![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
salmon_pinkTitle: Whispered Despicable
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Pairing: Riku/Sora
Rating: R
Words: 1332
Timeline: Pre-Traverse Town
Notes: Questionable consent.
Summary: Riku wants to taste Sora’s nightmares, wants to chase them away, wants to create new fears. Wants so badly.
It wasn’t a joke.
It was cruel, it was vicious, it was heartless.
It wasn’t a joke.
The tone of his voice had been as sharp as his words. There was no mistaking the emotion behind the jibe.
But Sora had accepted it as a joke, only blinking up at him with impossibly wide eyes.
It wasn’t a joke.
His feelings weren’t a joke.
He burned.
Every time Kairi giggled at their banter, at their playfights, at their relationship, the melodic sound of her voice cut through him like the sharpest blade.
God, he burned.
And Sora was all innocent smiles and messy hair and still awkward in his adolescence. So easy to tease, so easy to rile, so easy to draw into another round of their never-ending war. And Riku had long since stopped caring that his own motivation for taunting Sora, for finding an excuse to scrap with him, to pin him, hands everywhere, so so close, had become something more sinister than the childish affection he felt for a friend.
Kairi had begun to watch him, and he didn’t even care, didn’t care what she thought she knew, with her shrewd eyes, too old for her face. Only cared about the hold she had over Sora, the focus of his attention, the way Riku had always been before she’d appeared in their lives. Hated it. Suspected that, with time, he’d come to hate her.
Sora was so eager to take Kairi away, to show her the world. Riku remembered when Sora had been eager to see it for himself, not to show it to somebody else. But Riku never wanted to let him go, used to tell him stories at night, curled up in a tent on the beach, just the two of them, young bodies entangled, Riku whispering in Sora’s ear, all the horrors beyond their island, beyond their world, all the things that could hurt him if he ever left the warmth of Riku’s arms.
Kairi’s arrival had only fanned the flames of Sora’s curiosity, whispered nightmares forgotten in the face of such glowing evidence that what lay beyond their horizon could be honey-sweet and good and effortlessly pure.
Riku had been forced to change tactics, unable to hold Sora down, a part of him not wanting to control such a wanton spirit. He joined their crusade, a seemingly willing participant in their planned adventure, and let himself imagine discovering new lands at Sora’s side. Wondered if the light of a new world would force Sora to truly see him. Wondered if Sora would have a new smile for each new world.
But Kairi was always there, with her tingling, stinging laughter, and her analytical eyes.
The only time they found themselves alone was back on that beach, huddled under the flimsy tent, Sora already aware that it would be improper for Kairi, a young girl, to sleep there with them.
And Sora would rest his head on Riku’s chest, eyes bright despite the hour of night, and beg to hear stories about what they would find once they completed their raft and set out from the Destiny Islands, because Riku no longer spun nightmare tapestries, but instead created fantastical worlds where he and Sora could be together and Sora would ask after Kairi, and her place in Riku’s imaginings, and Riku would acknowledge her presence and be quick to distract Sora with another tale of sword fights and bravery.
And Sora would fall asleep with his nose buried at the nape of Riku’s neck, and Riku would soothe his hands down Sora’s back, caught in the gentle rhythm of Sora’s breathing, and he’d kiss Sora’s forehead and he’d dream without sleeping.
It wasn’t a joke.
There was nothing, no more laughter in his soul, his childhood slipping away from him.
And then the reality of the raft shifted without Riku realising; overnight it changed from idle talk and wishful thinking to solid plans and gathered provisions.
The nights in the tent became more and more scarce.
Riku tried to hold on to them, the perfect sensation of Sora’s lips at his throat, Sora’s hair tickling his chin, but he found himself clinging to them too tightly, warping them, tainting his own memories. Now, when Sora slept, Riku’s hands weren’t content to stay still, had to slip under the fabric of Sora’s nightshirt, had to taste the skin there, there and everywhere, had to trace the path of his ribs, to brush over young nipples, quickly growing impatient and stirred by the delightful way that Sora squirmed against him, they had to pinch at the flesh there, unforgiving, anything to hear Sora whimper like that, anything to feel him press closer to Riku, deeper into his embrace, unconsciously seeking protection, never suspecting Riku could be the one twisting his dreams.
They found all the materials they needed for the raft.
That night Riku leaned over Sora’s sleeping body and whispered filth into his ear, every fantasy, every half-formed thought he’d ever experienced, everything he’d ever wanted to do to Sora since they’d hit puberty, since he’d discovered that love came in many different forms. And Sora had whined and twisted his hands in Riku’s shirt and burrowed into Riku’s arms and Riku couldn’t find it in himself to feel guilty.
Sora and Kairi found a way to lash the logs together safely, with no danger of the raft breaking up. They worked together, before Riku had joined them, and Riku had seen the look in Kairi’s too-wise eyes and felt more threatened by her than he’d felt by anything before.
It wasn’t a joke.
He would have, in that moment, split the paopu fruit with Kairi, forced it down her throat if need be, paraded the display of so-called commitment in front of Sora, watching the way his heart bled along with the fleshy fruit. He would have done anything to spite Sora, wanted him to feel what he was feeling. And he’d expected to hate Kairi, but he never expected to hate Sora.
That night his hands were rough and his words even more so, and he’d bitten at Sora’s ear, confident that he wouldn’t wake him, hands everywhere they’d been before, and places they’d never ventured, that even in his desire Riku could understand were beyond a line he couldn’t cross. But suddenly it was important that nothing should be held back, and his hands slipped lower, teased at new flesh, coaxed it, worshipped it, feeling Sora pant beside him, eyelids flickering but never waking, wondering if Sora felt the same way Riku felt when he touched himself in the same manner, wanting him to feel it, hissing all the lurid thoughts that crossed Riku’s mind, alone in the dark, wishing for the isolation and sin of their little tent on the beach, and then Riku was drinking in Sora’s tortured cry of release. Held it in his heart, let it consume him, let it replace an important part of him, a part that felt shame at his actions, a part he no longer needed.
Sora had slipped from the tent early the next morning, believing Riku to be asleep, embarrassed curses whispered to the dawn at seeing his waking state. Riku had waited until the sandy footsteps had disappeared, and then he’d smiled to himself.
And then. Their little raft would be ready by morning, and it could be their last night on their island, on their world, but Sora made excuses, insisted on spending the night at home, in the comfort of his own room.
And when the storm had raged outside, Riku had found himself drawn to it. Understood that it was coming for him, that the emptiness of his soul had helped call it forward.
It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a lie.
He was ready for the darkness.
And, for a brief moment, he’d felt Sora’s hand in his, their fingers entwined.
And then he’d slipped away, Sora’s cry echoing in his ears.
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Pairing: Riku/Sora
Rating: R
Words: 1332
Timeline: Pre-Traverse Town
Notes: Questionable consent.
Summary: Riku wants to taste Sora’s nightmares, wants to chase them away, wants to create new fears. Wants so badly.
It wasn’t a joke.
It was cruel, it was vicious, it was heartless.
It wasn’t a joke.
The tone of his voice had been as sharp as his words. There was no mistaking the emotion behind the jibe.
But Sora had accepted it as a joke, only blinking up at him with impossibly wide eyes.
It wasn’t a joke.
His feelings weren’t a joke.
He burned.
Every time Kairi giggled at their banter, at their playfights, at their relationship, the melodic sound of her voice cut through him like the sharpest blade.
God, he burned.
And Sora was all innocent smiles and messy hair and still awkward in his adolescence. So easy to tease, so easy to rile, so easy to draw into another round of their never-ending war. And Riku had long since stopped caring that his own motivation for taunting Sora, for finding an excuse to scrap with him, to pin him, hands everywhere, so so close, had become something more sinister than the childish affection he felt for a friend.
Kairi had begun to watch him, and he didn’t even care, didn’t care what she thought she knew, with her shrewd eyes, too old for her face. Only cared about the hold she had over Sora, the focus of his attention, the way Riku had always been before she’d appeared in their lives. Hated it. Suspected that, with time, he’d come to hate her.
Sora was so eager to take Kairi away, to show her the world. Riku remembered when Sora had been eager to see it for himself, not to show it to somebody else. But Riku never wanted to let him go, used to tell him stories at night, curled up in a tent on the beach, just the two of them, young bodies entangled, Riku whispering in Sora’s ear, all the horrors beyond their island, beyond their world, all the things that could hurt him if he ever left the warmth of Riku’s arms.
Kairi’s arrival had only fanned the flames of Sora’s curiosity, whispered nightmares forgotten in the face of such glowing evidence that what lay beyond their horizon could be honey-sweet and good and effortlessly pure.
Riku had been forced to change tactics, unable to hold Sora down, a part of him not wanting to control such a wanton spirit. He joined their crusade, a seemingly willing participant in their planned adventure, and let himself imagine discovering new lands at Sora’s side. Wondered if the light of a new world would force Sora to truly see him. Wondered if Sora would have a new smile for each new world.
But Kairi was always there, with her tingling, stinging laughter, and her analytical eyes.
The only time they found themselves alone was back on that beach, huddled under the flimsy tent, Sora already aware that it would be improper for Kairi, a young girl, to sleep there with them.
And Sora would rest his head on Riku’s chest, eyes bright despite the hour of night, and beg to hear stories about what they would find once they completed their raft and set out from the Destiny Islands, because Riku no longer spun nightmare tapestries, but instead created fantastical worlds where he and Sora could be together and Sora would ask after Kairi, and her place in Riku’s imaginings, and Riku would acknowledge her presence and be quick to distract Sora with another tale of sword fights and bravery.
And Sora would fall asleep with his nose buried at the nape of Riku’s neck, and Riku would soothe his hands down Sora’s back, caught in the gentle rhythm of Sora’s breathing, and he’d kiss Sora’s forehead and he’d dream without sleeping.
It wasn’t a joke.
There was nothing, no more laughter in his soul, his childhood slipping away from him.
And then the reality of the raft shifted without Riku realising; overnight it changed from idle talk and wishful thinking to solid plans and gathered provisions.
The nights in the tent became more and more scarce.
Riku tried to hold on to them, the perfect sensation of Sora’s lips at his throat, Sora’s hair tickling his chin, but he found himself clinging to them too tightly, warping them, tainting his own memories. Now, when Sora slept, Riku’s hands weren’t content to stay still, had to slip under the fabric of Sora’s nightshirt, had to taste the skin there, there and everywhere, had to trace the path of his ribs, to brush over young nipples, quickly growing impatient and stirred by the delightful way that Sora squirmed against him, they had to pinch at the flesh there, unforgiving, anything to hear Sora whimper like that, anything to feel him press closer to Riku, deeper into his embrace, unconsciously seeking protection, never suspecting Riku could be the one twisting his dreams.
They found all the materials they needed for the raft.
That night Riku leaned over Sora’s sleeping body and whispered filth into his ear, every fantasy, every half-formed thought he’d ever experienced, everything he’d ever wanted to do to Sora since they’d hit puberty, since he’d discovered that love came in many different forms. And Sora had whined and twisted his hands in Riku’s shirt and burrowed into Riku’s arms and Riku couldn’t find it in himself to feel guilty.
Sora and Kairi found a way to lash the logs together safely, with no danger of the raft breaking up. They worked together, before Riku had joined them, and Riku had seen the look in Kairi’s too-wise eyes and felt more threatened by her than he’d felt by anything before.
It wasn’t a joke.
He would have, in that moment, split the paopu fruit with Kairi, forced it down her throat if need be, paraded the display of so-called commitment in front of Sora, watching the way his heart bled along with the fleshy fruit. He would have done anything to spite Sora, wanted him to feel what he was feeling. And he’d expected to hate Kairi, but he never expected to hate Sora.
That night his hands were rough and his words even more so, and he’d bitten at Sora’s ear, confident that he wouldn’t wake him, hands everywhere they’d been before, and places they’d never ventured, that even in his desire Riku could understand were beyond a line he couldn’t cross. But suddenly it was important that nothing should be held back, and his hands slipped lower, teased at new flesh, coaxed it, worshipped it, feeling Sora pant beside him, eyelids flickering but never waking, wondering if Sora felt the same way Riku felt when he touched himself in the same manner, wanting him to feel it, hissing all the lurid thoughts that crossed Riku’s mind, alone in the dark, wishing for the isolation and sin of their little tent on the beach, and then Riku was drinking in Sora’s tortured cry of release. Held it in his heart, let it consume him, let it replace an important part of him, a part that felt shame at his actions, a part he no longer needed.
Sora had slipped from the tent early the next morning, believing Riku to be asleep, embarrassed curses whispered to the dawn at seeing his waking state. Riku had waited until the sandy footsteps had disappeared, and then he’d smiled to himself.
And then. Their little raft would be ready by morning, and it could be their last night on their island, on their world, but Sora made excuses, insisted on spending the night at home, in the comfort of his own room.
And when the storm had raged outside, Riku had found himself drawn to it. Understood that it was coming for him, that the emptiness of his soul had helped call it forward.
It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a lie.
He was ready for the darkness.
And, for a brief moment, he’d felt Sora’s hand in his, their fingers entwined.
And then he’d slipped away, Sora’s cry echoing in his ears.
