Okay, I'm seeing a trend here, and if you've read half of my other work, I know that you are too. Half of the fictions I press out involve alcohol, I know, but in this case, I justify it with Drunken-bossy-kinky-clumsy!Serah and Mostlly-spineless-kindacute-unlucky!Fang, so that's okay, right? Haha, oh well. Perhaps this'll teach some kiddos not to drink, then. I warn you, funny things tend to happen when you're drunk, and not in the good way from my personal experience. I also warn you that I don't currently have a beta, so I may have missed some things in my proofreading; criticisms well accepted in regard to grammar, etc.
Warnings: Well, Fang says "hell" and entirely underestimates one mildly kinky Serah, as stated in the summary.. unless I was being an indecisive garden tool and couldn't decide whether to mention that or not. Other than that, mild kinkiness, immature humor, and alcohol is just about the entire prompt for this whole fictionette, that, and the fact that I'm currently in love with sneaky-dom!Serah and the whole Fang/Serah, Serah/Fang thing. That adds yuri to the list of warnings, but I'm supposing you could guess that by now. Also, slang meanings regarding moogles and chocobos in the first paragraph will be revealed toward the end; you'll most likely never think of the creatures the same way again if you get the message there, so I don't advise thinking too hard on that, really.
Ah, alas, dear readers, I must shut up now, lest you tire of me. I implore thee, enjoy the fic!
Fang is funny. Serah notes this even as the dark haired woman wrestles a half empty bottle from her hands and starts up a string of curses, only stopping herself when she realizes just who happens to be sleeping in the back bedroom; it happens to be Lightning, of course, since this is the Farrons' abode, and that secluded room is exactly where Fang is not spending the rest of her six hour vacation from the near vicinity of Vanille and their shared bedroom, no. The latest accident has proven a terrible catalyst for Fang's normally insatiable libido, Vanille's and Lightning's too. Fang hadn't particularly enjoyed apologizing for all the moogle and chocobo dealings that went on about those sheets the few nights before.
"Serah," Fang then hisses, "What the hell do ya think yer doin'? This drink ain't for you, kiddo." The little sister pays her no heed, however, instead giggling and swiping at the wine as Fang plays keep-away.
Frantically, before the champagne-blonde can perform one of the high-flying Farron leaps favored her her older sibling, Fang dances her way to the kitchen fridge, dodging the mess of miscellaneous materials that Serah has scattered about in her drunken wake. With the girl close behind, Fang sets the wine atop the fridge and out of reach; then she retrieves the grape juice substitute that Lightning has always wisely insisted upon having for just such predicaments as this. The apparently identical bottle waits in a clear wrap that squeaks as it is handled, the self-adhering laminate housing a ratty orange label that obviously seems to have been removed from some sort of emergency care case.
The label reads, with several strike-throughs that define its current text, "In advent of fire," with the italicized word scratched through and followed by, "Serah's alcoholism, break glass," before being defaced again, with the second italicized word following the same formula as the first and continuing, "cellophane. Also, refrain from allowing my little sister to thwomp you over the head with this bottle; she will most likely think it is a rolling pin." The heart-to-heart went on to say, "Warning: Resulting and/or preexisting lustfulness may vary with use. Signed, Claire "Lightning" Farron." Reading the inscription and furrowing her brows at Serah's current condition, that of her clumsily clawing the door of the refrigerator, too short to reach its top, Fang squints. Deeming the this the appropriate time, the woman begins tearing at the precautionary wrap with her teeth.
It's noisy business, she soon discovers, the squelching of the chewy cellophane against her teeth akin to that of a doctor snapping and thwapping his pair of wet rubber gloves malignantly before the commencement of a dastardly procedure; it's just that grating of a sound. To her relief and disconcertion both, the young Farron sister turns to the sound and nearly trips over her own feet, which she eventually succeeds in doing anyway before falling into Fang - not like the both of them didn't see it coming. The girl claws all the way down, and the formerly free woman quickly finds her sari tangled around her ankles and herself an unstable wreck; she wasn't prepared for any disrobing, of course.
"Oh no," Fang chastens and frets, clutching the bottle in her unsteady arms for balance. The woman wobbles on her feet as the blue ribbon-like garment cinches up further, sending her legs buckling under the pressure. Now in full panic, she whimpers, "This doesn't look good – no, no, no, no!" and promptly tumbles to the ground with the binge-seeking sister following soon after. Serah isn't done yet; this is far from over.
After giving her surroundings an immediate once-over, Fang also has given up on the grape juice that by now has crashed to the floor and rolled to a halt by her head; Serah has too. The bottle spurts its life's blood into a perforated straitjacket of tightly wrapped cellophane, and Fang looks with dismay to the narrow valley between her thighs; between which, a mischievous blue eyed miscreant is making quick work of tying an even messier knot into her prideful sari than Fang has previously expected of any drunk to be capable of doing. If Lightning is fast, Serah is faster. Fang smoulders.
"You," she growls, "You did this on purpose!" Kicking her legs, the wild brunette attempts to scramble away, but it's no use. Her efforts only reinforce Serah's admittedly embarrassing, improvisational bondage; it's a highly effective attempt the girl's making, the wily woman realizes, ever leerier that she's being had. Still, her thoughts are, What can I do? I'm being imprisoned by my own defunct fashion sense, and if I do anything about it, I'll be getting the business ends of Lightning's fists over Serah. I suppose I'll just have to go with the lesser of two evils here.. not liking this idea one bit.
Giggling and hiccuping in a manner positively evil, Serah slurs, "There you are. Now you can't run away." She finishes up the knot with a self-satisfied smirk, and Fang figures that Serah must have practiced this on Lightning previously – probably why the woman eventually dropped the GC uniform, what with that cape having the potential of being such a good leg tangler and all. "That should teach you to take things from me. Naughty Fang!" the drunken girl admonishes, and before her captive can grasp the end of the nearby breakfast bar to try and escape, Serah conveniently jerks her victim away so that the route is just barely inaccessible. She drags Fang out into the middle of the kitchen floor, smearing linoleum with the sweat-bullets the brunette's been perspiring all the way down.
"The hell?" is all Fang manages to sputter before Serah straddles her and mummifies the woman's hands in several layers of paper towels, which seem to have materialized from everywhere and nowhere in the same instance; the nearby culprit responsible for this amenity's ready availability is apparent only after Fang is sufficiently distracted enough to notice the assortment of handmade items vaguely resembling genitalia and lashings proliferating the floor about her form. Now that Serah has sufficiently incapacitated Fang, the enfeebled woman sees why Lightning was always so compulsive with her zero-tolerance rule regarding clutter, her rationale clearly as follows: all things must be hidden from Serah so she won't up and decide any given day as the opportune speck of time in which to practice her inner kink on unwitting house mates; Lightning has always kept a clean house, so naturally, Fang hasn't run into this problem until now.
Once the pinkette atop Fang's torso is satisfied with her work, she swats the bulky cast of entrapped appendages away and invades the woman's personal space further, leaning down for a quick peck of the lips and a grind of the hips, a tease to the wide eyed woman. "Don't go making trouble now," she coos, hand motioning for silence, "I'll be right back."
Fang's emeralds bulge semi-hysterically as Serah begins to slip off of her, and the woman threatens to let out yell. Before a blood-curdling bellow can slip half-way from Fang's mouth, Serah halts and claps a soft palm over the brunette's lips, having expected the resistance. Now the champagne-blonde's face hardens sternly, reminiscent of Lightning's, and her sing-song voice betrays a playful promise of torture.
"I warned you not to make trouble," she says simply, and Fang's stomach begins to turn. This is a bad omen indeed. The girl above stops in her half-erect stance and lifts up one clothed foot to her free hand, still sitting astride Fang and clad in nothing but a stolen, sleeveless navy blue turtleneck, forest green socks, and children's underwear; realization dawns on the green eyed woman as the even greener fabric of a borrowed athletic sock slinks its way into a porcelain hand.
Fang squeals, "No! Serah!" vainly into the warm palm, but it comes out as an exasperated, girly muddle of "num-zrhrh," so she may as well be speaking some half-civilized Cie'th dialect that, even if Lightning hears it, will most likely just make the woman assume that Serah's busy molesting some poor, half-willful moogle-sheep (meaning Vanille, since a rationally named animal would most likely imply Hope or Fang), and possibly cause the pinkette to have moody wet dreams and later brood over such for the next week or two with the same sisterly jealousy that had landed Snow in a facial reconstruction service for a much needed nose-job; he'd mentioned his involvement with the pinkette's little sister prior to that incident. Alas, that's a long puff of breath that Fang's addled mind is much too erratic to entertain for too long without bursting into a trillion pieces. With that realization, Fang begins her struggle anew as the hand flies away, but is cut off by the balled up sock stuffing her mouth; said sock, by the color, is most likely Lightning's. Glaring and murphing at her tormentor, Fang furrows her brow at the pungent taste of feet – tastes like it smells, and indeed smells like Lightning's sweaty gym wear. Fang watches in horror as Serah returns her a sickeningly sweet smile.
"You behave now, Missy," the pinkette advises deviously, "Wouldn't want any more trouble, huh?"
Knowing herself beaten for the moment, Fang nods almost fearfully, "Murrhurrh. Mrr hrr-hrr hurrghrr." 'Uh-huh. Whatever you say.'
"Good," the drunken sadist acknowledges and turns away, mumbling, "And now to find that drink... or was it a magic rolling pin?"
"Mrrph?"
To be possibly continued... maybe.