sho: /makes a heap of sheep

19 sheep in the heap

2011-07-05T07:13:05Z

title: Dust
pairing: implied Sho/Sora
word count: 691
rating: G

Dust.

He made his way through the empty lot where it had happened, slightly out of breath from the run, but already, he knew, seconds too late. It was empty. Empty of enemies, empty of allies. Empty. Just whisps in the air, Noise circling like hungry vultures, gathering around the particles in the air. His eyes drifted from place to place, seeing without really seeing, his vision oddly foggy. The first time the world hadn't been crystal clear since he'd died, himself.

In a furious rage (and a roar to match) he obliterated the Noise around him, creating to the tiny particles that seemed to take up the entire lot all around him, seething so intensely that he couldn't seem to draw a steady breath. Then, slowly, he began to relax, unsatisfied with this level of destruction. He moved on. Instead of creating, he destroyed. He turned entire roadways into his own personal canvas, heaps without placards to tell the world what they were all about.

Monuments.

Later, he'd crafted not a heap, but a tower. Dust filled the air. Not a blip on the radar, not a whisper of Noise in sight. He felt followed by it, incensed by it. Sitting up so high made him a target, but so too was everyone else; he followed them with his eyes, feeling a twisting fire coil inside, lashing back and forth like a cat's tail. Soon, he placated himself, gripping dusty metal pieces and his megaphone. Make it art. Make it beautiful.

More dust. It seemed to circle the top of his garbage tower like a slow-motion tornado, but never once touching him. The Noise were drawn to it. He just kept erasing them. Kept watching his city rot. Kept collecting dust and anger, adding it to his own personal heap.

By night the particles of Soul were so thick that he couldn't see through them and into the city anymore. Clumped together, they seemed to have whispers of their own. He couldn't take it anymore; climbed down from his throne and fled back to the empty lot. No--not fleeing. Relocating.

Not a single speck of dust there in the lot, not anymore. He began returning to it daily, it became his secondary base of operations, his place to think. There next to an imprint in the dirt was a track he'd worn down from pacing, grinding his teeth and calculating. No dust ever gathered there again, it all hung in the sky above his tower like a raincloud, swirling and furling and whispering.

It got loud.

So he drowned it out.

He especially liked hearing the "CRUNCH!!" part. Before long he began creating new pieces of art; tesselations over the graffiti on the wall, numbers etched into the pavement, patterns drawn in the sand around the outline of a body and the groove he'd worn into the ground from pacing. Without the background voice he couldn't think because the whispers from the dusty cloud grew too loud. It baffled him and infuriated him and he flew into rages that often resulted in the destruction of his own art, from time to time. Being unable to grasp why it affected him and his ability to create, to imagine, sometimes, only made him feel worse. And feeling anything at all to begin with was hard enough. But that was all it was: a slip of focus. Not rage or sadness or anything, just a profound amount of distraction that only fixed itself when he played that zetta stupid subset's voice back over and over and over and over, put it on a repetitive loop and decorated the empty lot where he'd been erased.

But eventually, even that couldn't silence the Noise inside. He went to the River to finish everything, so he could clear Shibuya of the fractured Soul that stifled the Music. Not just for that, but as Composer, it would be a priority.

He fell asleep to whispers. As he blacked out, trapped under he didn't know what, he spied his megaphone on the ground and reached out for it, but became slowly lulled to sleep by a dusty lullabye.

18 sheep in the heap

2011-06-30T12:54:17Z

title: gifted
pairing: none
word count: 2318
rating: G

December 25, 2011. Ten years old, and the biggest Christmas haul he'd ever received. There were presents from his family and his family's friends and even a gift from one of the royal children—one of the princesses that he would hopefully someday wed, supposedly. Even some of the people they knew in the Euroverse had sent gifts for Gino and his siblings; expensive, imported things that were honestly more for their parents' benefit than the children's, because what would a ten-year-old boy want with delicate decor such as this? All in all he counted roughly sixty-five gifts. Clothing, mostly, and new books. One was a brand new piano which had already been set up in the parlor for him to play. After brunch he had promised his mother he would play Christmas carols, one of his brothers agreeing to accompany on the violin and his sisters agreeing to sing. His mother had said she would like that very much, thank you.

Gino's eldest brother had received the most out of all of them, naturally, since he was now connected to the family of a German duchess and had become quite popular in the Euroverse. The middle sister, too, who had married another Britannian duke (her fourth cousin, truth be told, but a wealthy cousin nonetheless) was also the recipient of many lavish gifts from her new family. The two youngest Weinberg children, six and seven, received the least, but it was customary not to spoil ones so young. They, as well as Gino, it seemed, were content to watch their elder siblings carrying on about their gifts and who gave them, modeling the accessories, the jewelry. There was quite a clamor over Antonio, the third brother, who had in addition to his Christmas gifts received a letter informing him of his acceptance into the Britannian military (where by 2015 he would be killed in Area 18, but during this moment no one could have ever suspected such a thing).

Wrapping paper had at one time littered the drawing room floor, but as everyone's presents were moved to where they belong, so too did the mess, expertly cleared away by a subtle and silent staff of servants. The celebratory crowd dispersed and Gino waited until the room was empty, remaining in the room under the pretense of admiring the tree one more time before it was taken down. Once alone he crawled underneath the scratchy, aromatic pine branches and made his way to the far corner of the room, blocked by the gigantic tree. There, one final present remained, wrapped hideously in pale green paper and tied with a poorly constructed red bow. Gino retrieved the gift deliberately and made his way out from under the tree, careful to brush away any nettles before departing from the drawing room himself.

He moved as if he had rehearsed this for days (and in fact he had), surreptitiously leaving the building and crossing the grounds with the ugly Christmas gift tucked under his arm. No one except one of the gardeners noticed him strolling along the walkways unaccompanied and raised no question about it, anyway, since it wasn't an uncommon sight for the young master to be out on his own, taking in the fresh air but not seeming to appreciate it at all, judging by the blank and disinterested expression he nearly always wore. Before long, Gino had disappeared into the aviary, which was also incredibly common for him, and the gardener put it from his mind.

The sound of singing birds made it impossible for Gino to even hear himself think, at times, but today it was exceptionally quiet because many of the birds had been kept only to be given away as gifts. There were still a few that trilled as he passed their cages, but for once he didn't stop to look at them and made his way around to a sitting area where a servant was diligently sweeping the floor. Gino regarded her as blankly as he did anything else for a long moment, but when he spoke it was surprisingly warm, sounding to him as not quite right: "Excuse me."

Turning, the maid looked surprised for a moment, but upon seeing who had called her, smiled and bowed at the waist, setting her broom aside. "Master Gino, hello."

Gino couldn't help himself, suddenly—he smiled a little bit, too, and extracted the hideous present from under his arm, holding it out to her. "Merry Christmas, Masuyo."

"Oh!" Masuyo recoiled from the offering a little, alarmed and, it seemed, embarrassed. Her gaze shifted from the box to Gino once or twice and finally she reached out to take it, however hesitantly, believing it better than refusing or making him insist. "What is it...?"

"For you."

The answer didn't do much to clear things up, but the maid smiled anyway, looking down at the poorly-wrapped gift in her hands and then back at Gino, bowing again. "Thank you, Master Gino." Gino nodded in response, still faintly smiling, but then the two of them simply stood there looking at each other in silence and the air became somewhat tense. Finally, Gino spoke, inclining his head with a frown. "Aren't you going to open it?"

"Oh, of course! I'm sorry." Startled, Masuyo began tentatively picking apart the wrapping, starting with the bow, which came undone almost a little too easily. The rest of the paper came off just as quickly, having not been taped down at all. Neither was the box, so that when the paper was removed, the lid nearly sprang open in her hands, startling her again. She glanced up in her embarrassment to find that the corners of Gino's lips had quirked just slightly and it seemed to hearten her enough to continue, reaching into the box and groping past the packing tissue to find what was inside.

Suddenly, her hand retracted from the box as if she'd been bitten with another soft cry of "oh!" Gino's eyes widened. "What's wrong? Did it pinch you?"

"No, I..." Unable to find words, Masuyo simply stared down at the box, then back at Gino, then down at the box again, becoming more and more distressed each time. At length she held the box out to its giver, trembling visibly and audibly as she did so. "I'm sorry, Master Gino. I couldn't possibly accept this, I..."

"I'm giving it to you. You won't take it?" Gino sounded confused rather than angry, but Masuyo gave him a tremulous, scolded look all the same, her mouth open but nothing coming out except empty stammers. Slowly, Gino's head inclined again, and his words came gradually, unsure. "You... don't like it?"

Masuyo quickly shook her head. "No, Master Gino! I like it very much! But it's... well, it's..."

"What?"

There was a lengthy pause before Masuyo was able to speak again. "I-I only think that it's far too valuable for someone like me to keep."

"It isn't valuable," said Gino plainly, "My sister didn't want it. She gave it to me." He waved his hand, indicating himself, and then indicating Masuyo. "It's not for boys to wear."

"Oh, no—" started Masuyo, but quickly silenced herself. Another long stretch of silence followed, with Gino seeming quite expectant and Masuyo seeming quite afraid to proceed. Finally, she retracted the box, since it was clear that Gino wasn't going to take it back, and slowly lowered her eyes to peer inside again. "I really couldn't..."

Gino folded his arms. "Please, do consider keeping it. I want you to have it." Then, deeming it important that he emphasize its significance, added, "It's a Christmas gift."

The maid seemed doubtful but flushed with what Gino took to be happiness, anyway, and carefully reached into the box again, lifting its contents out so that she could see them better. A delicate golden brooch glimmered in the light of the aviary, a single diamond in the center of the heart pattern creating a rainbow of light on her face. As Masuyo turned it over she seemed to quiver and flinch, afraid that she might drop it, or break it simply from having such a precious thing in her hand. Then, with a sigh, she pursed her lips into a thin smile and tucked the brooch into her apron, bowing much more deeply than before. "Thank you, Master Gino. I'll carry it with me always."

Relief wrote itself on Gino's face, and he inclined his head again in a bow of his own, smiling in earnest at her just before he turned to leave, as if this had been nothing more than a simple business meeting. It was very clear to him, and also to Masuyo, that this brief exchange was far more personal than something as innocuous as a business meeting, but the implications and feelings thereof would not be discussed for several more years.

—

December 25, 2018. Eighteen years old, and he had not received a single gift. This was, of course, because all of his gifts were waiting for him on the first floor of Ashford's student council building and not underneath the tiny potted fir tree he had placed on top of the piano in his apartment. A tiny lit-up star and one single miniature bulb dangled off the scraggly branches. Leaning over it as if trying to blow the star out like a candle, Gino leaned down and turned off the switch. He had planned an errand ahead of time that would push his Christmas celebration at school back for a little while, so he figured it best that he turn the tree off. "Fire hazard," as Anya had ever so astutely pointed out when she had come to see his new place.

Silently reminding himself that he would need to drop by and take gifts to her and the others out on the farm later, Gino picked up his keys and left the apartment. The distant trill of birds in the treetops and wireless towers seemed to herald his departure. He laughed to himself and turned the car radio up louder.

Arriving at the front gate of the estate, Gino pulled alongside the curb rather than parking it properly and hopped out. A servant came rushing down the path to open the gate for him and was quickly informed that it wasn't necessary. "I can let myself in," he said, patient and yet with a steely sort of look so that the servant recoiled a little, lowering his head. Gino quickly corrected himself and tacked on, "But thank you."

"Of course," murmured the servant.

"I just want to make this super quick, so would you mind not telling anyone I stopped by?"

"If that's what you'd prefer, sir," murmured the servant.

Gino smiled, patting the smaller boy on the shoulder. "Thanks. And just call me Gino." Before the servant could respond Gino was on his way up the path, walking with long, brisk strides. Even if it had been years since the last time he had strolled across the grounds this way, he still knew them by heart. As he approached the third building he caught one of the gardeners watching him from the corner of his eye and smiled at him, too. Imagine how unusual it must be, he thought, to see young Master Gino meandering about the grounds again.

With no one to hinder his progress upstairs, Gino reached his bedroom by taking the stairs three and four at a time. It had been left essentially untouched; they had obviously ransacked it at first, in search, perhaps, of a reason for his sudden and unexplained departure some three years previous. Surely it hadn't taken them long to figure out where he had gone and for what reason, which is why everything in the room was still intact, for the most part. It had been kept immaculately clean despite its vacancy and Gino was pleased to find that nothing had been stolen. At least, nothing he cared about. His hiding places had been clever, but the things he valued—that he really wanted to hide, were more so. Opening a drawer yielded several sketchbooks; searching the top shelf of his closet revealed a small compartment where a collection of his favorite sheet music, unceremoniously torn from their respective books, was folded several times over and bound together with a rubber band. Between his mattress he found a collection of ribbons in various colors and under the cabinet in his bathroom he located, with an unexpected swell in his heart, a battered, stuffed bear wearing a fine, silk lapel waistcoat emblazoned with the letter F in gold stitching. Holding this treasure to his chest, he proceeded to his desk where he lifted off the shade of the lamp there, unscrewed the light bulb, and turned the base upside down, emptying its contents into his hand: a golden, diamond-encrusted brooch in the shape of a heart.

These things as well as some others were placed in a bag he had brought along with him and Gino was as quick to leave the Weinberg estate as readily as he'd arrived, unperturbed by anyone except the servant boy at the gate who opened it for him again, despite its unnecessity, and smiled tremulously as Gino got into his car and drove away.

Gino returned to his apartment and placed each of the treasures rescued from his childhood home under the scraggly, dead bit of twig on top of his piano. A ribbon around the stuffed bear's wrist and the golden brooch in his paw, and before he left for the second time to attend the Ashford Christmas party he kissed the teddy's head and laid his handkerchief over his lap, shifted a potted chrysanthemum over to give him shade from the midday sun's window light, and tucked a yellowing, home-made card between him and the "tree" that read, "Merry Christmas, Gino, Love Masuyo."

17 sheep in the heap

2010-12-31T12:54:39Z

title: smug
pairing: gino/kallen
word count: a lot
rating: nc-17

He caught up to her as she was walking home from school that afternoon, flinging his knapsack over his shoulder so it wouldn't hinder him as he ran, calling and waving a hand over his head to get her attention. From the way her shoulders straightened, her pace quickened, he could tell she was hurrying to get away, avoiding him, ignoring him. It wasn't that they were at odds; she just did that sometimes, refusing to acknowledge him when he wanted her attention the most. It was a tantalizing game of cat-and-mouse, as innocently played as any game could be and yet so downright dirty at the same time. But fortunately for Gino, he was a seasoned professional at being brushed off, and it scarcely phased him; he'd simply persist all the more, in this case, rushing to her side and leaning around to peer at her as she walked, easily able to match her pace with his long strides. She had her nose in the air, like she didn't have the time of day for him or anyone, hands balled into fists at her side. Anyone who didn't know any better would think she was angry at him, and that Gino had no idea why, but it would be far from accurate.

"Kallen, hey, Kallen," he greeted, waving a hand right in front of her face, keeping in step with her. Kallen did not respond. "I wasn't sure you heard me back there. Are you done with classes for today?" Her stony, simmering silence persisted, but Gino seemed to take that as an answer all on its own, smiling and nodding. "Me, too. I was thinking about going someplace for a light lunch, do you want to come along? My treat."

Still, she said nothing, watching where she was going in front of her with an unwavering gaze. This time, Gino seemed to take this for rejection and pulled the best puppy face he could manage which, unfortunately, wasn't a very good one. "Come on, pleaseee-? You can pick the place and everything! It'll be fun."

No response.

Gino waited for a long time for her to answer. Perhaps she was only thinking it over, couldn't decide, and needed some time to consider. He gave her a full two minutes of absolute silence, remaining right at her side and leaning around to watch her face, one hand on his hip, the other holding his bag by the strap over his shoulder. Finally, being quiet proved to be too much work for the blond and he sighed. "Okay, well..."

Other students that they passed could see the predicament Gino found himself in and whispered to each other, laughing. "There he goes again," they would say. "He's really got no luck with her." "She's so stuck up! Poor Gino." "Why does he even bother with her?" "I wish he'd ask me out, instead. I'd say yes so fast!"

It wasn't difficult to pick up on what they were saying, since most of them barely bothered to hide it, and Gino's response was nothing more than a sheepish, good-humored smile before he would go back to staring at Kallen, the most interesting thing to him on two legs. Kallen, on the other hand, paid no mind to her classmates, the same way she paid no mind to Gino, invading her personal space with his stupidly happy, eager face.

They left the school grounds and turned a corner, and Gino stuck with her the entire way, finally giving up watching her and at speaking, and observed the scenery with nonchalance. Kallen said nothing, never slowed her pace, never glanced anywhere but straight ahead, her expression firm and determined to pretend as if the former knight did not exist at all. It wasn't a horribly long walk from Ashford Academy to Kallen's home, and there was nothing of note between the two places. No other students, nor many other pedestrians, for that matter, appeared to be taking the same route. Even when they approached the front door, Gino remained at her side, as if he'd been invited to enter and that there was nothing wrong with tailing her like a puppy.

Finally, Kallen reached into her bag and withdrew her house keys, unlocked the door, and walked in, still without so much as a passing glance at Gino. "I'm home!" she called in, tossing her things onto the couch. She left the door open behind her and headed for the stairs to her bedroom, noting that her mother must not have been home, and Gino entered the house and closed the door behind him without blinking twice. up the stairs and down the hall, and into Kallen's room, where the door stood open as if on purpose. That door he closed behind him, too, and he turned to face the room.

Kallen was pulling off the tie of her school uniform, then kicking off her shoes, then sitting on the side of the bed and peeling off her socks, all of which were tossed unceremoniously into a heap on the floor. Gino shoes came off, too, as did the outer blazer of his uniform, and then he sat beside Kallen on the bed and leaned in.

"Harsh. You could've at least told me today was one of those days."

"I told you," Kallen replied, finally turning to look at him, and with no sign of exasperation of dislike on her face at all. Quite the opposite, actually, Gino noted. "If I tell you what's happening you'll give it away. You think I want everyone knowing where we're going?"

Gino smirked. "It's not like they'd know I'm coming over just because we act like friends."

The redhead was plucking at the bedspread, lifting one leg out in front of her, idle. "They'd get nosy."

"So?" Gino stretched out a leg, too, just to copy her, and Kallen kicked his back down, tangling her ankle around his. "I want 'em to know."

"I don't."

"Geez, you'd think you were embarrassed or something."

A flat look was Kallen's only response. She flopped back onto her bed, her leg still wrapped around Gino's, arms outstretched on either side of her. "It's none of their business."

"I want them to know," he repeated. Mimicking Kallen once again, Gino flopped back again, and it seemed only by luck that the back of his head landed right in Kallen's open palm. The two of them grinned, and she curled her fingers, scratching lightly at his scalp. "I want everybody to know."

"You're just smug."

"I am not smug!"

"Proud, then."

"Mm." Gino shut his eyes, smiling to himself, as if to suggest that he had a bigger secret than that, one he wasn't going to tell only because he wanted to tease her. "That sounds a lot better. I'm definitely proud."

Kallen caught the opportunity and rolled over onto the blond beside her, sitting across his lap with her knees on either side of his hips, hand still behind his head, fingers curled in his hair. "Smug, proud, same thing."

One eye opened, then the other, and a coy sort of look found its way onto Gino's face, lifting a hand from the bed and resting it on the small of her back. "I bet you're pretty proud, too, sitting up there like that. Look at you." His other hand came up as well, touching her lower lip, the smirk that was there. "Smug."

She bit his finger and Gino quickly withdrew. "Yeah? Maybe I am."

"Maybe you should quit talking, then."

"Maybe you should make me."

That was all it took for Gino to catch the back of her head in the hand whose finger had recently been nipped, pulling her down against him and their mouths together, forceful and yet deliberate, precise. She pulled him up into the kiss, too, gripping tight enough to hurt, and before long the hard press of lips turned into open mouths, fighting to claim the other, hard and hot and messy, the occasional flick of a tongue or employment of teeth. They liked the sound of their kisses too much to make noise, the way their breaths were thick and heavy and their blood pounded in their ears, drowning out the quiet rustle of clothes against clothes. First Gino caught her tongue under his, but she bit him and he retreated again, only to be captured and pressed down against the mattress, but he was quick to escape, and the chase continued until they grew tired of the competition and resolved, wordlessly, to simply kiss in agreement.

Tenderness could only last so long before one or the other would get restless, and it didn't take much time for Gino to break away, grazing his teeth against her jaw and sucking at her neck, hard, but not long enough to mark it before moving along. His hands were too busy with her blouse, sliding his hands up her back and underneath it, pushing it up, rather than unbuttoning it, which Kallen took her time doing with his. Once she had it open she sat up to drag her nails down his chest, leaving thin red marks that stung, but his hiss was pleased rather than pained and before long she had to stop, anyway, to raise her arms and let him pull her shirt off over her head. Then it was back down, "accidentally" rubbing their hips together and kissing again, very briefly, and breathing against his ear, tracing it with the tip of her tongue so lightly that she felt Gino quiver underneath her and smirked.

"Let's see how long it takes you to figure out this time."

"Sh, I'm concentrating." He shushed her, his hands on her back again, then her sides, and then cupping her breasts, still bound by a soft black bra. "Is it the front or the back?"

"I'm not telling."

Frustration appeared on Gino's face, and he followed the band of the bra to her back again, fumbling. He was so pleased to find the hooks there for once and not someplace where they shouldn't be that he let out a satisfied "Ha!" and Kallen laughed, pressing their hips together again as a sort of reward, and also a distraction while he undid the clasps. "You're not so bad at it, now."

"I've had practice," Gino said with newfound resolution and, indeed, smugness, releasing the third one and watching with satisfaction as her bra came undone and fell right off as if it had been straining to all along. He pushed the article aside in time for Kallen to press their chests together, but Gino pulled her back by the shoulder so he could touch, light and teasing, circling around her breasts in a steady spiral and finally grazing his thumbs over her nipples, watching her face go from amused to aroused in a matter of moments. She gasped, lips parting and her hands moving to spread themselves across Gino's stomach, brushing the skin there and balancing herself as she rocked up against him, now grinding in a slow and needy rhythm. She could feel herself heating up, flushing, and that familiar tightness in her lower belly coiled inside her like a snake. Beneath her, she could feel Gino hardening, and it made her blush, her whole body tingling and a certain warmth growing between her legs as the blond touched her, pinching her nipples, rolling them between his fingers, cupping her breasts and squeezing.

He could see the effect he was having on her and that alone was enough to get him especially riled up, watching her expression and looking only away to admire her body and to watch her hips grind against his with increasing desperation. Her short uniform skirt was hitched up over her thighs already and if she moved just the way, he caught a flash of black underwear to match the bra. She must've planned it that way. That was impossibly attractive to him, too. Bringing her back down against him, their lips seemed to find each other's by accident, and he slid his hands along her sides, teasingly light, almost as if to tickle, and along her backside, squeezing through the tightly-stretched material of her skirt. Once he'd picked up on her rhythm he began manually aiding the motion, rocking her forward and back, changing the beat so that it became erratic, unpredictable. It was a surprise to him that, when she gasped and groaned softly against his mouth that he was breathing hard and flushed, too.

Kallen seemed to realize this at the same time, and without breaking their successive, open-mouthed kisses she arched up, reaching between them and undoing Gino's uniform pants with shaking hands. He'd passed up underwear that day, and she guessed somewhere in the back of her pleasure-clouded mind that he must have planned it that way, and with that thought in mind she pulled him out and gripped his length, stroking him, squeezing and twisting her wrist at the crown to wrench more pleasure into it, urgent. It only made it that much more difficult for Gino to function, but he drew her underwear down, pulled it all the way off, tossed it aside and cupped her in his hand, sliding one finger around a slick and swollen entrance but bypassing it for the time being to rub her with two fingers. She was almost embarrassed by how wet she was already, and separated their mouths to catch her breath, eyes partly open and surprised to find Gino's open, too, watching her. She smiled, dazed.

He smiled back, misty-eyed, and leaned up to catch her lips again, murmuring something that she wasn't even sure was verbal against them, but she mumbled something back. And without missing a beat he slid a finger into her, then a second, working them in and out in time with her strokes. Their kiss broke again, only because Kallen couldn't silence herself anymore, and moaned, hoarse and desperate, ceasing to stroke him because her whole body seemed to tense, paralyzed by the sensation of being penetrated. She rocked against his fingers, urging him in deeper, but he resisted and she found herself on the brink of tears, tired of being teased. "Gino!"

Something like a laugh escaped Gino's lips and he removed his fingers, licking them clean with a lewd shamelessness that made Kallen shudder all the way through. It was the last straw for her, the last bit of taunting that she could take, and she raised herself, holding Gino steady, and slid down onto him, gasping and crying out as he filled her. Gino responded so quickly that her mind seemed to go blank, only able to register him thrusting into her, and her riding as hard as she was able, throwing her head back and digging her nails in and moaning deep in her throat every time he hit the perfect spot. Gino was just as vocal, and just as lost as she was, quivering all over with each sound of appreciation she made and doing his very best to hit the same spot so that she would continue making them, his muscles taut and tense. His pace slowed as he slid in and out, but became rougher for it, and at times Kallen thought she might scream, it was so good that it almost hurt. She tugged at his side and they rolled over together, him standing, arched over her, and her legs around his waist. At this new angle he could strike her spot much more easily, and he held her by the hips, bringing her down against him once, twice, three times, and on the fourth she really did almost scream.

She tightened around him and shuddered into orgasm, gritting her teeth and tugging at the sheets beneath her but entirely unable to stifle her groans of pleasure and the violent convulsions as she came, especially not when he continued thrusting into her, and soon she felt him shudder, too, heard him cry out and opened her eyes to watch, watery-eyed and gasping as he pulled out and finished, with a few quick strokes, on her belly, her pelvis. Involuntarily, she shuddered again, though whether it was just from the sight or an aftershock, she wasn't sure.

What she was sure of, as she touched the thick substance on her skin and brought her fingers to her hand to lick it away (and the look on Gino's face as she did so reinforced the notion), was that one round was not going to be enough.

16 sheep in the heap

2010-09-20T06:44:49Z

title: family
pairing: n/a
word count: too lazy to count
rating: g

Typical day. Breakfast, a long walk, shopping. The marketplace, full of people, pushing, bustling, competing, murmuring "excuse me"s to everyone without a collar; bumping arms and hips, rough, with the ones with them. Food, trinkets, clothes, toys, animals. Cats and dogs and pigs and chickens and several tall cages with one tiny trilling bird for each. A canary, silent on its perch.

Gino thought of his family then as he did so often when he passed this booth, these birds, these cages. Each one served as a reminder for each member of his household: his mother, his father, the servants he still remembered (thanks a lot, Thanatos). And the canary that never sang reminded him of himself, viewing the world as only as large as his container, seeing only what little there was to see from where he was and nothing more. Only what was shown to him by happenstance. These sorts of thoughts always lent themselves to depression, guilt, regret. FLEIJA, Prince Schneizel, the loss of Pendragon. How he'd left home a year earlier and refused to respond to his mother's letters, had given everyone from his childhood the cold shoulder and focused solely on searching for his love and on changing the world for her, changing himself for her, too. Family was a hard subject for him to ever stomach; if he could manage it, he walked quickly past the booth with the birds and went straight home. It was always the last one on his way out.

Typical entrance. Toss keys and jacket, close the door, call out to see who responds. Nobody, as usual. Quiet inside, except for the ferrets, squeaking in their pen. A happy, oblivious family. Happy?

Gino had had photographs printed from the many images he'd captured on his device and left them in a scrapbook on the living room coffee table. Everyone in his "family" was here, from the oldest, Sho, to the newest, Break. Happy, smiling faces, usually, but there were other ones, too. A shot from a recording he'd caught once where they'd all been on the couch, brushing shoulders, playing a card game. Several of Yukari and Travis, being dysfunctional. Luciola and Dio, Vincent looking grumpy. Gilbert looking grumpy, too. A posed photo: himself, draped over Maxxie's shoulder. Travis with a black eye, Gino with stitches on his face, Luciola with a sunburn, Maxxie with busted ribs. All of them on the living room floor, asleep.

Sometimes Gino's heart ached to flip through these photos, because they both made him so happy and made him so sad at the same time. Their security was such a fragile thing. One wave of a hand and they could all be gone, dead, torn apart, just like in Britannia. Gone forever. Family was a delicate thing. Family was a difficult subject for him to stomach.

The very last one in the album was a sort of "family photo" he'd forced them all into: himself and Maxxie, Luciola, Gilbert, Yukari and Travis. Quite the unlikely set, all of them, especially seeing them all in one place like that, all together. In times where Gino had needed comfort, had needed to seek out their memory to pull him through the ache that "family" sometimes brought to him, he referred to this picture. The droplet-sized stains on the paper of the scrapbook on this page proved it.

15 sheep in the heap

2010-02-03T03:03:47Z

title: faded
pairing: oz/gil
word count: 2383
rating: pg-13ish
(possibly incomplete? unsure)

Rain, again. He could hear it tapping on the roof, on the window pane. Steady, rhythmic, calming. The blankets came up to his chin again, and he huddled into them, curled in on himself, shut his eyes tight and then opened them again a moment later. It was still dark, but he couldn't be sure how late it was exactly. It felt like he'd been laying there for hours upon hours, maybe even days. Every once in awhile he heard footsteps passing slowly outside his closed door, the occasional quiet murmur of people talking as they went by. Never loudly enough for him to pick up on what they were saying, and he really wasn't listening very hard, either. It was only through fortune, he assumed, that no one had come to check on him yet.

When they'd arrived back from their excursion that day he'd deposited himself in bed and slept. And slept, and slept, and slept, so deeply that when he woke he had the sensation of crawling out of a well. Of having been dead for a hundred years, and now he was clawing his way back up to the surface, slowly, struggling. In a way, it was a downright frightening way to wake up. But once he was fully conscious again he did nothing but lay there, wrapped in the blankets and the clothes that suddenly felt far too big on his small body.

There was of course the vague thought that he oughtn't stay cooped up like this forever. He needed to be sure everyone was alright, needed to reassure everyone that he was alright. But instead he lay there listening to the rain, the quiet pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. Slowly, he let his eyes shut again. It was still dark out. He could stay here a little longer.

Across the room, the doorknob slowly turned, obviously by someone trying to make as little noise as possible, and then the door creaked open, allowing one beam of steadily widening light to filter in, partially obstructed by the tall figure in the doorway. Oz didn't react; he kept his eyes closed and listened, breathing evenly, quietly.

"Oz?"

He continued feigning sleep, albeit not all that convincingly. Maybe some others would've been fooled. But if he had seen himself, he would have known right away. The visitor crossed the room in a few even strides, steps muffled by the carpet. "Oz?"

Of course it was only a matter of time before Gilbert would come in to check on him. He'd assumed that everyone would've given him the rest of the night to recover, which led him to believe it'd been more than a day since he'd left his room. That would explain the faint pangs of hunger that he'd started to feel some time ago but had since ignored. His eyes remained closed, his breathing even. Maybe Gilbert would give up and leave if he made it apparent that he was still sleeping and not about to wake up.

The mattress squeaked as Gilbert took a seat on the side of it, right next to Oz. Alright, maybe not. There was a long moment of silence, aside from the falling rain outside. No words, no movement, no sounds. It wasn't the first time he'd pretended to be asleep, laying in complete stillness while Gilbert sat and watched him this way. In fact, it was a fairly common occurrence. He thought very little of it anymore, and for a long time let the man have his moment. Gilbert would sit there without moving, without hardly breathing, for so long that oftentimes Oz really did fall asleep waiting for him to leave, so he really didn't expect anything to differ this time.

Time ticked on, the rain alternating between clattering heavily on the roof and softening to a gentle patter on the windowsil, their only indication that the world around them was still spinning. Oz began to feel drowsy, bored, even. It was nearing that time where he would fall asleep for real again, but in the back of his mind, buzzing and ringing from both silence and stress, he hoped that he could stay conscious a little longer. His shoulders trembled a little; uncontrollable spasms of pre-sleep slackening. The movement roused him awake again, but only slightly - before he knew it he had quivered again, stirred again, drifted off and yes, interrupted by another tiny twitch. Is this what fighting sleep really felt like? Somehow, it felt unfamiliar to him in spite of the many nights that he'd struggled with himself for hours this way.

The perfect stillness was interrupted by the rustle of fabric - something that would have normally been too quiet to notice, but so rare and sudden that it seemed to be amplified a hundred times. Oz's body stiffened, alert and yet still dreary, and before long the rustling began again, the mattress beneath him squeaked softly, another shift-- and he felt a hand plant itself on the small of his back. Although it startled him, he remained still, eyes closed, his senses all heightened by his inability to see what was happening around him. He could feel something warm beside him-- breath, right near his neck. Cigarettes, the faint irremovable scent of blood. The hand on his back traveled upward, a gentle, reassuring gesture.

Gilbert knew he was awake.

Finally, Oz's eyes slowly opened, partway and then fully, glancing back toward the face that was so close to his. Seeing it now, it really wasn't as close as it felt, but he could tell that Gilbert had his eyes closed, which prompted him to close his own again, before the man noticed that he was alert.

"Oz."

All the pain in his body that he'd gone to sleep with started to throb in him again at the sound of his name. Up until that point, he'd assumed that he'd slept it all off, that he was rejuvenated. But there it was again, the dull ache, the fatigue.

"Oz."

It was practically a whisper. Oz was momentarily overwhelmed by the desire to whisper back, but refrained, continued his charade of sleep even though he was postive he'd given himself away already. Remained still as that hand rubbed his back again, comforting, gently rousing. This wasn't simply the watch-and-wait game anymore. He was being distinctly beckoned back into the world of the awake.

"Oz."

His eyes opened again, and he glanced back in the same way he had before. Gilbert was watching him now, his expression as solemn as it always was, only to unwittingly melt into something more fond upon recognition. Once more, "Oz."

"Mm." Oz went through the motions of stretching slightly, blinking his eyes hard, acting as if he'd only just been woken up, then going tiredly slack against the bed as Gilbert gave his back another gentle rub.

"No, don't get up," Gilbert murmured, seemingly right against his ear though that was hardly the case. Oz stiffened again, bewildered, silent. "I was... only checking."

"I'm fine," Oz mumbled back, his words partially obscured by the blankets and the pillow his face was half pressed into. Now that he was actually fully awake, he was really beginning to feel the hunger, drowsiness and pain. Just how long had he been out? He contemplated asking Gilbert, but decided against it and instead let himself settle, limp against the bed as Gilbert continued rubbing his back. It was more of a constant motion now instead of only once every few moments, and although odd, Oz felt soothed and pacified by it.

Gilbert didn't say anything, just hovered where he was, seeming to Oz to be as placated by the gesture he was making as the boy was, himself. For this reason, Oz kept quiet for as long as he felt able to, shuddering once and then quietly murmuring some nonverbal sound of approval into the pillow before his eyes shut again. It seemed as if this would go on for some time, much like the watch-and-wait game did, only with physical contact, but as suddenly as it had started, Gilbert pulled away and stood. Oz was immediately alerted by the lack of presence and turned his head, craning it in an uncomfortable way to look up at Gilbert. "Gil?"

"Sorry." Gilbert was frowning, eying the doorway with the obvious intent of hastily retreating through it once he was finished speaking - if he even got that far. "I shouldn't have woke you."

"But it's fine." Oz was sitting up already, biting back a grimace as he did so. All that rest and it was as if it had never happened. He felt as beat up as he had when he'd collapsed into bed. He started to say something more, but as he untangled himself from the pool of blankets around him, realized that he wasn't dressed in what he'd fallen asleep in. It wasn't even in his own clothing, but a white button-up shirt, collared, slightly wrinkled. One of Gil's. So large on him that the sleeves came down over the tips of his fingers, that the bottom of the shirt reached a fair distance down his thighs. An appropriate bedshirt, save for the fact that it was all he was wearing. There was a clean change of his own clothes (including underwear) in the dresser, so why...

Gilbert, having seen that Oz noticed how he was dressed, was making overtures of leaving again, glancing from the boy to the door and back again, uncomfortable. "Your clothes were torn and bloody, and when you didn't wake up, I changed them for you."

"Oh." He began fumbling with the long sleeves, pushing them back over his hands and rolling them up on his arms a little. Well, that made sense, at least. "Thanks, Gil. This is a lot more comfortable." Gilbert was watching him, obviously trying to seem as if he wasn't between longing looks at the partially-open door, and yet stealing furtive glances at the boy in the dress shirt that Oz was easily able to detect. "What's wrong?"

The man shook his head, eyes dropping to the floor entirely. "Nothing. I'll... get you some clean clothes to wear now." And without further ado, he departed, pulling the door mostly closed behind him. Oz watched him go, blinking. His eyelids felt heavy, almost sore as well. Once Gilbert's footsteps had died down the hall, he let himself fall back into the pillows, the blankets. Part of him wanted to go back to sleep again, but part of him knew it was important that he get up. As soon as Gilbert came back with his clothes, he'd have to eat, go talk to whoever was up, take care of himself.

As his eyes slid shut again, he felt a twinge of excitement for breakfast. He'd ask Gil to make pancakes. With butter, and syrup, and... a glass of...

"Nnn."

He woke to the feeling of soft fabric on his bare legs, something warm, a quiet, silken sort of rustling. His eyes opened with several rapid, bewildered blinks, and there Gilbert was again, a pile of clean clothes on the bed, seated beside him and pulling one of the blankets up over him. Upon realizing that Oz was awake, Gilbert recoiled a little, almost apologetic. "You fell asleep again."

"Guess I did," Oz murmured sleepily, legs shifting underneath the sheet. "Sorry."

Gilbert shook his head. "I brought your clothes."

For the first time since all of this had started, Oz actually yawned, fingers curling over his mouth as he tried to stifle it. "Thanks." Gilbert nodded, and without further ado, Oz began unbuttoning the shirt he'd been dressed in, drowsily fumbling with each one before, by some sort of miracle, managed to get it undone. All the fatigue of the time he'd spend in bed was catching up with him, and he was amazed with himself for being able to stay conscious long enough to change clothes. One button, two, three-- and on the fourth, halfway down his chest, he seemed to have a little trouble.

Gilbert watched him without a single word, a mixture of amused and uncomfortable. As Oz struggled with the button he shook his head, leaning over and reaching underneath Oz's hands, effectively brushing them aside, and undid the button for him.

Oz laughed, sheepishly thanked him again. Still several more buttons to go, and he didn't feel the least bit like dealing with them. Instead, he began squirming about in place, trying to wriggle the shirt up and over his head, which proved an interesting task when laying face-up in bed.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to get this thing off. I don't want to do the buttons," Oz explained with a quiet grunt, bending his knees to raise his hips up off the bed so he could pull the shirt out from underneath him. Obviously a more taxing job, Gilbert shook his head again, and (with distinct discomfort), motioned for Oz to stop.

"I'll do it."

That was all it took, and Oz let himself flop weightlessly onto the bed again, limbs spread-eagle and the blankets askew. Gilbert leaned over once again and began working on the buttons, deftly flicking his thumb and going down the line, one at a time as Oz lay still. Once he reached the part of the shirt where the blankets obscured his path, he looked to Oz's face with unsurity, then, averting his eyes only slightly, brushed the covers aside and unbuttoned the rest of the shirt, a noticeable tremble in his hands. Once finished, the shirt fell open and Oz, still dreary and unconcerned with the activity, slowly sat up, gathering the open ends of the shirt around him to cover himself as he reached for the clothes on the corner of the bed.

But Gilbert stopped him, reaching with one hand for his shoulder to prevent him from leaning any further forward. At Oz's confused stare, he simply took the material of the shirt in his gloved hand, then the other side in his other hand, and, swallowing, slid the garment off of Oz's shoulders, his arms, over his hands, curled into fists, and tossed it away, onto a nearby chair.

14 sheep in the heap

2009-11-22T10:23:10Z

title: ice
pairing: sho/gino (amatverse)
word count: 267
rating: um, pg-13

"Lift your shirt up."

"Just take it off."

"You take it off."

A droplet of cold water hit the back of Sho's neck, then another. And another, and then several. Gino snickered quietly.

"Better hurry up or everything will get all wet."

There was a quiet grumble in response and Sho's shirt came up over his head, then tossed aside. And Sho leaned toward the desk in front of him, gripping the sides and sparing a glance over his shoulder. "Satisfied?"

"Not for awhile yet." Gino leaned forward, splaying damp, cold fingertips over the back of Sho's neck, brushing away the droplets of water that had been there before. And in his other hand he trailed right down Sho's spine with the piece of ice he was holding. Right from between his shoulders to his pants, watching with fascination as the ice seemed to melt immediately on contact. "You must be really warm. It's melting fast..."

Sho shifted, murmured a quiet sound of approval, then had to laugh, a little. "You have some zetta weird kinks, Braids."

"It's not a kink," Gino replied, sounding affronted. But he was still grinning, running the piece of ice back up Sho's back and along his shoulderblades. It was nearly melted entirely, and he watched the droplets of water roll down Sho's skin for all of a moment before leaning in to catch a few with his tongue (and barely withholding a pleased giggle-sort-of-laugh all the while).

This prompted another murmur from Sho, shoulders rolling back just a little. Yup, definitely a weird kink. But he could dig it, he supposed.

13 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:33:21Z

title: empty
pairing: sho/gino (amatverse)
word count: 3930
rating: um, pg-13

Gino sat inside the nook at the front window in his apartment, staring out through the glass and waiting for the clouds to pass across the sun again. Even though the weather wasn't terribly chilly, he felt cold, and had been enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. He hugged his knees to his chest, both arms wrapped around them and tucked almost up to his chin, which made him feel distinctly childlike. When he was a child he sat that way all the time, alone and vulnerable. And now here he was doing the same thing, eleven years later, feeling the same way.

It would be wrong to say he felt 'worse' than he had back then, but he did certainly feel... emptier. But the fortunate thing about that was that it was one of those temporary spells that everyone went through during their adolescence. He was mature enough to know that it would pass sooner rather than later, and also that he wasn't really 'empty' at all. But when he was down in the dumps, that was usually the most prominent thing he felt. Not sadness. Emptiness. Almost a lack of all emotion. Or something like that - the more he thought about it, tried to pin it down and give it a description, the harder it got to classify. Maybe, he supposed, what he was feeling was guilt. Resting his cheek against his knees, he stared down into the courtyard outside the apartment building, staring at the grass. It seemed like there was no one out there in the world then, just a sea of green grass and trees, flowers and shrubs. There weren't any birds chirping (and he was glad about that, because that was a sound that always wrenched his heart whenever he heard it). And yet he was also keenly aware that somewhere else on the island, people were living, dying, surviving, suffering. They had their own problems, their own fears, their own feelings.

But it was easy to feel lost in the world when you were bringing it down so heavily on yourself the way Gino was.

Even the pile of ferrets in his bedroom were unusually silent while Gino stirred in his thoughts and regrets. Normally there were at least a few of them dook-dooking at some hour of the day or night. There were times when he could sit and listen to Max pipping at her babies, and he imagined what kinds of things they must be saying to each other. Whenever he watched them he got the distinct feeling that they were a happy, loving sort of family. Max was a little on the foul tempered side, but around her children she almost seemed warm and cuddly. Nuturing. Protective. Exactly how Gino imagined a mother should be. And the babies all crowded around her and let their tiny little lives revolve around her because there was nothing they knew or loved more. For the vast majority of the time, whenever Gino observed this he felt touched and proud of Max, and proud of himself for being the caretaker for such a clan. But sometimes he thought about jealous he was. He wanted to go home, find the person he was missing and loving and start a family and just lead a... a rich life. Something gentle and fulfilling like what Max had.

He tried to reason with himself that, in a way, that was what he was doing - it was just different than how he'd envisioned it in his idea of a perfect life. The setting, he hated with all the force of effort his heart could possibly put into hating something. But he had Sho. Really had him, this time, and they were, for all intents and purposes, partners. A team. A family. It was a peculiar arrangement and not at all adhering to fairy tale standards, but that was okay, because there was love, and that was what he wanted. Love and room to grow and learn.

The clouds blocking the sun slowly rolled by, and little by little beams of warm light fell across Gino's face, in his hair, touching on the adornments on his uniform jacket and cloak that was folded and sitting on the floor beside the window nook. Gino shuddered from the sudden warmth and looked back up at the sky, tired of focusing on the uncomfortably empty courtyard below. All that time he'd been thinking and waiting for the sun to come back out, and now he didn't feel gratified at all; if anything, he felt a little spiteful toward the soft rays. He figured the weather didn't suit how he was feeling. If it did, it would be foggy, and very cold, with a heavy breeze. Maybe. Something like that. Even his internal weather channel seemed damaged.

What was he supposed to do about Joshua? They hadn't known each other long, and there were circumstances that made him someone untrustworthy. Sho was threatened by him, and approaching him compromised the relationship he'd wanted to have for months now. There was also the unadmitted thought that a great majority of his overwhelming fixation on helping Joshua was that he only wanted to be able to prove that he could - only to himself, of course - and still be none the worse for wear (of course, that was bullshit. Every time he "helped" someone that he didn't love - and there were only a few people here that he really loved - he came home and just about threw up. Bending to rules he knew were wrong would never, ever sit well with him, not ever). And yet he felt so painfully cruel for having to tell Joshua that there would always be distance between them. If only the Composer had had someone else to turn to, but he didn't seem to. Gino hated being depended on so much, at least in that kind of way. How could he ever fail someone when their life and self-respect was on the line like that? It was just sickening.

No matter what he offered to arrange, it just wasn't enough. And finally there had just been nothing more he could say. Nothing more he could think or say or do or promise that would make things okay for Joshua. He had to let him go, looking hurt and abandoned and frightened. And Sho could cry "manipulator!" all he wanted, but Gino knew emotions when he saw them. Something just felt... off. Distinct. Joshua was really in need and there wasn't anything he could do about it. It made him feel horrid, when only a few days earlier he'd brought Sho home and spent some time just enjoying his company, and being lost in happiness at having him as his - really, truly. Or close to it. Now he came home feeling as though he'd won a trophy for a game he'd cheated at. And that, too, was a sick thing to think about someone he loved. It was ungrateful. Selfish. Downright wrong. He'd said without hesitation, in complete honesty, that Sho was worth the sacrifices, and yet he felt as though he was wasting the Reaper's time by being so morally incapacitated.

Clouds passed in front of the sun again, and Gino curled in on himself slightly, shivering. His brow furrowed and shoulders jerked up as if someone had just struck him. Thinking was a damnable pasttime. He preferred the way most everyone else saw him: an airhead, just happy-go-lucky Gino, playful and inquisitive and innocent. Not that he wasn't those things, but there was so much more to it that nobody ever needed to know about. ...except maybe Sho, he supposed. Someday he'd have to stop trying to except him to be satisfied with seeing only half the picture.

Sighing, Gino stretched one leg out in front of him until the bottom of his foot pressed against the wall of the window nook, and draped his forearm across his other bent knee, chin in hand. His head hurt from the sharp creases of his grim expression. And his heart hurt just the same way.

Then, just out of the corner of his eye, he spied something moving in the courtyard below. At first he suspected it was a squirrel or a bird, foraging for dropped seeds in the grass. But then he saw a flash of black, then red - and he lifted his head a little, blinking slowly. Sho was making his way up to the front steps. For a long moment Gino sat in stony silence and watched the Reaper approach the door, unabashedly staring since he was up on the second floor, partially obscured. But he didn't feel anything. No excitement, no happiness - but no sadness or further guilt, either. Just nothing. That scared him a little, and his vision slowly slid out of focus, blurring the image of Sho and the courtyard into a mix of colors. Why wasn't he feeling anything? Anything at all? Was something wrong with him? Was he dead? How could he not feel anything at all? He shut his eyes tight for an extended pause and then opened them again, slowly, and peered down through the window again.

And there Sho was, looking straight up at him. Gino visibly started, blinking repeatedly with parted lips (the sure sign of him blanking out) for a good long time. It only registered to him after that, when his brain clicked back on, that Sho had stepped down around the corner to retrieve the mail, and was holding it in his hand. That must have been when he spied Gino sitting there. Was he just waiting for Gino to notice him standing there, watching? Gino didn't seem to know how to react - until he caught Sho smirk a little and raise a hand in greeting before heading back up the steps again.

As if someone had painted it there, a smile spread across Gino's face, and he buried his nose in the crook of his arm, trying to hide it as it grew wider. Whatever had damaged him inside snapped back into place - his chest burned with something tight and warm. He stayed exactly that way, staring straight ahead and smiling to himself until the door opened. Then he slowly slid out of his rigid position and leaned his back against the wall behind him, raising the hand draped across his knee in imitation of Sho's earlier gesture. "Welcome home." Gino's hand dropped. The moment he spoke, he was startled - he still sounded just as weary as if he hadn't started to feel better at all.

If Sho picked up on it or not, he didn't indicate. He simply dropped the mail on the coffee table and crossed the living room to stand by the nook where Gino was seated. "Hey. Been sitting there zoning out all day, or what?"

"Sort of," Gino answered, now keenly aware of how his voice sounded and discomforted by it. "I only got home an hour or two ago."

"Huh." Sho was working on his work uniform, getting whatever parts of it off that he didn't feel like wearing and tossing them onto the couch. "Thought your shift wasn't until 0800."

At first, Gino's only response was to nod. He wasn't watching Sho, he was staring out the window again, which was unusual for him, and he knew Sho would pick up on it quickly if he didn't stop it, but he couldn't. After nodding over and over for a good few seconds he finally turned his head in Sho's general direction, though still not facing him, and replied, "It's not. I was... just out." It didn't strike him at the time as favorable to tell Sho that he'd been out talking to Joshua. Even though it wasn't part of the rules that he couldn't meet the guy somewhere for lunch, he knew Sho wouldn't be happy with it. And he really, really wasn't in the mood for another debate on conflict. In fact, if that subject came up on more time he might have to personally escort himself to the Forest of Mirrors for a time out.

Sho didn't reply, and Gino figured that meant the subject was over, or that he was going to bring something else up when he got around to it. There was the occasional rustle, and Sho left the room for a moment or two, though to where or to do what, Gino didn't know, since he had gone back to looking outside. Any moment now, Sho was going to come back in and unload suspicion on him and get him to spill where he'd been and who he'd been with and they'd argue, he just knew it... but soon there was a brush against his arm and his leg and Sho had seated himself on the small space between Gino and the edge of the nook. "What's so zetta interesting out there?"

"...nothing, really."

Silence. Gino could feel himself being studied. His shoulders straightened out of habit - all his life he'd had his posture watched like a hawk. Then after a long enough time of Sho staring, he turned his head to look at him - which is exactly what Sho had been shooting for. Neither of them said anything for a moment, but Gino took the initiative: "I'm just tired, okay?"

"Right. You look it."

"--oh." Gino seemed surprised by that. "Guess I didn't notice," he added finally. Sho didn't look like he was about to reply right away, but then just as he opened his mouth, the blond started up again, abruptly. Even he hadn't expected to say anything again. "Sho--" And then he stopped short.

"What?"

"...how was work?" Gino asked, sighing in defeat. He couldn't even figure out what it was he had started to say first. But before Sho could answer he started again. "Sho--" And stopped. Sho was frowning now, giving Gino a hard stare as if trying to figure out exactly what was circulating around in that mind of his, and Gino quickly evaded meeting his eyes. "Can we... go lay down?"

Sho's immediate reaction was a split-second glance at Gino's collar (even though he knew it wouldn't be tight). Gino shook his head quickly at that. "Not for that. I just..." Guilt nearly swallowed up his words. How could he stand to ask to be near Sho for his own comfort when he was doing someone else that needed him a disservice? Hurting someone that he called his friend. "...I just want to be close to you right now."

Finally, Sho managed to get an edge in before Gino had the chance to throw some other afterthought in. His voice lowered, one eyebrow crooked just so. "Braids, what happened."

"Please?" Evaded. But then he thought better of it. "I'll tell you later. Right now, I..."

Whatever was bothering Gino, it was doing a number on him, and Sho's options were to either let him simmer in it and potentially sink into a worse state, or give him whatever he needed to pull himself out of it. If all he wanted was to lay down and cling to him like he so often did, he could live with it. A Gino in good spirits was far more tolerable than a brooding one that was keeping things from him. "Alright, fine." Sho stood, heading off toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms without another word - not dismissively, but with a certain sort of... well, 'understanding' was definitely not the word. 'Acceptance,' maybe. For a long time Gino simply watched him go, staying where he was, and then finally he slid off of the nook and meandered after the Reaper. By the time he got to his bedroom (predictable; Gino's bed was superior for sharing), Sho had already made himself comfortable, one arm folded behind his head. Again, Gino could only stand there and stare for the longest time - not necessarily in fascination, but as if he wasn't sure what he was looking at. He felt blank, lost. He might've stood there forever if Sho hadn't quietly murmured his nickname to get his attention.

Gino mumbled an apology and moved over to the bed, hovered there for a moment-- and then simply flopped lifelessly onto it, draping himself over and nestling up against Sho as if completely by accident. But once he was settled he held on as if someone were trying to pry them apart (and, Gino felt, in a way, maybe someone was), burying his face in Sho's arm - and then against his chest when Sho shifted to accommodate him better, one arm carelessly wrapped around his shoulders. It was altogether bewildering, and maybe a little on the uncomfortable side for Sho, but he didn't say anything, waiting for Gino to snap himself out of whatever funk he was in. That was always how it went. The blond would get clingy and maybe a little emotional, and then he'd be fine.

But after a half hour, and then an hour, of idle gestures of affection on Gino's (and sometimes Sho's) behalf, Sho began to get tired of it. Gino wasn't acting like he was fine yet at all, and yet he was obviously too strung up about something to settle down long enough for one of them to drift off, which would have been something rather than laying there for forever. "Braids."

Gino jumped as if someone had dropped a dish and shattered it nearby. "What?"

"What the factor is your problem."

Silence fell between the two of them for awhile, and Sho felt agitation rising-- and finally the reply came. "I love you."

It'd be an understatement to say that it took Sho a moment to recover from that. What. What. What I don't even- "That's a problem?"

"No, I was just saying it because I can," Gino answered, sounding a little more himself than before. There was still a distinct weariness to his voice that didn't seem to want to go away, but at least he'd managed to make himself sound something like playful this time. "I like the sound of it, and I like what it means. If I could only ever say one thing to you forever, that'd be it, I think."

Again, a long moment of recovery followed. This sappy garbage was going to take some getting used to - particularly since Sho found himself perplexed and inexplicably lost on what to say in return. That was not something he supposed he liked feeling. Lack of control. "Oh."

"Oh?" Gino raised his head a little, expression impassive. "Is that a good 'oh' or a bad 'oh'?"

Sho simply frowned. Gino and his damned mood swings had taken him off guard, and now he was being put on the spot. There were things he knew he could say, things that would probably satisfy Gino, but he wasn't about to say them. Or maybe it wasn't that he didn't know how. Screw verbal responses. He leaned in and caught Gino's lips with his own when the blond raised his head, turning somewhat into the tight embrace he'd been locked in for some time now.

This time it was Gino that had been caught off guard; he sat completely slack is if someone had turned off his brain again. And then, finally, whatever dam had been holding everything back broke. He shivered and melted into the kiss, pressing back with more fervor than what there had been to start with, bringing his fingers up to slowly, gently stroke Sho's jaw, his cheek, his hair. For the two of them it was a surprisingly tame and... perhaps tender sort of gesture, and when Gino finally pulled away he looked utterly stunned, face a bright shade of red as if what they'd just done had been something far more personal than what it was. "Sh-Sho..."

"Does that answer your question?"

"Mm...mmh." Slowly, Gino sank back down, resting his cheek on Sho's shoulder. "Yeah." He let his lips rest against Sho's neck, only occasionally giving the skin there the slightest of brushes or kisses. Sho seemed to have gone still, but Gino caught a tiny shudder and laughed quietly, tilting his head up to Sho's ear and letting out the softest, faintest breath against it that he could manage. And then, even more gently, a whisper so quiet a pin drop could have drowned it out: "Love you."

Oh. That again. After several days now, Sho supposed he ought to have been completely used to hearing it. Or that he would have found a suitable strategy for evading it or responding to it, whichever was more absolutely necessary at the time. His head turned slightly toward Gino, and he felt the blond recoil, clearly expecting another kiss. But being predictable was in fact garbage, and so he leaned toward Gino's ear in the same way the blond had just done and-- was silent.

Gino held his breath in anticipation. Was he finally going to-- after holding out so long, finally going to say-- his heart pounded hard enough that he was almost positive Sho could hear it. Or feel it, since he was sure it was enough to shake the bed. Suddenly his throat was dry; even if he had wanted to urge Sho to go on and say it, he wouldn't have been able to. His face hadn't ever felt so warm before. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion. It was almost dizzying. He couldn't stand the tension anymore. Just as he shifted, he felt Sho exhale and froze again - even his heart seemed to stop.

"Love you too."

Whatever magic power there was in those words, Sho certainly became appreciative of it. Gino had always been someone that was able to keep some semblance of control and awareness in these kinds of situations, but, as he found throughout the course of that evening, and on into the night, he had found the ability to bend Gino to whatever whim he wanted. The blond was aggressive as hell, more than he'd ever seen or even expected from him, but completely and utterly willing to drop everything and do what he asked. As long as he was in command of the magic phrase. As it turned out, Gino missed work entirely and the two of them never left that bed until the next morning - late the next morning. And when they finally did get up there was a distinct sort of magnetic pull that seemed to draw the two of them back into each other over and over, so that breakfast got awfully messy and the coffee maker was somehow broken, somewhere along the line. They ran the shower long enough that they used up all the hot water, and one flooded bathroom floor later it was back to bed.

Alright, so it wasn't exactly productive. But neither one of them could complain, and never would. Gino slept more comfortably than he ever had in his life, and not a single moment of those dreams was what he would call 'empty' at all. They were full and complete, and so was he. Nothing going on outside that apartment was worth the way he felt then, and he was perfectly content to stay in and let those things go on without him to worry about them - at least for a little while longer.

12 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:32:09Z

title: This Particular Moment
pairing: Gino/Spanner
rating: PG-13
word count: 724

Gino smiled in that dazed, romantic kind of way with his eyes half-lidded like he always did right around this particular moment, reaching up to situate the blond straddling his hips and slide his fingertips up along a bare side. It made him squirm and Gino laughed-- well, alright, it was more like a playful giggle. Then they moved in unison, even shuddered at the same time, just rolling their hips together, nothing too intense.

From underneath the blankets (and away from the sheets, where he was pulling on them as he always did right around this particular moment), Gino's other hand found Spanner's jaw and grazed it, up past his ear, then along the side of his neck, sifting his fingers through his hair and then gripping the back of his head and pulling him into a kiss. Quite possibly the hundredth one since before this particular moment. And he laughed when they both had to wince, since their lips were so bruised, and pulled away with another slow and slight motion against each other, just to keep the friction going.

"Think we're overdoing it," Gino commented.

"You're overdoing it."

"I'm always overdoing it. But you're not helping."

A long pause, during which time Spanner seemed bewildered, and then, finally-- a defeated sigh. "Forget it."

"What? Oh, come on, Spanner, that's not how it goes!" Gino protested, that sultry glimmer in his eye disappearing. Now it was just as if neither of them had been busy with anything at all.

Spanner, looking vexed, rolled off of Gino and flopped onto the bed with another long sigh. "You can't expect me to remember every single line."

"You remembered last time," said Gino, muttered under his breath as an aside. And then, in a normal tone, "You were supposed to say, 'Fine, then I'll help,' and that's when you--"

A flush rose to Spanner's cheeks (moreso than what there already was, at least). "I know what I was supposed to do after that."

"Well, alright then."

Silence fell between them for a moment or two, giving their argument time to be completely forgotten as they each realized in due time that they had been in the middle of something, recreating a past time or not, and that they had abruptly stopped and left themselves feeling painfully uncomfortable. And yet neither one turned toward the other, or said anything, instead just laying there and looking off in opposite directions.

Another minute passed.

And another.

Then Gino turned his head toward Spanner and nudged him with his elbow. "Hey."

"What."

"Wanna try it again from the top?"

"I'm not saying all of that again."

"Then we'll skip the line you forgot and just get to the good part."

"Doesn't that defeat the purpose of... whatever we're doing?"

"Playacting. And don't ask me, you wanted to do this one." Gino waved a hand dismissively, but in the faint light of the room it was clear he was still grinning.

"I wanted..." Spanner trailed off, rubbing the back of his arm uneasily. Gino's leer unnerved him, and he sighed again, exasperated. "Fine. Lay back."

"So commanding-!" Gino teased, rolling onto his back again and happily shifting this way and that once Spanner took up his position back on Gino's hips. He exhaled softly, expectant, tense-- and then reached up to touch Spanner's side again and get his attention. "I just thought of something."

Seeing as Spanner had just been about to get started (finalfuckingly), this newest interruption wasn't exactly welcomed warmly. "What?"

"I forgot to ask you what you thought of that new stuff I got."

"You're asking now?"

"Once you get going I won't be able to think of anything else! I need to ask while I remember it!"

This seemed a logical response (though still not very appreciated). Spanner frowned. "It was okay."

"Just okay?"

"Yes, just okay. The last stuff was better."

"Oh... but I thought since you could taste sweets now, maybe--"

"Yeah, but it had a bitter aftertaste. --look, can we--"

"Bitter aftertaste? Really? What a bummer. I was thinking about getting the cherry kind next time."

"--Gino, I really--"

Gino grinned an ever so cheeky grin. "Would that be okay-?"

"Fine. That's fine. Shut up now." And Spanner leaned back without any further ado, irritated--

--and Gino did everything but shut up.

11 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:30:09Z

title: Mother
pairing: None
rating: PG.
word count: 1493

It may be a little embarrassing to admit, but I really, really love my mother. I always have. In spite of her misgivings, in spite of anything she may have done wrong by me. Mother was the gentlest woman I knew and have known, and also one of the quietest. She was a woman of few words, but each one was carefully chosen, and she always, always got her meaning across. Although she was soft-spoken, no one asked her to repeat herself. And she was very firm, resolute, and determined. I think my mother was very feelingful, but she didn't like to show it. It was rare for her to say things like "I love you," or even, "Take care," but she would smile and nod her head slightly and her eyes spoke it very clearly.

Mother's eyes were always like that. She never could disguise them. Once, when I was really young, I told her her eyes were very beautiful and she chastised me for staring.

One thing that mother really liked to do with me was watch television together. I was only permitted to watch select shows and channels, which she monitored, but I didn't mind that. Maybe because I didn't know what I was missing. Maybe because I only sometimes paid attention to the screen. I loved to talk with my mother, and she loved to listen. Since our time spent together was rare most of the time, we would start off silent and then she would ask me a question. A simple question, like, "How was your week?" or "Are you well?" and I would go on and on about everything from there. Sometimes she would interject with commentary, but mostly she would listen, look up at me from the sewing in her lap and nod, or smile.

On certain days she would stop me to have me try on whatever she was sewing for me. She made me ribbons and blouses, cravats and socks, little white gloves and once she even made a cloth belt for me. Usually it was skirts, tops with frills and even a dress or two, bonnets and bows. When I was younger I had no idea this wasn't what I ought to be wearing, but as I got older I protested and she silenced me. She said she always wanted a daughter, but that she loved me all the same, and since I was fair and slender and all variety of emasculating words that there was no reason why I couldn't indulge her.

Since I would do anything to please mother, I complied. And I got used to it, even had fun with it. And it made my mother happy, so her eyes would sparkle when I was all dressed up, I felt happy, too.

All that stopped when I was six. I came into the parlor where mother was sitting in her rocking chair, sewing. The TV was already on and she seemed intent, so I went to her side, bowed and greeted her. She was humming. And she looked more peaceful than I had ever seen her before.

She shushed me and kept sewing. As I looked at what she was making, I observed that it was all far, far too small for me - it was more like what you'd put on a baby, and I wasn't one. So I told her so. And of all things, she asked me to leave!

This went on for a long while. Mother was very content the entire time, and she was in the parlor sewing in front of the television every day that I went in to see her. And, save a few instances, she would tell me to give her peace every time. I started finding new ways to entertain myself during those afternoons, but when the subject came up, I was vindictive because I was wounded. I commented flatly that mother didn't have the time for me, didn't want to see me, and that that was fine. But it wasn't fine. I... wanted my mommy, I guess. I wanted to be dressed up in ruffles and ribbons and admired and praised.

Several months later I went in to see mother again. I figured it would be the same as always, but as I opened the door I saw the TV was off. Her sewing and balls of yarn lay in a basket, on the floor by her chair. And she was doubled over, face in her hands and crying. She seemed thinner than usual and I could see she was shaking as I creeped closer. When I reached her side I waited for her to acknowledge my presence somehow, and when she didn't I touched her arm.

She slapped my hand away and looked at me with... with fury, and shouted in my face, "I wanted a daughter!"

Well, that stunned me, enough that the hurt of the statement hadn't sunk in. She yelled at me to leave and it wasn't until I had shut the door behind me that I realized the sting of her comment and, since I was forbidden to cry, I ran to my room and bit my lip until it swelled and then finally crawled behind the boxes under my bed to sneak a few tears before anyone caught me.

I still don't really understand what happened in just that one short year, why mother acted like that toward me. The next time I saw her we watched TV together as usual and we talked about everything except that subject, just like always. She stopped making me girl's clothes, or any clothes at all for that matter, and had them tailored and delivered instead. And she never seemed to express that vehement interest in having a daughter ever again. Even when I was arranged to be engaged to a baroness, she simply commented on the wealth it would bring us. And when that failed and I was told of a princess they wanted me to marry instead, mother only commented on what wonderful status we would have.

Some time after Masuyo was sent away I remember arguing with my mother for the first time in my life. I told her, if she hadn't been so selfish and close-minded she might've had a grand-daughter someday. I regretted it right as I said it, which was completely warranted because mother took off her glove and slapped me with her bare, open hand, right across the face. It was the first time I'd ever been struck by anyone before. And it was the second time she had been the cause of my having to crawl behind the boxes under my bed to cry.

But two months after I became a Knight of the Round, I received a letter from my mother herself, in her own writing, which was unusual. She begged me to come home, which was also unusual. And she apologized for having wronged me and how could she have been so blind, and oh, her baby, her darling son, a soldier, what a world, what a terrible, terrible world would do to her precious baby boy, and oh, the damage it would do to me and how the commoners and Elevens would skew my thinking until I was no longer myself.

I wrote back that I hoped she was right, embittered and again, vindictive. I even went so far as to withhold the closing of "Love," which I had always put on everything I wrote to her even though I wasn't supposed to. I signed it stiffly the way they taught me in the military, sent it in a plain envelope, and when I got a reply I tossed it in a box and forgot about it.

When Pendragon was destroyed, I wrote home immediately, as well as to every major contact of my family's that I could think of to find out if my parents were alright.

They weren't.

I... I miss my mother, and I'm constantly full of regret over my last words to her. I wish I could have told her I loved her again, even though she had hurt me. Really, I wish a lot of things, but no wishing is going to right my wrongs or bring her back. Theirs was the first of a long string of funerals that I attended in those few months, and the only one that I hadn't the composure to keep from crying at.

But I think the most ironic thing is, my mother was right. And sometimes I think, what if she hadn't written me that letter in the first place? Would things have gone the same? I like to think that my mother, silent and wise, had had a feeling about what was going to happen, if that makes any sense. And even though it's been painful, I'm grateful that she helped me find my place. She always was really good at that.

10 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:28:52Z

title: Please
Pairing: Gino / Sho
Rating: R
word count: 1770

Gino thought it was funny how even the small things sent he and Sho off into what he referred to as "those moods." It hadn't ever seemed sensible to him to bother with going out of his way for things when it wasn't time to take care of it, and yet with Sho Gino didn't often worry about that until after the fact. They were a very sexual couple, he had to admit (only to himself, though), and there were times when he worried that that was all they really had between them. Wasn't that why Sho stayed, ultimately? Because he was useful.

...well... he conceded after some lengthy thought one day, it could also be that it was because he was good and useful (nothing but the best, right, Sho?), but still. Useful. And what if his usefulness ran out? Then what would be left? He liked to think, well, I think I love him and I... think he likes me a little, so at least we'd have that. We have a good friendship. We both like art and we both have a lot we still haven't talked about. There's plenty for him to stay for.

But it was hard for him to actually believe it.

It seemed like most of how they spent their time home together was being unable to stay off each other for whatever reason - necessity, those godforsaken drugs, boredom, inexplicable electric attraction-- okay, maybe not that last one (but he so wished that was one reason, anyway). They could be doing something simple, like talking, and suddenly one of them would snap.

Well, it was only natural, after all - they were boys with hormones, right? Gino tried to reason it out logically. It's no different than how he sometimes felt about a certain woman or two that he was attracted to. Part of wanting it is seeing you want it, right. Something like that. Yeah.

But that didn't explain how bringing ice cream home and it ending up on the corner of Gino's mouth resulted in them both rolling around on the floor, knocking things over and growling like a couple of fighting animals. There wasn't even anything sexual about that! But there they were, scuffling over who was going to straddle who and biting each other like wolves.

This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

Gino thinks that he has an edge, so he brings his legs up and vaults Sho off of him, sending him into the wall behind them. And without even checking to make sure he's okay he scrambles clumsily over and tackles him full-force, sliding both of them down the hall a few feet. There's a hiss and some kind of animalistic snarl from both of them, Gino laughs, ignoring the sting of rugburns. And crushes his lips up against Sho's to silence the inevitable, oncoming protest, which earns him a bite that sends blood running down his chin.

At this point he's not even sure if they're about to have a fist-fight or about to have sex.

"You're slipping up," Gino taunts, wiping the blood off his jaw and ignoring the continuing stream from his lip (which, he reflects, is really pointless, ultimately). "I barely felt that."

"Get back down here and I'll bite harder."

"Make me."

They start rolling over and over and over again, you'd think they were going down a steep hill. It's ridiculous, enough so that Gino starts to laugh and looks like he's having too much fun with it. That stops abruptly when the back of his head connects with the ground and for a moment everything tunnels in, then slides back out and begins to blacken from the outside in. While he's stunned, Sho bites him again and the shock makes him yowl like an affronted cat and spasm a little in pain.

What the hell is this? A fight or sex?! He still can't decide. So he decides to turn it in the direction he'd like it to be going and reaches up, weaving around Sho's hand when he reaches out to pin him down, and seizing a fistful of the Reaper's hair. And yanking him down for a kiss. And sneaks that other hand down in the confusion to grope Sho through his pants.

There's a momentary lag, during which time Gino takes his sweet time feeling Sho up, and then he feels Sho quake up against him and laughs against the mouth on his. That's better. Now he doesn't feel quite so aggressive (but "quite so" doesn't mean "not at all"), kneading their lips together slowly and working Sho's pants back off his hips. During all this he's easing his way up, propped on one elbow, and trying to work Sho back onto the floor to switch their positions without being noticed, but Sho most certainly does notice and all but slams Gino back down, forcing the blonde's mouth open with his own and dipping his tongue in as if daring Gino to bite it.

Gino shudders. He's always thought having a tongue in his mouth felt weird and he knows Sho knows it, which makes his brow furrow. But he doesn't protest because he doesn't entirely dislike it and instead goes back to his original business, gripping Sho's hip and rocking him forward into himself. Sho quakes again. Ha ha.

The rhythmic rocking goes on for only a moment or two before they have to stop to get Gino's pants the hell out of the way, and then it picks up again, suddenly going from slow (and "sensual," Gino thinks) to almost too fast. Somewhere between beats, Gino barrel rolls to the left, sending Sho to the floor and just as quickly gets him in a restricting grasp from behind. "Gotcha."

"Don't even think about it."

"Think about what?" Gino's hand is wandering in no particular pattern or direction - just when it seems like he's picked a course, he swerves elsewhere, trailing the backs of his fingertips every which way he pleases. Sho is tense. This is a good sign. There's no response, so he continues, kissing the back of Sho's shoulder, the side of his neck, hand stroking up past his hip (no claws this time; he's being gentle, almost too gentle. Teasing. Almost tormenting) and up along the inside of his thigh.

"Braids."

"Mm?" He tightens his hold on Sho to keep him from struggling away, but he's only shifting, obviously agitated, trying to get Gino to touch. Without seeming desperate. He's not beat, yet. Gino's hand stops right where it is, on Sho's lower stomach. And stays there, waiting. "What is it? You want something?"

Sho huffs in frustration. "Stop being a factoring tease."

"Magic word?"

"Now."

That'll do, he supposes. Just for now. But not later. Obligingly, he traces down along Sho's length, from base to tip and back up, then takes it into his hand grips it slowly, loosely, smirking into the crook of his neck as Sho arches into it and reaches down to grab Gino's wrist and squeeze.

"What, isn't that good enough for you?"

"No."

"Faster?"

That aggravated growl seems like an affirmation and Gino grins some more, tightening his grip and stroking faster, which elicits a hastily-muffled sound. Success. "That good?"

Sho's response sounds like a purr, which gets Gino to shudder a little, himself. Eyes half-lidded, he flicks his gaze down to watch himself work, grip tightening a little more and pace picking up - then slowing down again, which gets a noticeable protest. Gino laughs. "Still not enough?"

"Damn it, Braids--" Before Sho can finish, Gino's cut him off with a sudden bout of short, quick strokes, and the rest of his complaint bleeds into a hoarse moan. And unlike before, this setting persists, and Gino loosens his deathgrip on Sho finally to let him roll onto his back. But Gino doesn't climb on top like obviously expected; he just settles beside Sho and continues stroking, smiling in an oddly placid but suspicious sort of way that makes Sho turn his head a little to get a glance in.

His lips part like he might say something, but Gino leans in and claims them with a gentleness that doesn't quite match the pace of his ministrations. But as long as the attention doesn't stop, Sho isn't protesting; he kisses back, then turns his head away a little to break it and nip Gino's jaw with a breathy whisper of a groan. For a split second Gino faulters, that enchanted smile growing, and then he picks up the slack and returns to focusing on his work, noting that Sho is getting awfully close.

Sure enough, not long later Sho tenses-- murmurs something about being close-- and then gives a startled sound when Gino abruptly stops, gripping him almost painfully tight at the base and smirking down at him. "What the factor-- Braids!"

"Say please."

Sho blanks as if he's not sure he heard Gino correctly. "What?" But he's squirming, breathing a little hard and visibly in... well, discomfort. Gino's hold tightens even more and Sho arches, brow furrowing.

"'Please.' Just say it; it's not difficult."

"I'm not begging."

"Then you're not finishing," Gino threatens, but he gives Sho another stroke, runs his fingertips up to tease the head-- and then squeezes again, leaning down to murmur against Sho's ear. "Say please."

This is really starting to get uncomfortable, and Sho arches again, gritting his teeth and fighting back a wince. He'd struggle, but that look Gino's giving him and the way his grip tightens suggests maybe he'd be in for a world of pain if he did-- and he does want to finish. Still, begging? No way. "Braids--"

Gino nips his ear. "That doesn't sound like 'please.'" Another slow, teasing stroke, and then a squeeze, this one definitely on the harsh side.

Sho's breath hitches, and he growls, digging his nails into Gino's wrist, whispers something barely audible.

"What was that?" Gino's stroking again-- slowly. Very slowly and loosely, expectant.

"Braids-- please!"

"Now call me by name."

"--Gino!"

Gino looks more pleased with himself than he's ever looked before, sitting a short distance away and idly licking his fingers clean while Sho catches his breath and goes through many stages of being irritated and humiliated (and yet obviously satisfied). He only wishes he'd had his device around or something, so he could record that sound Sho made as he finished. But he's got it permanently committed to memory, either way. Knew it was possible to make him scream, too (or something awfully close to it).

9 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:27:25Z

title: Stars
Pairing: Suzaku/Lelouch. SHOCK, RIGHT?
Rating: PG.
word count: 806

Suzaku found that he liked the sky best when the sun was just about to set. The clouds became soaked with the pinks, purples, oranges and reds of the sun and their edges turned gold, slowly absorbing the sun’s fading rays as if trying to perserve them just a little longer. And in its effort and fury to disappear, the lowest reaches of the horizon seemed to bleed and bruise, as if fighting a powerful battle so that the sun could finally rest.

And then he realized that that kind of thinking was far too poetic for him. Yet every time he saw the setting sun and the way it scorched the sky he couldn’t help but think that same thing, over and over. He found it a little melancholy, maybe even depressing to observe. The first few times he’d seen it, he’d been alone. But this time, he was standing on the roof with someone else, and perhaps it was their presence, or maybe just who the person was, that seemed to make the scene all the more disheartening. In a way, he felt like crying. But tears weren’t alright; not here, not now. And he knew that.

His hand found the other’s, and he squeezed a little, aware that the gesture was a little personal but in no frame of mind to care much. To his surprise, the other person squeezed back, and he inclined his head just slightly to one side to try and catch a glimpse of him from the corner of his eye. The other person didn’t seem to be looking back his way, so Suzaku turned his gaze back to the sky.

Purples, blues and blacks were starting to overwhelm the warmer colors, adding to the “bruised” effect that Suzaku envisioned, and after a few moments he shut his eyes, eyebrows knitting together just so, lost in thought for what seemed like an eternity until he felt a set of fingers lacing with his own. Again, he turned his head just slightly to try and catch a glimpse of the other without really looking at him, brow still furrowed.

This time, the other boy was looking his way directly, so Suzaku turned to face him properly, eyes downcast just a little.

“How many stars do you suppose there really are?” A quiet tone for a quiet question.

Suzaku contemplated this for a moment, seperating what he believed from what he supposed the answer was supposed to be. “One for every soul,” he answered finally, trying to keep the unsurity from his voice. “And one more for every two that became one.”

This answer didn’t seem to be the one the other was expecting, and silence fell between the two of them while he mulled this over, expression thoughtful – so much so that he didn’t bother to reach up and brush his hair out of his face when a breeze nudged it into his eyes. “I don’t think that’s enough,” he replied finally.

“That’s… assuming that there really aren’t that many souls that joined another,” Suzaku responded almost matter-of-factly, turning his eyes elsewhere, though his head remained turned toward the other boy.

For whatever reason this provoked a smile from Suzaku’s companion. “I suppose it is. But what happens when those souls split apart?”

Suzaku stopped to think this one over, too. “That’s when a star dies.”

“Ah,” was the only response, in concurrence, for an extended moment. “Perhaps in that case, stars are more like hearts than souls.”

The brunet hadn’t considered this – not once in his life, he supposed, and that took him a little by surprise. Unsure what to say to that, he simply frowned and then pursed his lips, head turned away from his companion entirely now. It also hadn’t ocurred to him that his grip on the other’s hand was tightening to uncomfortable levels, and it wasn’t until the other grunted a little in discomfort that he realized and let go entirely. “Sorry.”

“Suzaku,” said the other boy.

“What is it?” He recoiled a little, a hand on his cheek, fingers brushing through the longer strands of his hair there, and then up past his cheek and then his right eye, stroking back his bangs and following the curve of his eyebrow so that the hand moved along his jawline and just past his jaw to cup his chin and tilt his head up when he’d tried to turn it away. And after a start he relaxed, permitted the lips on his own, however uncomfortably, embarrassed and a little wounded, of all things, by the gesture.

But he recognized in it that which hadn’t needed to be said: their star would never truly go out.

8 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:25:45Z

title: 10:16
pairing: Gino/Masuyo, implied Gino/Suzaku
rating: PG
word count: 2087

That night, he was there in the grand entrance hall the moment the old grandfather clock chimed two AM. Just as arranged. Over his shoulder was a light bag, packed full of food, clothing, other necessary supplies - the most important of which was money. As much of it as he could possibly fit into the bag, as much that he could possibly wrangle from his parents' various hiding places as well as his own. It was a very, very hefty sum, but as he'd made his way down the spiraling staircase, silently creeping through the foyer, he'd worried over whether or not it was enough. Enough for travel, for lodging, for... he really didn't know. She was the one with all the estimates, and they'd agreed to discuss them once they were a safe distance away. Regardless, he was afraid. So very afraid. But he was ready.

Not a few minutes later, Masuyo arrived, enshrouded by a hooded cloak and armed with a big similar to his. Unlike Gino, however, her fear and hesitance showed on her face. It showed in her gait, it radiated from her very form, even as she approached him and smiled. She opened her mouth to whisper, You made it, but thought better of it and simply nodded her head in his direction. There would be plenty of time for speaking later; for now, she was afraid to make a single sound. The consequences-- she could hardly bare to think of what they may be. And though part of her better judgment begged her to insist that Gino reconsider, to not go along with this foolish plot, she could not bring herself to argue with his wishes... or her own.

She could not possibly deny her heart's desire to be free of here, to be far away un-scrutinized with someone who loved her, someone who would protect her and care for her, and who she could care for in return. And neither could he. Gino swallowed, adjusted the bag over his shoulder, and took one last look back into the darkness of the house. His birthplace, his home, every memory that he had ever made for the last sixteen years had been made in this very place. His teachers and servants who had been patient with him, his parents and relatives, the other nobles who he had so admired. All of it, and all of them, he suspected he would not see again for a long time. It was a terrifying thought, and after he'd taken his glance, he looked to Masuyo for support, reassurance.

Her encouraging smile was all that he needed. He reached for the doorknob, turned it. A light down the hall clicked on behind them-- Masuyo gasped softly. She started to turn, but Gino seized her arm, thrust the door open, and bolted, pulling her with him. Though he had sense enough to shut the door behind him, the moment it was closed he ran, ran like he had never before in his life, faster than he had ever been allowed to in his life. Masuyo stumbled after him, keeping up only thanks to being practically dragged. They were like a blur across the grounds of the Weinberg estate, leaping over extending ponds, flowerbeds. Becoming entangled in the thorns of the rosebushes, the hanging tendrils of the blossoming trees. They thrashed to free themselves, and on they went, on and on, seemingly forever, and in one swift movement Masuyo was gathered into his arms and he jumped the tall fence, sailed past onto the gravel, landed smartly with a soft crunch, and went on running.

She counted twelve lamp posts before Gino began to slow - twenty more before she could sense that he was getting winded. And, finally, ten more until he stopped entirely and sank against the wrought-iron fence of some stranger's yard. He lowered her to the ground and bowed his head, breathing in short gasps. His throat, his chest, his lungs, his eyes, his whole body ached and stung and yet he felt so unbridled, so free. Masuyo laid a hand on his shoulder, drew back at the feel of his cold skin and then knelt down to huddle around him, clasping her hands around his neck and holding on tight. After a time, he raised his head and looked back, brushed his cheek against her forehead as he turned. His estate was out of sight. The street behind him was dark and empty. It felt as though someone had set fire to his eyes, and he blinked furiously, remembering that he wasn't permitted to cry, particularly not around his maid. She sensed this and turned his face toward hers.

"We made it, Gino. We made it."

And he started to cry.

From there, they took a train to Pendragon, And another to Westmarche, and finally, another to a tiny farming town called Hickory. Though they considered staying in the town, which had few people who were all very friendly and not very wealthy, a diner, a few small locally-owned shops, and a windmill in addition to their many farms, it was decided that they not. The chances of being found or recognized was too high. So they trekked through the town and into the forest, often sleeping beneath shady trees or in thickets. After a week, they came across a cottage in fine condition that belonged to one of the families back in town. Gino returned to speak with the owner, and after some negotiations, the cottage was sold to them under the name "Mr. and Mrs. Fanelli," no strings attached. It cost them nearly all the money they had brought, but they had running water, electricity, gas, heat. And a fair amount of land to do with what they pleased.

For Gino's twentieth birthday, Masuyo surprised him with the fruit of her efforts - quite literally, a grove of trees bearing apples, oranges, and lemons. And one just for decoration: a peach blossom, whose petals fell and speckled their yard with pale pink like tinted snow.

That spring they were married, right there beneath the "snowing tree," as they called it, just the two of them. He had saved up the money from his job working as a waiter in town and braved traveling to a larger city to find the perfect ring for her. The diamond on it was very small, the band silver, but it sparkled, just like she did in the beautiful kimono she had worn that day. It glowed the way she did, proud and beautiful with her belly large and her heart full. That was why he chose it, he said. And there were no vows, only their smiles and what would likely have been a tender kiss had it not been interrupted by giggles and playful, gentle pecks.

Each morning they rose together with the sun and shared a shower, where they would dance together under the water and sing songs, play, and wrap up afterward in the same fluffy towel. They would dress together, fix their hair together, hold hands all the way to the kitchen and decide what to eat. She would show him how to cook, how to make each meal just right, but their lessons always took longer than what was necessary because they would steal fingerfuls of batter, smear it on each other's cheeks and noses, and he would playfully chase her, pick her up gently and place her on the countertop and kiss her and whisper, "I love you." Then she would say, "I love you, too," and one of them would skitter away with a red face.

Afterward, he went to work, and she would clean, tend the trees, whisper to the flowers. If she was feeling well, she would work in the garden, carefully removing the weeds from their vegetables and stand at the picket fence and hold her finger out to the grapevines, watching silently as they curled around her hand and squeezed gently as if in greeting. Or she would rest, watch television while she counted the number of times the baby inside would kick. There was always a warm lunch ready and waiting by the time Gino came home, and he would excitedly tell her all about his day. The things he'd seen, the people he'd met. The wonders of the "commoner world" which, she would say wistfully, he had only barely scratched the surface of. And Gino would promise that they would go somewhere more exciting someday, when they no longer had to be afraid of judgment, to which Masuyo would politely reply that it was not likely to ever really be that way.

That evening, they lay curled around each other on the couch, warm and silent as they listen to the soft pattering of rain on the rooftop. The lights were down low, and she nestled comfortably in his arms, her eyes closed, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand that was laid over her belly. "How much longer?" he murmured quietly, grazing her stomach with his fingertips in response to the baby's kicking.

"A few months, yet," she whispered back with a smile, curling her fingers around his hand and squeezing. She tilted her head back and gazed fondly up at him, tittered and watched his eyes, so earnest and hopeful as if hoping that the baby would simply appear right that second. "You're excited, I know. It won't be very long now."

He laughed softly at this and looked down at her, taking his hand from her stomach to gently thumb her chin. "I can be patient."

"I hope so..." she teased, pursed her lips just so and lifted her hand to graze his whole cheek, brushing the backs of her fingers under his eye and her thumb along part of the curve of his lip. "I'm excited, too."

To this he said nothing for awhile, just touching her chin, her lower lip, her jaw. Then, simply, "I'm glad," and he moved ever so slightly to bridge the distance between their lips and kiss her, as softly as a butterfly might light on one's lips for a fleeting second before departing again. She returned it in turn, with all the urgency of a cloud drifting by in the summer.

And back again, settling into the couch and melting into each other, the three of them so calm and content - Gino, Masuyo, and the tiny puppy sleeping beside the fireplace with its chewbone still in its mouth.

When he woke it was dark, cold, uncomfortable. He raised his head and looked for the fireplace, suspecting that it had gone out at some point, but in the muted room he couldn't seem to make anything out. Something restricted him as he moved, and he gave a start, looking down and finding that he was not on the couch, but a bed, and that he was not in his cottage, but in a dormitory, and that it was not Masuyo, but his co-worker, coiled around him and sleeping soundly with his chest rising and falling in time with the only consistency to what had just been, and this scene - the rain.

It all came crashing down on him then, that like reality is so prone to doing, wonderful things are taken away in an instant and you are left with what there is rebuild with, to move on with, to make do with. He regarded Suzaku silently with heavy eyes, his chest aching as if something inside were twisting his insides into a knot. Their bare bodies were still lightly sheened with sweat gone cold, and he felt loose, limber, which he only vaguely recognized the feeling of. Their fingers were laced, their legs entangled - heaven only knows where the blankets had gone over the course of that night.

And he remembered then, he realized then what the case was, and sank back down, shivering and trembling, either from the cold or from something else, he could not be sure. Shifting closer to Suzaku, searching for warmth and comfort and finding very little. All that the person beside him to offer now was the reminder that he was in love with him, and that it was not mutual, insofar as he could ever tell, and that no matter what he did or who he was with, he would always live in reality and not a dream. No matter how much he wished.

Or how much he slept.

7 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:24:06Z

title: Ashamed
pairing: Technically none, but Sho/Gino
rating: Don't read this. Why the hell would you read this? NC-17
word count: 1988

When he woke up, groggy and bewildered, the sheets still sticking to his nude body and the bedmakings all over the floor, the warm body he'd gone to bed next to-- draped an arm over and curled up against-- was gone, and a megaphone was left on the pillow in its place. Gino regarded it in tired confusion, mouth opening to let out a long, loud yawn. Then, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand, he propped himself up on his elbow and looked around the room.

"Sho...?"

He could tell by the distinct lack of an extra set of clothing on the floor that Sho had packed up and left already. Probably long before he'd gotten up, and the clock beside his bed said it was still early. No way that guy was an earlier riser than him... maybe he'd slipped off in the night sometime after they'd finished, and he just hadn't realized.

With a sigh he let himself fall back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a little frown. Gino liked Sho a lot-- liked him as a person, liked being around him, and though he had trouble admitting it (out loud or otherwise), he liked Sho's body, too-- he liked him in bed, too. It was a shameful thought, and thinking about it now made him feel a little sick, but it was true and honesty was a virtue so he at least owed that to himself if no one else, right?

Sure. Whatever.

But why was it so hard for him to just stay the night? Or at least say goodbye before he left? Of course, he didn't figure Sho would be much of a cuddler, like he was, nor did he imagine Sho was sweet enough for a quiet goodbye and a quick kiss before he left in the morning, either. No, the only place Gino would get any of that would be in his books. Still, it was disappointing. It was a little hurtful. More than anything, if he had to do this, he wanted to be able to be close to Sho afterward, to let himself settle into what had just happened. And not have to do it alone. Laying there now, he pursed his lips and only felt lonesome and hurt. And a little miserable. And a little stressed.

His head turned to look at the megaphone on his pillow. Why had Sho left that here? And why there? What was that supposed to mean? Was this the equivalent of someone leaving a toothbrush at their lover's house? No, no... that wasn't like Sho at all, was it? Honestly, he couldn't make any solid judgments on what Sho would do and what he wouldn't. He was a fairly unpredictable guy, for one thing, and for another, he'd only known him a short time. Not nearly long enough to read him so well like he often did to his closer friends. But when this became something so personal-- his physical and emotional wellbeing, he wanted nothing more than to understand. To feel secure. Something, anything comforting to make this hellhole of a place he was trapped in a little easier to handle.

But then, maybe he was stupid for thinking he could get something like that from Sho. A stranger.

Still, he knew there were shreds of considerate behavior somewhere deep down in Sho's rough little heart. When he'd been so broken up over his behavior before, Sho had knocked some sense into him and picked him back up and put him on his feet again-- literally and figuratively. He didn't push Gino away when he could've easily done so, he at least pretended to be a little bit appreciative of the things Gino did for him (sort of), and...

His brow furrowed. It's not that I want to back out, just... that it hurts, a little, he'd said. Just be careful, okay? And he had. He hadn't been gentle, exactly, but he had understood and hadn't hurt him when it would've been much easier to just jump the gun.

Gino smiled a little at the thought. Yeah, even if he had been acting like a sick, immoral person for those few days, he wasn't entirely not himself, and he'd been very afraid, deep down. But Sho took it-- sort of slowly. Sho had driven him positively crazy with how good he was, even for a first-timer. And--

He swallowed tightly, tried to shake those thoughts out of his head as if his mind were an etch-a-sketch. Sure, he'd managed to erase the memory of Sho's breathing and whispering against his ear, but as soon as that was gone it was replaced with something even worse. He thought about the nails on his back, the teeth on his neck, that dark spot (that he still had!) on his shoulder. Though about how Sho had looked and responded when he'd grabbed his hips-- oh, my.

Yeah. He'd really liked that. Scuffling and trying to outdo the other, tumbling around on the bed and finally getting pinned down-- he hadn't appreciated that for all of a split second but then he remembered the lips on his own, and how their hips had rocked together, slowly and meticulously... his back had burned and stung from all the movement of it against the sheets after it'd been so scratched up, and he wasn't much of a fan of pain but he'd liked that.

Gino's eyes flicked toward the megaphone again. Would he-- no, no... he couldn't... his glance shot down at himself, brow furrowed, then back up at the megaphone. It wouldn't be so bad if-- Sho would never know-- he wasn't here so--

No, no... he'd never even done that kind of thing before! In the past, he'd simply ignored it. Gino turned his head the other way quickly, shut his eyes tight and tried to block out the thoughts in his mind. No, no, no-- ah-- that'd felt so good, though... no, no!-- Hnn, but...

Cringing a little, he looked back at the megaphone, hesitantly brought one hand up from under the blankets to run his fingers up along the handle. Were his eyes watering? God, Gino. He shook his head at himself, ashamed. Ashamed that he couldn't control his thoughts, couldn't control his body, ashamed that he was thinking of doing this-- ashamed that he was going to, he'd decided, and he was going to like it-- and he was going to think about... no, he was going to--

Gino took the handle of the megaphone and turned it the other way, so the speaker was facing out. His fingertips found the button to turn it on, and his own quick hitch of breath was immediately magnified, filling the room. He heard Max squeak quietly in the other room. Sorry, Max. Don't tell anyone, alright?

Slowly, he shifted on the bed a little, scooted just a tad closer to the megaphone. The hand not gripping the handle fumbled beneath the sheets-- brushed over his stomach, down along his hip. He swallowed. Was this really okay-- no, just don't think about it. Think about... when his fingertips grazed over the head, his hips jumped-- no, his whole body jumped. He gasped and it echoed throughout the room. His eyes darted over to the window. It was closed, curtains drawn. Okay, good. His eyes shut and he bit his lip, trailed along the length, swallowing again. It was just a little sad that he had to explore and study himself-- but he'd never really--

Shakily, he mentally steeled himself, then took it in his hand, breath hitching again, splaying and fanning his fingers out to slide his hand back up, from the bottom to the top. And then back down. Up again. Down. He was embarrassed, tried to keep himself quiet but a small sound slipped out anyway; it sounded much louder and significant played through that megaphone. Don't worry. Don't think about it. Just remember Sho pushing you into the bed and-- "A-Ah."

Reinforced by these pleasant thoughts, he curled his fingers around his length and began stroking properly, evenly-- not very quickly, he was still a little unsure-- gasped into the megaphone and thought about every last little instance where Sho had made him do that very thing. The kisses and the lips on his ear, his jaw, his neck-- oh, he'd been really good about ravishing his collarbone, yes. His eyes opened halfway, a little damp, and he glanced down, lips parted. There were still faint marks there from that first time-- oh, that one, there. He remembered being bitten there. It was a little too sharp for his tastes, but then he'd soothed it with his tongue and Gino had sworn he was going to melt.

And then there was what had been going on with their hips-- yes, he arched his hips up and rolled them in time with his strokes, eyes falling shut again. Tried to imitate what it'd been like with Sho-- nothing he could possibly do by himself could match that, and his hips jumped, desperate-- he gave himself a little squeeze, tightened his grip and stroked faster-- and let out one long, even moan into the megaphone. It bounced off the walls as if he'd been screaming and that made him shudder a little-- uneasy but spurred on-- he did it again, with more desperation, teeth gritted so that it sounded something more like, "Hhhhnnnn."

That one was just a little too loud-- no. Good. He wanted it to be too loud. He bit his lip, remembered Sho doing the same and let his mouth fall open again, breathing hard, stroking faster yet and trying offhandedly to keep his hips moving with the motion. It was something more like bucking by this point now; uneven, short and sharp, his muscles were getting tight and his cries swelled to a higher pitch, breath quickening, whole body heating up and flushing. Yes, he remembered feeling this way before-- when Sho had-- ah-- "Sh-Sho--"

The name resonated off the walls and came back to him and he quivered, ashamed for all of a moment and then pleased, he liked how it sounded. Had he said it enough that night? What about last night? No. He would say it more-- he'd find new ways to say it, until it was worn away and all that was left was the man behind it-- yes. He'd let Sho be in charge like he wanted to be, but he'd make it tough for him, make it worth his while with how he'd respond, he would do that for him. And in return-- ah, his mind was so clouded that he couldn't even imagine anymore, but it was far more stellar than reality could ever be and he really didn't care. He just wanted--

His hips jumped again, breath caught in his throat and for a moment he felt as though he'd black out-- "Sh...Sho-!!" And he shuddered violently into release, arching up off the bed and into this sensation-- it was absolutely overwhelming and his cries were utterly deafening but it wasn't enough-- and then, slowly, he began to relax, stunned, breathing hard, tears running steadily down the sides of his face, shaking, jaw quivering.

All that had just felt wonderful suddenly felt horrible, and his stomach twisted itself into a knot-- he dropped his hand onto the bed and let go of the megaphone, biting his lip to supress a little sob. How could it be so bad to feel so good? Right then he just hated his heart for existing, and in frustration with himself and what he'd done, he turned his head sharply away from Sho's megaphone.

...and was met with the most cruel smirk he had ever seen in his life. "Zetta impressive, Braids. Never thought of that function before."

6 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:22:00Z

title: Forget.
pairing: Gino Weinberg x Suzaku Kururugi, Suzaku Kururugi x Lelouch Lamperouge ~~if you squint really hard~~.
rating: R!
word count: 1219

Russian Roulette of the pill bottle. He would pull the cap off, tap it against the desk. However many fell out, that's how many he would swallow. This time, there were five. Not good enough. The next time, there were four more. That'll do.

He scooped up the large blue pills, took them one by one with his cocktail. The alcohol burned going down, the pills felt like weights sliding down his throat. His stomach churned, his vision tunneled. How many had he taken earlier? Couldn't even remember. Felt so warm, so warm, sweating, his pulse pounding, breathing quick. So cold. Shivering, clammy. Mm. Have another drink, and forget. Forget...

Forget that last night, forget the last time you had been able to speak to him civilly. Forget how he had seemed so broken, how you had approached his side and reached for him. Forget how you were stunned by his response, forget how his hand found yours and gripped it, forget how you gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Forget the words that you said, forget his answers. Forget the long pause, forget how you had leaned down and unsurely whispered into his ear. Forget how he stiffened, forget how you smiled. And forget, please, his eyes, that gaze. Forget that smile, so rare and earnest.

Forget how you took a chance, how you leaned down and claimed his lips with your own, forget the way he hesitated. Forget the feel of his skin when you touched his cheek, how he relaxed, how he leaned into your arms. Forget how you had pressed so close to each other, forget hands wandering, forget exploring.

Forget, then, how he took control, how he suddenly had your cloak off, your jacket undone. Forget watching him undo the buttons on your shirt, one by one, forget shivering, blushing, feeling so exposed and so happy that it was him who was looking. Forget the rustle of clothing as it came off, forget how you reciprocated. Forget how his body looked in the dim light, forget how you touched it, forget how you kissed it, forget how he cleaved you to him and murmured softly.

Forget when his hands slid lower, forget the embarrassing cry you made. Forget the soft laugh, forget how he'd softened, carressed, asked if it was your first time. Forget your answer, please, please forget that honest answer, forget how he had seemed shocked, and then gentle, yet so full of intent. Forget the way your hips twitched, the way you almost whimpered when you were fully undressed, the way his hands explored here, too. Forget how you trembled when you reached for him, forget how your hands shook while you undressed him in turn.

Forget how you were pushed back, forget how he found ways to overpower you without needing brute strength. Forget how you'd squirmed, forget that second rush when he held you with a kiss. Forget the intruding hand, creeping up your thigh, forget how much you'd jumped when it trailed up along the length. Forget how he had complained that you were squeezing his hips too tight; forget that you didn't let go. Forget the sensation, forget the pleasure, forget the way his eyes burned into yours while he stroked you.

Forget the way it hurt when he pushed into you, forget his sudden gasp. Forget the way he murmured against your ear to relax, forget how you struggled to comply. Forget feeling the movement of his hips beneath your hands, forget how your mind was wiped of all thought but of how much you wanted this, how damn much it burned, how fucking good it felt. Forget being enraptured by his moans, by the look on his face, forget finding a smile through your hisses of pain, forget kissing him wherever you could reach.

Forget how you'd screamed, how violently you'd shuddered, forget the way your bodies rocked together. Forget how he'd surged, forget the name he'd cried. Forget how it hadn't been yours. Forget the way that everything seemed to shatter there, bliss suspended in midair, forget how the shudders between you both had stopped, forget the way he looked down at you, so guilt-ridden, always so guilt-ridden.

Forget when he pulled away, how you'd reached for him, forget how you'd called for him, apologized, surely it had been some fault of your own. Forget how he said he "just... couldn't," forget how you didn't understand. Forget how you waved it off, how you didn't care whose name he said, forget how you told him that you only wanted him. Forget how he had stopped. Forget how you had said you loved him. And forget, then, the sound he made, despaired, and how he had left.

Forget the weeks after; how you couldn't look one another in the eye. Forget how you hadn't spoken, forget how much you had tried to approach him, forget how nothing had ever worked. Forget how it had felt as if the world was crashing down on you, forget how everything seemed to come to a defeaning close when he disappeared. Forget the way your heart had snapped in two when he reappeared. Forget crying. Forget screaming. Forget cursing. Forget blaming yourself.

Forget the battles. Forget the way you hated yourself, the way you hated him, the way you hated the liar. Forget how you didn't really hate him. Forget how you tried to delude yourself into believing that he didn't hate you, either. Forget how the semblance of your heart pulled in two directions. Forget how even your body ached.

Forget your resolution, forget her smile. Forget your decision. Forget your combined efforts. Forget fighting for what you believe in. Forget telling yourself that you should have always known that the last stand would be the most difficult. Forget how you told her you didn't think you could do it. Forget how she had called you a coward. Forget your indignance. Forget knowing that you are weak. So weak.

Forget that deafening crackle and sizzle, forget the booming explosions, the crash, metallic parts creaking, fire blazing. Forget how you were thrown aside from the force of the blow, how the ground rocked beneath your feet, how your screams were drowned out under the chaos. Forget how she held you back, how you cried and reached out, how your heart ached and pounded as if it would burst from your chest.

Forget how your legs gave out from under you when they carried him out, forget the blood on his face, forget how he looked before he was hauled off. Forget how you called his name until you were hoarse, forget how you choked on your tears. Forget how the guilt burned and ripped and tore and slashed, forget how your head spun. Forget how you bent down to the ground and screamed, became physically ill with distress.

And it never really was all forgotten, even as the dosage took hold, even as the alcohol pulled conciousness away. His head spun, his nose bled. He groaned, dropped his glass, falling to his knees, then slowly, slowly sank to the floor. Too much this time, maybe, he thought. Too much. But never enough. Never enough to make it stop hurting. Never enough to make it go away.

Never enough to forget.

5 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:20:18Z

title: Smile.
pairing: Implied Gino Weinberg x Suzaku Kururugi.
rating: PG.
word count: 1310

For fulguratus.

Smile if you're happy, smile if you're sad. Smile when there's nothing else to say. Smile when you can't tell the truth, when you can't look into his eyes, smile when you wonder if this is the last chance you'll ever get to say what you want to. Smile when you know you'll never say it.

Gino held to these guidelines very carefully, and they had saved him from many an occasion where honesty would have been disasterous. He found that, most times, he was capable of deluding himself into thinking that he was fooling Suzaku with those cheerful words, those careless gestures, those smiles. Those smiles. So carefully practiced so that the distant joy would even reach his eyes and make them sparkle, just for him. Just for him.

But in reality he knew that Suzaku was never fooled. He was dense, yes, and not much of a thinker, but certainly not stupid, and certainly not entirely uninterested in Gino's feelings. Perhaps at first, he had thought that Gino was unusually - blindly - happy. Impossibly happy. All the time. But as time progressed between them, slivers of the truth found their way through the minute cracks in the Knight of Three's otherwise smoothe and flawless mask.

It was one night as they'd retired to their seperate quarters, which just so happened to be beside one another, sharing a wall (at Gino's request, of course: "He needs a room by me so I can help him out if he needs anything!"). Things were abnormally quiet, even on Gino's end, but not a word had been spoken since an argument amongst the Rounds had broken out. The two of them had butted heads, ending with Gino simply tossing his head and leaving the room. And then his room had been totally quiet the rest of the night.

It occurred to Suzaku after a long period of laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, that maybe he had been wrong, and Gino wasn't in his room at all. A likely situation, considering that the guy was never this quiet; if nothing else, there was always at least the trill of some sort of classical music. Normally a piano piece, a familiar tune, but he couldn't place where he'd heard it before. But not this time. Not a sound. He sat upright and stared at the wall connecting his room and Gino's.

Not a sound.

On his feet now, he approached the wall and touched his fingers to it. Cold. He shivered.

Completely silent.

Slowly, he leaned forward and rested against the wall, head turned, ear pressed against it.

And then he heard it. Gino's voice. A blessed sound in contrast to the stark and unforgiving silence of before. He cupped a hand around his ear, listening.

It sounded as though the Knight of Three was dictating something. Affected, with many pauses, as if speaking aloud while writing. Suzaku could vaguely make out the words, "want to be close," a few incoherent mumbles, and then, "so sad."

None of it made any sense to him. Want to be close... so sad? Who was he talking to? Or about? And why? He leaned in closer to the wall until he was practically flattened against it.

The words were much clearer now. "I just wish that I could make him understand. You know, everything. I wish I could make him smile."

Suzaku was at Gino's door before he'd even had time to think about it. A quick turn of the never-locked knob and he had burst into the room, looking directly over at the mound of blankets that was the other Knight. Gino had a pen and an open journal under one arm, a fuzzy old teddy bear under the other, and, he was quick to find when the blonde turned his head toward him in surprise, tears in those ridiculously blue eyes.

"Suzaku! What are you-- what did you-- do you need something?"

A shake of the head. "Why are you crying?"

There was a long pause. So long that Suzaku opened his mouth to repeat himself, in case maybe Gino hadn't heard him. They just stared at one another, directly, quite possibly the first time they'd ever truly locked gazes before. And then Gino smiled, the effect of it long lost through the tears.

"Because I'm glad to see you, Suzaku..."

That had been months ago. Suzaku had never really understood that reply, and hadn't stayed to find out. The tone of Gino's voice then, and the look in his eyes, it had... so bewildered him that he could only shake his head, offer a rushed half-smile back, and hurry from the room. They'd never spoken about it again. But ever since that night, he'd become so painfully aware of the little things that Gino did that revealed the truth when it wasn't so readily evident already.

At times, when he could focus on it, Suzaku found himself searching for these signs - in Gino's face, in his posture, in his words, in every little thing he did. It never really registered that Gino was doing the same to him, and so the two often went on with a mutual misunderstanding of one another, well-informed in their misinformed states.

And so, when he crouched down at his former "best friend"'s side, that smile didn't fool him for a second. Not because of the tears in the corners of his eyes, and not because of the labored breathing, or his wounds, or the way his eyelids fluttered. It was just so obvious here.

The way he grasped blindly and weakly for Suzaku's arm, the way he surged toward him, trying so hard to get closer to him despite being immobilized by pain. The way he gasped, how the tears spilled so quickly, and how he choked on the words, "I'm so glad to see you, Suzaku."

"Don't talk. Save your energy." His own eyes watered at the sight. Ally or not, there was still the lingering attachment that he'd grown to have for Gino over the months that he'd known him. A certain guilt over being the one who had struck him down. And a certain, familiar pang at seeing someone else he cared for covered in blood and reaching hopefully for him.

"Su...Suzaku..." Gino's smile was widening. Why? Oh god, it was so painful to look at. Why couldn't he just be honest? Even now, while the glimmer of life was leaving him, he continued to pretend. Why?

Suzaku's tears were falling freely now, too. "S...Stop it."

"What... stop what... Suzaku...?"

"Don't pretend to smile. Not now. Please... Gino." Somehow, their hands had sought one another; Gino had shakily tried to lace their fingers, but Suzaku had cupped their hands instead, grasping the other tightly. Almost too tightly. "Please..."

A look of bewilderment came over Gino's face at this, his gaze wavering. He coughed, spoke fast, didn't want to pause and waste a single second of the time he was skating by on. "I'm not..."

"You are! Why?!"

"I'm not... Suzaku..." The smile only got wider.

"Then why are you smiling? You're not happy. I know you're not..."

The Knight of Three shook his head slowly, though it was more like a lifeless loll to one side and then the other than anything. "I am. Happy..."

"How can you even say that?" Suzaku leaned forward with urgency, his heart nearly skipping a beat. Gino's eyes were barely open now. His breathing was deep, wheezy. Slow. He could feel the other Knight's pulse pounding, beat by drawn out beat, in his hand. "Gino!"

It seemed he could barely phase himself back in enough to reply. But he managed, somehow, for Suzaku's sake, to whisper, "Because you're here..."

Suzaku never got to find out why that meant so much to him.

Ironic side note: Grandpa Donald asked me what I was writing about when he came in, and I thought for a moment and said, "Smiling."
And then he thought for a moment and said, "Smiling is always a good thing. Smiles and laughter. Always a good thing."

4 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:18:35Z

title: Fireflies and Fairytales.
pairing: Gino Weinberg & Rolo Lamperouge.
rating: G.
word count: 804

Grass stains, and bits of dry plantlife clinging to their hair, their clothes, their skin. They smelled of outside, smelled of dirt and bark, smelled of nectar from honeysuckle and yes, even the seeds off dandilions. Like children fresh from a day of romping outside. Perhaps they really were. They had stuck to a sundown curfew and everything.

Rolo had never been one to 'play,' never mind play outside and go-- what was it Gino had called it-- 'adventuring.' There was nothing to explore. A tree, a leaf, a flower. Bees, birds, clouds. Whatever. Far more important things to train one's attention on, yet somehow, his newfound friend had made all these mundane creations of nature seem fascinating, entertaining, even. He had never sat on a swingset and had someone push him, never gone down a slide, never dug in a sandbox. A sand castle? Larger, gentle hands had guided his own and shown him how to make one, bucket by bucketful of sand.

And he'd never felt so truly cared about before - not since Lelouch, and hadn't it all been a terrible, terrible lie? This was... real, wasn't it? Someone who wanted him, who had no obligation to him and yet paid him such profound amounts of interest and attention. He was enticed by it, happy with it, eager to feel something so downright pleasant, these menial activities became fun, but only because he had the other to do them with him.

All too soon, it seemed, the sun began to sink behind the hills, and Gino had sat up in the grass beside Rolo to tell him it was time to go back. He hadn't wanted to; he protested quietly, said it wasn't dark yet. But it would be by the time they returned. So he gave in, and they started back, walking close, Gino cheerfully chatting away about all the things that they could do later. So much more left to do. So much more that he wanted to share.

Their journey back had been interrupted by the sudden slow, strobe-like glow of an insect in flight, buzzing across their path. Rolo stopped short to watch the golden light, then observed that there were many more, scattered everywhere, twinkling one after another like floating jewels. What are they, he'd asked, why do they glow?

Fireflies! A jar was obtained, and darkness descended on the two while the bugs were captured, gently, with the promise that they would be released soon. Once they made it back to the house, they placed the jars on Rolo's desk and sat watching them glisten in the dark, speaking in hushed voices.

Tiredness swept Rolo up then; he found himself overwhelmed by how much energy he'd spent running around that day. The Knight of Three had far more energy than he had expected. Too much, really. It wasn't long before Gino caught on and had him put swiftly to bed, then sat at his side, leaning over to pull the covers over him.

"Wanna hear a bedtime story?" he asked, once he was sure Rolo was tucked in sufficiently.

"Bedtime story?"

"Just a short, happy fairytale that you tell someone before they fall asleep, to give them good dreams," Gino explained, his smile fond, distant. He could almost hear her gentle voice in his mind still, explaining the very same thing years earlier.

Rolo considered this for a moment. Good dreams. Hm. "Alright."

And so Gino began weaving a tale of heroism and adventure, of romance never meant to last and malicious beasts, of fate, faith, the whole nine yeards, a classic story twisted colorfully here and there with quirks that only one such as Gino was capable of coming up with. He would gesture with his hands as he spoke, his tone and expressions changing along with the words, pausing in all the right places. A born storyteller.

But then he looked down and spied lidded eyes, a gently rising and falling chest, muted peace laced into the expression on the placid face. His story fell apart right there, lacking its grand ending, but completely forgotten as the Knight smiled and reached to stroke back strands of dark hair.

A smile crept its way over Rolo's face at this, however faint, and there was a slight stir. Gino brought his hand back as if expecting the boy to wake, but the only response was a gradual parting of lips, and then the breathy sigh of, "Nii-san..." from the depths of sleep.

The Knight faltered. His hand drew back further, coming to rest in his own lap, and he simply looked on in silence while Rolo slept. Slowly, his smile returned, and he shook his head, leaning down to press a featherlight kiss to Rolo's forehead. "And they all lived happily ever after."

3 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:16:32Z

title: Good Morning, Sunshine.
pairing: Jeremiah Gottwald x Gino Weinberg.
rating: PG.
word count: 467

There were few things as intimate to Gino as having his braids taken down in front of another. It was something strange, something that he couldn't explain. They were his security blankets, his barrier, his wall that he hid himself behind, the mask that he put on each day. Letting them down was revealing, unbridling, almost as if he had been placed on a stage with only one person for an audience. Yet on that stage he would dance, if it would make his watcher happy, because it made him happy, because they were happy.

Jeremiah had to chuckle softly at the boy's shudder as bare fingers raked gently through longer tresses hair at the back of his neck, twirling around the slightly crimped and curled strands, freeing them entirely from their near-perpetual braids. He raised one shoulder and turned his head to yawn into it. How unusual to be playing with someone's hair and not properly dressing and grooming to go about the day for a start. They'd simply sat up and the debacle had begun.

All the tossing and rolling and squirming in the bed the night before had left Gino with quite a messy head of hair, and after a short exchange of playful banter, Jeremiah had taken it upon himself to comb his hands through it, taming the wild golden strands as best he could. It would drive Gino crazy, yet in his barely-awake state, it only seemed to make him purr, twitch, melt, and utter a variety of highly amusing sounds.

Once the last braid was undone, Jeremiah pulled his hands back and rested them over Gino's shoulders, bringing the boy back towards him. Gino tilted his head back to look up at him, smiling, dazed, eyes half lidded and heavy from sleep and certain deep emotion. So very, very endearing. Jeremiah smiled back and leaned down to kiss the smiling lips, gently, tenderly, briefly. The Knight kissed back, awkwardly, a novice to the upside-down kiss, but in no state to care.

Arms were brought up to cup his lover's cheeks, thumbs stroking along the defined jawline. Their lips parted, and Gino gave a soft, breathy hum, the makings of a laugh, his smile wider. "What was that for?" A needless question; he knew what was coming, but he liked to ask, regardless.

"Do I need a reason?"

Yes, of course. Gino had mentally sounded the words out in unison, grin growing broader yet. "No." He leaned upward a little, but found it a bit difficult to reach where he wanted. Instead, he murmured quietly, "Again, please?"

And the request was answered without hesitation, arms encircling one another in loving, protective embraces, warming each other through and through along with the dawn's first few rays of light filtering in through the curtains.

2 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:14:51Z

title: My Hero.
pairing: Implied Jeremiah Gottwald x Gino Weinberg.
rating: G.
word count: 455

The room was warm, the lights were dim, and the two of them sat hunched together on one of the long, soft couches. Between one's leg and the other's was a large bowl of popcorn; the only space between them, really, and Gino was mostly obscuring it from reach, leaning partly over it to hold Jeremiah's arm. On the large TV screen in front of them, a man in dark clothing was approaching a corner, tense, eyes wide, frightened, shaking, breathing shakily.

The Knight of Three was not much better off.

It'd been someone else's idea to put the movie on - some obscure, old horror film that had been on hand - but that person was gone now, as were the others, leaving only Gino and Jeremiah to finish the movie. It was nearing its finale; there was only a man and a woman still left standing. Their friends were all dead. And the killer was in the house with them, possibly behind every door, around every corner.

There was a bang - a chair toppled over, glass shattered, the woman screamed. Gino jumped and lurched against Jeremiah's arm, face partly hidden in it, and gave a whimper of his own. Then, slowly, he relaxed, reached down to take a piece of popcorn, but thought better of it and brought his hand back up to clutch the other man's sleeve.

The man on the screen was making his way toward a door, gun in his hands, reaching for the knob... the movie's suspenseful score was eclipsed by the Knight's pitched pleading for him not to go in. But he did anyway, followed by the woman. Silence, for a moment, and then suddenly, the killer struck. Gino gave another frightened cry, hardly able to watch the grappling on the screen, yet unable to look away.

And then, blessedly, it ended. The woman struck from behind, killed the killer before her boyfriend could be harmed, and the two escaped together. Still shaking, Gino sat upright as the credits began to roll, sucking in a deep breath. "...that... that wasn't so bad."

He took a little longer to compose himself, then turned to look at Jeremiah, expecting a reaction. His chin was in his hand, head turned, so that only the side of his face and his mask was visible. "You weren't scared at all, were you? Hah. You're so tough, gramps~."

And in he leaned once again, scooting closer yet this time to press a kiss to his cheek... only to be interrupted by a soft snore. There was a pause. Then the Knight snorted. "My hero," bit his ear, and strolled off with a satisfied smirk at Jeremiah's soft, startled sound as he woke up.

1 sheep in the heap

2009-09-12T08:12:38Z

title: Leaving Behind.
pairing: Implied Albel / Fayt.
rating: PG-13 for some strong language.
word count: 926

"Would you leave me behind?"

The question pierced through Albel's veil of sleep, rousing him for the fifth time that night. Every time he thought that the maggot in the bed next to him had finally stopped talking, he'd ask another god forsaken question. A completely and utterly pointless one, like the one that'd just been asked. "What?" Albel snarled, showing more aggression than what he felt to get his annoyance across loud and clear.

Fayt either didn't catch the hint, or didn't care. "Would you leave me behind, I said," he repeated. "If we were even in danger... if we ever had to run... if I slowed you down, would you just leave me?"

"Why the hell are you asking me all this?" was Albel's immediate answer. Amongst several other questions, he'd already had to explain to Fayt what he considered a 'dangerous situation,' and how far he would be willing to go to save himself if needed. It had all stemmed from a movie that the boy had watched; something about the dead rising and a group of ill-fated people trying to survive the disaster. So really, there was no need for Albel to ask what was making Fayt think so much. But he really didn't feel like giving the question any thought.

"I just want to know!" Fayt insisted. There was a rustling of sheets and blankets, and for the fifth time that night, Fayt's bedside lamp clicked on, shooting dim rays of light into Albel's half-open eyes. "Come on. Would you?"

Albel rolled over onto his stomach and pulled his pillow over his head with a grunt. This seemed to be effective for all of a moment before a sudden sting of a feather pillow against his back made him sit partway up again. "What the fuck do you want?!"

"Answer the question!"

"No!"

"No, what?" Fayt questioned. "No, you're not answering the question, or no, you wouldn't leave me?" Was there a hint of hopefulness in the young swordsman's voice?

The other man was silent for a moment, as if thinking it over. Then, sternly: "Shut up." And back down on the bed Albel went, trying again to fall asleep before Fayt could open his mouth again.

Fayt simply would not take this for an answer, and showed this by swiftly beating Albel with the pillow again. "Just give me a yes or no answer, and I'll leave you alone, Albel!"

It took a few more beatings before Albel finally gave in. "No, okay?! No. NO. Are you happy now?!"

"You wouldn't leave me behind?" asked Fayt, his voice reverent, soft. "Really?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, maggot."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"I thought you said you'd leave me alone." Albel was now on his side, facing Fayt. He knew his looks of contempt would do nothing to deter the boy, but that didn't stop him from scowling anyway.

"I will after you tell me why not."

The wicked swordsman heaved a long, frustrated sigh. "Because if I left you behind, you'd bitch and moan about it to me after you caught up later."

"Albel..."

"...Because then you'd owe me a favor."

"But what if I didn't catch up?! Albel, you're not being serious! I mean if leaving me behind meant that I'd get caught or killed or something. If you wouldn't leave me to that fate, then... why not?"

"Because you'd make a good human shield."

"Al-BEL!" That was Fayt's scolding tone; the wicked swordsman knew it well. It stopped him from belting out another nonsense response.

There was no point in arguing anymore. He would simply have to answer this one, as well. Then, maybe... just maybe, he could get some sleep. Albel paused to give it some actual thought. "Because you can't go on forever only relying on yourself. If you just disregard the worth of the people around you, you'll be shit out of luck when you can't do anything more for yourself."

Fayt was silent for a long time, thinking about how strange an answer that was, coming from Albel. He had always seemed as if he didn't realize anyone else in the world had worth at all. "...You think I have worth?" he asked, when it dawned on him that the other man could very well be implying such a thing.

"Maybe," Albel responded, his tone oddly calm. He had been so angry earlier.

The blue-haired boy was pleased and embarrassed by the answer in spite of its vagueness. It was as close to a compliment as he could ever hope to receive from Albel. "That's... That really means a lot to me. Thanks, Albel."

"Whatever." Albel rolled back over, bunching up his pillow and plopping his head down on it again. Another matter dealt with - NOW could he catch his z's?

"...I'd never leave you behind either, Albel."

Apparently not. "Tch."

Fayt smiled at Albel's answer (or lack thereof). He knew he'd get no more than that from the older man, and decided not to press him for more. In fact, he was beginning to feel a bit tired, finally. Perhaps all the communication and assurance had put his mind at rest. Reaching over, he switched the lamp off and lay down on his back, shuffled under the covers until he was comfortable, then shut his eyes and went to sleep.

In silence, Albel waited, listening and waiting for Fayt's breathing to become soft and regular. When he caught the sound of sleep, he closed his eyes as well. "...That's good to know."