(Another hand shoots out, brown-skinned and slick, to grasp Roxas by the hip. Normally such a tired wrist and weakened grip would be an easy inconvenience from which to disengage, especially for a fighter of Roxas' athleticism and training. But in his aroused state, his grip is inhumanly virile. Impossibly possessive. Silver tresses brush against the young key bearer's back when Xemnas shifts into a kneeling position and kisses him from behind, the athletic curvature of his calves digging into the mattress. Small red crescents are blooming all over his skin, a badge of honor worn proudly. Just the thought of Roxas' friends gossiping on it drives him wild. The entirety of him belongs to Roxas.
In a sense, both men are proprietary of one another. Bite marks are the next step.)
What quirk of fate has led her to that hotel, I do wonder. Oh, that's right — your connection.
(Xion blinks up, gently petting the dog's face - over nose, between eyes, under chin.
From where she's sitting, the Replika doesn't make out the silhouette towering over Roxas nor her friend for that matter. Then she shyly averts her eyes, a cute shade of pink dying her cheeks. It looks like they're being intimate - a thing she's never experienced herself. She knows it with rare certainty. Yet - she's considered being so with Naminé.
The witch. Not the warty-nosed halloween kind, either. But the sensual, flowing, servant of the Light. The warmth that suffuses her veins while she lays on Naminé's lap is too sweet and gentle to be mere passion, but burns too low and dark to be the kind of affection she's supposed to feel. The seductive depths of her own wants terrifies her, as though peering into the fanged maw of an unknowable beast. She isn't sure whether it excites or frightens her. Too heavy, those things buried unsaid between them; to speak of it would be to tear the gossamer threads that keep them close. Xion feels different. Maybe she's too drunk on the emotions within Roxas' heart; arousal tinged with anxiety.)
Let her come. But first, we must strengthen our bond before it has to weather more turbulent waters.
(Or a repurposed Recusant's Sigil. It's always come alive in her hand in time of need, like the Keyblade, reinforcing her body, lending her the gifts of superhuman strength, speed and agility. The Mark of Heresy has always seemed to obey her, and it has been like her birthright, bonded to her in the early days of her rebirth. It's former purpose, inspired by vague memories of the Keyblade War, used to track the location of Nobodies and interesting puppets. Now that it's been reclaimed, it serves as the new symbol of their unbreakable friendship. Still she can't fathom why her heart is thudding with the obscenity of what she doesn't see, of what Roxas is feeling.
There's no threat nearby. Xion is dumbfounded for a moment, her brain processing the change in her friend's heart. Could it be that Roxas is —
— overpowered in some way?
Things are getting out of hands.
Xemnas intends no mercy, his intention clear and his dark soul willing to perform any sexual act to find sweet release. Never at the cost of his lover's dignity nonetheless. A sort of lust overtakes him when he moves Roxas into a kneeling position, arms bound behind his head, totally without clothing. The full beauty of his tiny body isn't on full display anymore and can't be denied. Only his face can't be seen, because Xemnas has mounted it, very slowly making his hips rise and fall. Roxas' juvenile features are thus completely obscured by Xemnas' muscular, round rear end, his heavy sac mashing against his chin and neck, his legs bent at the knee on either side.)
Oh, aren't you a beautiful sight this morning, my Key? So gorgeous and innocent, even with a fat cock in your face.
(What Xion isn't looking at but feeling is a perversion of mating, not procreative sex in the religiously-ordained way but rather a lewd, nasty oral.
Then Xemnas speaks with revelatory slowness, his pre-cum slick cock pressing against his lips.)
cw : oral, voyeurism -ish?
(Another hand shoots out, brown-skinned and slick, to grasp Roxas by the hip. Normally such a tired wrist and weakened grip would be an easy inconvenience from which to disengage, especially for a fighter of Roxas' athleticism and training. But in his aroused state, his grip is inhumanly virile. Impossibly possessive. Silver tresses brush against the young key bearer's back when Xemnas shifts into a kneeling position and kisses him from behind, the athletic curvature of his calves digging into the mattress. Small red crescents are blooming all over his skin, a badge of honor worn proudly. Just the thought of Roxas' friends gossiping on it drives him wild. The entirety of him belongs to Roxas.
In a sense, both men are proprietary of one another. Bite marks are the next step.)
What quirk of fate has led her to that hotel, I do wonder. Oh, that's right — your connection.
(Xion blinks up, gently petting the dog's face - over nose, between eyes, under chin.
From where she's sitting, the Replika doesn't make out the silhouette towering over Roxas nor her friend for that matter. Then she shyly averts her eyes, a cute shade of pink dying her cheeks. It looks like they're being intimate - a thing she's never experienced herself. She knows it with rare certainty. Yet - she's considered being so with Naminé.
The witch. Not the warty-nosed halloween kind, either. But the sensual, flowing, servant of the Light. The warmth that suffuses her veins while she lays on Naminé's lap is too sweet and gentle to be mere passion, but burns too low and dark to be the kind of affection she's supposed to feel. The seductive depths of her own wants terrifies her, as though peering into the fanged maw of an unknowable beast. She isn't sure whether it excites or frightens her. Too heavy, those things buried unsaid between them; to speak of it would be to tear the gossamer threads that keep them close. Xion feels different. Maybe she's too drunk on the emotions within Roxas' heart; arousal tinged with anxiety.)
Let her come. But first, we must strengthen our bond before it has to weather more turbulent waters.
(Or a repurposed Recusant's Sigil. It's always come alive in her hand in time of need, like the Keyblade, reinforcing her body, lending her the gifts of superhuman strength, speed and agility. The Mark of Heresy has always seemed to obey her, and it has been like her birthright, bonded to her in the early days of her rebirth. It's former purpose, inspired by vague memories of the Keyblade War, used to track the location of Nobodies and interesting puppets. Now that it's been reclaimed, it serves as the new symbol of their unbreakable friendship. Still she can't fathom why her heart is thudding with the obscenity of what she doesn't see, of what Roxas is feeling.
There's no threat nearby. Xion is dumbfounded for a moment, her brain processing the change in her friend's heart. Could it be that Roxas is —
— overpowered in some way?
Things are getting out of hands.
Xemnas intends no mercy, his intention clear and his dark soul willing to perform any sexual act to find sweet release. Never at the cost of his lover's dignity nonetheless. A sort of lust overtakes him when he moves Roxas into a kneeling position, arms bound behind his head, totally without clothing. The full beauty of his tiny body isn't on full display anymore and can't be denied. Only his face can't be seen, because Xemnas has mounted it, very slowly making his hips rise and fall. Roxas' juvenile features are thus completely obscured by Xemnas' muscular, round rear end, his heavy sac mashing against his chin and neck, his legs bent at the knee on either side.)
Oh, aren't you a beautiful sight this morning, my Key? So gorgeous and innocent, even with a fat cock in your face.
(What Xion isn't looking at but feeling is a perversion of mating, not procreative sex in the religiously-ordained way but rather a lewd, nasty oral.
Then Xemnas speaks with revelatory slowness, his pre-cum slick cock pressing against his lips.)
Open up, my beautiful fuckbird.