A/n: Sora is extremely OOC… but he has to be to fit my story, so deal with it. Um, the speaker will be revealed at the end I suppose, it's hard to figure out who the reader is. Sorry, it reads better this way.
Disclaimer: Kingdom Hearts is not mine, got it memorized? (Yay Axel!)
This is wrong. I know it's wrong but I can't stop myself. I want him too much. So much so that I've willingly become the "other woman" so to speak. I let myself become some whore he comes to when he wants to fuck.
With her, they hold hands and kiss cheeks and he smiles at her with joy in his features. He plays innocent and keeps his touches above her waist and he cradles her heart in his cupped palms because it's delicate and he doesn't want to ever hurt her. They are love personified and it makes me ache inside.
He is never gentle with me. He pushes my window open, flexing muscles and making the pane slam against the sill as he vaults over the ledge and shoves me towards the bed. There are no sweet nothings murmured into my ear, no pillow talk whispers about how special I am or how beautiful I look tonight; the word "love" is never spoken between us. He doesn't kiss me, never has, and his hands most certainly do not stay above my waist. He doesn't cradle my heart, he drops it and stalks past it, ignores it; like he can't stomach my love for him, can't acknowledge it.
There is no foreplay, no questions, certainly no answers in sight. His hands immediately find the buttons to my shirt and remove them, fast. His mouth latches on to my skin, right beneath my collar, never my lips, and he hurts me as much as he pleasures me. I know he is not this rough with her. I know he treasures her innocence and strives to preserve it even as he seeks to corrupt mine.
On the nights he doesn't come over, the nights he spends with her, I wonder what they do. Does he bruise her hips with his too-harsh grip? Does she curl up on his chest like a kitten and mewl with delight? Does he let her?
Sometimes I wish he'd just leave me alone. I wish he'd stay with her and let me move on. I wish he'd say it was over, say he was through with me. I want it to be over with so I can move on, but he won't let me. He won't let me get over him. I tried to tell him once. I told him once, this was the last time! And he laughed and looked at me with hooded eyes, mocking, lust-covered eyes, and told me it would never be over until he said it was.
You're nothing without me, he told me once. I won't let you leave, ever, he swears. I know he means it, and I know it should concern me and it does, but it secretly delights me as well. It proves that I'm not quite nothing after all. Because if I were really nothing, wouldn't he just throw me away?
I am expendable. I realize that as he thrusts once more and stills. I am nothing much and I am replaceable. I am easily replaceable. As he rolls off of me, silent as always, I almost tell him to get back to his fiancé and never come back. But one look into his satiated crystalline eyes and I fall back in love with him all over again, and just being able to have him fuck me is enough, almost.
He won't let me cuddle into his chest as I've seen him let her, so I settle for settling into his side. My feet hang over the edge of the bed, a good deal farther than his, and I smirk internally. I'm still taller than he is. He's so tiny. How can someone so small be so cruel, so vicious?
He was never in love with me, but he was never like this. He just doesn't love me like he used to. We're no longer best friends, no longer friends with benefits, no longer friends of any sort. We don't make love, never did, and we don't have sex. We fuck. We're hard and harsh and it's angry sex most of the time. And I want it to stop, and I wonder, staring at the ceiling as he uses me solely for his own fun, how did we end up here?
The memory of our first time together is equal parts a happy memory and a nightmare. All the same I want to frame it and hang it up on my wall with my other happily captured moments to look at when he mistreats me, which is often. We were still friends back then. He still cared about my feelings and hopes and dreams back then. He was still kind to me back then.
I had noticed a boy, a friend of his girlfriend, the one he'll be married to in a few weeks. This boy was charming and sweet and appeared to be interested in me. I made the mistake of talking about this boy to him. He didn't like that. Said if I wanted to throw away my innocence on some boy then he'd be happy to indulge me.
At first I was thrilled. He had picked me over her. But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. I wanted to believe that, but I knew it was just a pipedream.
His hands on my hips, under my clothes, was what brought me out of my day dreams. His mouth latched on to my neck and it took all of the will power I possessed and then some to push him away. I knew he didn't mean it, not the way I wanted him to. Stop it, I begged, please don't tease me.
But he is very persistent and I am very weak with anything concerning him. So with a few meaningless words and well placed caresses, I was conquered and on my back with him in between my legs. It scared me how easily I was persuaded, how easily I folded. And God, the pain was unbearable. And while he did give me a moment to adjust, it wasn't nearly long enough. It hurt, everywhere, centering from, of all places, my chest.
After we finished, as he pulled out and rolled away from me, I was unconcerned. It hurt too much to worry about our future. I cried for the first time in as long time. He didn't roll over to comfort me like he would have when we were younger, and I couldn't understand what had changed between us, and oh God, it hurt. He didn't hold me and it hurt and I cried until I couldn't breathe. I knew this was the beginning of the end. I knew we were breaking, were going to continue to break, but it felt wonderful feeling him move inside me like he cared. I couldn't give that up so easily.
But I knew he didn't care, not really. He might have slept with me, slept next to me, but he was still miles out of my reach.
In the morning he was gone. It shocked me when I rolled over and opened my eyes and saw the blank spot next to me on the bed. I had figured he would stay until I woke up or he would have woken me up to tell me he was leaving or at the very, very least left me a note. I was expecting too much of him.
Tears stung the backs of my eyes but I was determined to keep them inside, even if no one was here to see me cry. I shifted then and pain lanced up my spine and I let out a small shriek and a few tears escaped despite my attempts to keep them hidden from the world.
When I saw him that afternoon, he refused to make eye contact. He held her hand and nuzzled the side of her neck playfully, innocent despite what we did the previous night. He ignored my presence completely.
And so our double lives began. By day we were nothing to the other. By day he was hers, her one and only, and they were the couple other couples tried to emulate. By night he became a completely different man. But he never once became mine, not even for one moment.
You want a whore, go find one, I refuse! The words bubbled up inside my chest, burning me with their intensity, begging to be spoken. But they never escaped the cage of my heart. I was content to be his whore for a while, longer than I care to admit.
But now I want out. Enough is enough is simply too much. I can't live like this, I'm not meant to live like this. I can't stay his whore forever. Not when he doesn't love me and she thinks her lover is faithful and kind. Not when she comes up to me sometimes and talks to me like I matter. She doesn't deserve this betrayal, and it's killing me.
So tonight, as he slams the glass shut behind him and swaggers over to my bed where I steeling up my breath for what I'm about to do; as he goes to remove my shirt, I stop him. I lay my only slightly quivering hand over his and push it off. No, I maintain, not anymore; I'm done.
He is angry and shows it by shoving me beneath him. Says it doesn't matter what I want because it will happen and I can't stop it. Says it's bigger than the two of us; says it's too late to develop a conscious now.
And he gets what he came here for, despite my cries of Stop! Despite my hands trying to shove him away, he gets what he wants, like always. And he finishes when he wants to and he leaves me unsatisfied, bruised and broken, more so than usual. He rolls off my chest, zips up the pants he never even removed, and turns to leave without any hint of hesitation or remorse.
And I am past crying I tell myself, even as the tears expose my lie for what it is. He's broken me over and over before, so why does this time hurt so much more?
Owari
End Note: Okay, so did you figure out it was Riku? Not like I left any real clues, but if you know anything about me, you know I am a big backer of Sori! Yea…
Ok, so Sora was a horrible person in this fic, but he needed to be in order for it to work and this was just begging to be written… So sorry Sora fans.
And sorry I can never seem to write a Sori fic where they end up together and happy… Now review please… I said please!
Oh! Bonus points to anyone who figures out what song my title came from! Hint: she was a big star in the 90s, likes butterflies. Come on, the song is so good! And actually fits with this fic. Sort of.
Don't forget to review, now.