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The dreaming city outside of her window didn’t breathe. Its neon streets were full of facsimiles, pale imitations that marked it as something less than real. There were no cars, no tail lights to fan out through the dark roads that spanned it. It was cold and dead, its heart as hollow as the Nobodies that walked it and as unwelcoming as the thorny castle that held her. They called it The World That Never Was — for good reason.
Naminé didn’t like it any better than Castle Oblivion.
One cage wasn’t better than any other, and trading jailors left her with no comfort whatsoever. Marluxia had been cruel, his thorn-riddled hands a daily reminder that she wasn’t meant to escape her binds. Saix was only marginally different. Some days, he comforted her and shared in her lament. Others, he regarded her with little more than contempt, gold eyes rimmed with a cold, distant hate that she didn’t comprehend.
She could feel his eyes on her from the other side of her cell, burning across her slim shoulders like brands. Even years later, they reached her still, to perpetually cast her out of heaven like a stone.
She awoke with a start at Roxas’s side, her face buried in the bare of his neck. He was a space heater at night, knowledge that led her to drag the comforter off of the bed with her as both feet carried her across the carpet to his door. Outside, quiet life droned on like it always did in Twilight Town. She could hear dogs whining in the alley, the tram plugging along in the distant plaza. There were footsteps too, but none of them familiar.
Naminé closed the door behind her when she stepped into the hall.
There was no use in waking him over a nightmare. Roxas would have listened like he always did, and she would have felt better, but he didn’t need the burden. His own days were long and he worked hard to keep them all in place. Lea was gone for the summer, working hard at mastering the skills that would one day lead him to the life of adventure he always wanted. Xion was gone with him, and perhaps that was the reason she was there, sleeping in the same bed with a boy that was never going to be hers.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, day in, day out, when he was so agonizingly close to her and the heart that now burgeoned in her chest. Sometimes, she ran her fingers over his neck in his sleep, imagined what he might say if he were to wake up and catch her before she could withdraw. On her way to the kitchen, she thought about what Xion might say, how she felt about the witch that took her place when she left home for long enough.
Roxas wasn’t using either of them, but Naminé knew that she was using him to fill a void she shouldn’t have had in the first place.
Memories of nights spent in her cage threatened her from the back of her mind until she pulled the kettle down from the cupboards. It didn’t take her long to prep her nightly tea. The monotony helped her focus. Heat the pot. Draw the tea, then the water. Only the steeping process brought her any difficulty. It took some time, and the clock over the counter made for poor company.
Its rigid, black numbers stared back at her like watchers on the wall, its subtle tick beating in time with the heart in her chest until a set of sleepy footsteps changed her tempo. She turned, expecting to see Roxas.
Instead, she locked eyes with her jailor. His eyes were no longer lined with gold, but that didn’t sate the unease that spread through her with his every step.
His messy, blue hair ran like wire down the sides of his face. The scar across his nose still splashed between his eyes like a comet, visible even in the semi-dark of the kitchenette. Naminé’s lungs froze in her chest like they always did whenever she saw him, and phantom fingers ran along the back of her neck as she quietly turned back to her tea in an effort to ignore the man that shambled across the floorboard.
Isa — not Saix, she forced herself to remember — came up behind her without a word. She flinched as he reached over her head, arms pulling the cupboards apart to rifle through them. She could feel his breath against the top of her head, feel the warmth radiating off of him as he bumped against her in an effort to pull a glass down from the shelf.
“Mm,” he grunted.
She took that as an apology.
“It’s alright,” she said, despite the shiver.
He was Lea’s roommate, and Roxas’s by extension. The four of them shared the flat above the Usual Spot together, involved in some venture that she didn’t fully understand. Isa loved Lea and he didn’t at the same time, and Lea loved Isa without reservation. Xion loved Roxas, who loved whoever he loved, and they all fed mutually off of those feelings as if they made any sense.
That might’ve been the jealousy talking, but she couldn’t and didn’t want to be sure. Trying not to dwell on it, she idly watched her tea while Isa poured water from the tap. It took some time before she felt his eyes on her again, lingering on the outline of her shoulders, then running down the sides of her dress as if—
“Naminé.”
“Isa,” she greeted in return, not meeting his gaze.
He wasn’t the same man he used to be. That didn’t leave her feeling any more comfortable with him. He was not as bad as Marluxia — but it wasn’t difficult to see the degrees of his cruelty in her regardless. She remembered the bruises on her wrists, the feeling of his teeth at her neck and the cruel songs he sang into her ear on the nights she wished she could forget. Those were hollow days, hollow memories left behind for a girl less whole than she.
For a moment, Isa didn’t say anything else. He studied her from his place at the sink, arms crossed over his chest and his white t-shirt colored gold by the stovelight. He still cut a fearsome outline, even years after the fact. His baggy clothes did little to hide the sharpness of his face or the lien of his muscles. They didn’t hide the knobs of his knuckles as they curled around the glass in his hand.
How easy it would’ve been for him to shatter.
“You’re here for Roxas,” he assumed. “Is he awake?”
“Yes,” she said. “And no.”
“Mm.”
Isa took a long drag of his water and let the glass edge rest against his lower lip.
She made her best attempt at small talk, trying to ignore the murder of blonde crows rising across the back of her neck while she poured her tea.
“Lea’s gone for the summer?”
“Until next week. You’re here until…?”
“Until Xion returns.”
Isa nodded.
Pinned in place, they said nothing for what felt like an eternity. She sipped at her tea, still too hot to drink meaningfully, and he swilled his water around in his cup, nursing it with one hand as he leaned against the counter. It felt like there was something more he wanted to say, a feeling on the tip of his tongue that he lacked the eloquence to possess. She could feel it in the air, see it in the way he watched her.
It didn’t feel like regret, and didn’t read that way in his eyes. It felt more like a hunger, one that burned in him like a void. Lips drawn across his blank face, he poured the last of his glass down the sink and rinsed it.
“I’m not sure why you come.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“He doesn’t love you,” Isa ventured, cutting through the veneer of civility she expected him to uphold. “Not like he does her.”
She didn’t have anything to say to that. He wasn’t saying that to hurt her.
No, it wasn’t a barb.
Just a probe.
“I can’t imagine how hollow it must feel.”
She inhaled sharply, regarding her tea as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. There was no reason for her to look up, not even when he approached, glass in hand, to take his place behind her again. Every part of her stiffened as he reached over her to open them, his chin inches from the top of her head. Isa glanced down at her as he put the glass away, arms still holding the doors open as if he might reach for something else instead.
She could smell the shampoo still fresh in his hair, the cedar from his aftershave spruced by a cross of patchouli and some unknown spice. It was a stark departure from the bloody scent she remembered, and the way it filled her head left her wary of the man behind her. His eyes were evergreen, now, but he was every inch the monster he once was. She could feel that from him, how ready he was to lash out if he found a reason to.
And instead, he chose to be tender.
More tender than she expected.
“That must be difficult.”
“Are you… sorry for me, Isa?”
“No,” he said, thoughtful. “I know how you feel — how it feels to cling on to the things way used to be, as if they might change for the better.”
She glanced up at him and found him staring down at her, dark green eyes latched onto her face like beds of pine laying across a forest floor. A strange feeling coursed through her then, intensified when he brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead, and faded when he stepped away from her on the way back to his room.
His gait wasn’t the same one she remembered. It was no longer proud. It was steeled by times she hadn’t been there for, difficulties she hadn’t endured. Like Atlas, he carried the pain of the past across his shoulders until he stepped into the threshold of the darkness of his still-empty bedroom.
When she went back to bed the next evening, her nightmares returned.
Golden eyes, lips across her neck like crosses, the sensation of thumbs roaming her shoulders and the way they slipped her dress down her side.
Those images were cast in her memory, and the tea didn’t help her forget them. She stared down at it coolly until Isa once again stepped out of his bedroom, when her eyes flickered to the clock over the counter. It was five minutes later than it had been the night before, and she wasn’t sure why she kept track of that.
He went through the same motions. Poured his water, nursed it for a long, silent moment by the sink. She watched his back, her heart thundering in her chest until the exact second he turned around to freeze it.
“You can’t sleep,” he guessed.
“Astute observation.”
“Something on your mind?”
You, she thought, and the things you did when you weren’t you.
“No,” Naminé lied.
“I assure you I’m not.”
She rose from her seat at the dinner table, brought her now-empty cup of tea to the sink, and rinsed it carefully. He stood next to her all the while, placing his own glass in her hands when she finished washing hers. She took it without sparing him a glance. That didn’t prevent him from staring — hypocritical wolf that he was — or from following her to the cupboard, fingers tracing lines across the countertop.
When she turned, he was waiting there for her, arms splayed out around her like walls to pen in a songbird. She shrank against the counter’s edge, exhaled, and tried to forget the images that played in her head.
A rough hand rose to her chin. His thumb traced the outline of her jaw as she followed it with her eyes, absolutely paralyzed.
"You can't lie to me."
She opened her mouth to speak. The words hitched in her throat and his thumb rose to the swell of her bottom lip. Calloused Fingers cupped her cheeks. Words were no longer possible, not when all she could see in the green of his eyes was the gold that used to be there.
His touch was more tender, but he was every inch the wolf she remembered.
"Please don't," she whispered. "Not here."
Finger by finger, he let her go.
"Stop staring at me."
Somehow, the ease of it left her feeling more disappointed than before. Her fingers came to rest at the base of her throat, plying over bruises years gone. Naminé retreated even as he walked away, the small of her back resting against the linoleum behind her.
In the daylight hours, he ignored her. His eyes traveled over her in the hall and he said nothing to her at the breakfast table they shared. Isa’s cool but indifferent demeanor in the long of the day were a stark departure from what she saw of him at night. Even when they were left alone together, waiting for Roxas to get out of the bathroom or stuck in the same space while he went to work at the Bistro, Naminé found only the supposition of tension.
At night, by contrast, he was her jailor born again.
His hands ran roughshod over her shoulders, his lips found her neck more than once. It would have been wiser of her to stay away from the kitchen and put up with the nightmares he left behind for her, perhaps easier and less daunting.
There was no explanation she could think of for what brought her back to the kitchen night after night, or for how her eyes clung to him on her last day. All she knew fell away when she watched him emerge from the bathroom one night, cast in the pale gold of the hall and dripping with shower water. His shirt was gone, and his pants were either missing or still in the dryer. A towel was slung around his shoulders, and her eyes followed it and the comet-like bead of water that raced down his left pectoral to the outline of his abdomen.
Isa was cut from the same stone as Saix. His body was well honed, if beaten. Scars crisscrossed his arms, with one, long wound that stretched out like a star across his solar plexus. She didn’t know who gave it to him, or how he got it. She only knew that it must’ve been a grave battle and that she shouldn’t have been staring.
He caught her before she could look away.
Naminé averted her eyes quickly, turning back to the cup she was turning over in her hands. It was devoid of the tea she usually poured herself. She hadn’t prepared it, instead mulling over the assumption that he would probably ruin it for her anyway. If she wasn’t careful, she would associate her chamomile with the way he looked at her.
She felt him approach.
His hand found the small of her back, roamed up to the back of her neck. It pushed away stray strands of golden hair and paved the way for his lips — little, pepper-like kisses found her before he did, gentler than she expected. Naminé exhaled in response, aware that he was growing bolder by the day. It would be best to stop things before they left her control. It wasn’t too late to tell him off, to leave things as broken as she found them.
Instead, she remained silent until he turned her head for her, forefinger and thumb latching to her chin. He was still warm from the shower, his cedar aftershave at its strongest. The scent of it filled her head. It wasn’t a mercy he afforded her in the past, and some twisted part of her could acknowledge that he hadn’t been so handsome as her tormentor. It was only out of context that she dared appreciate him.
“You’re going to leave,” he insisted. “Tomorrow morning. The others will be back tomorrow afternoon.”
“And?”
“You’ll be gone when they get here.”
Naminé didn’t blink.
“And if I stay?”
Isa didn’t say a word.
“What will you do then? Hurt me? Accost me some more?”
“I’m not going to let you wreck my home,” he hissed, face only inches from hers.
“You’re the one doing that. I haven’t done anything.”
“Every inch of you reminds me of her. Every minute that you’re here, you poison the life I’ve built — just like she did back then.”
Naminé’s brow furrowed.
Who was he talking about?
Before she could ask, he took her lips with his. She leaned back against the counter in an attempt to draw away, but he hemmed her in with his arms. Resistance faded as she found his rhythm for the first time, her hands rising to the edges of the towel around his neck. It would’ve been better to strangle him than to give in, to give him what he wanted. The thought lingered in her mind for only a second before the realization struck her.
The last week hadn’t been chance.
Day after day, she risked exposure to the hunger in him. Now, faced with that hunger bare for the first time, she wanted to devour him whole every bit as much as he did her. He’d always been a wolf, and now, somehow, so was she.
She pushed back, arms looping around his neck as he drove her into the countertop. Harried kisses trailed across her cheek and she buried her face in his neck, heaving short, heavy breaths into his skin.
The way his lips buzzed against her ear — how his teeth found the lobe, the words he whispered into them… it all fell away, replaced by a primal static she didn’t have words for. He drew away from her before she could question him, his fingers curling around her throat. He applied no pressure, but held her at arm’s length to study her. It wasn’t hard to see how he regarded her.
She was a ghost to him. An apparition of a long-lost girl she didn’t know the name of.
“We should stop,” she realized, aloud.
“It’s too late for that.”
The hand on her throat sank.
It tugged on the front of her dress, played with the fabric, and then slid down the flat of her stomach. She felt her entire body churn in response, nearly threatening to buckle in anticipation.
She stiffened, and Isa glared down at her like the scientist he once must have been. Naminé wondered if that made him more analytical or merely more hungry. She tried not to shake, but the roughness of his hands and the way he pulled her close — as if to deny her retreat...
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” she admitted.
Heat played through the symphony of scars that turned his shoulders into a battlefield. Inch by inch, her fingers sank from his neck to trace over them. Each one was a leftover, a sort of go-between that tethered the past to the present. She wondered how he got some, ignored others, and found the biggest ones lingering in his eyes when she finally glanced back up to them.
For the first time, she saw no wolf, but a wounded animal. Somehow, that led her heart to beat faster. As if that knowledge left him more dangerous than before. Gingerly, he leaned in, his fingers digging into the sides of her cheeks. It stung a little, but that pain was muted the second his lips took hers again. She balked against the cupboards, the fabric of her dress and the round of her ass touching the countertop.
He picked her up without a word, dropping her on the edge of the counter without so much as an apology for the way she gasped.
And then her hands were all over him, his all over her, and they were lost together for just long enough that she could feel the heat in him once again…
Her heart skipped a beat when Isa tugged her forward, pulling her off of the countertop and carrying her toward the den. Her legs wrapped around his waist to keep herself up, her arms once again looped around his neck. He was an anchor until the moment he threw her down on the couch and climbed over top of her, one arm draped over her shoulder and the other pinning her hip to the cushion.
Naminé reached for his face, only for one of those rough hands to pin her wrist to the arm of the couch. She flinched and tore her lips away from his when he went to kiss her, only to feel his lips pepper the borders of her mouth. Faithful climbers to a peak she couldn’t see, they spread upward along the vine of her jaw to plant a flag where her ear met her cheek. His fingers left her wrist, brushed away the hair that covered her ear, and cleared the way for his lips to take the bottom of her earlobe.
Naminé gasped and hit him in the chest, free hand smacking against his left pectoral. He grabbed her wrist again and brought his lips down on the top of her ear next.
Naminé moaned in response, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine him as someone softer. Every time, the image of whoever she could fathom — the gentle Sora, the stoic Roxas, even at one point Ventus — faded, replaced by the memory of the jailer that now serviced her. Every breath into her ear was a song that she couldn’t ignore, biding her knees to come together and forcing him to shift positions so that he could reestablish control.
She went to move, to perhaps say something, but he brought a hand down on her throat.
“Quiet,” he hissed. “Do you want them to hear you?”
Naminé obeyed, for a moment.
“No,” she acquiesced.
His fingers drummed along the column of her throat, danced low to her diaphragm. His lips played against the top of her ear, the border of the lobe, peppered her cheek — they danced across her skin like weary travelers, paraded toward her neck, and it was then that she gasped again.
Isa pulled her further down the couch and she let out a hoarse squeak, caught off guard by the sudden roughness from the man who’d been gently nursing her to pleasure but a moment ago. She had forgotten how quickly he could change, his nature torn between the jailor she knew and the man she wanted to respect.
His fingers dug into her hips and pressed down on her sides while he drew from the font of her neck, leaving behind little, red marks that burned on her skin like brands. Each one led her to clench her fists as he worked his way down to the place where her dress met her buxom. It was modest, and as his fingers ripped through the fabric, exposed to the half-dark of the empty living room.
Naminé’s arms fell to cover herself, but Isa shoved them away again, his tongue lashing out at her breasts with voracity. Both of her hands pinned over her head by his left, he used his right to cup her breast while his tongue came down on her nipple. Naminé squirmed in response, her hips writhing against his in an effort to relieve the pressure building in her. His lips sank lower and he pushed aside what remained of her dress, carving a trail down the flat of her pale stomach to find the hem of her panties.
Her hands came down and he pushed them away, lifted her by the hips, and roughly tugged them down her legs. They were gone and forgotten by the time his fingers found her entrance. She thought of speaking out, of stopping things before they went too far…
And found no regret for her indecision when he pierced her.
Every breath that followed was somehow both cold and unbearably hot, both the ones that he left against the flat of her belly and the ones leaving her lungs. Her fingers finally found purchase — in his hair — and he sank lower to service her.
His tongue replaced the flat of his thumb against her jewel, and his piercing eyes stared up at her from between her legs. She watched him for a moment, trying desperately not to make a sound, aware of how perilously easy it would be to wake up the others sleeping in the house… or how easily they could be heard from the street below, or the couch downstairs.
She moaned his name anyway, unabashedly. He growled in response, a coarse hand now roaming the flat of her belly. Fingers played across her skin, stoking the fire building in her belly when they found the nub of the nipple he’d been nursing earlier. Naminé gritted her teeth, but her lips parted again not long after.
To err was human.
What they were doing was beyond err.
Naminé’s fingers tightened in his hair as the ball of electricity in her gut spooled tighter and tighter. Her legs arched, thighs closing around Isa’s head as his tongue worked over her blossom and his fingers curled inside of her. Then, just as quickly, her hands shifted to cover her face. One slid down across her cheek and the other fled to the far side of the couch so that she could hide her blush with her forearm, as if that might somehow placate her need for privacy or her denial of the shame now plaguing her.
Somehow, that shame left her more helpless in the face of the pleasure he brought her. Naminé’s thighs squeezed again, harder, more tightly, but she could feel nothing but the itch building down below. What had been subtle moments ago had now reached a boiling point, driven by the ministrations of his tongue and the way his name sounded on her lips.
And then, in an instant, her entire world fell to pieces.
The breath caught in her lungs and her legs went numb. Toes curled and her fingers balled themselves into fists, her entire body suddenly rigid as the tension in her exploded. Below, Isa let out what might’ve been a laugh, what might’ve been a sigh — when he rose, his face was slick and wet.
Feeling returned to her in tatters.
First came her breathing, ragged and hoarse. Then her awareness, when the stars in her eyes faded into the dim spackles of the living room ceiling. Next, she could feel Isa over top of her, his muscular body a weight and an anchor both.
He wiped his still wet fingers down her cheek and then took her by the face for one more rough kiss. Naminé’s lips moved in slow motion to reply, a beat behind, and Isa pushed her chin to the side a moment later. To her, the world felt as if it were moving both too fast and too slow. Carefully, she propped herself up on her elbows, fingers searching for him — his neck, his wrist, his hand — anything she could grasp onto.
But he was gone just as swiftly as he came, having marched down the hallway without a word. Her dress was still ripped in half down the middle, her panties now discarded, her body exhausted, her pleasure a new chain.
The next time he found her was after Xion’s return.
The atmosphere of the house changed indelibly after her arrival, and Naminé couldn’t bear to look at her for more than a minute at a time. Xion was so cheery — so very Sora — that seeing her with Roxas led her inevitably into another room. Somehow, she still gave chase, ghost that she was, to follow the blonde around and pepper her with questions of the heart that left Naminé no closer to being in her corner.
It didn’t help that she hung off of Roxas either, her arm always around his shoulder or his hand on the small of her back.
Lea hung off of Isa with equal disregard, though the older man hardly seemed to notice. His attention was always laser focused. Whether chopping vegetables, setting the table, or merely attending to his daily chores, he ignored Naminé just as tightly as he did his actual partner. For a time, she wondered if perhaps he had chosen to ignore her, to put their tryst as far behind them as he could.
She was proven wrong in the middle of the day.
Lea was gone, out to buy groceries or perhaps train or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing on a Tuesday afternoon. Xion was with him, insistent on helping out in whatever way she could with such a pleasant, bubbly fervor that it made Naminé’s heart sink a little. That left Naminé to the guest room — where she was supposed to be staying in the first place. Roxas’s room was right beside it, leaving her to listen through the thin walls as they whispered and shared the night together.
Those nights and the thin walls that made them possible were the hardest to bear.
In the middle of the afternoon, however, there was nothing to separate her from Roxas but the sound of his music through the walls. The thought of visiting him still filled her with dread. How could she face him when she knew he didn’t even see her whenever he looked at her? In his eyes, her blonde hair would always burn black before long, and she could only imagine that he didn’t think of her when he wasn’t face to face with her.
It felt so silly, so childish to think.
It still plagued her.
She didn’t notice the way Isa crept into her room, or the way he hung in the doorway for what might’ve been an eternity before approaching her chair from behind. She rose, by coincidence, only for him to push her back toward her desk. At first she reached out, fumbling — but found the stiffness of his chest with her hand and only turned to face him.
“Isa,” she said, her voice as neutral, as blank, as the white witch it once belonged to.
“You should have left,” he growled.
Somehow, that truth felt less like a warning now.
“Perhaps,” she said.
His fingers traced along the borders of her jaw. She resisted the urge to stiffen when they came to rest at the trail of her neck, where her throat gave way to the top of her chest. His eyes ran from hers to the cleavage of her blank shirt, where white fabric bunched together as she leaned away from him.
Isa pulled her back with a rough hand and took her lips with his. Naminé pushed him away with both hands, eyes glancing immediately toward the doorframe.
“We can’t,” she insisted. “Stop.”
Then he shoved her to the desk, the round of her ass landing over the pages of her notebook. She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her by taking her lips with his. By the time she tore her lips away, his hands were already running down her sides, dipping into the fabric of her panties beneath her only recently acquired pale-blue shorts.
She grabbed his hand by the wrist before he could go any further, eyes locking onto his and jaw set firm.
“Someone will hear,” she said, as if she couldn’t hear Roxas’s music through the wall. She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but her heart still caught in her throat at the thought that he might hear her moan Isa’s name.
That she might moan his name by mistake.
“Let him,” Isa hissed, lifting her from the desk and practically tossing her onto the bed. Naminé scrambled backward, but he was overtop her in a heartbeat. The bed creaked and groaned beneath their combined weight up until the moment she made it to the headboard. He tugged her shorts down her legs and dropped them on the floor, then pulled her by downward-facing hips toward him.
His lips came down on the small of her back, then the round of her ass. Teeth bit into her hip, coarse messengers of purpose to foreshadow the pleasure to come.
“He should know by now that you’re mine.”
“I’m not yours—”
“More mine than his.”
She didn’t have to turn over her shoulder to know that his eyes were once again gold, that the warm, forest-colored man she hoped he might be was gone again. Isa yanked her panties down and braced a finger at her entrance. For a moment, she considered resisting.
And then he pierced her and her hips arched upward for him and all thoughts of anything but what she really wanted faded away.
She was already wet before he threw her on the bed.
Her fingers curled, grabbing onto the fabric of her pillow as his worked below. The flat of his thumb brushed against her clit with every obscene curl of his index finger as he stroked her from the heart-out, stoking a rough and familiar fire that built in her belly. Naminé tried to resist the urge to moan.
She failed.
“Isa,” she breathed, “not here!”
Naminé lied through her teeth until the moment she came, her entire lower body freezing. She could feel the liquid running down her thighs, its presence punctuated by a warmth that permeated her body.
Isa flipped her over without giving her the time to recover, his lips already taking hers. Her fingers roamed his chest, his face, his hair. They lost themselves against his shoulders, over the fabric of his shirt — in the belt loops that bordered his waist. In the room beside them, the music played on.
“You don’t want me to stop,” he breathed into her neck, relishing the way her fingers turned to claws in his hair.
“I don’t,” she admitted. “Please don’t.”
He undid the button of his pants and discarded them with little ceremony. Reduced to his boxers and the shirt he wore, Isa descended upon Naminé anew, tearing her shirt off of her shoulders and tossing it to the floor. She propped herself up on her elbows until he pushed her back down, pressing harsh kisses against her collarbone. She exhaled through her nose, trying to suppress the sound —
Only for his thumb to brush against her nipple and erase all thought of that.
She let out another, low, needy groan.
Isa took her lack of volume as a challenge.
His lips sank lower, brushing over the flat of her belly, then found her mound. They dallied there for only a minute before he took her jewel with his mouth, kissing it and pressing down on it with heavy slashes of the tongue that left her breathless. He was relentless, his hunger insatiable. Whatever bothered him, whatever drove him, must have been just as powerful as the need and the hurt in her.
Still sensitive from her last exclamation, it only took him minutes to reduce her a second time. This time, she made no effort to mask his name on her tongue as he built her toward a crescendo.
“Isa,” she breathed, “Isa, please.”
Except, at that moment, he stopped.
“Louder,” he growled.
“Roxas will—”
“Louder.”
Naminé huffed.
She turned her head, an arm raising over her face.
And then she obeyed.
“Isa,” she began. “Isa!”
His forefinger pierced her again, curled inside of her, and led her to arch her hips for him while his tongue went back to work. Every curl of the finger solicited a louder moan and a harsher creak of the bed. On the other side of the wall, the music stopped, and Naminé forced herself to reconcile her volume as best she could.
“Isaisaisaisa,” she managed, her voice a harsh whisper.
Isa’s finger curled across her sweet spot one final time before she burst, her breath spilling from her lungs in one, fluid groan.
Her knees tightened around his head and she called his name, no longer cognizant of the silence on the other side of the wall or what it might’ve meant. All there was existed at the end of Isa’s fingertip and the very end of his tongue. By the time he withdrew both, she was breathing so heavily, her hair was so matted — she looked a mess, the door was still open — it felt like everything since he’d entered the room was just ink, bleeding through a page.
When it felt as if he must have been done, Isa removed his boxers.
“Isa,” she whispered, slowly coming to her senses.
“Wait, we…”
The music still wasn’t playing.
Roxas would be able to hear, if he hadn’t already.
“Isa,” she said, her heart stuck in her throat. The words that came next were hoarse and desperate. “Fuck me.”
And so he did.
First he turned her over, a hand on her shoulder and he lined himself up with her entrance, his member stiff. Naminé closed her eyes when he finally pushed inside of her.
At once, there were stars.
Isa was larger than Roxas was, and he felt unfamiliar inside of her. His lips came down on her neck, breathing harsh words and whispers into her skin that she couldn’t hear. She could feel every inch of him, every way his manhood burgeoned inside of her, hit places she didn’t expect in ways she hadn’t felt before. Roxas was by no means small, but Isa was different and new and thicker and altogether rougher.
Her breathing grew heavier and heavier with every thrust of his hips, her rear bouncing against the sharp outline of his pelvis. She could barely feel the pillow her face was buried in, or the world outside of the bed at all. It felt like every push and every wicked thrust of his hips was erasing something unknown to her — shame, perhaps, or dignity.
More likely, it was that his body was no longer a foreign entity to her.
He was a tool, to numb the hurt given to her by the boy listening to them in the room next door. Part of her wanted to forget him entirely. Another part of her hoped he relished every moan.
“Isa,” she begged, her voice muffled by the pillow.
Isa growled in lieu of a response, but it was impossible to miss the way his breathing changed every time she said his name… or the way his cock twitched, driven by the claim he was laying unto her.
“Isa,” she whined, deconstructed. “Please, Isa. I’m close, Isa.”
That was a lie until he suddenly wrapped an arm under her belly, pulling her in closer to him and changing the angle of his thrusts. Suddenly, everything felt more visceral. Naminé gripped the sheets beneath her with one hand, the other curling into a fist. She closed both eyes again, aware that the coil of wire in her stomach was quickly tightening.
“Say my name,” Isa commanded.
She could tell by the labor of every breath that he was close.
There was no condom.
“No, I…”
“Say it!”
Naminé bit down on her lower lip and buried her face in the pillow.
Roxas could hear.
He could hear everything.
“Isa, cum,” she demanded. “Please!”
Her heart stopped in her throat as she felt Isa finish, and her own avalanche begin. The tension melted away from her shoulders in a heavy wave that swept her from top to bottom. One by one, her muscles relaxed, and she felt her body droop toward the bed. There were no breaths left to breathe, just ragged pants and gasps that left her no room for the cocksure confidence that led her to her off the ledge.
Isa pulled out without a word, his own breathing chopped.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their own breathing.
A bed creaked.
Not theirs.
And then the music resumed.