Title: Self-harm

Prompt: organization 13!Roxas/twilight town Roxas (work that however you want. au, in Sora's subconscious somehow, whatever. i just think it'd be sweet to see them as separate characters)
kink is mind games, and bondage. i'm thinking non-con but that can be up to the anon.

Notes: OT3 sneaked in there...

Whoever said they were like two sides of a coin was naive. There were many, many sides to them; the sunkissed kid with the heart of a hero; the pale kid with hollow eyes. A writhing, twitching darkness in the shape of a boy. A forgotten memory in the shape of a girl. The imprint of a second heart that had once taken refuge within their warm chest, and—the innocent boy that the ghost of that imprint had shaped for herself.

Within a crystalline heart, they exist as one, as many, like the facets of a diamond, like all the colours that make up light.

This is where Roxas wakes up.

Still tasting the sea breeze, the sunlight that had been sparkling in Naminé's eyes still dances as black dots in his vision. There's an aching happiness in his chest. Together, every day. Just like we promised. And, I… finally got to go to the beach…


The derisive sound vibrates through Roxas' whole body, leaving him dazed and disconnected, flat on his back against a huge stained glass window.

"I never got to go to the beach…"

Roxas turns his head, and comes face to face with glowing yellow eyes. He yelps, jerking back, as a creature claws over him, sniffing at his throat.

"Idiot," comes the voice again, and Roxas realises it's his own voice, and the creature pushes a cold nose into his neck, against his fluttering pulse. "It can't hurt you. Not as we are now."

Panting in fear, Roxas thrashes wildly, clawing as the cool sinuous form presses close, convulsing in silence.

It's then, pinned to the floor, voice stuck in his throat, that he sees the pale face above him, glowing in the dark. It's almost like looking into a warped mirror; all colour was bleached from the skin, and familiar jeans were replaced with sleek black leather.

"You… I… remember…"


"No, you don't. If you remembered, you'd be me."

The boy's face is icy, a white circle that seems to be floating closer, the rest of his body blending into the surrounding darkness.


"I made promises, too, you know," he whispers, and suddenly Roxas feels numb, the pearly stained glass beneath him suddenly streaking with

—the#00111000one"that;reaches the&furthest+is8—

red, and there's a burning sensation in Roxas' throat; he gasps. XIII kneels beside his face, watching impassively. The yellow eyes of the anti-form flick between the two.

I hate you so much.

XIII's eyes narrow, and now Roxas isn't sure which one of them said it.

Roxas struggles harder, as the cold eyes watch him. "…Are you going to kill me?" he continues, feeling the fear bite back up through the haze. "Because I'm not going to just lie here and take it!"

"You already killed me," is the quiet answer, and Roxas' struggles cease, and tears sting the back of his eyelids.

"I didn't ask for this," he chokes, and suddenly there's a gloved hand on his face. The touch sends strange sensations zinging through him, like stroking an exposed nerve.


The anti-form, still draped over him, absorbs his shudder with its elastic body, pressing him tighter into the glass. Roxas' pinned hand claws uselessly at the floor, as XIII's face draws closer, breath ghosting over his face, smelling of nothing.

"You're so controlled, dancing on the ends of her chains. It makes me sick."

XIII rubs his cheek against the anti-form's shoulder, and it judders, forcing Roxas over onto his stomach, melting into his back. Its unbreathing face is just over his shoulder.

The anti-form bunches its way up his back; Roxas isn't quite sure it's even human-shaped anymore.

The tip of something cold and metal is pressing into his lower back. Roxas cries out, and something dark and slimy forces its way past his lips, the taste of ink overpowering.

Is this really what I used to be like?

He can feel the waves of derision rolling right through his skin, feel the unfathomable eyes boring into the back of his head. The cold metal drags down, sharp as a razor, slicing his jeans neatly away. Cold air hits him, raising goosebumps on his flesh, and he whimpers around the thing in his mouth, something like stop, or maybe why.

"I'm not you," comes his answer, from a very strange place behind him, and then suddenly his legs are being forced up, so he's kneeling, bent double, the anti-form tightening its hold around his back, thighs, head forced down.

He can't move at all, and his back is starting to ache, when he feels XIII press a cold kiss to his spine, sending more strange shivers straight to his core.

Then there's something pressing against—oh holy fuck, what—and Roxas makes an outraged sound, muffled by the dark sinuous thing suddenly swelling in his mouth, vision blurring over with hot angry tears as it probes that tight ring of muscle.

"You want this, I know you do. You might not be me anymore, but we share a heart. I feel everything you feel."

What Roxas feels is confused. A second hand, oily with what must be the darkness rolling out of the anti-form, is creeping under his spread thighs, caressing him lightly, testing. His body starts to react of its own accord, fingers flexing against the glass. The strange raw feeling that XIII's touches induce are magnified a thousand times, and the involuntary noise that escapes him is far from angry, or pained.

It's then, as one hand starts to move up and down his shaft, that a finger of the other pushes past the ring of muscle and into tight heat. Someone moans, and he's sure it wasn't the anti-form, but not sure if it was himself.


XIII pushes another oily finger in, and then another. It's uncomfortable and weird, but—yes, there—the anti-form loosening its hold a little, pushing him onto elbows and knees, the thing in his mouth starts thrusting past his swollen lips, slowly, the anti-form holding his head in place. The hand on his cock pumping harder, better access.

Touching him in all the best places, knowing his body like… like…

It's too much; Roxas' hips snap back and forth, and then he's fucking himself on XIII's fingers, hitting that spot over and over, the other boy completely still, just listening to the strangled sounds coming from his throat.

Too much, too much, and he comes, feeling it rip through the whole space, blinding.

Suddenly, he's on his back again, and the thing in his mouth draws out, more saliva rolling down his chin, the taste of ink suddenly even worse. He gags, jaw aching, skin still shivering like it's been ripped back and his nerves are all exposed.

XIII's fingers draw out, too, and he feels empty, sick. He hears zippers coming undone, squeezes his eyes shut.


"He died," is the harsh grunt.

XIII is kneeling between Roxas' legs, leather peeled back to reveal an identical pale body. His white fingers are working on himself, his blue eyes glassy, fixed on Roxas' flushed face.

"I wasn't there. Because of you."

He comes all over his own hands, over Roxas, but Roxas doesn't mind.

XIII crawls over him, flopping down painfully on one arm, wrenching his shoulder a little. "You won't repress me anymore." The anti-form slides down the other side, hands grasping and feathering erratically over Roxas' stomach, ribs.

Sweat sticking his skin to the glass, Roxas thinks he can hear an ocean lapping against the pillar, far below them, imagines its sparkling pink with the residual glow of a princess' heart.

It soothes him, and he feels himself slipping back into a dreamless void.