The Lair of Lecanis

Durarara!! Izaya/Masaomi ficbit for Dutch's birthday

2013-01-12T20:18:52Z

Warnings: Underage sex, possible consent issues. Not written particularly explicitly, partially a voice-test type thing.

“Shhhh. Shhhhh. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

It’s the only noise that Izaya has made throughout the entire encounter, with the exception of little clinks of zippers and rustles of cloth. Nothing but that shushing noise, and it’s kind of strange for him, since he’s so used to making grandiose speeches and sharing little nuggets of wisdom with his beloved humans as he goes about his day.

Oh, but it’s worth it.

Humans are the strangest creatures sometimes. That simple little noise could easily be soothing and comforting - and in fact, he keeps his voice so low and pleasant as he makes it! - yet the boy whose ear his lips are touching as he does so doesn’t seem soothed at all.

On the contrary, his dear subordinate is giving him the sort of look that says he’d love to rip Izaya’s lips off, shove them down his throat, and watch him gag.

It’s such a lovely expression, and is in fact, Izaya’s favorite expression of all when it comes to the young man with the dyed hair.

“Shhhhhh,” he continues, as soon as Masaomi closes his eyes as if to finally block him out, just to see the teenager force his eyes open to glare again.

“Shhhhhh,” he says, doggedly, his eyes looking past Masaomi pointedly, reminding him that they’re not really alone, that just in the next room there are people going about their daily business without knowledge of what’s happening. People who happen to in this case include certain friend’s of Masaomi’s the boy would really not like to see him in this position.

Said position includes having Izaya holding him up against a wall, bracing the boy with his own body, leaning close to him. But oh no, Izaya certainly isn’t fucking his amusing-when-angry little toy. That would feed Masaomi’s need to be wanted far too much, after all. Instead, the information broker is simply holding the boy up, leaning into him, and making that same little “shhh” into his ear as the boy touches himself, constantly spurred on by a silent reminder - and there’s no need for it be otherwise - that it is Izaya who has power over him.

“Shhh...”

And he can nearly hear aloud all the things that Masaomi wants to say. They’re screamed by the set of the boy’s shoulders, imprinted on his senses by a hissing of breath between teeth, a grinding as the jaw presses closed tight over insults and arguments and accusations. Every terrible thing that the boy wants to say - and do - to him is telegraphed quite clearly by the way the hand not masturbating himself at Izaya’s insistence is clenching on the older man’s shoulder like a vice.

“Shhh...” and it’s only one last time as the boy comes over his hand, one last unnecessary - and obviously annoying - warning before the end.

But Izaya doesn’t wait around to revel in it. He doesn’t wait around to indulge himself either - he never has with Masaomi, because that would be offering too much instead of simply taking - and he won’t until the moment the boy begs.

No, Izaya flat out dumps the indignant teenager onto the floor, eliciting a yelp, and then laughs and waves as he walks away, hearing the hubbub behind him as his little toy is discovered, sticky and showing a withered dick over his unzipped pants.

“I told you to be quiet, Masaomi-kuuuuuun!” he calls, over his shoulder as he departs.

So helpful, Izaya is. If only these young ones would listen. Tut-tut.

Break/Cupboard

2012-12-01T05:42:09Z

Warning: Masturbation, not terribly graphic or sexy.

A more conventional man might believe that certain rather personal acts should be taken care of in one’s private chambers. Break was, in no way, a conventional man. In fact, he was pretty much the opposite of what any sane human being would consider conventional (or sane) and he had his own ways of doing things. Sometimes, those things involved cupboards and popping out and scaring the pants off people. Other times, they involved his own pants coming at least partially off while in cupboards.

His favorite cupboard, of course, belonged to one Gilbert Nightray.

It wasn’t that Break was harboring some kind of secret attraction to the man. There wasn’t anything sexual at all about his preference for Gilbert’s cupboard. It didn’t afford a view of anything particularly attractive, except on the rare occasions that a lady visited. (And no, Alice did not count as a lady!) Even if it had, his vision loss was rapidly destroying the appeal of that.

But Gilbert’s cupboard held a certain sort of appeal because of the sheer scandalousness of the thing. Gilbert, you see, could be shocked by just about anything. Liam had been that way, once, but he’d long since grown far too used to stupidity and lewdness, thanks to that idiot Barma, who had downright ruined Break’s fun in that respect. Gilbert, however, was utterly immune to conditioning when it came to overwrought reactions. If anything, he seemed to be just as bad about them as when Break had met the boy, years earlier.

It made spending private time with Gilbert’s cupboard appealing in some esoteric way understandable only to Break himself, for whom making others uncomfortable had become a definite fetish.

Spending any real amount of time in a cupboard required a special kind of flexibility, and Break was a master of it. At the moment, he had his legs stretched up one wall, his back against the bottom, and his head rested on an arm, just where wall met floor. The position left his face slightly flushed after a while, but that hardly mattered, considering what he was doing anyway.

The feverish sensation on his skin was just part of the experience.

The rest of the experience, of course, involved his other hand pushed down the front of his pants, tugging them down just far enough to let the somewhat stuffy air of the cupboard touch his skin. His long outer coat was wadded under him a bit to keep it out of the way, but his hand still brushed against purple fabric with each movement, tempting fate with stains but enjoying the sensation against his skin. He rocked a little as he stroked himself, each upward drag of his palm bringing his fingers up to a damp foreskin, gathering the fluid there to slide down over himself.

It was a slow burn, a quiet leisurely friction, a tentative building of quickened breath and louder heartbeat, until his own noises seemed to almost fill the small space. So easy to hear his own little puffs and groans when they resounded off the close walls, bounced back to him from inches away when he turned his head.

His pleasure could almost burst open the seams of the little wooden box, he imagined, as he neared release, as each little drag of palm against stiff flesh became more heated and insistent. He could almost blow the doors off the thing with the slight back and forth motion of his hips, with the little thrusts up into his own hand.

Of course, then he’d lose his favorite hiding place, but it was a nice little fantasy, far more engaging than any fantasies of particular human beings he might have. He’d long since played out images of breasts or lips or thighs, in his long years of life, and more intimate parts were for men more uncouth than himself to slather over. Or perhaps simply less imaginative.

No, he’d settle for his image of the cupboard itself, for the idea of it as party to his iniquity, as a living being which enveloped him in secret warmth, taking into itself a dangerous potentially destructive being for the thrill.

“You’d better not be peeking, Emily,” he muttered, to the little doll hidden beneath the arm he was using as a pillow, as he raced closer to completion, the idea of his wooden lover a complicit party to his crime tearing his control away.

“As if I’d want to see that!” Emily retorted, of course.

Break opened his mouth as if to continue the little conversation, but the words never came, because just then, a light appeared...

Well, this was a first. The blushing, stammering, flailing, sputtering, horrified figure that flailed back from the cupboard door had nothing at all to do with the orgasm that went tearing through Break. It was just the proper time, obviously, he’d had just enough stimulation, and being caught was nothing but a coincidence.

He was already tucking himself away as he bounded out of his awkward position on the floor of the cupboard, merrily wiped his messy hand against a black coat as he passed the flustered owner of the apartment, and started toward the front door, Emily grasped in his clean hand casually.

“You might want to wash in there, Gilbert-kun!” he remarked, offhandedly, as he left.

</font>

On Epilepsy

2012-09-07T16:10:33Z

I'm writing this up because a friend asked me a question, and it seemed easier to ramble it out in journal format, but I figure it doesn't hurt to have this up on my journal for anyone else who had been wondering. Most people who interact with me know, at very least, that my son Dusty has been diagnosed with both autism and epilepsy.

The epilepsy diagnosis actually came first. When my son had his first seizure, he was 10 months old. His father and I actually thought he'd choked or something at first, because he was turning blue and the shaking seemed to start after the respiratory distress did. CPR and 911 happened, and then he spent some time at the hospital being evaluated. Just one seizure does not necessarily a seizure disorder make, and it was dismissed as possibly just febrile seizures (a type of seizure that typically happens to kids with high fevers).

Several seizures later, the diagnosis "epilepsy" officially came about. The problem with this diagnosis, ultimately, is that it basically just means "you have seizures". It doesn't say anything about the actual cause of the seizures, or even really the type of seizures, and certainly doesn't approach matters like how many or how severe, etc. Narrowing that diagnosis down does sometimes happen - there are several "syndromes" that fall under the umbrella of epilepsy - but the doctors haven't been able to do that in this case.

The round of tests surrounding my son's epilepsy included both MRIs and CAT scans of his brain, and extended periods of time hooked up to both an EEG machine (which measures electrical activity along the scalp from the brain) and video monitors to capture seizures. Through these methods, it was discovered that many of Dusty's seizures happened during changes in sleep cycles. Beyond that, no causes for his seizures have been found, aside from general illness causing an increase in seizure activity.

In terms of types and duration of seizures, these are the things that set apart a severe case like my son's from more easily controlled types of epilepsy. Dustin's epilepsy has been called "intractable", which basically just means that the seizures aren't under control. He has several different types of seizures:

Tonic-clonic seizures, which are the kind that in the past were known as "grand mal". These types of seizures involve full-body shaking, usually some turning blue in the face, and often a complete lack of consciousness. For some people with epilepsy, these seizures don't last long and usually end on their own. For Dusty, they almost always require emergency intervention.

Partial complex seizures, during which he will usually move his mouth, making strange sort of gurgling/sucking noises, not be responsive, and tug or pick at things around him. Sometimes these seizures end on their own for Dusty, and at other times they start to include his eyes ticking to one side, at which point it is usually safe to say he's going to require treatment.

Absence seizures are also sometimes seen with Dusty, those less often. These seizures are ones where he simply stares off into space, doesn't respond, and usually doesn't realize he's stopped what he was doing, seeming confused afterward if things have changed around him.

The defining of these types of seizures and gathering an understanding of when, for him, they were typically going to require treatment, was a matter of several years of medical consult and trial-and-error. If he isn't feeling well for any reason, he's more likely to have seizures that need treatment, and there have been times when his seizures have literally lasted hours. Medicating once in the hospital isn't a precise matter either, and doctors have spent hours trying one medication after another to find something that would stop a seizure in progress. At this point, there's a little better idea what will work than when we started, but even the drugs that might work one time aren't guaranteed the next.

These longer seizure episodes are known as "status epilepticus". Technically, the medical definition for status epilepticus requires a seizure last at least thirty minutes. In practice, any seizure that lasts more than five minutes usually isn't going to stop on its own, so five minutes is the benchmark for attempting treatment of a seizure, first with Diastat - a rectal syringe of valium that can be used at home - and then by calling EMS. Status epilepticus is considered life-threatening and can cause brain damage, and after hospitalization for it, Dusty usually has to relearn anything he is working on.

Some things, such as speech, haven't come back after disappearing during one of these long bouts of seizure activity.

The question of surgerical and other means of control of seizures has come up, but the fact that his seizures come from all over the brain made many of the common methods useless. Most epilepsy surgeries either a) take out or b) disconnect the parts of the brain that are causing the problem. Thus, they are only useful for seizures that come from only one area of the brain, and wouldn't resolve a situation where the activity isn't localized.

Special diets are contraindicated by difficulty eating all of the food presented him, when it is presented him, regardless of type. These are useful when the patient can eat exactly as prescribed, but for a child with his developmental delays, that's almost impossible to accomplish.

This leaves us with medication. At the moment, my son takes several medications for epilepsy: Keppra, Depakote, and Lamictal are the everyday meds. On top of this, we add Klonapin when he's not feeling well or has already had a seizure that day. Diastat is the emergency medication given when he has seizures that don't stop, and is the last attempt to avoid a hospital visit.

On the upside, the combination of these medications has kept us out of the hospital more often than not lately. Compared to several hospital trips a month for several years, the current once or twice a year needing emergency care at the hospital is AWESOME. His seizures are likely as controlled as they're going to get, according to several specialists, and can typically be dealt with at home. He does still often lose progress on learning when he seizures, however, and being kept home for seizures for at least one school day per week further causes learning issues.

Where does the autism diagnosis come into the picture here? To be honest, we're not sure. Autism isn't really a specific "disease" with a known cause; rather it's a diagnosis given based on a series of behavioral and developmental symptoms. His current behavior very much fits the model for severe autism: nonverbal, obsessed with small details of things, liking routines and things to stay the same, being a very picky eater, being unwilling or uninterested in trying new activities, focusing most attention inward or on objects. Thus, autism. How many of these symptoms (such as lack of speech) were created by damaged caused by epilepsy is rather immaterial at this point, because the same therapies would be indicated either way.

So what is Dustin - who is now six years old and has suffered from epilepsy for most of his life - like on a typical day?

He wears diapers. This is an unfortunate necessity, for the moment, with the "starting over" effect of seizures, and the fact that potty training requires a greater ability to retain information than he's had the past few years. He still gets potty trained, at both school and home, but progress is slow and hard to maintain.

He's very clumsy. He's shaky, has a hard time grasping things, drops things a lot. He walks on his toes, and spends most of the day in braces designed to make him flatten his foot.

He laughs a lot. He likes to run, and has a tendency to run full-tilt into walls if no one has a hand on him. His favorite things to play with are string and ribbons, and I buy ribbons with his favorite cartoon characters on them for him to play with. He adores Spongebob Squarepants, and has a tendency to kiss the tv screen when Dora the Explorer or Ni Hao, Kai-lan are on. His favorite color is pink, and his favorite food and drink are Toaster Scrambles and Boost. He goes straight to the freezer when he gets home from school to grab the box so I can toast him some, since he doesn't eat breakfast at home during the school year.

He loves hugs. LOVES them. He will hug anyone, or accept hugs from anyone. He likes people with shiny jewelry or colorful clothing.

He's happy, and giggly, and beautiful, and my son.

Fapping Fic: Shion

2012-03-21T00:11:18Z

It's not like he tries it the very next day.

If anything, it takes quite some time after Nezumi leaves on his mysterious journey for Shion to even consider the question of sex. After all, the young man is busy with some pretty important things: reuniting with his mother, mourning his best friend, sifting through the remains of No. 6 and building something anew. The sheer political demands made on him are enough to keep him too busy to think of anything just for himself, at first.

It's a dream that brings it to mind.

There's no sequence to the dream, just a montage of thoughts and images - small and large moments, memories both fuzzy and clear - that seem to all flow over him at once. It's a split second of "You don't know anything yet. About sex, or books, or how to fight properly." followed by a flash of Nezumi pinning him against a wall, except he's forgotten what the argument was about, just remembers the heat and strength of that body holding him in place.

When he wakes, it's to stare at the ceiling, breathing hard and blinking rapidly as if opening and closing his eyes might make the vision disappear. As if perhaps the thought of sex might be pushed out of his mind in the same way a stray eyelash is gotten rid of. But of course that's ridiculous, because it's not his eyes that are betraying him.

The walk outside is easier than it would have been when he was a child. This home doesn't have the same security or monitoring systems, and his mother sleeps deeply the well-deserved rest of a hard-working individual. He turns his eyes toward the sky, squints up as if there's some star he could find that would answer his questions, then holds up his hands, as if grasping an invisible shoulder, an invisible waist.

Dancing with himself in the night isn't an answer for his problems either, but it makes him laugh for a moment, and that pushes the notion aside for a week, anyway.

It's another dream - one invoking that final kiss - that sends him running to the books. It requires a trip outside No. 6 proper, a deal with Inukashi that leaves his friend laughing and rolling around on the floor with the baby, and a very frantic and nervous rushing home in the middle of the day to hide something that feels like contraband even if his mother treats him mostly like an adult at this point.

It's another week before he manages to read it.

Settled on the center of his bed cross-legged and dressed in boxers and a t-shirt, Shion buries his nose in What Every Teenager Should Know About Sex. Of course, he'd been offered some more erotic options, from romance novels to flat out pornography - not what he wanted! -and the classics had just left him tilting his head and trying to sort through weird dated terminology.

Sadly, this particular book turns out to be dated as well, talking about social structures that no longer quite apply and methods for negotiating relationships that he's pretty sure Nezumi would find both hilarious and pitiful. Yet. There's a section just before the end of the book that has him wide-eyed and nearly breathless, descriptions falling somewhere in the middle of the scientific and the personal that cause his heartrate to soar and his imagination to push at boundaries that he didn't know he had.

He closes the book slowly, but the movements that follow are fast, the rapid bunching of a waistband followed by frantic awkward jerks, hand wrapped just a little too tight - and a little too dry - around warm flesh. His eyes fall half-closed, barely seeing his room, and instead wander back to that dream-memory of Nezumi's body pressed against his own, the anger between them shifting in his mind to another heated emotion.

There's no shame at all for his fantasy in Shion's mind as he imagines the push-and-pull of it, the struggle between them that has both boys falling to the floor, rolling around engaging in frantic fumbling. There's no embarrassment at all in the fact that somewhere in the middle of the fantasy, Nezumi becomes Eve, or that Shion's hands even in his fantasy tangle a little in the long skirt in the haste to push it up.

No, he won't be the slightest bit ashamed of himself, as he flops backward onto his bed, hand sticky and slowly dripping, staring at his own release as if he might like to examine it under a microscope someday. He'll just give a dry little laugh - he needs a drink of water now, and wonders if perhaps he's been loud - and whisper softly, "Hurry up and come home, you idiot."

Pandora Hearts Fandom Survey!

2012-02-27T20:05:59Z

For an upcoming essay in my English class, I'll be writing about our fandom as a community. So if you wouldn't mind participating, please fill out a short form for me and paste it into a reply to this post (responses are screened). Feel free to do as much or as little of it as you like.

Name or username I can use:
Time in fandom:
Sites you frequent: This can be specific communities or just a broad site like 'tumblr'.
Fandom activities you take part in: RP, art, fic, discussion, translation, etc?
Reasons why you like this series itself:
General impression of the fandom: (or your segment of it)
Do you think your life or friendships would change if you left fandom activities? Have they changed your life or created new friendships for you, offline as well as online?
Anything else you'd like to say!

Manifesto on Sexuality and Shipping in "Shutterbox"

2012-02-04T03:58:26Z

Since pretty much no one knows what Shutterbox is in the first place, here's a link: http://www.tavicat.com/tavicat/ShutterBox.html

The series of Shutterbox is at its core about characters who have one thing in common: they are muses. Some of these muses are portrayed as parts of specific races and families of spirits, some are shown as having very specific titles and roles, and the rare "Shutterbox" is an actual living human being, whose job is to tie the world of Merridiah where the muses live to the Earth. However, the primary purpose all of these beings serve is still the same: "musing".

In Greek mythology, the Muses are the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, each one of which is credited with inspiring a specific type of art or knowledge. Later, the word "muse" was used more generically to refer to anyone, especially women, who inspired an artist.

Shutterbox, on the other hand, takes the idea of muses a step further, creating an entire dimension in which they live and a much broader idea of the decisions they influence. Muses in Shutterbox are shown to use a series of rather esoteric elements (a diagram, a mirror, cups, keys, crystals, beetles) to determine the outcome of various actions their "client" might take, choose the ones that would be most beneficial, and then use a "halo phone" to speak between realms to influence the clients.

While there are still artistic elements involved (Thom is credited with inspiring some of Lewis Carroll's lines) there are also characters who are specifically said to muse murderers, or children, or other specific types of people. At one point in the plot - and I won't be detailed here for spoiler's sake - a character is considering how to muse someone on romantic choices of which the outcome is already known; since one can be called to influence people from anywhere along a rather fluid timeline, the option to change a historical decision is offered.

This in and of itself calls into question a lot about character sexuality and romance. If, in the multiverses attached to the world of Merridiah, beings who are living out their lives can be whispered to by muses about every aspect of those lives, how much of their eventual personalities are influenced by those who muse them? We already know that children as they grow often go through periods in their lives when they make choices to integrate, reject, or evolve their parent's ideals about topics such as sex and love. Growing up with expectations to marry for wealth or status, to have a specific number of children, to choose a partner of a specific gender, to be open or closed to different types of relationships: these are all things that in a mundane world are influenced by parents and other role models, peers and classmates, society, religion, social status... the factors go on and on.

Adding in the idea of muses from another dimension whispering in a person's ear? It just adds one more dimension of "whose idea was this really?" and "what sort of choices would have been made with a different muse?" Would, perhaps, a woman who buried an attraction to other women to live a specific type of accepted life have cast off that role if a different muse had been viewing the "possibilities" and decided that a short but torrid affair would have been worth a loss of wealth, status, and security? Would a bisexual man have chosen not to experiment and then settle down with a man if a muse with a soft spot for children had seen the potential children he could father with a female mate? This isn't, of course, to say that all people are bisexual or could have possible futures with either sex, but for many people who have a curiosity at some point in their lives that is never acted upon, the scales are tipped by external factors such as safety, acceptance, and the opinions of family and friends. The whispered voice of a muse becomes just one more external factor in these scenarios.

But wait! We just said that most of the characters are muses, correct? So let's talk about their romantic connections and personal sexual and gender orientations. Each of the muses does have their own unique personalities, after all. They have names and quirks of speaking, ways in which they choose to dress, chosen friendships and alliances. They are, for all intents and purposes, each their own beings. Right?

Well, for the most part. However, many of them also live human lives at various points, and how much of those lives they remember is brought into question a few times. One of the characters tells another that he only remembers the ends of his lives (aside from one specific plot-significant one) while other characters seem to behave as if stuck in specific time periods that would imply lives at those times influenced them greatly. Rather than freeing a person from cultural or social influences, this could easily compound them: if life after life is spent within a specific pattern, breaking out of it could become even more difficult.

Furthermore, there are within the series certain characters whose personalities have been directly altered by external forces: a removal of certain characteristics which then manifested as beings in their own right. This alteration is a punishment to the families of the characters involved - not even a punishment for their personal actions - and further calls into doubt many things about themselves as "genuine". It is one thing to be able to say certain choices are made because of one's upbringing, but a whole other level to be able to say "My sense of ___ was removed."

We're not quite done with the mindfuck yet, folks. Many of the events of the series are portrayed as one that have to happen in specific ways at specific times to make things "work" in the multiverse. Once this person is chosen for this role, it has to play out a certain way. While musing people who existed at any point along a timeline is possible, certain changes made are shown to threaten the very existence of other people who already lived: the children of a marriage are threatened by the possibility of persuading a client not to have that marriage. "Destiny" is mentioned, the inevitability of return of certain beings is mentioned, the inevitability of conflict between various realms is mentioned.

All things must be held in a careful balance, and the beings who hold that balance must make choices that are above their own desires in order to create it.

This being said, how does one even begin to parse relationships between characters? An abusive husband behaved in such a manner because of a part of his personality that was removed by an external power. A careless friend who hurts another's feelings does so because he can't behave responsibly. A woman (possibly) chooses to make the same bad relationship decision twice to avoid erasing the very existence of other beings. Beings of different "natures" are constantly at odds because of these very natures rather than their personal choices in how to live their lives.

Even more complicated is the question of personal sexuality and gender identity. It appears from what is spoken of the muses' various lifetimes that they are always the same physical sex, and yet a particular muse is portrayed as cross-dressing and speaking of being more comfortable in a feminine persona. Does he exist for the purpose of musing people of more fluid gender identities? Is this behavior a reaction to a discomfort with a repeated uncomfortable gender role? Moreover, do the gender roles shown within the society of muses - and we're shown few females native to that world, aside from a muse of murderers - also cause strain on him, or is it something picked up from Earth?

And what about sexual orientation? The only character particularly shown with an attraction to a member of their own sex is the same character shown cross-dressing. The relationships shown between other characters are all quite competitive over each other: men want the main character (and/or want to harm her over a past romantic quarrel?), a woman is jealous of her in regards to a man... there's no real other hint at homosexuality among the characters at all.

Yet, one of the characters says "I was referring to destiny...of a sort... mine seems rooted in the heterosexual. Even here where it shouldn't matter."

There are a few different issues with this statement. If it shouldn't matter, then the idea of a more fluid sexuality (which would make sense over a series of lifetimes which all differ in terms of experiences and roles) should be common enough. But then why is this particular character's destiny rooted in the heterosexual?

Because he has a specific role to fulfill, of course. Like all of the other characters in the story, he must play his part in whatever drama must be played out to make things happen "the way they are supposed to" in order for the world of Merridiah, the Muses within it, and the Multiverse to continue on whatever course was laid out for it. Destiny, not personal choice, genetics, nature, nurture, core traits, or any other thing that humans have claimed over the years govern sexuality.

... so what happens when the characters are taken out of the context of the original story?

Granted, shippers in fandoms across the globe have always argued over to what degree a fan should alter the sexuality, relationships, loyalties, and other parts of characters as envisioned by the original creator. I personally tend to err toward respecting canon loyalties and relationships in most cases, but... in a series where ALL of those relationships seem to rely on things happening a certain way in order to get to a certain end? Where characters make relationship choices based on "what has to happen" rather than on their own emotions and ideals?

Once you take those characters out of those situations, how are any of those things to hold water at all? Of course, characters who were friends or prospective lovers could easily continue to be so. Characters who cared for each other won't magically stop doing so, or who have certain tendencies won't suddenly reject them.

But without the impetus of "destiny" or "preserving something", without the job of being focused externally on the lives of others, how would a character and their choices change? What aspects of life that they haven't explored could they choose to, suddenly released from thousands of years of living and dying at specific points of maturity and without chance of progressing?

... and all this is just an explanation of why my brain broke when asked "What do you ship in Shutterbox?"

... I still don't have a single solid answer, by the way.

On Change in Fiction (And in Life) And How It Relates to Fanfiction Writers and Roleplayers:

2012-01-19T15:27:01Z

In order to have a story, one has to have conflict. In some stories, of course, the conflict portrayed is shown as something ongoing, that started before the beginning of the story and might continue far beyond it, with the reader or viewer only being shown a small part. In other stories, the conflict begins with a change that happens at the beginning of the story, or a character's role in an ongoing conflict begins with a change in their own life and circumstances.

It is this second type of story that I want to look at today: stories in which conflict is created (or brought into the lives of characters) through a change that happens to the character or their surroundings. Whether those changes are magical (being hauled away to Narnia) or mundane (a death in the family), it's the changes that happen around a character that cause them to begin to change in response, in order to rise to the challenge of whatever the conflict of the story itself is.

A few examples of these changes:

1) A physical change of location. Whether it's Fushigi Yuugi's "Universe of the Four Gods", C.S. Lewis's Narnia, the move to a new town of various teen novels, or Coming to America's sudden transplant to a new country, the theme of moving to a new place and undergoing great personal change is a classic one. New places come with new challenges - whether it's defeating tyrants or making new friends - and often characters evolve and mature because of these challenges. Changes in life goals, priorities, and social interactions abound.

The use of this plot in fiction doesn't come out of nowhere, of course. Human beings undergo these types of experiences all the time. Many teenagers, particularly, change greatly over the course of a summer out of school: going away to the house of a relative in a different situation or taking a volunteer opportunity and then coming back with a new focus to their life. Likewise, moving to a town full of strangers can often cause someone to become either more or less social: either freed from preconceived notions about them based on familial background or pushed into hiding by a lack of a much-needed support network.

2) Discoveries about self or family. This can cover everything from Buffy the Vampire Slayer's "I was born to fight vampires" to The Parent Trap's "I have a twin I didn't know about" to Harry Potter's "You're a wizard, Harry". Other common realizations include religious experiences, new understandings of familial relationships or one's place in a family, or the discovery of an amazing new talent. In many cases, characters in these situations struggle to live up to suddenly changed expectations, view their own relationships in new ways, exhibit sudden changes in ability to trust others, or become absorbed in a new hobby to the exclusion of older interests or peer groups.

Real life equivalents include situations like discovering adoption, learning about a parent's infidelity or drug use, meeting family members for the first time, discovering a talent for music or academics. A person suddenly discovered to have a have a great talent in a sport might find themselves changing a lot because of cultural norms surrounding that sport, or a child learning they are adopted might choose to experiment with new things while wondering what their 'real parent' would have said about it.

3) Meeting THAT person. Maybe it's Mr. Keating from Dead Poet's Society who gives students the courage to act in a play or stand on their desks in protest. Maybe it's the Sohma family from Fruits Basket that drags Tohru into their curse and makes her want to solve all their problems. (Or conversely, Tohru herself, who teaches others about caring and self-worth.) Maybe it's Naruto, who seemingly has the power to turn bad guys good and open up the hardest of hearts. Maybe it's a mysterious benefactor or an abuser. Maybe it's the first person of a certain ethnicity, sexual orientation, religion or gender identity that a character meets. Whoever THAT person is, the changes they create often happen over a short period of time, and stay with the character for the rest of their lives.

Again, this isn't entirely a fictional situation. Many stories about inspirational teachers, coaches, and other authority figures are based on real life events, as are many stories of abuse, violence, and other negative influences. Oftentimes a new friend with a particular situation in their lives can bring a topic into a personal realm by giving it a face, and greatly change a person's view on that topic. Views on religion, culture, sexual orientation, social status, and disability are just a few examples of things that can change when one becomes close to someone different from oneself.

4) Gaining or losing social or economic status. Whether it's Charles Dickens, Harry Potter, or "What a Girl Wants", the theme of suddenly being affluent or having access to resources is common enough (and life-changing enough) to merit its own entry here. Rags to riches stories abound, as well as the sudden discovery that one is related to (or is) someone famous, high-ranking, or special in some way. Or the opposite can happen: stories like A Little Princess or 2 Broke Girls showcasing the situations of those who go from comfortable and luxurious lives to poverty. Either way, great changes can happen: new priorities being formed, changing views on money and social status itself, new interests and hobbies more appropriate to the new social status.

These situations often happen around us, especially with declining economic factors. People who were able to afford second homes or multiple cars suddenly scrape by from paycheck to paycheck, and many homeless people have stories of when they had this great job or how much money their parents had before they lost it all in stocks or wasted it on extravagance. Stories of people who suddenly make good are harder to find, but lottery winners, people who receive large inheritances, and start-up businesses that skyrocket beyond expectations do exist.

Whatever the reason for change is, most stories have a character coming out quite different than they began: even stories whose scope is a matter of days, weeks, or months. Physical and psychological scars, loyalties, career paths or research efforts, religious or moral values, social interactions, and views of self can all change in the face of new experiences, surroundings, and influences. This is where my connection to fanfiction and roleplaying comes in: the grave sin of 'out of character' behavior that all fans know is based on the idea that change must necessarily be slow, that characters will only change in small ways, and that ultimately allowing a character to develop is a "risk."

But what are we truly doing when we decide to write? We are creating a new story, utilizing elements of the old one. We are taking characters and (with the exception of in-world stories that deal only with the same themes as their source material) putting them in new situations, new circumstances, and new conflicts. Just as the characters were changed over the course of their original stories, they will continue to change in the new situations, and to ignore that makes the new story pointless. In fact, the most interesting stories are typically that ones that do something to develop the character, and many writers choose characters because they see something that wasn't explored fully, whether it was the character's views on a certain subject or relationship or the maturation of a character who died young.

Does this mean that we shouldn't strive to remain true to the base traits of the characters? Of course not. The choice to utilize a character from a pre-existing source rather than creating an original one is made because of enjoyment of the character, after all. And the choice of a fan to read fanfiction about a specific series or take part in RP with a cast is based off enjoyment of that particular series or characters. We do want our characters to be recognizable, and any cues given by canon as to how a character would react to a given situation or choice should be taken into account. In particular, ignoring canon ties and loyalties can be quite jarring, and causing entire cultural views and values to disappear overnight denies the strong affect they have on an individual.

However, many of the situations characters are faced with in fanfiction or roleplay simply aren't ones that exist in canon for them. A character whose series is focused on fighting might not have ever even broached romantic issues, and a character who lives in an archaic world will have no experience with modern technology. And once an element is introduced to a character's life, and the initial shock or confusion over the newness of it wears off, it's quite unrealistic to say that an interest in or enjoyment of that element is "OOC" simply because it didn't exist in canon. Likewise, painting a character as incapable of even attempting something because they aren't shown doing it in canon is unrealistic: many hobbies and interests develop well into adulthood, and exposure to unknown elements that aren't threatening in any way doesn't always have to be met with forceful resistance.

In conclusion, I'd like to make a challenge to all my fandom friends: choose one character that you write or are interested in, and stop to think about a situation in which they came into contact with one of these changes in canon. Think about their reactions to that change, and what the over-reaching effects were. Perhaps stop to think about what would have happened had that influence not existed - "Where would Naruto be without Iruka?" or "Would Edmund have become a more compassionate person if he hadn't been to Narnia?" - and consider what other changes could have created similar outcomes.

Then come up with one NEW change that you would like to see your character face: whether it's something as simple as having the option of picking up a new hobby or something as serious as having to deal with violence for the first time or meeting someone with a different worldview that makes a difference in the character's life. Write a drabble or approach the issue in RP, and really think about whether you're making decisions about your character's actions out of fear of doing something wrong or out of a real belief that the character is completely unable to change on this topic.

Let me know how it goes!

Fapping Fic: Liam Lunettes

2012-01-16T00:22:46Z

The fantasy always begins the same way. It never starts in private, for one thing. It's always while Liam is working, in Pandora Headquarters, among coworkers. There, in various meeting rooms and offices, he finds himself standing and shifting and turning himself about, trying to keep his distraction from showing, as the vivid imagery unfolds in his mind.

It begins, of course, with one Duke Rufus Barma. The first image is always a close up on Barma - in his beautiful red-haired form, of course - smiling that particularly devious smile at Liam.

Already, at this first flash of that smile, Liam's heart is pounding. He takes a step back from whoever is standing closest to him at the moment, pauses mid-sentence if he was speaking, struggles to create some form of composure. Because by now, he knows what is coming next.

"I'm bored of your clothing."

The tone is in fact one of boredom, and perhaps if Liam hadn't had this little fantasy before, he'd think some change of wardrobe was all that was coming. But this particular waking dream is one that has plagued him for months now, and he knows - he knows - that isn't what is in store.

At this point, wherever he is while the fantasy is happening, he's already looking for an escape route, tugging at his clothing to be sure that certain bodily reactions are covered, and lowering his gaze to avoid eye contact with anyone. No one can know what filthy things reside in his mind, after all.

It spins out quickly, after that first few shots. As if someone had been slowly unwinding the string of a kite, and then suddenly released it, letting the wind carry the kite off through the clouds. His entire world spins with the suddenness of it, the insistence that Barma's boredom will only be cured in one way:

"Let's try working without them today."

If Liam hasn't fled whatever meeting the fantasy interrupted yet, this is the point at which he does so. Because he can't stand there in a public place and in his mind see his own shaking hands unfastening his clothing, folding it messily - too nervous to be neat even! - and setting it aside. If he's still in public when he stands there, blushing and bared before Barma's eyes, he'll drop whatever he's holding and flat out bolt for the nearest door.

No, he has to be alone for the part where he turns his back, his spine stiff and the muscles of his ass so taut that one couldn't help but notice how hard he was clenching, and tries to focus on whatever work Barma had for him. He has to be absolutely in a safe place, by the time he stutters Break's name, when the man comes by to speak to him, when he shoves whatever book or paper that he's holding over his front as his friend teases him.

By the time Break and Barma stand on opposite sides of Liam and giggle at each other, Liam has to be standing with his back pressed against a door, his hand opening his pants desperately, his glasses askew on his face, sweat wetting the short hair stuck to his forehead.

It's always exactly the same. The parade of onlookers, from Gilbert Nightray (blushes and flees) to Sharon Rainsworth (leans over to look as closely as possible at his groin, titters, and then runs away ) to Vincent Nightray ( tries to touch and is scolded and sent packing by Barma to even Oz Vessalius ( comments he should make Gil do this someday.)

With each new guest star in the fantasy, Liam pumps himself harder, breathing harshly and shushing himself under his breath, reminding himself audibly that he can't be too loud, lecturing himself in a voice that sounds almost disturbingly like Barma's at his point.

"Shh Liam you don't want to get caught."

He slides down the door with the words, pants pooled all the way around his ankles by now, chest heaving, body rocking back and forth a little as he strokes himself.

"They can't know what's in your mind. That you want them all to see you, that you want to be humiliated by them..."

His shoulders make a whacking noise against the door, one he doesn't even notice, as he braces himself with his feet and rocks harder, thrusts harder, desperate to wring every bit of sensation that he can out of his own hand.

"Rufus Barma can never know..."

And it's on the name that he comes, the name and the image of the end of the workday, of Barma sliding up behind him, wrapping his arm around, and fisting his cock with a quiet 'Well done.'

The fantasy - and the mess in his hand - is always the same, but this time, just this once, something has changed. Because this time, the room that he's chosen to play out his little private inner show just happens to be one with more than one entrance, and just happens to have been discovered by someone curious about his sudden exit.

This time happens to be the best - and the worst - time of all, because the words that drop from Rufus Barma's lips, startling Liam out of his post-orgasmic stupor, are these.

"Oh I think it's a little too late for not knowing... let's make it happen tomorrow, shall we?"

More kink-meme short fic. Gil working on his sexy face.

2012-01-13T01:54:18Z

Warning: mild incest, non-graphic.

It’s not that he has any reason to use them. After all, women flock to him at parties when all he is doing is standing there sweating, and Gilbert certainly doesn’t want any more attention from the ‘fairer sex.’ In fact, he’d really rather they leave him alone, because as soon as one talks to him, he feels rather like he’s either going to throw up or faint.

So why is he standing in front of the mirror, his hair pulled back in a low tail like he wears it to formal events, trying to force his face into expressions that he isn’t accustomed to?

It’s all Break’s fault, of course. Because Break has a habit of pointing out that Vincent and Gilbert look a little alike, and Gilbert has been studying his brother’s expressions, trying to sort out just how they’re alike, how they’re different. And somehow in watching he had noticed a few expressions that... he’d been curious about.

It’s not really that Gilbert wants to be anything like his brother. And he doesn’t want to use those expressions on just anyone, like Vincent does. But perhaps it would be a little fun to strike a sexy pose and watch his friends fall out of their seats. He can just see it now; Break spilling his tea, Oz blushing and flailing...

Well, he’ll try it anyway. So here he is, hair pulled back to give himself a better view of his face, standing in his sparse simple room looking into a mirror. He reaches up with one hand, brushes it across his cheek, then over his lips, as if trying to feel the shapes of his face, decide how best to move them. Then he actually sets fingers against the corners of his lips, pulls and tugs at them, trying to create some expression that he doesn’t really know how to describe or explain.

It doesn’t work. That sexy smile just isn’t happening. But when he drops his fingers away from his mouth, his lower lip juts out in a rather frustrated pout, and he pauses, blinks for a second, and leans in closer. “... is that it?”

He wrinkles his nose, but that’s certainly not sexy, and then tries again, letting just the corners of his lips shift out of the pout, lifting them just slightly. There, that’s... almost it? Maybe. Something’s not right though. He shifts again, leaning his arm on the dresser and leaning right up to the mirror, his gaze traveling over his own face at close range, investigating every line and shadow.

Maybe if he had shaved this morning?

He backs up a little, then tries again, this time widening his eyes a little, then narrowing them, trying to decide which compliments the look better. Then he tries again, golden eyes half-shut, lips barely curled, something almost cool in the expression.

“Now that’s a sight,” comes a soft low purr from just inside his open door. Before Gilbert even manages to get his eyes turned around in that direction, he hears the door close, and boot heels moving in his direction.

“Vince!” The older brother jumps backward from the mirror, reaches up to pull his hair out of the ponytail, musses it forward toward his face in a more normal fashion. “I wasn’t...”

“You were. And it was very nice, big brother.” Vincent smirks, steps closer, and reaches up his hand to drag a finger against Gilbert’s lips. “You should make that face for me more often.”

“I-” Gilbert blinked for a moment, and then, after just another minute of his brother dragging his fingers along his face, down his throat, Gilbert found himself making another expression that looked quite a bit like his brother’s - a soft satisfied smile.

“I suppose so.”

Fic Request Fill: Termination and Determination

2011-12-31T16:28:37Z

Warning: Pregnancy, Abortion, Gore, Twistedness. Seriously, I really doubt most of you want to read this.

Pandora Hearts, Vincent and Ada, pregnancy.

She’d like to think that she knew immediately: that she was so in tune with her body that she’d turned over in bed after the act, settled a hand over her belly, and known.

Of course that isn’t how it went at all.

It took a few days of general queasiness, a week of staring at unstained underclothing, and several days of counting off on her fingers, tilting her head, and wondering.

Deciding what to do about the issue took her even longer. It took days and weeks of sitting alone in her room, green eyes closed tight, a blanket tugged up around her otherwise nude form, as she tried to focus on all the changes in her body, catalogue each one and experience it.

Could she do this? Could she truly hold within her another being, a creature whose life would depend on her own, a child that would feed off her, breathe through her, exist nowhere but within her for so many months? Could she, once it came ripping out of her with all the terror and pain and beauty of creation, clutch it to her breast and hold it? Could she place it above herself - in the way her father had never placed children above anything - and even more so, above the man who had fathered it, the family that would be devastated, the social circle that would pity her?

Beneath the blanket, her fingers fumble at her plump breasts, as if to investigate, to seek the strange fluid that would drip from them in the coming months, the swelling that would mark the preparation for sustaining newborn life.

Further, down, over her slightly corset-shaped waist, over the growing bump distending it strangely, over her soft mound.

The fingers tremble as she presses them through dry - too dry, since when was she this dry? - lips to enter the canal that will become a birth channel for this child, should she choose to allow it to come into being. Her small fingers push outward, testing, considering. It’s not that she’s never seen a child being born - she’d peeked in the room as a child on a maid giving birth - but she’s never considered the physical details of it for herself.

Somehow, now, the image of bearing a child for her beloved is less romantic than it had been before she’d known she was about to do it. Her stomach clenched and flips oddly, as she reaches the limit of how much flesh she can force into herself without wincing, as she stretches open her body as far as she can make it go without discomfort.

Her small hand is not as large as the head of a child, is it? She’s not sure.

But afterward - and she does climax, finally, lying there huddled in her blanket with more of her hand than ever before shoved into herself, rocking back and forth on it and trying to focus on nothing but mismatched eyes in her memory - as she lies there exhausted, she finds herself unable to consider any possibility other than carrying this child.

Because what if it had its father’s eyes? Or hers? What if the hair stood up funnily like Oz’s does sometimes, or came out in silly twisted strands like Gilbert’s? What if it had her uncle’s shoulders or her brother’s playfulness or her own curiosity?

What if? What if?

Can she really bear not to see?

No. So her decision is made, and she lets herself drift off to sleep in relative peace, ready to take the next necessary step, several months later than she should have made it.

~*~

He’s already guessed.

Under clothing, it’s a little harder to tell, though her style of dress has changed a little recently. Still, there are ways women hide such things, and Ada is nothing if not one of the cleverer of the bunch, when she’s determined about something.

There are so many things she hides on a daily basis, after all.

She hasn’t undressed before him. She’s teased him with playful glimpses, ridden him with most of her clothing intact, let him sneak fingers into her dress and pull out her breasts - slightly plumper than usual, as if she didn’t have enough to begin with - and suckle and nip at them. But she’s avoided being spread out on his bed, fully nude, flushed and panting, squirming and sweating and screaming.

She’s avoided her own full pleasure, to avoid having to speak about what she has not yet accepted.

But he’s known for quite some time.

He thinks of it as he walks through the darkness between her home and his, his boot heels clicking against the street resoundingly. What can be done? What should be done? Is this good for his plan or does it overthrow it entirely?

What place does a man who will someday cease to exist being part of the creation of life? What purpose could it possibly hold to create another monster like himself?

Would it be such a monster? Or would it be a ridiculous fluff-headed wide-eyed freakish child like its mother?

His fingers clench around the scissors in his pocket as he considers what color eyes the child could have.

No.

No.

There can be no child.

~*~

She holds herself very still as he holds a cup to her lips.

A potion to ensure health for herself and her child, he’d said.

He found the recipe in one of her books, he’d said.

He loved her and their baby so much, he’d said.

She closes her eyes, licks at the disgusting froth that touches her mouth, lets herself be invaded with the acrid thick brew, and then touches her own throat as she swallows.

“Thank you.”

The words are just as bitter as the potion. The hardening in her gaze is hidden, however, as she leans in against him, crawls into his lap like a child in need of comforting.

When he begins to touch her, she doesn’t bother protesting. She simply sits and waits for it to begin, for what she knows will now happen to take over her body, move it beyond her control.

She wonders, idly, if she’ll feel every moment, or if the draught contained something to mitigate the agony. Perhaps, she thinks, he feels particularly kind today and has given her a sedative that will make the entire thing happen in her sleep.

It doesn’t quite happen in her sleep, but her mind is fuzzy at least.

Would the stretch have been worse if she had carried to term, she wonders? Would she have torn? Is that the stench of... did she void herself? Will he clean the sheets when he’s done with whatever he’s doing down there, and had he known that the drink he gave him would make her eyes too blurry to allow her to see all the details?

Blood, there’s so much blood. Perhaps she will die? It doesn’t hurt so very much though... not really...

“Was it..?”

He doesn’t answer her. All she can see is his blond hair falling over his face, his bare hands - sleeves pushed up - covered in blood and coated in something almost glistening, then filled with some strange lump that she can’t quite identify.. that’s not the child, is it?

No. Perhaps the afterbirth? Did she miss the child? Would she have wanted to see it? It wasn’t done, it couldn’t survive, right? It hadn’t been long enough, and now here she’s let him take it without protest because she loves him and didn’t have the energy to fight.

She closes her eyes, whimpers, and then there’s another cup against her lips, a warm hand - did he wash them already? - against her forehead, dry lips against her cheek whispering that she’s done well, that it’s over now.

~*~

He hadn’t known how very much it would look like a person.

It’s not as if he’s ever seen a half-developed child, or like he’s ever even held a newborn. He’d not been aware that tiny fingers and toes would already be there, or that the thing would attempt to shudder a breath before it died.

He hadn’t known that he’d need to stifle it, to be sure she didn’t hear.

He hadn’t been aware that he’d be able to tell that it would have been a daughter, that he’d hold her balanced on both his arms and stare for a long moment, that he’d feel this strange pang of curiosity as to what she would have grown to be.

What he had known, what he had imagined before he came to this moment, was the way the scissors would tear through lids, would crush/squish/pop eyeballs without him stopping to look to see what color they’d have been.

In his mind, they’re red. In his mind, even though he has no way of knowing and hasn’t found out and doesn’t know that babies aren’t even born with the eye color they’re going to have most of the time... he’s already destroying the ‘misfortune’ that would have swallowed up everything, everyone, including the woman lying bleeding on the bed.

He’s rescued her, in the same way he’ll rescue Gilbert when he finishes his plans.

He’s saved her from the harm this child - with its curse - could have done.

~*~

When she wakes, she can feel properly again, almost.

She’s aware of pain, and nausea, and a strange feeling of emptiness that rocks her entire form.

She can smell the blood and stench in the room, though the sheets beneath her seem to have been changed.

Her own body, however, is not yet clean.

Why? Why would he..?

Except it registers, in that moment, because she can feel again, and just what he is doing becomes apparent.

“Vincent... you can’t...”

But she lacks the strength to push his head away, lacks the fortitude to force him away from her body, despite the strange sensation of his tongue pressing into her sore canal, the disgusting sight of his mouth swallowing up fluids that were certainly not meant for consumption.

The sickness of it brings laughter to her lips.

The brokenness of it causes her hips to rock into his mouth, her hands to clutch at his hair, to tug, to jerk until strands of it begin to come free.

She won’t stop him, just as she didn’t stop him from his horrific deed.

She won’t protest, as he laps up the fluid that should have nourished their child, that served as its home for all that time she carried it within her. It’s his due, isn’t it? To take all that belongs to her, to tear away all that she hides, to devour all that flows from her.

She’s already made this decision, hasn’t she, in the first moment that she childishly reached out to take the hand of this twisted and beautiful creature. But now, she makes another decision, equally childish and hopeful.

~*~

When she comes, it’s always that image in her mind, now.

When he comes in her, she clenches her legs together tight, rolls her hips, holds herself closed, mutters spell words under her breath to encourage the tiny warriors to conquer the barriers inside her, to crusade their way to the goal.

Before he sleeps, it is she who feeds him a draught.

While he slumbers, it is she who gathers up his seed one more time, presses it inside herself, hoping and praying that this time it will ‘catch’.

It’s all because she wants to see it.

The look on his face, the defeat there when she pins him down, heavy and fruitful, fully ready to bear forth her burden.

The helplessness as she forces the creature forward, as her servants - she knows she can’t do it on her own, that she’ll need help - hold him down and make him watch.

Someday, she’ll triumph, and hold out the screaming child before his face, watch his horror and terror as the small eyes open, as the tiny hands reach.

“I’ll make you a father yet,” she whispers in his sleeping ear, the words heavy with the love and the hate that she bears for him, mingled within her just as the same emotions - she knows, she’s not an idiot - swirl within him for her.

“Wait and see.”

[Rare Personal Post] On Health and Special Snowflakes.

2011-12-28T22:14:55Z

The ultimate problem with my health situation was pinpointed by my doctor pretty clearly today: when you are dealing with a patient whose entire system should not work in the first place, it's very hard to figure out what's gone wrong when it stops working. Given the fact that I was born in a precarious health situation already, survived deterioration that should have resulted in death as well as both infections and injuries that should have... leaves doctors in a situation where they're typically going 'ummm' when looking at my records anyway.

This being said, when something stops working? There's not really a lot they can do or say about it, because it shouldn't have been working in the first place, as far as anyone can tell.

No one knows why these infections won't go away. No one knows what to do about my lungs: I'm going back to the specialist tomorrow for that, but it's mostly an attempt at a holding pattern. I'm going to the neurologist next month and the immunologist next month. I'm going to the sleep center this weekend if D's father takes him.

I'm filling out all the insurance paperwork ever right now.

I'm making all the appointments I can make.

I am exhausted. I am suffering from tremors, vertigo, pain, numbness, parts of my body suddenly failing to work, multiple infections, and difficulty breathing.

I have to be fucking grateful that I'm still alive, no matter what.

And that's the part that pisses me off the most.

More PH Kink Meme Stuff - Vanessa/Leo/Elliot

2011-12-27T03:48:17Z

Warnings: smut, non-con in the form of sexual blackmail, and (sort-of?) incest.

Written for this request: http://pandora-kink.livejournal.com/696.html?thread=1505720#t1505720

This is not a situation he would ever have imagined himself to be in. No. When Leo woke up this morning, he certainly had not imagined that he would now be kneeling on the floor in his master's sister's bedroom with a rubber cock stuffed in his mouth. In fact, he's pretty sure that he's never imagined such a thing at all, and he's quite unhappy about the situation.

Not unhappy enough, however, to risk Vanessa letting slip the bit of information that she had confronted him with just moments before this little scene. After all, enduring sexual humiliation from his master's sister was quite a bit less terrifying than dealing with Elliot's reaction to the information that Leo had been caught masturbating with his underclothing while crying out his name and begging to be fucked harder.

No, Leo would be keeping that little bit of information as far away from Elliot's ears as possible, even if it meant submitting to the psychotic bitch that shared his blood.

He closed his eyes and tried not to taste the strange tinge of the material, tried not to gag on the inhuman hardness of it as the lady wielding the dildo rocked her hips against his face, her slender hands grasping at his hair. With her masculine clothing - still on! - and her harsh grip he could almost pretend that she was a man anyway, but he couldn't exactly pretend that she was her brother, not if he wanted to get through this without actually embarrassing himself more.

Too late.

That single thought had been enough to cause a certain part of his anatomy to stand at attention, and the sadistic woman had of course noticed. He could hear her shrill voice now above him.

"Enjoy it, don't you? This is why you can never be a proper servant for him, let alone have the perversions you want! You're not good enough, do you hear me? You're not good enough to touch him!"

He's trying to block her out, really he is. He continues to try to block her out when she jerks the false cock out of his mouth, slaps his face with it roughly, and then pushes him over.

There's no blocking it out at all when she gives him the next command.

But he'll try.

He keeps his eyes closed tight and focuses on breathing, as he crawls up to his knees, his pants left bunched around his thighs, and works fingers into himself in preparation for her dildo. He tries not to listen to the strange wet-squeaky noise as she - he imagines this must be what makes the noise! - rubs fingers over the cock, as if worshiping it.

If he didn't hate her so, he'd feel sorry for her, for how much she desires that organ that she'll never possess, the power it represents in the world in which they live.

If he didn't hate her so, he might open his eyes to look, might push back, might offer some real enjoyment in the act, some noise for her to savor.

As it is, he is as silent as he can manage as she pushes into him, as still as he can be as he opens for her, only hoping to avoid injury and make this as easy on himself as possible. As it is, he's too busy trying to pretend that none of this is happening at all to pay attention to his surroundings.

If he'd been paying attention, he might have heard a third person enter the room. If he'd been paying attention, he might have seen surprised blue eyes widen and then narrow. Might have caught the shift of shoulders that betrayed discomfort, the leaning forward the betrayed interest, the furrowing of brows that betrayed confusion.

Leo knows none of these things. All that Leo knows is that suddenly, the pounding at his backside is slows, pauses, begins again. That suddenly the fingers digging into his ass cheeks are stroking them almost lovingly, as if to make some kind of point that he isn't sure of.

It takes a long moment to register that the same fingers can't be reaching to brush his hair back if they're busy holding onto and petting his ass. It's then that he panics, eyes going wide behind his glasses, one hand reaching up to grasp the hand there. A very familiar hand, one with sword callouses and graceful fingers.

Backing up of course only drives the dildo into him further, causes him to cry out in both pain and a sudden shock of pleasure. And before he's recovered from the confusion, the voices are all he can focus on:

"I told you he was a common whore."

"You tricked him somehow, didn't you?"

"I told you-"

"SHUT UP."

And the next thing two things Leo notices are both definitely not on his list of things he ever believed could happen:

1) Vanessa does as instructed.

2) He's confronted with something else to put in his mouth, very much not a dildo and smelling quite suspiciously of his master's sweat.

Well, he supposes he can wait until later to try to make sense of it, he thinks, as he quite eagerly accepts.

Fapping Fic: Leo

2011-12-25T16:40:11Z

Warning: Masturbation, insanity.

The first signs of it had been quite some time ago. Those first little lingering looks, the first strange impulse to touch, to stand a little closer or reach a little further. Those first moments of rapid breath, sweaty palms, heated skin.

He'd grown accustomed to it. He'd held himself apart from it.

Propriety, virtue, social status, common sense. All these things had stood between himself and what he desired. Even more so, his own fear of perverting, corrupting, destroying.

He'd done that in the end anyway.

His master - his friend - was dead. There's nothing left to stay away from, not touch, not cling to.

With no reason to hold back now, he's set himself free.

Which is why the teenager is now sprawled out on a bed in one of several Baskerville hideouts, his clothing in disarray and his breath harsh and loud as he tugs at the restricting fabric.

He might be fantasizing, but somehow it feels more like a hallucination, feverish and bright. Whichever way it goes, he's obviously completely caught up, enough so that he doesn't seem to mind the blond servant watching him from the shadows.

Perhaps he can't see that man at all, because his entire world seems to be taken up with the sight of someone who isn't there, the feel of skin that has never touched his in this way, a scent of dried flowers, books, and sword oil.

The buttons on his shirt are casualties, popping this way and that, and the shirt itself is slain soon after, a long tear in it as his clawing hands meet the skin of his chest, finally. The clawing does not immediately stop - it takes him a moment to realize that soft fabric is gone and it's flesh that's being torn - but he simply moves on to his pants, unconcerned.

It's only when he's fully naked that he begins to make noise in earnest. It's only once his blood is staining the sheets, his teeth are buried in his lip and his bright sparkling eyes are closed as tight as he can get them that he lets himself speak, mutter, mumble, moan.

"Elliot."

The name is on his lips as he wraps a sweating-shaking hand around his cock, low and breathy.

"Elliot"

The name is on his lips as he twists and tugs and pinches, harsh with his own body, harsh with his own mind.

There's no need to be gentle, Elliot, I've hurt you.

There's no need.

There aren't any coherent words on his lips at all anymore, as he silently begs some unseen ghost for his release.

There's nothing but a whimper, when he finds it.

And he'll be entirely silent by the end, by the time his servant steps forward to wipe tears from his reddened face, cleanse oil and seed from his body, and finally cover up the sleeping form.

He's set himself free, now that it's far too late.

Random Jack thing

2011-12-24T17:54:17Z

Prostitute!Jack. Yep. Not very descriptive, but not safe for work.

He doesn't call them by their names anymore, in this mind.

No, they are simply 'he' and 'she' in his thoughts, the man and woman who for this evening have decided to make his life easier for a little while. They don't think of it in such a way of course - this is for their own pleasure - but their dalliance with him brings him one step closer to what he craves, what he must find again.

To get back to her, there are sacrifices to be made.

What they don't know, as he bows his head and buries it between the noblewoman's thick thighs, is that each moment he spends here, he thinks of her. What they aren't aware of is that even as he pushes his tongue against sweat-and-sex scented lips, he's wondering if hers would taste sweeter.

He's a whore; it doesn't matter what he thinks of. But he knows these people - they are technically in some small way related to him - and he knows that she would be quite offended to know that as he laps at her juices, his tongue is tracing a wholly different terrain in his imagination. She would be offended to know that his exploration of her pink crevice with mouth and hands is entirely rote, each action coming from practice and necessity, no true desire to be found.

Sometimes, she tastes bitter with her husband's seed. Sometimes, she tastes clean, or faintly foul with blood.

Sometimes, he closes his eyes and traces a single letter with his tongue against the stiff bud she presents him.

He on the other hand would not care to hear whether or not their blond-haired whore is thinking of either of his clients.

He could care less what anyone is thinking, as long as he is allowed his deviant behavior, as long as this silver-tongued whore manages to keep his wife pleased enough not to mind that her husband is burying himself in a young man's tight behind rather than her childbirth-worn snatch.

The whore, as he pushes back into the cock shoved into him too roughly and with too little preparation, is grateful for that little detail. Is grateful that, here between two people who are just pathways to someone else, he can lose himself in his own thoughts.

Afterward, his mouth numb and his nose strangely stuffy, his face coated in juices with more dripping from slightly reddened cheeks below, he is less grateful for the wandering of his mind. When he allows himself that one moment to rest - on his knees, nude, trembling faintly from exhaustion as the husband and wife laugh together over him and fondle each other lazily - he wishes that he could blank out his thoughts of those red eyes, that playful mouth, that mad cheerful voice.

It's at that time that the only words that come to his mind - "Would you be proud of me?" - haunt him, as he closes himself up tight for just that moment, head tucked down and wet thighs pressed together, as if to hide what shame remains.

One day, he'll find out if that person will still accept him, filthy as he has become.

No. 6 Drabble: Late Blooming Flower

2011-11-19T10:34:10Z

Masturbation, Shion. Yeah.

It’s not like he tries it the very next day.

If anything, it takes quite some time after Nezumi leaves on his mysterious journey for Shion to even consider the question of sex. After all, the young man is busy with some pretty important things: reuniting with his mother, mourning his best friend, sifting through the remains of No. 6 and building something anew. The sheer political demands made on him are enough to keep him too busy to think of anything just for himself, at first.

It’s a dream that brings it to mind.

There’s no sequence to the dream, just a montage of thoughts and images - small and large moments, memories both fuzzy and clear - that seem to all flow over him at once. It’s a split second of “You don't know anything yet. About sex, or books, or how to fight properly.” followed by a flash of Nezumi pinning him against a wall, except he’s forgotten what the argument was about, just remembers the heat and strength of that body holding him in place.

When he wakes, it’s to stare at the ceiling, breathing hard and blinking rapidly as if opening and closing his eyes might make the vision disappear. As if perhaps the thought of sex might be pushed out of his mind in the same way a stray eyelash is gotten rid of. But of course that’s ridiculous, because it’s not his eyes that are betraying him.

The walk outside is easier than it would have been when he was a child. This home doesn’t have the same security or monitoring systems, and his mother sleeps deeply the well-deserved rest of a hard-working individual. He turns his eyes toward the sky, squints up as if there’s some star he could find that would answer his questions, then holds up his hands, as if grasping an invisible shoulder, an invisible waist.

Dancing with himself in the night isn’t an answer for his problems either, but it makes him laugh for a moment, and that pushes the notion aside for a week, anyway.

It’s another dream - one invoking that final kiss - that sends him running to the books. It requires a trip outside No. 6 proper, a deal with Inukashi that leaves his friend laughing and rolling around on the floor with the baby, and a very frantic and nervous rushing home in the middle of the day to hide something that feels like contraband even if his mother treats him mostly like an adult at this point.

It’s another week before he manages to read it.

Settled on the center of his bed cross-legged and dressed in boxers and a t-shirt, Shion buries his nose in What Every Teenager Should Know About Sex. Of course, he’d been offered some more erotic options, from romance novels to flat out pornography - not what he wanted! -and the classics had just left him tilting his head and trying to sort through weird dated terminology.

Sadly, this particular book turns out to be dated as well, talking about social structures that no longer quite apply and methods for negotiating relationships that he’s pretty sure Nezumi would find both hilarious and pitiful. Yet. There’s a section just before the end of the book that has him wide-eyed and nearly breathless, descriptions falling somewhere in the middle of the scientific and the personal that cause his heartrate to soar and his imagination to push at boundaries that he didn’t know he had.

He closes the book slowly, but the movements that follow are fast, the rapid bunching of a waistband followed by frantic awkward jerks, hand wrapped just a little too tight - and a little too dry - around warm flesh. His eyes fall half-closed, barely seeing his room, and instead wander back to that dream-memory of Nezumi’s body pressed against his own, the anger between them shifting in his mind to another heated emotion.

There’s no shame at all for his fantasy in Shion’s mind as he imagines the push-and-pull of it, the struggle between them that has both boys falling to the floor, rolling around engaging in frantic fumbling. There’s no embarrassment at all in the fact that somewhere in the middle of the fantasy, Nezumi becomes Eve, or that Shion’s hands even in his fantasy tangle a little in the long skirt in the haste to push it up.

No, he won’t be the slightest bit ashamed of himself, as he flops backward onto his bed, hand sticky and slowly dripping, staring at his own release as if he might like to examine it under a microscope someday. He’ll just give a dry little laugh - he needs a drink of water now, and wonders if perhaps he’s been loud - and whisper softly, “Hurry up and come home, you idiot.”

RP Thoughts/ Processing

2011-11-07T00:10:38Z

Current/soon characters:

Cardcaptor Sakura - Kinomoto Touya
No. 6 - Shion
Nabari no Ou - Meguro Gau, Yoite
Pandora Hearts - Ada Vessalius, Vincent Nightray

Past characters:

07-Ghost - Frau
Naruto - Everyone? Lots anyway.
Ouran High School Host Club - Kaoru Hitachiin
Pandora Hearts - Gilbert Nightray
Saiyuki - Cho Hakkai
Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle - Kurogane

Want to Play Someday -
07-Ghost - Labrador
No. 6 - Inukashi
Nabari no Ou - Yukimi, Hanabusa
Pandora Hearts - Oz Vessalius, Cheshire
Tsubasa Reservoir Chronice - Fai D. Fluorite

Novel characters - Aaron (The Fire's Stone), Harimad-sol (The Blue Sword)

New Journal

2011-09-11T13:59:32Z

Hey guys!

Just wanted to let you know that I started another livejournal account. I will be posting fanfiction and such on this one, but lately I have a tendency to ramble on the general topic of sex. A lot.

Many of those rambles happen on Plurk, but the problem with Plurk is that it is difficult to finish a thought there. So, for your viewing (dis)pleasure, I present...

Leca the Sex Nerd

Topics will include both real-life sexuality thoughts and fandom ones, and likely some dissections of the sexualities of various characters. Feel free to friend if you are interested!

Kink Bingo - Vehicular- Vincent/Alice AU

2011-09-10T02:29:41Z

AU based loosely on the 3rd omake. *waves hand* Also, this is porn, NC-17-ish, whatever.

Vincent's car is damn sexy.

It's not just a matter of it being the first thing that he himself actually owned, the first bit of real substance in his life that has meaning. It's not just a matter of being a gift from his friend Jack, or having been worked on by himself and his friends, having been fixed up and pimped out and all kinds of other attention paid to it.

No.

Vincent's car is damn sexy because he can't look at it without sparking memories.

He can't pop the hood without feeling along the top of it first, finding that certain little scratch that he could get fixed but won't, caused by a belt buckle trapped under a writhing body. That's one of his favorite memories, the young woman who leads his gang sprawled out across the hood, her hands clenched tight in his hair as he buried his face in her groin, licking and sucking and pressing fingers into her until she screamed his name, and for one second he felt entirely her equal, her lover and friend. It was only later that they'd realized her forgotten belt had scraped paint from the car, and he'd laughed and kissed her and called it a 'war wound'.

He can't slide into the driver's seat, either, without being assailed with the memory of the first time she rode him there, the car in park but his hands firmly placed on the gear shift and the wheel, under strict instruction to keep them there. He'd held on for dear life, white-knuckled, as she ground hips against him, short skirt pushed up around her middle and soaked thighs leaving trails on his blue jeans, not even allowing him skin-again-skin until she'd wet him through, screaming out his name for half an hour before she'd even unzipped him.

He can't touch that gearshift without remembering how it had felt under his fingers, how tightly he'd clung when he finally came, splashing over her hands, over her belly.

And there won't ever be a moment when he leans over to change the radio station when he doesn't remember how once in a while she fights him for it, how sometimes she bargains, how there are those days when both of them forget which music who wanted to listen to because they got too distracted with hands wandering and lips teasing and little snarky comments flying back and forth. His fingers slipping off the knob when he finally reached it, wet with her juices, sliding along the plastic in futile attempt to attain a prize that wasn't anywhere near as amazing as the act he'd done to earn it.

No, Vincent doesn't think his car is sexy because it's a sportscar, because it's a certain model or year, because it draws the eye of random strangers on the street.

Vincent's car is sexy because as soon as school is over, as soon as the teachers and students are bullied and teased for the day, as soon as the academic institution they 'rule' is behind them, she's right there in the passenger seat, that mischievous little smile on her face saying that she's got something downright evil in mind.

Complete and Utter Crack, Pandora Hearts

2011-08-20T20:09:07Z

Crack inspired by:

Made by: silentxrefrain at plurk

No porn, yes obsession.

Vincent Nightray has seen many strange things in his life, and perhaps for a lot of people, been the strangest thing around himself. However.

He's quite certain that he's never seen anything quite as strange as people randomly turning into sheep. With human heads. And rainbow-colored wool.

The first time he sees it, his thought is obviously that he's simply gone insane. Except that doesn't quite work, because Vincent is pretty aware of the fact that he's been around the bend for years now. It's not something that concerns him because he doesn't matter, only his plans, only his wish to make a better world for Gilbert, in the only way he knows how.

Still. The idea that he has simply lost what was left of his mind winds up rather discredited by the fact that everyone else seems to see the sheep as well. The Pandora members - those not afflicted - seem to have ascertained that this is the work of some creature called a Troll.

Vincent has no idea what a Troll is. This, of course, bothers him greatly, because he does like having a handle on things. He very much likes his life to go according to plan, and anything and everyone in the way of that plan simply has to be done away with. So, of course, his first reaction is a rather destructive temper tantrum, followed by a cool and calculating planning session for how to find this Troll and brutally torture him/her/it to death.

However.

Said plan is sidelined a little when a certain rainbow-colored sheep waddles right across his path, on his way out of Pandora Headquarters, one day. The unfortunate soul in question wouldn't get a second look, except for the fact that this creature bears a very familiar face, one that bears quite a few features in common with Vincent's own.

Mismatched eyes widen, and Vincent automatically reaches out to grasp after the creature, desperate to stop his brother before something happens to him. After all, he's heard a few stories of those afflicted by this strange phenomenon winding up kept as pets or becoming dinner or... other more terrible things that even Vincent doesn't want to think about.

So of course, he goes stumbling after the awkward, lumbering creature, the head strangely the wrong shape for the body, bent down in a way that definitely says it’s not a natural creation. The expression in those beloved golden eyes is not quite right, giving something of a trapped air to the whole being, and when the sound that comes out of the mouth is something like a strangled bleat, Vincent realizes why.

These things can’t speak. He’s heard as much, but not thought about it, not considered where that line between human and beast lies in a weird hybrid creature like that, a malformed magical monster. Apparently, human speech isn’t possible, despite the mostly human head, and Vincent curiously runs his fingers along the throat region, trying to sort out just where the Gilbert ends and the sheep begins. The creature paws at the ground nervously, as if unsure of the touch, and Vincent leans in over the thing - no wait, not ‘thing, Gilbert, still his precious older brother in any form - and speaks softly, soothingly.

“Come on, let’s get you inside, Gil. I”ll take good care of you until we can get you healed and back to your master. I promise.”

It’s the word ‘master’ that causes Gilbert to calm, and it makes Vincent’s eye twitch to realize it, but that’s all right, because now his brother is allowed him to lead him away. That’s fine, he’ll take it, because it means he can get Gilbert somewhere safe, can make sure that he’s all right until this whole thing is figured out.

All right, and with Vincent, for the time being.

Soon enough, they’re traveling through the halls of Pandora, and Vincent moves with an air of someone who cannot be questioned, ignoring the couple of people who attempt to stop him and question him about the matter. It helps that the Hatter isn’t available, having been stricken by this very same affliction already. Everyone else is simply brushed off, and become long he has Gilbert in a secret inner chamber, trying to think of something that is suitable for both a human mouth and a sheep’s stomach, hopefully that wouldn’t create too foul-smelling a waste for him to get rid of.

Those thoughts carry him through a quick trip outside for supplies, and then he’s back, setting up a temporary home for his brother, complete with straw bedding and a water dish, and tools for grooming both wool and hooves, so that he can be kept in the best of condition until such time as a cure is found.

Vincent isn’t in too big a hurry to find it. Because he’s discovered that he can go out for a little while, do his work, and then come back to the secret lair and find Gilbert waiting for him, that he can scratch that strange juncture between dark locks and striped fur to get a happy soft noise out of his brother’s throat, that he can pet and snuggle with him in ways that the human would never allow.

He’s discovered that disposing of sheep waste is quite easy, when he simply lays out bags to catch it and then takes it off to the offices of those he doesn’t like, leaves it as presents.

He’s discovered that having Gilbert as a pet is pretty nice. And that apparently, no one has dared tell the Vessalius boy just where his little lost sheep has gone. Or perhaps, for all he knows, Oz has turned into one of the dumb beasts as well and wandered off and been butchered. It doesn’t matter, for the moment, because honestly this is a pretty happy life for Gilbert, and it might just suffice until Vincent can reach his goal.
In fact, the only real problem shows up after several days, when a particularly warm afternoon leaves Gilbert-sheep bleating frantically, overheated and lying on his side against the ground, breathing too hard and weakly kicking his little hooves. This is a real problem.

A real problem, and a real opportunity, Vincent realizes, as he stands there with a pair of shears, his eyes suddenly bright with the epiphany.

He’s always wanted something of Gilbert to keep with him, until such time as he can restore his brother to a happier existence without him. He has made do with a lock of hair, with a few small possessions. But this... this would be the best.

He could collect the wool, take it to the right person who had such talents, and have something made from it. A coat? Perhaps that was too much to ask from the wool of one sheep. A scarf, though, perhaps?

He could wrap his Gilbert - or a part of his Gilbert - around himself for warmth. He could hold onto it even after he gave up Gilbert himself, even after he pushed his brother away, which would likely become necessary to reach his goal, obtain his wish.

He could keep Gilbert forever.

“Shhh, big brother, I’ll make it all better.”

And the dark locks were soft under the fingers of one hand, the golden eyes were trusting and hopeful in a way they’d never looked upon him before, as Vincent happily began to shear.

Kink Bingo - Foot Fetish - Oz/Gil

2011-08-05T05:12:51Z

Kink Bingo - Foot Fetish - Oz/Gil - underage. Not really sex. XP

His master, Gilbert knows, is perfectly capable of performing these little everyday tasks by himself.

For that matter, there isn't a lot that Gilbert believes his master is not capable of, considering all that Oz has been through, in his young life. Rather than make the servant boy resent his master, however, this fact makes all the everyday chores even more special.

Oz could easily undress himself, tuck himself into bed, clean his room... yet he lets Gilbert stay close to him and do those things. He allows Gilbert the satisfaction of knowing firsthand that all is taken care of, that his master is safe and warm in his bed, that all is right in their own tiny world.

Gilbert thinks about these things all the time, as he does such simple tasks as kneeling at Oz's feet, easing the buckles on his boots open, his eyes diligently on his work and his body bowed forward just a little, hunching over the other boy's foot as if possessive of it. This particular task is one he always takes his time with, reveling in the scents of hide and sweat tingling in his nostrils, the textures of the smooth buckles and crinkly leather contrasting under his hands, the way the entire boot slips-catches-slips again as he pulls it off the foot.

"GIL!"

The sound of Oz's voice is sudden and jarring, but there's something in the tone that says it's not his master's first attempt to get his attention. The dark-haired servant's eyes pop upward, blinking owlishly, as if suddenly exposed to light after a long period of darkness. Perhaps, it's a little like that, when he's pulled out of his own mind this way, dragged back into reality.

"I asked you if you ever heard of a foot fetish!"

The socked foot that Gilbert had just tugged a boot off was jerked out of his hands, roughly, and the other (still-booted) foot pushed against his chest, knocking him backward, so that he landed quite awkwardly on his butt on the floor. The startled boy shook his head, automatically, as if denying whatever it was that he had obviously done to deserve this treatment. Not that it really took much with Oz, but his master seemed honestly a little... unsettled? Somehow?

"I-no?"

Gilbert hugged the boot still in his possession to his chest, scooting back across the floor a little to give himself room to sit up without being in range for another kick. After all, he was pretty sure that it was the wrong answer he was giving.

"One of the servants told me about it."

Gilbert waits for the explanation, his head cocked slightly to the side, his fingers worrying the sleeve of his little blue suit. He manages to hook his feet together in front of him around that boot, so that his whole body is sort of clinging to it. When Oz doesn't speak again, the little golden-eyed boy peeks up to see that his master has removed his other boot himself, and is quietly sitting there taking his socks off, as if Gilbert were no longer even present.

"... Young master..."

Is he supposed to ask? Is that the game here, to make him ask? Gilbert tries to find words for it, but he's interrupted before he can finish by a bare foot being shoved toward his face.

"Is it the foot, or the boot, Gil? Which one is it that you like?"

Oz's foot has been inside both sock and boot all day, and smells accordingly, and there's a slight wrinkling of the nose as it is pressed against Gilbert's face. The servant turns his head a little, letting the rough skin of the sole scrape across his cheek, before he reaches up with both hands, relinquishing the boot in exchange for that smelly sweaty appendage.

"The one that is attached to you."

It's green eyes that widen then, startled by the fervent words, the way his bullying is turned around on him, the way it becomes just another opportunity for his servant to show that same loyalty that... still boggles him, honestly. Oz blinks for a moment, then starts to pull the foot back, as it to drop the subject, let them both finish getting ready for bed, leave the question of his servant's strange focus on taking his shoes off lie.

Except.

Those tiny hands continue to grip, with a surprising strength, a possessiveness that startles Oz as well.

"I don't know how to explain it."

Gilbert's voice is quiet, wavering, despite his insistent hold. He doesn't know how to explain it, has never heard of a foot fetish, doesn't have any idea that his desire is anything that anyone else has. He only knows that there must be something deviant about it, because he's never seen any other servant do... this thing he wants.

But now, Oz has brought it up. So perhaps now, it's safe.

He tests the waters slowly, his eyes on Oz's face for any protest, leaning in and pressing dry closed lips against the skin, skidding them across a pocked and pitted surface, the tiny lines and creases feeling like craters against the sensitive flesh.

"Gil, that-"

The words are cut off in shock as a small tongue flicks out between those lips, as both hands shift to the outside of the foot, thumbs sitting parallel and rubbing gently against his arch, a slight trail of dampness trailing down the center of the sole as the young servant licks and teases, those radiant eyes shining with a light that Oz is so used to being turned away when he catches it there.

"Ah, it's-it's good."

No, he doesn't particularly like the sensation itself, thinks this act is a little dirty, perhaps not the most attractive thing in the world. But it's Gil's love for him shining in those eyes, and that he can accept, if he doesn't know how to properly express it yet.

No, Gil thinks, it's not the foot that he wants, but the way this act startles his master into looking at him - into letting himself be looked at - in the way this strange deviant act allows him to properly worship this bullying blond master of his.

Later, maybe, they'll move on to other parts of the body, more obviously sexual acts.

But for this moment, it's with no motive at all and no move toward completion that the young servant twirls his tongue around the edge of a rough toenail, and it's with no thought toward anything further that the young master drops his hands to the bed behind him, extends his ankle a little, and lets out a soft little sigh of pleasure.

Kink Bingo - Consent Play

2011-07-31T06:42:32Z

Part two of Consent Play piece - same warnings for rapeplay and incest.

"Don't think about it, do it!"

Gilbert drops himself to his knees just as the hand falls on his shoulder, before the pressure can bear him downward, before damage can be done. The scissors that were positioned at his hip tear his shirt as he moves, but that is a sacrifice he can accept, even when a line of blood appears, evidence of broken skin.

His hands are trembling as he fumbles with his brother's clothing. Those hands, still gloved, covering a seal that holds a power that could easily free him of this man, if he would unleash such a thing against his sibling, his tormentor. Such a thing is impossible, unthinkable, and he keeps the gloves on, between himself and the skin he reveals as he unfastens the coat, lets it fall open, revealing the lack of the usual white under-dress, the brazen nudity beneath as flamboyant as everything else about this ridiculous man.

He doesn't hesitate, not now. Because now, those scissors have shifted to press themselves to the back of his neck, pricking-poking-pressing against the skin, that tiny itch telling him by experience that the skin has been punctured a little.

It's incentive enough, and he presses forward, relieving some of that pressure against his neck as he takes the growing member into his mouth, hastily enough that his teeth scrape a little, but that's all right, because the sharp intake of breath above him reminds him that his brother is just fine with that.

It's petty, the way he sucks in, tucks his lips behind his teeth to keep that sensation from happening again. It's petty, the way he lets his tongue lie flat against the bottom of the shaft, unmoving, becoming dry and listless with friction as the other man rocks his hips, forcing a rhythm that Gilbert does nothing to perpetuate.

"Yourself, too, brother."

It's petty, the way he hesitates, the way he sits there with his hands on his thighs for a long moment before peeling a single glove off. The voice of the man above him is quiet, firm, and the long blond hair is a curtain, half-hiding his brother's face as Gilbert slowly follows the familiar command.

There's another small trickle of blood down the back of his neck, when he hesitates for just a second too long. It's a strange awkward movement, sliding his pants down far enough without rising from his kneeling position, a fumbling movement that leaves yet more scrapes on his skin. That same gloveless hand is held up, as far as he can reach, and that curtain of golden strands moves downward. A flash of a crimson eye, narrowed slightly, and then lips wrap around his fingers, suck down, that slick tongue dancing along his skin.

He backs off his brother's cock, at this moment, turns eyes up to watch this, because he has to, because to do otherwise risks another blackened eye or bruised jaw that will cause questions, because Vincent wants to see his face for this moment, because...

It is always at this point that his body betrays him, the treasonous flesh between his legs - now bared - twitching and standing upright, letting it be known that that mouth against his hand is pleasurable, is desired is....

"Please... it's enough."

The words are whimpered desperately, as Gilbert struggles to withdraw his hand, greedy teeth suddenly clutching at it, keeping him captive there on his knees, helpless, that wicked tongue lapping and lapping as his hips rock a little, at the promised-imagined sensation of that wetness against a larger part of himself -

it won't come it never does but just the thought of it -

"PLEASE -- VINCENT!"

The words are punctuated by a sob, by a jerk that skins his middle finger to the knuckle, leaving blood on the sparkling white teeth and dripping down the back of his hand, an injury that tomorrow will have to be explained away by some kind of accident - always so clumsy, Gil - but oh, he's free now, and he doesn't hesitate in the least to take that hand and push it behind himself, blood and spit and all.

That slight shift upward onto his knees more is almost calculated by now, that perfect angle, the arch of his foot as he shifts forward enough to keep his hand from touching the bare stone floor. Tomorrow, he thinks, he'll come down to this cellar and scrub, make sure every last bit of evidence of this encounter disappears. Tomorrow, he'll -

"Stop that."

Of course. Of course, his brother would catch him thinking of something else. Of course, he couldn't get away with such insolence as to forget who he is with and what he is doing, pay attention to anything but the fact that his brother's weeping cock is brushing against his cheek and his own fingers are pressing into himself (doubly painful with the raw wound on his finger and the quick stretch-burn of not daring to take too long at this) and he has to look, knows that he has to look.

That smile on Vincent's face makes him shudder, each and every time. And each and every time, he's just as grateful for the moment when he can turn away, can press one last kiss to the purpling head before him and then press his gloved hand to the ground, giving himself enough leverage to turn himself around.

This is the least painful part, honestly. Because in this moment, he can not look, is allowed to close his eyes. The scissors pull away, disappear somewhere, but it's far too late to turn back now, physical threat or no. This moment is the one where he can place the still-gloved hand against rough stone, tug his shirt sleeve down over the bare one before placing it - fisted - against the ground as well, and simply wait.

That first thrust is always enough to rock his body forward, always enough to bring tears to his eyes and a scream to his lips. And always, a gloved hand snakes around him, presses against his lips, catching that scream before it can fly out.

The rhythm is easy enough to follow by now, or rather, the way Vincent seems unable to keep one. The overzealous pounding that signifies the younger brother's loss of control always makes breathing difficult for Gilbert, always makes his chest so tight that he coughs into that gloved hand.

The man fucking him never seems to notice, never lets himself notice. He also never seems to notice how Gilbert's hips continually shift forward, never properly pushing back, how there's never a moment when he's truly tricked into reciprocating.

It doesn't seem to matter, as the stretch-burn-push-tug-jerk-thrust-fuck-gag continues, as the rough stone grinds at his knees and his finger throbs and his mouth begins to hurt and his hips begin to groan and-

It's done, thin trail splashing against stone, splashing against innards, teethmarks in the white fabric of Gilbert's shirt-Vincent's glove, as all sound is muffled desperately. It's done, and he's survived it again, and he collapses forward carelessly into the mess, trembling.

It's done, again, and a gentle hand tugs his pants upward, covers him, despite the trail of wetness beginning to ooze that will just dribble all over the fabric anyway. It's done, and his own coat is draped over him, as blond hair - damp with what neither will admit are tears - brushes his cheek before dry lips touch there.

"Let me-"

And as always, Gilbert reaches up, pushes feebly at his brother, pushing him away still. "I haven't said the safeword, little brother."

The sorrow in the way the younger man slumps is enough to break Gilbert's heart, to bring a crushing weight of guilt down on him, pressing him against the floor just as firmly as the physical weakness in the aftermath of the orgasm does.

"Please, Gil..." And now it's Vincent begging, to be allowed just this once to show kindness instead of cruelty, to throw away this farce of force that allows his brother to even for a moment indulge in his touch without guilt.

"One kiss," Gilbert whispers, finally, giving in, turning his head just enough to meet that mouth coming down to meet his own. I have to give him something, for all he gives me...

"I love you, little brother," and mumbled against lips, his tongue still half-tangled in the younger man's, maybe he can pretend the words never happened.

Kink Bingo - Consent Play

2011-07-31T06:38:41Z

This got a little long! Warnings for: consent play, obviously. Also incest! You were warned!

"Don't do this."

The words sound quite sincere, the tone trembling, as the man speaking backs up a step, wide tawny eyes fixed on the face of the man crowding his personal space. Every muscle in Gilbert's body has contracted so tightly as to be painful, reacting instinctively to something that is just plain wrong.

And when his back hits a wall? The reaction to that too is strong and sudden, instinctual, a fearful sucking in of breath, a startled gasp.

The leg that slips between his thighs exerts a real pressure, a convincing threat against his manhood, and he turns his head, as if not looking at the person might block out the movement, the contact, the danger. But no, he won't be allowed that either, will he? Because even as he turns away, there are long slender fingers grasping his chin, tugging, forcing him to face this, head-on.

Those eyes are the first thing that he sees, and he shudders, as always. Not because he believes that the red eye is a curse - he doesn't - but because he knows that the person that eye belongs to believes it with his whole heart. And what Gilbert himself believes is that this self-fulfilling prophecy is what leads them, time and again, to this moment.

"Don't." It's all he can say, that single word, that protest. His mind can't seem to come up with anything more, with some more eloquent way to convince this familiar assailant to leave him be.

"Don't."

The word becomes a whimper as his chin is pushed up further, scraping the back of his head against the wall, just enough to pull the hair caught between the surface and his body, just enough to scratch at his scalp painfully.

"Vincent, don't."

Saying the name itself is painful, and he wants to claw at his own throat, at his mouth, his lips, wash it away with his own blood if necessary to clear the disgust of it. But there's no chance for that, as that same merciless hand tugs in the other direction, drags his face down to meet that of its owner.

The lips against his own taste faintly of salt, and some surreal part of his awareness stops to contemplate that, even as his mind tries to shut down on him, to step away from the situation. He doesn't at all want to think about how his own hand against Vincent's chest isn't moving the smaller man at all, how the pressure against his groin just increases in silent warning, how the sharp teeth at his lip remind him to be still.

"Please."

And that word itself hurts to get out, as those teeth sink deeper into the flesh of his lip, tear, bringing blood to the surface and causing a sharp intake of breath that seems to cause his lungs to seize, a new pain in his chest joining the distress of the moment.

"Big brother..." The words are murmured against his mouth, before the tongue presses against his lips, laps at the blood slowly, as if they have all the time in the world, as if there's no chance at all of the prey escaping, of this moment being interrupted.

"Big brother..." And then that tongue is between his lips, insistent, and oh how he wants to bite down, but there's no way he can dare such a thing, not when his younger brother's free hand moves, and that faint press of metal can be felt, through his clothing, the tip of the scissors digging in just against his hip.

That threat can't be ignored, because Gilbert knows better, knows that if tested, his brother will hurt him. He knows because there's a scar along that same hip, long and crooked, healed over a year now but never, never forgotten. And as if to be sure that it will never be forgotten, the sharpened tip moves, drawing the line, even as the tongue invading Gilbert's mouth thrusts lewdly between his teeth, traces over his own tongue, impales as far as it can reach.

The hand that was so desperately trying to push Vincent away stills, rests against his brother's chest, the white glove stark against the dark coat his sibling wears, a parody of an innocence long since lost to this younger man. Gilbert is gasping for breath by the time the 'kiss' - and can he even call it that, when he fails to participate, when he simply leaves his mouth open and gaping for the plundering tongue, drying out in air he can't seem to bring further in? - ends.

"You know what to do."

There's that slight pressure, again, that hint of threat as the tip of those wickedly sharp scissors bite into his hip, tearing a hole in his shirt. He'll have to sew that up, later, but for now he can only prevent bloodshed, can only rock back against the wall a little more in hopes of a scant centimeter of space between flesh and metal.

"I know."

And he does. He knows because last time his knees wound up bloody from being forced down, from being smacked into concrete hard enough to leave bruises and scrapes for days, long enough that a servant fussed over him, asked questions. He doesn't want those questions, because what he doesn't want, most of all is...

Part two is here.

Kink Meme fills/de-anoning/

2011-07-31T01:51:03Z

Gil lays eggs:

"Such things aren't entirely unheard of..."

"But surely it requires..."

"Are you saying Raven couldn't have..?"

"But who..?"

"It wasn't ME!"

The half-heard conversation from the other side of the door was starting to make Gilbert quite annoyed. After all, here he was sitting all by himself just outside an office at Pandora Headquarters, torso strangely swelled and entire body just feeling off and wrong.

And inside that room? Just about everyone he knew was standing around talking about him as if he were some sort of inanimate object, or perhaps a child. He sighed and slumped a little in his chair - fetched by Vincent, as everyone else seemed to have been perfectly willing to leave him standing - and closed his eyes, trying to just... will the situation away somehow.

Of course, once he drifted off, even his dreams decided to focus in on his current conundrum. And as inside the room, one after another of his friends disavowed any complicity in his current condition, Gilbert himself dreamed of the encounter that had led to it.

The hands against his skin had been cool, almost cold. Perhaps that had to do with his own flush, the glow under his skin that was just as searing as the cigarette he'd dropped on himself when the person came in the door and surprised him in the midst of a private moment, stealing a secret smoke in the one place he'd assumed he could simply wash the smell off before anyone could know.

His bathwater had been warm enough, but the air against his skin as he was tugged out of the bath was cool, and then as he was touched and the heat surged inside him, it had been those cool hands that he focused on...

The lips against his own weren't cool at all, but hot, twin brands that moved from his own mouth down his throat, leaving red marks behind, marking him almost cruelly.

It's that cruelty he remember most. That casual cruelty that he had accepted so easily as his due, the promise of atonement for every wrong done this person, for every moment of failure that had littered their long association.

Every bit of kindness is cruelty, as that ravenous mouth travels over Gilbert, picking out every nook and cranny of his damp form. The tongue is merciless and seemingly lacking in taste - there's no disgust at all on the familiar face when it laps at an armpit, strokes along the sweating inner crease of a hip, dips between taunt cheeks to delve into hidden recesses.

That mouth on his own again after that is utterly unwanted, but accepted, for it is Gilbert who will accept everything, who will take anything, who will give up all of himself in return for some sense of absolution...

I should have been there for you...

In his memory, afterward, there's no pause at all, no steady buildup but simply a thorough exploration of his body that never hesitates, lips and fingers and a foot up his calf, a stiff dripping member pressed against him and then...

The shame of that is too much, even for a dream, and the sleeper's head tosses from side to side as he rocks with a remembered rhythm, accepting this too, his shame, the voice of Raven in his head filling it with manic laughter, laughter that echoes from his own mouth even as he screams/laughs/sobs a release.

Out from behind those tight-closed golden eyes, the little meeting is complete, and a small circle of men is standing around the chair in the hallway, staring with varied amounts of interest and horror at a sight that none of them had expected.

Gilbert, his clothing worked open by trembling hands, still sleeping, roughly jerking at cloth in an attempt to get air against his skin. And perhaps that shouldn't be a surprise, as his entire body is faintly pink, fever-flush spreading over him. But what is even more of a surprise is the purpled flesh pressing out of his open trousers, the sticky-dripping-drooling at the tip of it, the scratching-scraping-tugging of his fingers against his own skin as if trying to tear his way out of it.

"Awaken him, posthaste!"

The first person to move in response to the shouted order is of course the small blond boy, who throws himself toward his servant and begins speaking in his ear, pointless words that range from promises - "I'll let you tie me up this time!" to threats "I'll let Alice use you for a chew toy!" - and seem to have no effect whatsoever.

"Never mind that, try to make him breathe properly!"

And so the boy does so, tugging one of Gilbert's hands to his own chest, so that he can feel the flow of breath in and out, and being a series of exaggerated huffs and puffs that can't possible be considered 'proper' breathing.

But that's all fine and dandy, because the rest of the little gathering is busy helping Gilbert out of his clothing, because apparently whatever is going to happen is happening right here in this hallway, and there's nothing they can do about that. Red and gold eyes hold something like panic as Vincent jerks at boots, and even Barma looks a little concerned as he actually deigns to reach out to help with the coat.

It's only Break who stands back, his single eye trained on the situation at large as he leans back against a wall, watching and occasionally taking a small pot-shot. ("Really, Vincent, what a time to steal a grope!" "Duke, you do realize that the brat is going to hyperventilate if he keeps trying that?")

Before long, though, the little assemblage has managed to get Gilbert settled on the floor, lying on his own coat, his legs spread and his still-erect member sticking out between them. He's still asleep, still making little whimpering noises, still dreaming, apparently, as his hips move in a rhythm very much more like sex than any kind of childbirth.

"Are you sure it's going to be able to come out of there?" Oz asks worriedly, quite uncertain that the tiny little clenched-tight fluttering orifice is going to be able to pass anything puffing out his servants body that much. "Don't birds have special holes for that?

"History says..." the Duke begins, but there's no time for that, as suddenly indeed Gilbert's body begins to contract, and there's something turquoise-tinted beginning to be visible, stretching him open.

Then the screaming begins in earnest.

But that dream? It's still in full-swing, even as he pushes the strange thing out of his body, even as everyone around him rushes to find ways to help (or in the case of Break, the best angle to get a good view for mocking purposes), even as the very first birth of a... Chain? Bird? from a human body in hundreds of years happens.

It happens at all once, the crescendo of the dream and the reality, the moment when everything stills and then explodes, cum and shit and blood all tearing out of his body at once, the turquoise-and-brown mottled thing forced out of the man and slipping to the coat, resting large and improbably between spread and shaking thighs as Gilbert's golden eyes finally - finally! - open in confusion, pain, and fear.

In the scramble that happens after, no one things to guard the egg. They're too busy with the examination of the body it left, with the soothing of the terrified 'parent', with the recording of the circumstances of the whole matter for later generations yet again.

And so it's with a smile that a slender teenaged form leans down, presses hot-so-hot-burning lips against Gilbert's cheek, presses a cold-too-cold hand against his forehead, and whispers a quiet 'thank you' to his adopted older brother as he carefully scoops up the Raven's egg.

Now if he can just make Leo sit on it for him...

Alice+Gil with Oz instigating/watching:

It was his fault to begin with, Oz tries to remind himself, when the jealousy strikes. After all, he was the one who had decided that his servant and his Chain had been fighting over each other far too long, and really ought to be made to get along better.

Of course, his hormone-ridden teenage brain had one solution for this: sex. Besides, just a couple of days before he had awakened to wet clothing after a rather vivid dream... well, that was really beside the point. This was about better relationships, not his dick. Really. Truly.

And now, as he watches Gilbert suck a brilliantly-hued mark against the underside of one of Alice's breasts, he's really starting to think that he made a mistake. A very big mistake. Because he was rather expecting the two of them to be grudgingly touching each other and both looking at him for approval and perhaps begging him to come help them out and...

There aren't any eyes in the room on him. No. Alice's eyes are closed in pleasure, her head thrown back and that utter honesty of hers allowing small moans to drip from her lips, desperate and needy.

And Gilbert? Gilbert's eyes can't seem to decide where they want to be, scanning up to that lovely face and then down over the girl's body, sticking for a moment on the generous breasts, then sliding down over a soft belly to the barely-there patch of hair between smooth shapely thighs...

That's his! Not Gilbert's! And he'd been perfectly fine with the idea of his servant and his Chain making hot sweaty love in front of him, but now in practice the fact that his own pants are tenting and there's no one to take care of it for him... that just makes Oz want to pout.

"Hey..."

Do they hear him? NO! Because Alice is making those noises even louder now, and it's no wonder, what with Gilbert burying his face in her that way, lapping and lapping, greedily as if he might eat her right up, devour her entire essence in the...

"Hey!"

No, Gilbert definitely can't hear him, not with her hands pushing at his head like that, fingers clenched tight in black hair, a near miss with the ear cuff, a slight grunt from Gilbert as he tries to back off and suck air.

"HEY!"

No, neither of them is listening to him at all, as he presses his own hand down over his erection, pushing as if he might make it go away with the pressure. In fact, they seem quite unaware that he's even in the room, as she finally drags Gilbert up her body, none too gently, hands going up around his neck as he carelessly shoves his way into her body, too far gone to care about finesse or any kind of comfort.

Oz is no one, nothing, as they move together, her back arched off the floor, Gilbert's knees skidding just enough to burn as he jerks her hips up toward him, dragging her half onto his thighs as he drives into her, then tugging her up, up, until she's seated in his lap and he can devour her breasts again.

"WILL YOU TWO...?"

And it's then that the finally, finally, notice him, two heads turning at once, golden eyes and purple ones hazed over and slitting in irritation at once.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP-"

"MANSERVANT"

"MASTER"

...

...

and all he can do is sit and stare, his own body jerking and a cry falling from his lips, his pants wetting in the front, as Oz Vessalius discovers this little thing called... the cuckold fetish.

Vince+Ada's tits:

It's been bothering him for a while now, this urge to touch her. To taint her, he reminds himself, it's all about destroying her, using her. Any pleasure derived from the act will be entirely incidental, just part of the package...

His eyes, bitter red and shining gold, seem to be telling another story. In fact, they are quite emphatically stating that there is a particular thing about her that has his very fervent attention.

She notices, of course.

This young woman, despite her innocent leaf-green gaze, her simple smile and her chaste string of pearls, she is quite aware of just where that gaze keeps falling, where those strange beautiful eyes of her secret suitor have begun to fixate.

It's she who makes the move, in the end.

Her small hand slips into his own surreptitiously, from behind a curtain in the midst of a rather formal ball, her voice soft and sweet behind him as she pulls him backward, toward a corridor.

"Follow me, love."

He'd like to protest, but while her own feminine whisper is barely audible, there's no room for his own male voice in something this secretive, no chance to speak in return as she leads him. His eyes dart this way and that, instead, searching for any possible chance of discovery.

He can't be found with an ace up his sleeve, yet. It's too early in the game.

She isn't giving their secret away either, though, not yet, though her reasons are perhaps a little simpler. Still, she is careful as she closes a door behind them, scans the small sitting room on the other side for any threat, and then... locks the door.

"This isn't wise," he says, his voice toning down the real irritation he feels into mild admonishment.

"It's not," she agrees simply, as she tugs him toward a chair. She settles herself gently upon it, arranging her skirt like a proper lady. And then, just as primly, she reaches back to unfasten the top of her dress in the back, slips the sleeves down her arms, and then cups her now-bare breasts in her hands.

The man standing before her gapes. "That's not-!"

This isn't how this is supposed to go. His intention to seduce the innocent girl, to take her and tarnish her, to dirty her beyond any hope of acceptance from any self-respecting ~~Gil~~ man... where had that plan gone?

"You've been staring at them for months, Vincent."

He has. That much is quite true. He has definitely been staring at her breasts for quite some time, because they are lovely, perfectly rounded mounds of pristine flesh, and what he wants more than anything is to mark them, litter them with bites...

"Come here."

It is she, not he, who is completely in control at this moment. He knows that intimately when she reaches for his hips, tugs him toward her. There's a slight shift as she scoots herself to the edge of her chair, and then her petite deft fingers are working at his pants, tugging them open to expose him to her eyes.

Those eyes seem almost measuring, but he holds himself well, despite the fact that his brain is still reeling from the entirety of this situation. He would even open his mouth to make some sort of sarcastic remark about whether she is pleased with what she sees, but then he's breathless because...

Her lips are on him. Soft, well-moistened lips wrapping around his tip purposefully, and then working their way down. There's no teasing to it, no playful licks and taunting laps. No. This is for a very specific purpose, and she slides her way down toward the base as wetly as she can manage, slicking his flesh thoroughly.

His hands fist against her shoulders. He wants to bury them in her hair, to twist and tug at it, but he has no doubt that it took an hour to set and won't possibly be fixed beyond notice in the matter of moments they have here.

Stolen time means care must be taken.
So as she backs her way off of him, he simply watches, fingernails nearly breaking skin on his palms, and huffs an incredulous breath. "Here."

It's only one word, and it's not enough of an instruction by itself. But as she straightens, there's no doubt to what is meant. Both hands move to press her breasts together, an index finger teasing at a sweet little pink nipple playfully as her green eyes turn upward to his face. And there on her lips, there's a smile, secretive and sly enough to belong on his own face.

Perhaps, he thinks, this girl is a witch after all. Because he is certainly enthralled as he takes his member in his own hand, pushes it into her soft bosom, and gives a slow - tortuously slow - thrust.

There's just enough moisture to make it not quite feel like his skin is going to be ripped from the shaft. In fact, it's little enough that the friction is a little painful, and he closes his eyes, throws his head back, and swallows thickly.

It's perfect.

It's far beyond any dream of anything he'd do to this young woman, more beautiful even than the idea of rutting her over a table, or shoving himself between virgin cheeks.

Oh, it's far better than that, even, because this act, this very ridiculous and slutty act...

"At least watch."

She's in control here. He is reminded of it when she speaks, when she closes the crevice he is fucking by pushing inward, when she traps him between heaving mounds and stares up at him with such confidence.

The movement surprises him into looking at her, and he slows, his hips merely rocking a little. That's fine, because she takes over where he left off, her hands making small circular motions, grinding the soft soft flesh against him, jerking him slowly with her breasts.

But when he splatters milky seed upon her flesh, splashing across the rounded globes in thin streaks, he knows for certain the thing that he's been dreading this whole encounter: that look of victory on her face says one thing only.

This woman will never be tainted by him.

Fapping Fic: Ada Vessalius

2011-07-30T21:47:22Z

And now, for fapping fic! I'll post the ones I did for a kink-meme here too, eventually, but we'll start with Miss Ada instead, for now!

Warning for, well, fapping.

There's no one in the room. No one lurking outside the door, no one peering in the windows. She's made sure of those things already, checked and rechecked, made absolutely sure that her modesty will be intact. Yet the blush on the young lady's skin and the furtiveness of her movements are still signs that she is uncomfortable, worried, unsure.

She settles herself on the edge of her bed, restless, one small hand picking at the sheet a little as she reaches out with the other for the prize that she has smuggled home with her. It's such a small thing, wadded up like this, pressed into a pillowcase in just such a way to keep it above notice from the maid who had come to help her prepare for bed earlier. Just a jacket, smaller than the long coat that the Pandora members wear, more form than function, definitely.

The first thing she does is bring the material to her face, breathe deep. There's a faint tinge of blood there, but somehow, it seems that had always been in the scent, his scent. She's never been fooled that he wasn't the sort of man that killed, after all, and she's long since accepted that metallic tinge when she buried her face against his shirt, slipped soft shapely arms around his neck.

A stray strand of blond hair catches her eye, and she pauses for a moment, tilts her head as she inspects it, trying to decide if it's hers or his. His, she decides after a moment, twining the single bright thread this way and that, catching the light. She makes an attempt to tuck it into the jacket pocket, though it's probably pointless, will be lost and forgotten.

Well. That's all right. She's distracted now anyway, standing there in a light chemise, her body fully released from the usual bondage of a 'proper lady', lacking corset and skirt and stockings and knickers and all those layers that stand between her and the world, every day. Here, alone in her room, his jacket wrapped up in her arms, she closes her ears to the words that she has overhead, closes her mind to the knowledge that he is a traitor and he is a murderer.

No, she lets all those things go, and simply breathes in his scent, masculine and slightly bloody, with a hint of cigarette smoke that she's quite sure belongs to someone else, who perhaps he pushed his way close enough to that the smell seeped in....

If he would only push that close to her, of his own volition. If he could only see her, now, but she can't even know where he is. Not now, when everything has changed so much, the whole world thrown out of order and the only thing she has to hold onto is the cloth in her hands, the hard buttons that press against her chest, indent themselves against the delicate fabric of the chemise as she holds the coat close.

Later, she'll take one of those buttons, wind that piece of hair around it, and do a divining spell. Later, she'll take action, use the arts that belong to her only of her own will to find him.

Now, however...

She reaches for a pillow on the bed, wraps the sleeves of the coat around it, tucking them over the plush cover tightly. She settles both hands against the headboard of the bed, nudges the pillow forward a little with her knee, and then lowers her body over it, knees spread to either side.

It's not perfect, not right away. There's an art to this, and the perfect place to line her pelvis up against the pillow isn't the same as where she'd want a real lover, not exactly. There's a tightening to her thighs that is necessary, to make the right friction, to cause her nether lips to rub just so against that part inside... ah!

She doesn't know what it's called, or where exactly to find it, because the idea of actually touching herself in those places is too taboo, even for this young woman who delves into the mysteries of the universe, who hides treasure troves of old tomes, who chants spells in the darkness of night alone.

No, the mystery that lies between her legs is too dangerous, even for her, subversive feminine darkness that might swallow whole the purity that is prized in such a young noblewoman, if she teases it. This man she longs for has not yet touched that place either, but oh, the thought of it! The thought of herself pressed against his lean form, just so, just this way, riding high on his thighs as her own grip so possessively at him, as she grips him inside and out, catches herself on his body and holds on, holds on so desperately.

"You have to come back," she whispers, ardently, into the ear of a figment, her lips moving against the shell just as his have moved against her own so many times, with all the sweet words he has used to woo her.

"You have to come back to me," and those words too are a spell, the slick fluid between her thighs an oblation, the heave of her breasts and bounces of her hips against the warming-rough fabric a spirit dance.

She doesn't know the word for that moment when her entire body rocks, when her lips press together tight to hold back noise, when her belly tenses up so hard she feels it might touch her spine, when the roaring in her ears blocks out everything. She doesn't know the word for it, isn't sure of the vocabulary of passion, the language of sex lost to her if not the act.

That's immaterial, of course, because it does shake her all the same, all through her body, the barely-there silk of her single garment clinging tight against skin, sweaty-darkened. She has no name for this feeling, but as she collapses forward, tugging the pillow from between her legs and hugging it to her chest instead, letting the scent of her own sex and his scent mingle in her nose, as she clutches, clings.

"... good night, Vincent."

By Your Side at Any Price, Chapter 4

2011-07-26T21:25:56Z

Oh, hey, in case anyone was reading this here instead of at FF.net, here's another chapter of the Raikou/Gau fic. Click the 'by your side' tag for quick access to previous chapters.

By Your Side (At any price) Chapter 4
Rating: M
Summary: When things change between partners, can they hold it together, or will they lose what trust was between them? The more things change...
Warning: Awkwardness, immaturity?

When Gau awakes, there are strong arms wrapped around his slight form, tight enough that he feels quite restricted, unable to simply slip out of the bed and go about his day. He isn’t sure how he feels about this, because now that it’s morning and he feels sore and bruised and slightly itchy with scabbing scratches, he really just wants to get up and dress and go make breakfast and have things be normal again.

But Raikou is...

And when Gau looks over, he realizes that his partner is awake, clutching him this tightly. Not asleep. Not dreaming of someone or something else, but looking right at him with worry in his russet eyes and pain written all over his face.

“Good morning,” Gau says softly, when what he really wants to say is ‘don’t look at me like that’ or ‘it’s okay’ or something. But none of those things want to come out of his mouth, and he’s not sure how to make them, as if he’s forgotten how to create the proper words.

He blushes, brightly, and gentle settles a hand on Raikou’s chest, gives the slightest of pushes, trying to make it clear that he wants free but isn’t angry. He doesn’t want his partner to be pained by this, when the entire point of thing had been to take care of Raikou.

“You’re crushing me a little, Raikou-san.”

That ‘-san’ is still firmly in place, is still necessary, despite the fact that they are lying in bed together, naked, still smelling of sex. In fact, it’s that ‘-san’ that makes this all right for Gau, allows him not to feel as if he has perhaps broken his own heart in some way. Because the nearness of Raikou, here in the morning light, makes his heart pound in a way that it hadn’t the night before. Now that Raikou is looking at him, at Gau, in a personal manner... he’s still attracted to this man, still wants him.

Which is why he’s relieved when Raikou laughs, pulls away. There’s a wry tone to his older partner’s voice as he speaks, and though the worry is still there, there’s something lighter about his expression as well.

“I’m making breakfast today,” Raikou declares, playfully.

Gau’s stomach turns over at the the very idea, remembering the last time Raikou made him breakfast. It wasn’t that his partner didn’t know how to cook, but just that sometimes, he got as random with his ingredients as he did with his wardrobe... and that was never a good thing.

“No, no! Here, see, I’m up! I’m just going to take a quick shower!” Just like that, Gau bounces out of his partner’s bed, despite the slight ache that persists, despite the strange feeling in his body from new exertions. Just like that, Gau gives up the warm rest against the older man’s form that had been his ‘price’ for last night’s activities. Just that quickly, it’s done.

Perhaps they won’t talk about it again. Or perhaps, the next time, he’ll ask the same thing. He doesn’t know yet. He can’t think about those things, because if he lets himself think about them, they will consume him. This isn’t about him, the teen reminds himself firmly, and whatever his partner needs from him will be what he becomes, as it has been since this man saved his life.

By the time the boy is dressed and in the kitchen cooking, he feels almost normal. There hasn’t been some kind of magic change to his mind or body that says he’s no longer a virgin, after all, and the physical aches are no worse than a particularly rigorous round of training, if not in quite the same spots. He’s a little quieter than normal as he moves around the kitchen, but the classical music coming out of the stereo on the countertop covers for that, and there’s nothing to say that it’s anything other than a normal morning.

He’s grateful for the fact that, as Raikou enters the kitchen and takes his seat, he doesn’t move to take over Gau’s task, and doesn’t speak of the night before.

In fact, nothing at all is said about it, until the dishes are cleared away, until they’re sitting at that same table with laptops, notebooks, and file folders, passing notes back and forth and putting together the latest reports for Hattori.

“Are you sure that you’re all right?” Raikou asks, his tone almost wary, as if knowing that broaching the subject might be asking for trouble.

“If I say no, do I get out of training for the day?” Gau asks, in his best childish-hopeful tone, his green eyes sliding toward his partner’s face, taking in the fact that those familiar russet eyes are glued to the screen and not facing him at all.

“Perhaps.” There’s a twitch of lips that accompanies the single word, and a flutter of lashes that might be a wink.

“There is this awful pain right in my...” Gau begins, but he can’t seem to maintain seriousness, and bursts into laughter before he can get the word ‘ass’ out at all.

“Brat!” The older partner is swinging a book at his head lazily before he can check the reaction, and they both laugh, as Gau manages to fall out of his chair trying to avoid it. And maybe, just maybe, it’s a little on purpose, but the renewed twinge in his lower half is definitely worth it for the way Raikou’s face breaks out in a smile as he reaches out to help the boy up.