slow as she likes, which also helps.
It’s puzzling. She doesn’t understand it. She pauses, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. He frowns a little and leans in to press his lips against hers, and when she feels the tip of his tongue, she parts her lips obediently as opposed to fighting him. She lets him in, and she thinks that she can faintly taste herself on his tongue.
She learns all too soon that what he has given her is only the illusion of control, for his hands find their way to her hips and begin moving them up and down, up and down along his length. However, he keeps the rhythm slow and gentle and toe-curling, and it is not like this—never really has been, before.
And this is his greatest illusion of all, for she knows that beneath that beautiful face, there is nothing gentle within Marluxia. Nothing kind or sweet or loving. Beneath his pretty façade lies a man who is the antithesis of all of these things (he is sinister and callous and rough). She knows—remembers how it was her first time with him (her first time, period). She remembers how he left her with smears of blood on her thighs and on the white sheets of her bed.
Eventually, his pace changes, quickens (as she knew it would)—becomes something that is just this side of painful, but his angle changes too, and that is a different sort of pain entirely: one that makes the warmth inside of her turn molten-lava hot. One that makes her moan softly and shudder on his lap and clench a little around him (and this, in turn, makes him groan).
He whispers into her ear, against her mouth (and this skews the rhythm but he doesn’t seem to care much), of things such as beating hearts and true love, which are concepts that neither of them can truly gasp. She does not weep, but part of her wants to.
And when she’s close and he knows exactly what she needs to push her over that precarious edge, he withholds it from her—he smiles against her skin and he keeps thrusting but he waits. She knows what he’s waiting for. She knows what he wants.
She shouldn’t say anything. She shouldn’t want this; she shouldn’t want any of it. She should let him have his twisted pleasure from this and she should suffer it in silence.
There is always a ‘but’, isn’t there?
“Please,” she whispers, and she closes her eyes. If she had a heart and was capable of feeling shame, she’d feel a great deal of it right now, she imagines.
But she has no heart, and so she feels no shame.
Besides, that one, small word pays off, and he praises her with words (“That’s my beautiful, precious girl”) that mean nothing and he slides one hand down and over, fingers rubbing against her clit as he guides the movements of her hips and as he continues to rock upwards, into her. Faster, harder, deeper, and—
Oh. She thinks she gasps it as she tenses against him and then trembles all over, and she thinks that she just might shiver right out of her skin. Both of his hands are on her hips again now, the fingers of one slick with her wetness, and his rhythm hasn’t slowed a bit.
She feels it when he comes. She always does. She feels how deeply he shoves into her; she feels the sudden warmth there, inside, and she can never quite get over how strange it feels, even now.
They are quiet and still for a moment. She is not looking at him but she can feel his eyes on her. Then, they are moving: bodies disconnecting, limbs rearranging themselves. She is even shakier on her feet now, but he is the epitome of calm and collectedness as he stands, adjusting himself. Buttons are re-buttoned and zippers are re-zipped. Gloves are put back in place. She lets him put her panties back on for her—lets him push the fabric of her dress back down (not like she really has a choice in the matter). He guides her to sit in the chair again and he hands her the pencil she was clutching earlier.
“Why do you never draw me?” he asks, and it’s unsurprising, really, that he would pick up exactly where he left off.
She keeps her eyes trained elsewhere (anywhere but on his face this time) as she answers, mind clear, words soft but very much audible and collected as opposed to jumbled: “I don’t need an image on paper to help me remember. You won’t… let me forget.”
“Smart girl,” he coos, and she stiffens again when he brushes his lips against her forehead. “You are exactly right.”
It’s not always a good thing, being right.
“Another time, Naminé.” It sounds almost foreboding. She still isn’t looking at him. She hears the click, click, click of his boots as he crosses the room, and then the door opens and shuts, and there is the mechanical sound of the key being turned in the lock, and she is alone again.
She sits in her white chair at her white table in the middle of her white room (‘white room’ and ‘cage’ are synonymous here) and she adjust her white dress, and tries not to think about the irony of it—tries to hide from her consciousness the fact that this place is just a mockery of innocence (lost).
She tries not to think of his hands and his mouth on her skin. Tries not to think of the softness of his hair between her fingers.
She tries not to think of all the things she’s lost here, in this place.
When night falls (they tell her it does, anyway; she cannot see for herself, not without windows), she falls asleep surrounded by white—it’s the last thing she sees before she closes her eyes.
But she dreams in black and pink and blue and skin (she always smells flowers, too), and she wakes up soundlessly screaming, and she thinks…
… If she had a heart, it would be pounding.
It had to be written. It wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it. I have more ideas for this pairing too, so I highly doubt you guys have seen the last of these two.
Let me know what you think, though. Did you like it? Were you intrigued? Did you want to bash Marluxia’s face in? I actually rather like his character. *LOL*
Comments make my world go ‘round. ^_______^