She's kind of heart stopping, the way everything about her seeps with knowledge and power. Larxene is nothing if not a survivalist...she's nothing if she doesn't lust for power like a wanton.
Larxene is entirely sure about Roxas though. Every line of Roxas is familiar mystery and when Larxene touches her it's like being struck by lighting, over and over and over again.
She is pure undiluted woman. She's sly and tricky and she understands things about the emotions she doesn't have. She quietly lords it over everyone else and...
When her fingers are deep, oh, yes, yes, yes, deep inside Larxene's cunt, it's more like having her mind fucked.
Larxene slavers at the thought of her and loves to lose her control to Roxas' petal flesh. Pushing the pretty little girl down on the table, throwing plates and dishes to clattering crashing deaths upon the floor, spilling their victual blood messy and gooey and everywhere.
Roxas bites. A lot, because she can. Because it's a simple message of immaturity. Something she likes to wave around in her lover's face.
"Hickies are in bad taste, Larxene," she laughs and goes back to leaving a glistening trail of slick all over Larxene's thigh as she grinds down, thrusting the vibrating toy a little bit farther into her lover's ass.
Larxene grips her tiny breasts and squeezes until she knows it hurts and she can see her finger marks on those pretty pieces of meat.
Fighting with her is only a little less enjoyable than sex. Roxas is the only one with any talent. She hacks down Marluxia's plants, weather's Axel's flames, overpowers Lexaeus and...the stunned look on that stupid man's face was priceless.
She likes the way Roxas' keyblades are sharp enough to slice a beautiful, delicate, slit up the side of her coat, leaving just the barest of scratches up her thigh, stopping at the lacy black underwear.
She likes the secret smile they share, the one that reminds her of the way the girl looks when she's between her legs, mouthing her mound through the fabric, leaving a hot, sticky, spot of saliva in the crotch.
Roxas fucks with the others differently than she does with Larxene. And...the Nymph is hot and infuriated and insanely, helplessly, jealous.
She hates, she hates so violently, the girl for everything that makes her wonderful. The way she's so, so, so, so very woman and yet, that understanding and acceptance where...part of her is still man. That's the part she uses as she thrusts her tongue against Larxene's twat.
Roxas has perfected the art of making Larxene scream. It's a flawless act; it's wonderful and brutal, like thunder in the sky. Natural, which is horrible, awful, wretched, when the bitch doesn't exist. How can she be such a force of nature when she doesn't even exist? Unstoppable force with that body lined with smooth muscle, stronger than steel, stronger than shadow, better than light.
Then there's the balance, when it's Larxene's turn to grin and leave dark teeth marks in rings around her navel. When she desecrates the temple in the name of passion, mutual passions cried as the gorgeous woman tosses her head and arcs like lightning.
Roxas' skin tingles like static shock and slides when wet but never shines in the moonlight, as if to remind you she isn't there. She's a phantom, the embodiment of raw everything which is too unstable to fully form.
Sometimes, never, Larxene is content to watch, fingering her knives and remembering Roxas sucking on them like a hot, dripping cock, her razor gold hair falling over one of her steel tinged eyes. And then Larxene can smell her lover's pheromones laced within the air.
She watches her destroy Axel. Watches the girl splinter and crack and become resolute. The way she leaves Axel in the dust, the way she moves as leisurely as a courtesan and the way her keyblades flash like jewels. Watches her make Axel look like the filthy man he is. Watches existent war over her lovely curves.
She dominates. She teases and taunts with all the wiles of womankind, she flashes her wrist in a sudden flare of subtle sexuality, and Larxene feels her cunt drip. The squish of her flesh is louder, much louder, than Roxas' steady breathing. Larxene's fingers slipping into her hole, three plunging warm and deep...the slide is louder than the clank of her keyblades.
Roxas leaves a line of cerise on in her wake, drawn on Axel's long neck with her caress. Axel shudders, too weak to possibly be able to appreciate the gift she is giving to him. Larxene can see the pool of power and desire overflowing in the girl's eyes and...her thighs tremble as she fingers herself.
She does not watch, though she hears the echo of Axel's name and can hear the squirm of fabric and Roxas finally takes what she wants and...Larxene is insulted to be unable to provide it. She's indignant to walk away with her fingers smelling of her own juices and her thighs absolutely glistening.
Roxas. Larxene won't touch her again, sneering that she smells of jizz, even as her clit throbs between her silky legs. Even as Roxas is barely out of earshot before she leans against the wall for support and rips open the jacket in order to touch herself.
Larxene isn't satisfied. She haunts the girl's steps for a time until her lover, yet still, Roxas owns her, Roxas has tasted of her flesh and...Larxene too has tasted of the Lotus and she can't forget.
Roxas' eyes smile as she finally makes her accusations and Larxene's empty, jealous, rage, that she can't have at all, begins to build and crackle like electricity. The girl reaches out to her and...Larxene jerks away, frightened and in awe. She turns and she flees.
She cannot forget, she cannot. Warm breasts pressed against her own, sleek tongue like quicksilver invading her mouth...Rolling that girl over and attacking her asshole, hot, hot and bothered like a bitch in heat.
The other little shadow girl is all wrong. She's stick thin, her body straight, her chest flat, her eyes as far from limpid as possible. She has no power and she cries far too often. Marluxia eyes watch them both as the girl sobs, her great tears falling crayon green to the floor of the white memory castle which does nothing to ease the static in her skin.
Naminé's skin is dry and rough like paper. Her hips are knobby. Larxene pulls the dress back over the girl's body to hide the ugly thrust of her naked joints. Larxene leaves streaks of carmine upon that pretty white dress. Destroying something, which dares to try and remind her of Roxas.
The pretty little girl, who was part of a pretty little boy with a beautiful heart. Roxas is all the things he isn't though. She's sharp and dangerous and unthinkable, while he other is just a hero, nothing more.
Roxas is a beautiful lie of purity, Naminé is only a mockery because Naminé must be all the things Kairi isn't.
"Roxas," she gasps, having sunk so far as to let Marluxia inside her. Naminé is watching from her chair as Marluxia gnaws at her neck, as if hoping to reach the marrow.
He's needy and cocksure and inelegant in the way all men are. The more Larxene experiences this man the more she wishes she was really, truly, soulless enough to have sex with dogs.
At least Marluxia destroys her arousal and brings about only lust for the thorned vines ripping the delicate tissue of her innards. Leaving new scars and new poisons, which will, perhaps, finally overcome the spell of the Lotus that Roxas left behind.
Roxas with her supple breasts and small nipples the color of smeared blood mistaken for lipstick. Roxas' soft lips and sharp teeth. Her strong thighs clutching at Larxene's waist.
Larxene comes to Naminé. Invades the girl's mouth and body, fucking her on her own pencils, mopping up the blood and wonderful natural lube from between her legs with the stiff sheaves of paper. The shadow of a girl still moans, guilty and sacrilegious.
"Release me," Larxene says, biting down roughly onto the girl's nipple, feeling it harden and swell and enjoying the way she writhes beneath her, keening like a cat with a bullet embedded in its eye socket.
Naminé begins to draw. Her long, thin, spidery hands failing almost entirely to bring Roxas to life upon the paper. The lines are jagged and whirling into nonsensical patterns that altogether fail to resolve themselves into Roxas' eyes. Roxas' fantastically golden hair and unforgiving, cruel, eyes, full of knowledge and longing and content. The colors are flat or gaudy and always, always, wrong.
Larxene rips it into two and tells the girl to try again, watching over her shoulder, fondling and biting, watching as Naminé's hand falters.
At last, Naminé realizes what it is she must do and all that remains of a beautiful drawing, she destroys it, she destroys something awkward meant to play at beauty, she destroys it the same way Roxas destroys everything around her and then rebuilds from the fragments of humanity and abyss.
The ambrosia taste of her is forgotten, returned to the nothing from whence it came.
She's forgotten her.
Her heart still bound by need and lust.
Immolation, Insuccation, Imprecation