lionhearts: (【ffxiii】 eleventh day of paradise)
[personal profile] lionhearts
Title: Something Undefined (temporary title?)
Author: [ profile] phonestrap of [ profile] devetir
Pairing: Snow/Serah (Final Fantasy XIII)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: There are no such things as defined roles in a relationship.
Original Prompt: Snow/Serah - Master and French maid roleplay with Snow trying to act sexy and demanding and Serah in a skimpy, frilly maid dress.
Word Count: 3,226
Author's note: This was originally written and posted here at the [ profile] ffxiii_kink meme last year. I figured I might as well edit it (to the, er, best of my ability) and post the finalized piece... instead of, you know, just letting it rot forever on my computer's hard drive. After rereading the prompt, I realized that I kind of failed at it, but alsdkj too late to dwell on that now LOL. And this is the smuttiest thing I've ever written in my life so... yeah. Comments and constructive criticism are, of course, highly appreciated. :)

When Snow got home from his exhausting shift patrolling the outskirts of Bodhum, he was greeted with the delicious smell of cooking as he stepped into his apartment. Surprised, he stood in the doorway, his heart pounding in his chest as his brain screeched to a grinding halt. Somebody broke into the house! his mind yelled at him as the sounds of a person shifting the pots and pans in the kitchen drifted to his ears. And they are still here!

His eyes quickly roamed over the contents of his living room, which was, surprisingly, not bereft of its television and various other accessories.

Uhh, another voice in his head piped up, So somebody broke in, ignored the electronics in plain view, and decided to... cook instead? What the hell?

Before he had to expend further precious neurons trying to figure out what sort of strange, unconventional burglars he was dealing with (and then charge in to catch them unawares), a familiar voice called from the direction of the kitchen:

"Snow?" came Serah's voice.

Serah? "Yeah," he called back, nearly sighing with relief. “What’s up? I didn't know you were coming over today.” While it was a surprise to find her in his house, it was definitely the most preferable and pleasant surprise of its kind, and no longer feeling a bit drained at all, he hummed to himself as he knelt down and started to undo the laces on his boots. His stomach rumbled as he sniffed the air appreciatively. “What are you cooking? It smells great."

"Pasta," she answered cheerfully. "I remembered you liked it the last time I made some. Stay where you are, I'll be right out."

He was still in the middle of undoing the extremely complicated and stubborn knots in his shoes when he heard her walk out from the kitchen and pause in the middle of the living room.

"Welcome home," she said softly.

Confused by her sudden change in tone, he looked up from his task --

-- and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Serah was standing in the middle of his living room, something that was not extremely out of the ordinary, except she had on the most peculiar outfit: a black ruffled skirt even shorter than the ones she normally wore, a frilly black shirt with short sleeves (with a dangerously plunging neckline! his deoxygenated brain supplied helpfully), and a white apron. Lacy black tights completed the look.

A maid's outfit.

Snow felt like he just had the wind knocked out of him; he might as well had just gotten struck by a Behemoth.

"Umm," Serah said, flushing with embarrassment under his stunned stare after a few minutes had passed and he still hadn't made any verbal gestures. "I'm sorry -- I should have told you I was coming over before I did."

He had to galvanize his mouth into action to reply. "No, t-that's fine. I--" he trailed off.

More silence ensued.

"Umm..." She shifted her weight nervously from leg to leg, looking profusely uncomfortable. "Should I go change? I-I thought you liked maid outfits."

That shook him out of his stupor. "Wait, who told you that?"


Snow made a mental note to kill his second-in-command at his earliest convenience. Well, if not kill, then at least render the man incapable of informing Serah of any more of Snow's secrets (his certain weakness for maid outfits in particular, although he supposed it was too late for that one).

"Oh my god, I am so sorry!" Serah's distressed voice broke through his reverie. Bewildered, Snow watched as she shook her head, covered her face with her hands, and as if that were not enough, turned around to avoid his gaze as well. "Gadot must have been just joking with me and I didn't know, oh, how embarrassing, I will go change immediately --"

Realizing that she had misinterpreted his silence for disapproval, Snow bolted up from his position on the floor, nearly tripping over his half-undone shoes in his haste. "No!" he shouted, startling her so much that she jumped. "I mean, er," he tried again, "He wasn't joking, Serah. I... I like maid outfits very much." He paused. "You look really good," he finished lamely. More than just good. How about amazing, heartbreakingly beautiful, incredibly arousing -- He stomped down on his train of thought.

"Really?" She dropped her hands slowly and glanced at him over her shoulder. "You're not just telling me this to make me feel better, are you?"

"No! I... really do like them." He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, feeling his face grow red. "I just didn't expect Gadot to tell you." That traitor.

"Oh!" She beamed him a bright smile, one that never ceased to make his heart skip an extra beat. "Okay then." She walked over to him and he tried to ignore the jolt of electricity that coursed through him and settled into a tight coil in his stomach when she took his hand in hers and began to pull him in the direction of the kitchen. "Come on, dinner is almost ready. The tomato sauce just needs to finish cooking."

"Sounds great," he managed, although her closeness to him was starting to wreck havoc on his senses. Forget about eating, just the task of trying to think was rapidly becoming too taxing with her simply dressed like that so impossibly close, but not close enough.

When they reached the tiny kitchen-turned-dining room, she let go of his hand (to his disappointment) and went over to the stove where something was bubbling happily in a pot. "I was really surprised how easy it was to find something like this," she said thoughtfully as she stirred the thick liquid with a wooden ladle.

"Find what?" he asked as he went to sit at the table; he was feeling distinctly uncomfortable in his own kitchen with nothing else to do other than watching her as she checked on the sauce, admiring the graceful arch of her spine, accentuated by the addition of the apron sash tied into the bow at the base of it, the expanse of her legs, the elegant column of her neck, left gorgeously bare, as she craned to look into the contents of the pot...

"The outfit." She lowered the heat on the stove. "Lebreau was a great help though; she told me exactly which store sold this type of stuff. I had no idea there were any right here in Bodhum! I thought I'd at least have to order from the internet--"

"Lebreau told you?!" Does all of NORA know about this? he thought wildly.

"Yeah. She overheard Gadot telling me how much you liked maid outfits." She looked across the tiny room at him, throwing him a mischievous grin. "And well... since I am in this..."

"Y-yes?" Her teasing smile was reminding him that Serah, who always looked so incredibly innocent, was not exactly as innocent as she appeared, maid outfit or not.

"Would you like me to call you 'master'?" she finished sweetly. "To make it more authentic, you know."

"W-what?!” he sputtered eloquently. “No!” It was straining enough on his control and sanity for her to look like that; he did not think he would be able to handle any further embellishments on her “role.”

She laughed. "Are you sure about that? I don't know... I was told that the titles are important."

He shook his head adamantly and wondering if his face was really as red as he suspected it was, he watched as she spooned some sauce and blew on the liquid to cool it down before tasting it. The sight of her pink tongue licking the spoon nearly undid him.

"Hmm," she said after a moment, "I think it needs a bit more salt." She ladled up some more and walked over to him, stopping a few feet in front of him with it. "What do you think... master?" With her signature smile marred with an almost teasing glint, she offered the spoon to him.

And her closeness, the smile, the usage of the title (or perhaps the combination of all three), whatever it was, it broke his restraint. Quickly, he grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her forward to him and ignoring her gasp of shock and the clank of the spoon as it hit the floor as she stumbled practically into his lap. Her cry of surprise was silenced by his mouth as he kissed her, hard, and after a moment, she responded in earnest, her fingers gathering the fabric of his shirt as his free arm encircled her slender waist. She tasted sweet, always like nothing else he had ever had before in his life, but over her own distinct flavor was that of the sauce, and the curious blend was going quickly to his head and burning up any self-control he had tried to assemble.

He traced her bottom lip with his tongue, licking off the excess sauce at the corner of her exquisite mouth. "Tastes fine to me," he murmured.

"Oh, good, then," she whispered back as his mouth traveled up to find purchase on her ear, nibbling lightly on the delicate lobe of it. Her eyes fluttered close and sighing in contentment, she placed her hand around the back of his neck, her fingers weaving into the golden locks that spilled free while his own hand was busy discovering just exactly how paper thin and flimsy her costume was as it brushed up her leg, slowly sweeping its way up her thigh, higher and higher up that expanse of heated, soft skin to --

Suddenly, Serah's eyes flickered open and she clamped her own hand on his, halting it in its track, and Snow froze, unable to prevent the disappointment that lanced through him. However, before he had the chance to ask her what the matter was, if she want to stop, if he was doing something wrong, moving too fast, whatever, Serah was kissing him again, insistently, but far too briefly. She was already moving lower, lips now against his jawline while she pressed her palm against his chest, right over his wildly pounding heart. He thought she must have realized how erratic his heartbeat was because rather than see, he felt her smile against his skin, but then he lost his train of thought as her mouth was then lingering at the equally uneven pulse on his neck, her tongue making lazy circles there, and then doing something with her teeth that made a jolt of electricity race through his nerves.

He reached for her then, except her hand over his chest pushed him back so he was pressed against the wooden kitchen chair once more, but instead of a protest, the next sound that issued from him was that of a very surprised gasp as her free hand undid his belt buckle with an efficient snap and click, and with the most minimum amount of fumbling at the fastenings of his pants, she was slipping her hand past the waistband of them and inside so that her fingers were wrapping around his length, her grasp firm and warm and perfect.

"S-Serah," he tried, not even sure of what he wanted to tell her, but he was spared from having to say anything at all as her hand was already moving in that wonderfully agonizing way, her fingers alternating between slow and fast strokes, setting his nerves ablaze, and causing that beautiful haze to gather around the edges of his vision and cling to his senses, obscuring them in a dense fog. And then he nearly came right then and there when she gathered herself off of him in one single, fluid motion and her warm hand was joined by the addition of her even warmer mouth, her tongue rolling itself practically languidly over the head of his cock, making him jerk and shudder in his chair.

It was almost absurd, really; he constantly faced beasts and monsters to protect Bodhum, and some of these fiends had rather nasty and physically debilitating attacks involving poison and such, but none of these encounters had made his knees go weak in quite the same way as they did when her grey-blue eyes glanced up, meeting his as she pressed forward, pulling him further into the moist and hot cavern of her mouth and making black spots dance across his vision. Even though there was a vivid blush on her cheeks, there was no doubt in her gaze that she knew exactly what she was doing to him, that she knew she was making him pant and groan, that he half wanted to close his eyes against her vivid stare (but could not), that he was grateful she had made him sit or else he might have collapsed, and that his trembling hand could not do anything else other than gathering in the soft fall of her hair (which was probably the same color as his own flushed face) while the other gripped the edge of the table next to him so tightly he was almost certain the wood would splinter at any moment while his thoughts and he himself was splintering, breaking, and going to pieces --

He managed to drag her up to him at the very last moment, grabbing her around her hips to haul her up against him before depositing her on the edge of the very kitchen table he was holding onto for dear life, and when he kissed her, he could taste himself on her lips and it was a strange, but heady infusion, a bit unexpected. However, he was more interested in pushing his hand under that too short skirt, and she was giggling against his mouth (and then gasping when he nudged aside her clothing to rub his fingers in little circles just over a certain spot) as she pushed his heavy coat off his shoulders, letting the garment fall to the floor in a discarded heap. But when she unbuttoned her own shirt and began to shrug it off, he stopped her with a shake of his head.

"No," he said, his voice raspy and hoarse, "Leave it on."

She gave him an amused look at his request, but that turned into a gasping moan as he moved his fingers against her again, his thumb ghosting over particular areas, and watching with no little satisfaction as each wave of pleasure danced across her face, her expression honest and open as she responded to his touch by gathering the material of his shirt between her fingers, her other hand behind her to steady herself as he made her shiver and tremble and twist against his touch.

"Snow," she said as she reached for him, and with a single (albeit slightly clumsy) motion, he hooked her panties down her legs and pressed himself between her thighs, against the slick entrance at the center of her. He pulled her closer to him and with her name falling from his lips almost unnoticed, he moved forward, slowly, inch by inch, a near torturous sort of bliss that made every muscle in his body urge him to move faster, to go go go. At last, after what felt like too many ages, he was fully sheathed within her liquid heat, and he surmised (in the back of whatever part of his mind that was still able to comprehend thought) that this sensation, something so solely hers, would always be both new and foreign at the same time regardless of how often he was to experience it. His body felt like it was pulled taut, like a wire stretched to its limit, and if he didn't move now, he thought he was going to snap and his heart to explode and turn to dust within his chest.

Serah shifted beneath him and over the roaring rush of blood that filled his head, he realized that her mouth, against his ear, was urging him forward, to move. At that invitation, command, whatever, he did, a repetitious pull and press of his hips against hers, and between them, they constructed a rhythm all of their own, something like the ebb and flow of a wave, but more discordant and frantic. It was not exactly perfect, since he was far past grace and poise for that, but the friction was there, the scorching heat was there, and the lush, white-hot tightness of her body was forcing his breath to catch and collapse in his throat.

He dragged kisses from her willing mouth as his focus narrowed down to just her, just Serah with her hair loosening from her customary side-ponytail and fanning rather flatteringly across the unforgiving wood of his kitchen table, the soft lilt of her voice as she murmured his name into his ear, and the pressure of her fingers gripping his shoulder so tightly that he wouldn't be surprised to find bruises there later. And him, his own hands were on her hips, adjusting their angle, and he was reveling in the resultant moan that forced its way through her to echo through his very bones when he rubbed up against that perfect spot and the way she dug her nails into the flesh of his arm in response. And there was nothing else, nothing other than her gasp at a particularly forceful thrust or his own when she closed against and around him, nothing past the frayed ends of his nerves as the pleasure rippled and crashed through him as they burned together.

He was close, so very impossibly close, and when he reached between their heaving bodies to roll his fingers against her, she grabbed wildly at his hand, arching her body against him and interlacing her fingers with his as she came, the orgasm tearing his name once last time from her parted lips. He barely had the chance to be grateful that she had really ceased to address him with anything else because in that moment, it was like the tightness and pressure was almost too much to bear, his heart full to the point of overflowing, and there was nothing that could prevent the spots that were blooming across his vision, the way everything was fracturing and shattering and breaking for it was as if he, too, was shattering and breaking, and the edges of his world were pulling tighter and tighter and about to snap --

Her own name broke in his throat as he came, and he held her against him as the world righted itself and the sauce boiled over and burned on the stove.

Hours later, after they had cleaned up the mess in the kitchen and Snow was forced to throw away a charred pot, they decided to just order food from the bar instead, a decision that Snow instantly regretted when Gadot came to deliver their order.

Giving Snow a knowing look, Gadot smirked and said, "So... how was it, master?"

Snow blushed what felt like a thousand different shades of red and punched Gadot on the arm, hard, to which his so-called friend responded by breaking into loud guffaws.

"Shut up!" Snow scowled and grabbing the food, he kicked the door shut, feeling as though his face would burn with embarrassment for hours.


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December 2011

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