Spring Kinkfest

Meet Me in the Middle (Saiyuki, Gojyo/Hakkai)

opalmatrix — Fri, 11 Apr 2014 00:27:12 GMT

Title: Meet Me in the Middle
Author: opalmatrix
Rating: E
Warnings: nothing much
Word count: : 4943
Notes: This was started more than two years ago for springkink IX (I miss springkink intensely! Where are the springkinks of yesteryear ... ?). The prompt was: Saiyuki: Hakkai/Gojyo, crossdressing, under the table and dreaming. Title from the America song:Sister Goldenhair: "Won't you meet me in the middle, won't you meet me in the end? Won't you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?" Beta read by smillaraaq. Thanks also to indelicateink for her impromptu "get something done this weekend" work sessions, which got me to finish this at last.
Summary: Hakkai has a not-so-little secret. He's beginning to wonder whether Gojyo has one, too.

Hakkai shut the mathematics textbook with a snap ... .

Mark Of The Laguz (Fire Emblem, Lethe/Jill)

measuringlife — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 01:48:17 GMT

Title: Mark Of The Laguz
Series: post FE10
Character/pairing: Lethe/Jill, Skrimir, Ranulf (mentions of Kyza/Ranulf and Lyre/Ranulf)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 6050
Author's note: springkink: Fire Emblem, Jill/Lethe; mating for life, marking - Laguz do not play games with love. Jill gives herself and is claimed.

here

Research Material (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, Josuke/Rohan, PG)

nanakibh — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 23:13:18 GMT

Title: Research Material
Author: Nanaki BH
Pairing: Josuke/Rohan
Words: 2,073
Summary: There had to be a reason Rohan was willing to suffer this many times just to get near him.
Prompt: Oct 6, 2007 - JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Rohan/Josuke - attraction despite mutual dislike - "Hate can be just as potent as love, didn't you know?"

I went back really far to find this prompt. I don't know if the original requester will even care now or even notice that I filled it, but I felt compelled to fill a JoJo prompt, so here you go. (And I may be really off-season here, but does anyone really mind? I hope not.)

>> read on LJ
>> read on AO3

Not Three of a Kind [Fullmetal Alchemist, Ed/Winry; Ed/Greelin; Teen]

evil_little_dog — Fri, 17 Aug 2012 14:26:33 GMT

Title: Not Three of A Kind
Author/Artist: evil_little_dog
Rating: Teen for implications
Warnings: Mentions of dub-con. Mentions of Winry’s pregnancy. Angst.
springkink Prompt: Fullmetal Alchemist, Ed/Winry/Ling: polyamory, bisexuality - Ed's just going to have to learn to share.
Word count: 3,150 (appx)
Summary: Winry really doesn’t want to be jealous of Ling.
Disclaimer: Arakawa might be horrified by the things I do with her characters.
A/N: I originally started writing this for the above prompt, then thought, “This isn’t right,” and wrote a PWP with sexy tiems for the prompt. However, I thought I might go back to this story, and see if I could write an ending to it. Consider this a sequel to my story, Up a Tree, or at least in the same universe. Thanks to cornerofmadness for her help in editing this story.

X X X

Winry stomped through Alphonse’s bedroom door, her frown thunderous. Without saying anything, she flung herself on the bed.

“Uh, come in,” Alphonse said, blinking a couple of times. He closed the door, turning to walk a little closer to the bed. Cautiously. Winry could be as dangerous as those bombs Ran Fan was fond of testing at weird times. “Is something wrong?”

“Your brother,” Winry said through gritted teeth.

Alphonse winced mentally. And physically, too. “What has he done?”

Rolling over, Winry sat up. “This is supposed to be our vacation,” she said, “but since we’ve gotten here,” she waved her hand, indicating the whole country of Xing, but specifying the spring palace of the Emperor with the little fillip of her fingers, “I’ve seen less of Ed and more of you!”

“Um,” Alphonse said, scratching the back of his head.

Her eyes narrowed. “Not that I don’t like seeing you,” she said.

“Uh, thanks, I guess?” Alphonse smiled warily.

Winry went on as if she didn’t even hear him. “But this is our first real vacation! And he’s my husband, and it’s not like we’re going to get to do this kind of thing often, not with our work. Or later.” Her hand went to her stomach, resting on just barely visible sign of her pregnancy. “I mean, if he wanted to spend time with you guys, he should’ve told me, and I would’ve stayed home!”

Alphonse didn’t like the sound of her voice, particularly the way it wavered toward the end. If she started crying, he swore to himself he was going to pummel his brother. “Have you talked to Ed?” The flat stare she turned his way made Alphonse decide not to ask stupid questions like that again, except, well, he had to. “What’d he say?”

“What do you think he said? He’s Edward Elric. He stammered and yelled at me and then apologized, but nothing’s changed. We’ve been here two weeks, and I think we’ve actually slept together twice.” She slapped the bed, frustrated, and as frank as Winry could be about their sex life, Alphonse was pretty sure she actually meant slept rather than the euphemism. “Forget about anything else.” The waspish note let him know yes, she had meant ‘sleep’ and nothing more.

“Winry,” Alphonse said delicately, cautiously, thinking he might be taking his life into his hands, “you do know about Ed and Ling, right?”

“You mean about Ling being Ed’s first? Yeah.” Winry shrugged. “He told me after you guys came home to Risembool.” Alphonse wasn’t sure what she read from his face, but her brow furrowed again. “I wasn’t jealous then, Al.” She slapped the mattress again. “I don’t want to be jealous!”

Alphonse hadn’t spent a lot of time around pregnant women, but he’d read about the way their moods changed, and how fast that could happen. He kind of hoped Winry didn’t have a wrench hidden somewhere. The thought skittered through his mind that Ed might be avoiding her for just that reason – not that he’d actually say something like that out loud. “Winry, do you want me to talk to Ed?”

“What’ll you tell him? That his wife is jealous of his boyfriend?” Mouth twisting, she said, “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

Alphonse shook his head. “Winry, you know Ling isn’t his boyfriend.”

“I know, but.” Winry tossed her hands in the air.

Catching her hands before they landed in her lap, Alphonse gave them a squeeze. “Winry, men and women in Xing have very different lives than back home. A lot of times, married couples only see each other at the end of the day.”

“We’re not Xingese, Al.” The desert tone in her voice could suck the moisture right out of the air.

“No, but you are in Xing. I’ll talk to Ed.” Alphonse squeezed her hands again, feeling the strength in her fingers when she returned the pressure. “And Ling. Now,” he said, trying to change the subject, “have you eaten today? You know you have to feed that baby, too.”

Hissing through her teeth, Winry said, “I know, I know. I ate an orange and some bread and cheese and I didn’t throw it back up. I’m okay, Al. Really.” She didn’t say what Alphonse expected her to say, giving him her own, sunny smile. He was reminded of how much Edward and he had missed of her sorrow over the loss of her parents, how good Winry was at hiding her real feelings.

Sitting next to her, Alphonse enveloped her in a hug, thinking he really needed to have a talk with his brother.

X X X

The emperor’s bathing room smelled of eucalyptus and mint, the air so moist, Alphonse sometimes thought he might drown when he walked into it. Under his feet, the dark stone had a rough finish to keep him from slipping, at least until he reached the pool itself with its elaborate tile work. Ferns and orchids, as well as the lovely girls who assisted the patrons with their bathing, softened the look of the room.

Alphonse thought he’d have to change clothes as soon as he walked out of the bath. What he wore now was going to be soaked from the humidity. Usually, he entered the room naked, or, at most, with a towel, but he was here for a different reason than relaxing. “Ed!”

Edward lay on a massage table, his hair loose and sticking to his skin. He pushed up on his elbows, frowning at the sight of Alphonse and rolling off the table. “What is it, Al?”

“Winry.”

Eyes widening, he grabbed Alphonse’s arms, giving him a shake. “What’s wrong with her? Is the baby okay?”

“The baby’s fine, Ed, but Winry isn’t.” As Edward’s worry turned to confusion, Alphonse hurried on. “She’s upset, Ed. She came here with you for a vacation, and you’ve spent all your time with Ling.” Holding up a finger to keep Edward from speaking – in theory – Alphonse said, “Winry’s thinking about going home. With or without you. She means it, Ed. If you want to keep her, you’re going to have to learn to share.”

Edward snapped his mouth shut, his jaw flexing. “Right,” he said tightly. “I’ll talk to her, Al!”

He wasn’t sure whether it was the heat or something else making Edward’s cheeks flush, but Alphonse thought, maybe, he’d gotten through to his brother. “Please do it soon, Ed. She deserves it.”

X X X

“Come with me,” Edward had said, “please,” and offered her his hand. She’d considered arguing, but something in his eyes, the way his fingers felt cool when she placed her hand in them, decided for her, and Winry let him lead her through the palace. They made their way through corridors that she’d never seen before, past statues and tapestries and intricately carved walls. Edward paused, opening a way into a room by sliding aside a door screen with a mountain with clouds and straggly trees painted on it.

Winry didn’t know what to expect, but the room definitely wasn’t it. There was a table with cushions around it, set with a tea service. Winry caught wind of a sweet-smelling tea, probably still brewing in the pot. A wooden shade, carved to allow light through, covered a floor to ceiling window, though Winry caught sight of the sky beyond the wood. “I thought you’d feel better talking here,” Edward said, opening the shade, almost as if it was a gate to a courtyard. A balcony revealed itself, and beyond, Winry could see more, a view of the palace gardens. Flowering vines climbed over the balcony, and a hummingbird buzzed by, pausing to sample one of the scarlet flowers before zipping off.

Pouring her a cup of tea, Edward passed it to her. “Raspberry leaves and some other stuff that’s supposed to be good for you and the baby. Why don’t you sit,” he said, and smiled ever so faintly when she did, though he remained standing. “There are things I haven’t,” he poured a second cup of tea, “haven’t told you. About me. And what happened when I was traveling with Heinkel and Darius and,” he took a breath. “Greed.”

Winry vaguely remembered Greed, the homunculus who’d taken over Ling’s body for a while. Edward had said that the homunculus had fought to help free Amestris from Father. Wrapping cool fingers around the cup, Winry appreciated the warmth of the liquid warming the delicate porcelain. “You don’t talk about Greed much.”

“Yeah.” The corners of his mouth turning down, Edward sat next to her, though he stared at the tabletop. “There’re reasons for that. I should’ve told you everything; I mean, I promised there wouldn’t be any more secrets, but.” His larynx bobbed as he swallowed. “Some things are harder to talk about than others.”

“Ed.” Winry laid her hand on his forearm. He almost vibrated from the tension in his body.

Glancing at her through his bangs, Edward mustered a weak smile, and covered her hand with his. “We picked up Ling – he was Ling, then – outside of Central City. He told me about the Promised Day, that it was probably the best chance for Al and me to get our bodies back. I told you that part, right?” Winry nodded as Edward released her hand to stand up, digging his fingers into his hair and rumpling it thoroughly. “There’s more, though. Greed…you met Greed in Risembool, but he was on his best behavior there. Too many witnesses or something, I guess.” Edward shook his head. “When we were traveling, he’d follow me when I…when I’d leave camp.”

Realization dawned, and Winry bit her lip, staring up at her husband.

Edward turned to her, though it seemed like he stared at her feet. “Greed knew…a lot. A lot about how to manipulate people. A lot about me, and how to get me to react the way he wanted me to. I trusted him because he looked like Ling, but he wasn’t Ling.” Sinking to his knees, Edward reached for her hands, holding them both in his. “Winry, I liked Ling. He was – is – my friend. But back then, I didn’t know what I wanted beyond living through the day and getting Al’s body back. I didn’t…couldn’t think about you. How I felt about you. And Greed, he used that; he had Ling’s face, Ling and I were friends and.”

Winry gulped, her stomach knotting. “Ed,” she said tightly.

“The things he did,” Edward said, “to me…with me. They felt…it…” He ducked his head, biting his lip hard enough for the color to rush out of the flesh; then his eyes lifted to meet hers again. Held her gaze as if it might be the string to lead him out of the maze. “It was overwhelming,” he said finally, “and that’s the way Greed wanted it. Wanted me. Overwhelmed. Confused – I was, so much. I knew he wasn’t Ling but I needed –thought I needed.” Edward’s mouth moved for a few seconds without any words coming out and he blew out a gust of air, angry with himself. “It’s hard to talk about.”

“So, you were,” Winry knew ‘rape’ might be too strong of a word, though she’d heard of this sort of thing happening with apprentices and their masters in Rush Valley. “Coerced,” she said slowly, trying to wrap her head around this idea, and exactly what had happened to Edward while he was traveling the countryside between Briggs and the Promised Day, “into having sex with Greed.”

Edward nodded jerkily. “Yeah.” He rubbed her knuckles with his thumbs, a caress of each scar and nick. Raising her hands, he pressed them against his mouth. “When we were hiding out in Risembool, I had a little time to think. Not much.” Winry felt rather than saw his smile. “But still, by the time you showed up, I knew – once Al was whole, I knew I wanted to come home to you. Greed couldn’t change the way I felt about you.” His grin widened enough that she could see it, even with his head bent down. “When you threw him out of your room, it was the funniest thing I’d seen since, hell, I don’t even know.”

“And then I hit you for being in my room,” Winry remembered.

Edward laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Yeah. That’s okay, though.” Mirth slowly draining away as he remembered, he told her, “Greed said you were quite a woman for me. I guess he knew I wouldn’t fall for him, no matter what he did.”

His gaze was steady and open, the way Winry expected it to be, not full of secrets and haunted by the past. “And Ling?”

“Ling’s my friend,” Edward repeated, and kissed her hands. “Sometimes, afterward, Greed would leave, and Ling would hold me. I needed him,” a bare split second hesitation, “I needed them both, and I knew we’d need Greed to have a chance at winning the war.”

So Edward set aside his own feelings and did what he thought he needed to – or what Greed wanted him to, Winry thought, and now, being in Xing, it had to remind him of Greed, and everything that had happened between them. Still, she had to know. “So, why’ve you been avoiding me?” she asked, trying not to sound hurt, and thinking that she’d failed miserably by the way Edward flinched, squeezing her hands tight.

“I hadn’t seen Ling since,” he jerked his head, bangs falling into his eyes. “The Promised Day. It’s been…harder than I thought. I keep expecting Greed to come back, and.” Releasing one of Winry’s hands, he rubbed his forehead. “Ling thought if we could talk it out, maybe, but I guess what I’ve really been doing is hiding. From you, from what happened. And seeing him again, it’s like…like something’s going to blow up in my face. That Greed isn’t really gone, and I need to keep him happy and.” Edward’s words died and his shoulders slumped. He searched her face, reminding Winry of a dog she’d seen once that had been beaten by its master, but still wanted some sort of affection.

Words wouldn’t work, Winry knew, so she lunged at Edward, knocking him back into the pillows and holding him tight. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck. His hands rested on her hips, so lightly, it was almost as if he was afraid to touch her. “You idiot,” Winry whispered in his ear, “don’t you know I love you, no matter what? That I’d stand by you, and beat anyone with a wrench who’d try to hurt you?”

“Yeah?” Edward murmured tentatively, but his hands moved so they rested in the small of her back, still barely holding on to her.

Winry lifted up so she could meet his eyes. Determined, she smiled at him, cupping his cheeks. “Yeah,” she said softly.

Wrapping his arms around her, Edward sighed his relief. “I’m sorry I haven’t been spending time with you,” he mumbled. “That’ll change, starting now. And.” He tugged a strand of her hair for emphasis. “I don’t want to leave you out of this any more. Next time we talk, I mean, Ling and me, I want you there with us.”

Not about to ask, ‘Are you sure?’ Winry knew that Edward’s request was part apology as well. She nodded solemnly. “Thank you.” If it had been her, she wasn’t sure she would’ve ever been able to tell him, or even invite him to share in something like that.

Edward gave her a faint smile, tickling her cheek with the fringe of her hair. “Do you want to get something to eat? I know you haven’t been eating.” At her look, he said, “Al’s been giving me reports. I know you haven’t been sleeping, either.” Reaching up, he touched the dark circle under her left eye. “That’s not good for you or the baby. Or me, because you’ll make me worry.” Edward nuzzled her. “I don’t like worrying about you.”

“Hmph. Now you know how it feels.” Winry poked him in the chest.

Smirking, Edward said, “Yeah, maybe you’re better at it than I am.”

“Maybe I have more practice.” Winry sat up, straddling Edward’s thighs before swinging off of him. “So, food?”

“The rest of the day is just for us,” Edward said. “Food and whatever you want.”

Winry smiled at him, letting him help her to her feet. “Whatever?” she asked, in her bedroom voice.

Edward froze, giving her a long look that warmed Winry’s insides, turning her both gooey and hot, and reminding her it’d been a while since they’d done anything even close to sex. “Maybe,” he drawled, though the intensity of his gaze told her it wouldn’t take much to convince him. He didn’t let go of her hand as they left the room, tugging on it to pull her even closer, wrapping his arm around her waist. Winry squeaked, then giggled as Edward nuzzled her jaw, and the door slid closed behind them.

X X X

The door to Alphonse’s bedroom opened and Ling swept through it, throwing himself on the bed.

Alphonse sighed. “Come in, Ling, I wasn’t doing any – oh, hello, Ran Fan.” He nodded as she came into his room, closing the door.

“Al, I am bored.”

“You have plenty of things to do; you’re the Emperor of Xing.”

“As I have told him,” Ran Fan muttered just loud enough for Alphonse to hear. He pursed his mouth to keep from laughing.

“I’m still bored.” Rolling onto his back, Ling pouted at Alphonse.

“Well, it’s been a little quieter since Ed and Winry went home.”

Ling lolled his head off the edge of the mattress, peering at Alphonse upside-down. His naturally narrowed eyes widened for a second, then he glanced away, his mobile, expressive face showing discontent. “I never wanted to hurt Ed,” he said, “or Winry.”

“You were captured by a homunculus in your own body,” Alphonse said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“And your influence over him only went so far, my lord,” Ran Fan said from her position near the door. “You could not control his greed, not completely.”

Ling’s mouth twitched slightly, though he didn’t argue the point. Instead, he rolled over again, pillowing his chin on his folded arms, not looking at either of them. “I should’ve been able to control my own,” he said finally. Picking himself off of the bed, Ling touched Alphonse’s shoulder as he walked past. He walked to the door, Ran Fan opening it for him.

“Ling?” Alphonse wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, only that he needed to say something.

He laughed, a familiar sound, though the in it humor was muted. “What can I say, Al? Gold is so difficult to resist.” Waving his hand over his shoulder, he exited the door, Ran Fan trailing behind.

Alphonse thought, some day, he really needed to have a talk with his brother.

X X X

To The Last (Fire Emblem, Lucia/Elincia)

measuringlife — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 10:10:42 GMT

Title: To The Last
Series: Fire Emblem
Character/pairing: Elincia/Lucia
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1300
Author's note: 30th - Fire Emblem, Elincia/Lucia; love confession on the battlefield - The risk is too great to stay silent for another moment.

here

Broken Beams and Bloodied Ground [D.gray-man, Allen/Kanda/Lavi/Lenalee, PG]

leathansparrow — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 16:46:54 GMT

Title: Broken Beams and Bloodied Ground
Author/Artist: leathansparrow
Rating: PG
Warnings: Nada
Summary: In the shattered aftermath of the Level 4's attack on the Order, Lavi realizes he's been doomed to care from the start. And he might be okay with that.
A/N: Prompt for May 25th: D.Gray-Man, Allen/Kanda/Lavi/Lenalee: seeking comfort in proximity - "Remind me that we'll always have each other, when everything else is gone."
I am so, so very late.

Stepping over shattered stone and mortar, broken beams and splintered wood, Lavi catalogs every detail of wreckage, every stain of blood. He imagines the bodies that once lay against those stains, the blows that struck those arches, his mind cataloging the precise fall of each piece of debris, each angle of collapse.

Each crack in the walls.

If he wanders long enough he can dredge up a memory for each place he’s seen, and imagine an image of each event he missed. It isn’t like him to speculate. He’s supposed to catalog the facts alone, trajectories and splatter patterns and solid evidence of disaster, not imagine how they came to be or whose blood left them. He finds himself doing it anyway, a secret shame he catalogs away in his head with everything else, so deep and so low that Bookman will never hear of it.

It’ll break his heart someday, the weight of each fractured piece of the Order’s walls, of each broken bone he sees in staggered, bloodied footprints against the stone. Perhaps it already has.

Bookman warned him so many times. He’s listened, in the past. He always used to listen.

Lavi rubs his bandaged cheek, presses against the swollen bruise, the shallow cuts beneath the gauze and savors the pain of it, the proof that he isn’t dreaming. He’s still here, in the wreckage. He’s still living.

He turns a corner into bright lights, hollers and laughter, Kanda’s snarls and Allen’s taunts and presses his cheek harder.

He’s still here. Allen is ducking Kanda’s swing, tumbling nimbly through precise strikes uncompromised by Kanda’s fury. He’s got a wooden sword in his hand but he isn’t using it. He’s not used to it yet, and Lavi admires the swift, agile lines of his movements and every flaw in his awkward strikes. He admires each and every blow Kanda lands on him: jabs and pokes and irritable stabs that carefully knock Allen’s form back into shape.

Allen isn’t a swordsman. He never has been. He’s learning now only because his innocence has forced him to. It’s clear in the way he moves; Lavi has watched masters, watched Kanda, move the way a swordsman moves for too long not to realize that Allen isn’t one.

Lenalee is sitting beside the court, hollering encouragements to Allen as he and Kanda dance around each other. The ruby rings at her ankles glitter in the light beside a cracked step. She’s the first one to see Lavi enter, and Lavi hesitates at her smile. He pushes against his cheek again until she stands, still a little wobbly on her feet, and takes his wrist. “Don’t poke at it,” she admonishes him, her fingers warm and strong against his skin. “You’ll just make it worse.”

“I’ve had worse,” Lavi says, but the words are just formula.

They make her laugh and roll her eyes all the same. “Come on,” she says, and guides him to the seat beside hers.

The court here is shattered too. The ceiling is caving in, there’s glass on the floor, carefully swept to the side and away from Allen and Kanda’s bare feet. There’s scaffolding holding some of the broken bits in place. Other pieces are scattered about their legs. Lenalee’s feet are bare too, and she avoids each piece with careful grace.

Lavi watches quietly for a moment. Then he takes his cue and hollers with her, egging Kanda on, because that is fun no matter what the situation. The formula of it, the consistency in how he reacts, is comforting. He doesn’t change. He sputters and snarls and rages each and every time, like clockwork, and Lavi revels in the consistency.

He revels in the fact that Kanda is still there. There like Lenalee at his side; he knows she’s basking in it too. She’s basking in the cracked pieces of her world’s puzzle and the glue sticking, holding them together. Each yell is another pin. Each laugh, a bit of thread. Each movement stitching them back together again.

“Let’s stay like this,” he says, unexpectedly. He surprises himself, surprises her, and surprises their entertainment as Allen skids to a stop. Kanda pulls his swing an inch from Allen’s head. He scowls and drops the wooden blade, leaving it clattering upon the floor. With a huff he turns and wanders to them, leaving Allen panting, hands on his knees and his head tilted.

Kanda sits closer than he usually would, Lavi thinks. For a moment Lavi has to resist teasing him over it. Instead he leans, props himself against Kanda’s shoulder, and loves that Kanda doesn’t move.

He grunts, shrugs just enough for show, but he lets Lavi lean on him.

Allen smiles. He smiles like moonlight and falling stars, brilliant and beautiful and sad. He smiles with something lost in his eyes, the pain of those taken from them scarring his heart still, and the pain of each one saved bleeding those scars red.

He’s just close enough that Lavi can catch his arm, and he does. He catches Allen’s arm and tugs him stumbling down, laughing into Lavi’s embrace. His laughter is a broken thing. Broken like the walls and it hurts, but Lavi can hear it. He can memorize it, remember it forever, recall it as if it were there with him every day after this.

Bookman always said he shouldn’t get close. It wasn’t his duty, it would ruin his work.

Lavi wonders sometimes if it isn’t because of this: because getting close hurts like burned needles to the eye and open sores upon his skin. It burns hot and he hugs it close because he can’t imagine being without it now. He’s tried. He’s supposed to.

He can’t.

It’ll break him. It’ll ruin him in the end, but he can’t.

Lenalee leans against his other shoulder, burying him in their warmth completely as Allen settles his head against Lavi’s shoulder and presses a sweet kiss to his throat. Allen’s quivering laughter quiets to steady breathing. His skin is damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed. He’s still battered horribly but he’s warm and there.

They’re all there.

They’re here with him beneath shattered beams and broken glass and the stains of the dead.

Remind me, he whispers in the quiet of his mind. Remind me that when all this is said and done. When this is all over, that we’ll still have each other. He can’t say it aloud. Maybe he never will.

But he wishes it all the same.

Keepsake (Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn, Elincia/Lucia)

measuringlife — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 04:45:27 GMT

Title: Keepsake
Series: Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Character/pairing: Elincia/Lucia
Rating: PG
Word count: 700
Author's note: 30th - Fire Emblem, Elincia/Lucia; complete, unquestioning devotion - Lucia lives and breathes to serve her Queen.

Spoilers for part two of RD.

(I finished this early, then forgot to post it it on time. Urk.)

here

Relative Insantiy [D.gray-man, Allen/Lavi, PG-13]

leathansparrow — Sun, 03 Jun 2012 19:42:28 GMT

Title: Relative Insanity
Author/Artist: leathansparrow
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nada
Summary: Allen's degrees of crazy hurt Lavi's brain. Somehow he likes it anyway.
A/N: Prompt for May 25th: Allen/Lavi: Strip Poker - "Allen Walker was clearly crazy."
I'm so sorry for the late. Real life has come to bludgeon me in the face.

Allen Walker is insane. That fact is something Lavi learned within days of meeting him. How insane, well, that is increasing by a measure of degrees the longer he knows him. For one, stripping adult men to their shorts in a train car for the sole sake of revenge is a little nuts.

More nuts is finding out a few months later that one of said men could remove your spleen without leaving a mark.

The way Allen goes after Kanda, that’s crazy. It’s the sort of crazy Lavi can get behind, totally, because Kanda is hard to resist like that. Allen eggs Kanda on almost as much as Lavi does, and while Lavi appreciates the sentiment, he just didn’t expect there to be someone else as crazy as him.

Especially since half the time he’s not sure if they’re fighting or flirting, because even he can’t get Kanda worked up like Allen can. Sometimes Lavi catches flashes, grey eyes catching his and little grins between those shouts and Kanda’s threats of violence, like Allen wants Lavi to see it. Like he likes it that Lavi sees it.

Well, Lavi can always use a partner in crime. There’s no shortage of Kanda’s temper to go around.

Allen’s crazy doesn’t start with poker, nor end with Kanda’s threats of bodily harm. He and Lenalee get on with a vengeance that’s maddening when Lenalee’s not two seconds and a drop-kick short of slapping him for playing the martyr. There’s genuine affection there, with the exasperation. She loves him, and Lavi could see that even with his free eye shut.

She factors straight into Allen’s crazy too. He’s sweet to her. He’s braved her brother’s wrath more than once bringing her a treat from some mission he’s been on, or a trinket from far away. Those sorts of things though, they’re not too insane. Insane only because Komui is insane, but not really insane.

Kissing Lenalee Lee in full “view” of the science division (they had cameras everywhere, so Lavi’s convinced they saw), now that is truly bat-shit insane. Good thing Komui was asleep for it.

Telling Lavi he could join in if he wanted, with that soft-mouthed smirk and lidded eyes and his knee between Lenalee’s legs, challenging and oh so very tempting, should have gotten him locked up. Seriously. In seconds.

(This is why Lavi is dead sure Komui was asleep for it, because there haven’t been any tiny robots trying to kill him yet. That, and Allen is still alive.)

Lavi booked out of that one as fast as he could. No way was he sticking around to be sucked into that sort of cracked madness. He remembered a groan, the sound of someone being shoved and Allen’s soft laughter as he ran like hell.

This one though. This he should have seen coming. He’s been there, knows where this is headed, and he does not like it one bit.

The thing is, Allen’s not the one who invited him. That idiot’s award belongs to Marie, who somehow missed the memo (mandatory memo, or it should be, Lavi thinks, because everyone should have been warned about this) that you DO NOT invite Allen Walker to a card game you hope to win. And Lavi’s dead sure strip poker is a game most people join to win. No one wants to be that guy on the bench stripped to his skin while everyone else laughs.

Lenalee’s snuck in to join them. She’s next to Allen, leaning over his shoulder and laughing like Allen’s not cheating with all the insidious power vested in him. He’s the only one still fully clothed. He’s lost his tie, and Lavi knows, his eyes fixed on the sliver of pale skin revealed by his unbuttoned collar, that it was entirely deliberate.

Stupid crazy Allen. Stupid crazy Allen’s half-lidded eyes, his tempting words and soft, full lips.

Stupid Lavi, he thinks to himself, because he’s noticing all that and he shouldn’t. What he should be noticing is himself down to his trousers and eye-patch and likely to lose that to the minute Allen drops his hand.

Kanda snorts at him when he whines, his head in a book. Lavi’s not sure if he’s actually reading it or using it as an excuse to ignore him, but for once Kanda’s the smartest of all of them. He never agreed to play. He says he’s just here to see if anyone can “put the beansprout in his god damn place.”

Fat chance.

“Are you sure you want to go another round?” Allen’s all smiles, his eyes soft over the edge of his cards. He’s hiding a smile behind them, enticingly mysterious. With one hand he fiddles with his collar, drawing it open just a bit. Lenalee leans over, whispers something in his ear and he laughs as she brushes his throat.

Damn. Lavi knows they’re together. He caught them, didn’t he? Right now he’s not sure who he’s jealous of.

“Put ‘em down ‘sprout,” he says.

“Allen,” Allen corrects him, and does.

Marie laughs. Kanda smirks behind his book. Lavi curses and kicks off his trousers.

“Maybe you should give him a handicap,” Lenalee suggests, nudging Allen. Allen lifts an eyebrow at her, and without a word unbuttons his shirt, the pale fingers of his right hand surprisingly quick. He’s doing it one handed even, with enough skill that Lavi wonders if he always does. Then he wonders what else he can do with those fingers, and even more what he can do with that other hand, currently gloved, the rough scale-red skin hidden.

Lenalee helps Allen pull his shirt free, leaving him in a sleeveless undershirt. She tosses the garment aside and Lavi scowls, because right now he knows which of them he’s jealous of and he’s not sure he likes it. He’s also not sure he hasn’t known all along.

Fuck it all. Allen was clearly crazy. And he was clearly trying to drive Lavi down with him.

The tone of the game changes then, and like a switch has been flicked Kanda stands. Marie tosses in his cards with a laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“If we don’t have some mission,” Kanda agrees.

Then they’re both gone and Lenalee tells Allen something, pats him on the shoulder and leaves on their heels.

Allen ducks his head. “Since it was you, I thought you’d notice,” he says. He stands, smiles, and it’s as fake as any Lavi’s seen. He knows a fake smile when he sees it. He’s practically invented them. “Lenalee’s been saying I should tell you, but I was hoping that—”

“Hoping what?” Lavi asks, his mouth dry.

There’s a determined set to Allen’s jaw as his smile fades. Then he’s lurching forward, has his hand on Lavi’s cheek and those soft lips, the very ones Lavi’s been thinking about, are on his and suddenly Lavi gets it.

Oh shit, is the first thing he thinks. Objectivity and all.

Hell yes, is the next and he tangles his hand in Allen’s hair and tugs him closer, taking every advantage Allen gives him as he parts those lovely, lovely lips and moans.

Allen breaths against his mouth, quick gasps, his cheeks flushed. “So the thing with Lenalee—”

“You really can’t take a hint can you?” Allen’s exasperation lasts for eight words and a pause and then Lavi can get back to bruising his lips plump.

“You’re crazy,” Lavi tells him.

“And you’re dense.” Allen worries his lip.

“Like I could tell it was me you wanted, with Lenalee hanging on you like that.”

Allen laughs. “I guess getting you jealous isn’t a trick that works. I’ll have to tell her.”

“Oh trust me,” Lavi says. “It worked.”

Strip poker, sneaky gray eyes and six death wishes before lunch. Allen might be crazy, but Lavi thinks he’s okay being dragged down into it with him.

“You’re still only in your shorts,” Allen says.

Lavi grins. “Well, I’m sure we can think of something to do about that.”

Going by Faith (The Death Gate Cycle, Haplo/Alfred, NC-17)

darkhymns — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 05:44:18 GMT

Title: Going by Faith
Author: darkhymns
Warnings: Graphic sexual content
Word Count: 9980 (yes, I know)
Summary: Both Haplo and Alfred are lost within the Labyrinth, and there are things unbalanced between them.
Prompt: May 26, Haplo/Alfred. Topping from the bottom- "The wave correcting itself."
A/N: Apologies for the lateness! This story just grew into this massive thing. I've tried following the prompt as best as possible, but I am sorry if it doesn't correctly match up. My stories usually run away from my original plan, (and seem to always get sappy) so that's my only excuse. But thank you to the prompter for this, because this ship needs more love~

You can also read here at http://archiveofourown.org/works/418621.

Haplo knew the importance of names more than anyone. His own had not been given to him lightly. Patryns were a hard and stoic people, not prone to gentle fancy or musings- the Labyrinth would make no allowances for such things. So his parents engraved his name over his heart, meant for guidance, for a self-fulfilling prophecy. Haplo- single and alone. If he was alone, he would be strong, he would survive and escape the terrors of his home. And he had- even though he was back in this prison once again.

So despite Alfred’s denials, he did not believe in mere coincidences.

“My name is Coren,” he had said quietly. The Sartan could not meet his eyes, looking away in embarrassment. To choose, Haplo had guessed. Chosen, Alfred had confirmed.

“Most Sartan families has…had a boy named Coren. A self-fulfilling prophecy…You see why I never told you.” He smiled, small and hurting, remembering. “It’s laughable. It doesn’t mean anything… It shouldn’t have meant anything…”

Until you woke up, Haplo answered silently. Thoughts traveled, from one to the other, unspoken regrets. Chosen to live when others had died, chosen among all the Sartan who had been better, stronger, wiser than he could ever be. Chosen to fix it all by himself, this man who kept tripping over his own two feet.

So he denied it, and became Alfred.

“It is rather funny, in a way…” he said, his voice breaking on the last word.

“I’m not laughing.”

Haplo let the name settle on his mind. He accepted it graciously, knowing what the Sartan had done- giving the Patryn a part of himself, a power to hold over him. It was a name he hadn’t said in centuries, even to his own people on Chelestra, and here he was, handing it over to the enemy.

“I…hated my name. I hated it,” Alfred was saying, a dam finally releasing, so grateful to let everything go. “I was happy to take the other name and finally forget. But then I met you, and I remembered. Every time you called me Alfred, I heard the name Coren. It frightened me, but it… it also made me happy.”

And suddenly Haplo was frightened. A connection even before the terror of Abarrach, before the journey through Death’s Gate? Holding power over the man without even knowing about it, and the Sartan allowing it. It made him uncomfortable, yet also flattered him at the same time.

“I know what my name means now,” Alfred said, his tone suddenly firm, convinced.

“What are you talking about? It doesn’t mean anything- you said it yourself!” But Haplo knew, now trying to deny it himself. Names like these don’t come by lightly, from the darkness of the Labyrinth, to the bright world of Arianus, both finally meeting, understanding.

“But it does mean something- to me.” And Alfred stood up, shoulders straightening, taller than Haplo could ever recall. “What you said; to choose. I’ve let other people do the choosing for me, and even when I do take action- I forget. But not anymore.”

The black dog walked up to them, tail wagging excitedly. The Sartan bent down to pet its head lightly. Haplo felt his unease slipping away, comforted by the man’s words, by his belief.

“I choose to be with you.” His decision was made. Alfred was smiling, relaxed, keeping his eyes on the dog. “I promise you that. If you will…”

But he couldn’t completely change in a moment. There was the unspoken question, requiring permission of the Patryn to allow him this, the one thing that Alfred could control over himself.

Haplo was about to answer, unsure what words would come out of his mouth. Because control was hard to maintain over one’s self, he knew this too well. It was even harder to relinquish control to someone else. But Hugh the Hand had interrupted, pointing toward the trees, to the other Patryns that were coming up the path, weapons in their hands.

“She betrayed us, didn’t she?” Hugh side-eyed, showing no surprise.

Haplo nodded, remaining silent. Marit, the mother of his lost child, betraying him. His mind was filled with nothing. He placed a hand against his chest, where the design was hidden beneath his shirt.

Not impossible, he thought, to hate a name.

----

All they had to do was cross a bridge. It was a narrow bridge to be sure, made of cracked stone, suspended over churning water that was aptly named the River of Anger. It was the only thing in the Labyrinth that the Patryns had created, giving substance to their hatred. The magic of the bridge allowed only one person to cross at a time. Marit, Hugh, and the dog were already on the opposite shore, waiting for Haplo and Alfred. Patryns on both sides of the river watched them grimly. It wasn’t far to the city of Patryns- despite how strange it was for nomads to build a city in the first place.

In the distance, there was howling, terrible and hungry. Wolfen coming their way. They had little time.

“It’s only a bridge,” Haplo said, trying to calm the shaking Sartan.

“It’s… not the bridge. It’s…” He gestured toward the river, its depth lost in blackness, angrily sloshing against the shores. “I get the feeling that it hates me.”

Kari, the leader of the Patryn group, narrowed her eyes at Alfred. Haplo saw her muscles tense, hefting her spear near her. The wolfen’s cries were getting closer. He didn’t have to imagine what she would do if the Sartan delayed any longer.

“You crossed the Fire Sea.” Haplo laid a hand on Alfred’s shoulder, knowing the looks of distrust he was getting from his people, brushing them all away. “You can do this.”

At this, Alfred’s face brightened. Just barely, but it was enough to get him to edge forward. He wrung his hands, swallowing. “I crossed the Fire Sea…”

Haplo advised the man to crawl on his hands and knees, for the Patryn knew just how dangerous Alfred’s feet were. He bitterly regretted that the Sartan couldn’t use his magic to float across, remembering just how well that went the last time he’d tried it- flying headfirst toward a mountain. With held breaths, everyone watched as Alfred timidly made his way across the river.

“We don’t have time for this,” Kari hissed. There was the sound of branches crashing through the forest, of leaves crushing underfoot. The wolfen were here, and Alfred had barely made it halfway. A deep-throated growl sounded so close that the Sartan blanched, holding onto the bridge in shock.

Haplo saw several things happening at once; his runes lighting brilliantly, large furry bodies bursting through the trees, Kari raising her spear toward the paralyzed Sartan. He reacted quickly, grabbing the woman’s wrist, raising his other hand toward a wolfen that leapt for his throat, electricity shooting from his palm. Kari wrenched her hand away. The monster’s body twitched on the ground.

“Don’t faint!” Haplo shouted toward Alfred, hoping he would listen. Kari and her group instantly fought against the wolfen, throwing their spears, flinging their magic at the sharp fangs. Haplo was about to cross the bridge, conveniently putting out the knowledge of the bridge’s magic. One way or the other, they would all be dead if he didn’t do something.

Over the deafening snarls of the wolfen, Haplo didn’t hear the flapping wings, was too late to dodge the talons that stuck into his back.

The Labyrinth was sentient, cruel, and fiercely intelligent. It hated the Patryns that dwelled within it, and for some reason, hated the trembling Sartan that had appeared within its domain. Never had Haplo seen the Labyrinth react with such malevolence to someone invoking their spells, never had he imagined it sighing with relief when Alfred had first started to walk back toward the Vortex.

But now the Sartan was distracted, still in shock, easy to kill. Having the Labyrinth send packs of wolfen toward the group was not surprising, but rarely had the prison sent more than one kind of monster at the same time to take part in the slaughter. So the rocs had come- immense in their size, overshadowing the burly wolfen, with encompassing wings and sharply curved beaks. There were several of them, filling the skies, moving so swiftly, faster than anything on land. One attacked Haplo, knocking him flat, while another was heading straight for the huddled Alfred.

Haplo swatted away his attacker, the runes burning flesh, charring the feathers. The monster flew back with a sharp cry, only to have two more join its assault. Beaks reached to peck out his eyes, talons clawed away at his skin, trying to carry him off, as they had done to many unfortunate Patryns before. His magic defense blocked most of their attacks, claws scraping against tough walls of his creation, trailing sparks. His only blessing was that these rocs were still quite small, perhaps even hatchlings (hatchlings the size of a full grown man) and thankfully not the adults that could even rival the dragons in size.

“Alfred!” He called out. A beak grazed the side of his head, marking blood. He took hold of his dagger, runes highlighted on its surface. He swung it in a large arc above his head, the magic forming themselves into a scythe of red light in the air, cutting two of the birds in bloody halves.

He turned around, enough to see Alfred start to lift himself up, staring dumbfounded at the roc that was descending towards him. The dog was on the bridge with him, barking viciously, snapping at the bird’s clawed feet before it could get close enough.

Patryns behind him continued to fight, while others on the opposite shore were shooting arrows to aid them. There was still too many- they had to cross the river soon. Haplo was ready to chant a spell to get rid of the bird before Alfred (he could almost swear that the monster was unsure, even frightened, about attacking the Sartan) when a pack of wolfen broke through the Patryn’s wall, bounding high over them. Haplo faced them, just in time to watch yellowing fangs dig into his shoulder, to see an assortment of wings flutter around him.

He thought he heard a woman shout his name- maybe Kari, perhaps even Marit, a light tinge of panic underlining her voice. Teeth found their way around the sigla’s defense, lodging into places where the flesh was just barely protected. He shoved off one monster only to have another pin him back down. Blood flowed down his arms, claws ripped at his leather vest, at his shirt, at the torn sigil over his heart. He shivered in pain, kept himself from crying out, the chants to the runes falling from his lips uselessly, unraveling.

Then no sound- for a brief moment, for years. As if everything had been sucked out, leaving him in a timeless void. There was movement still, but no longer intense. Colors had been diffused, dried out. Something held him, drowning out the pain in his body. The monsters moved back. All he could hear was his own labored breathing-

And singing.

Someone was singing, low but steady, soft but determined. Graceful magic that reached out to him, keeping the monsters at bay. He tried to turn his head, suddenly knowing, needing to confirm it with his eyes.

Then sound returned, crashing into his head. There was blinding light, reflecting off wondrous green scales. A roar deafened his ears- a dragon’s call, vicious and powerful. But it wasn’t the same as a Labyrinth dragon, calling for a Patryn’s blood, eager for torture. It was protective, angered. Through shaded eyes, he saw a long, graceful neck swoop over him, a reptilian head snapping at the monstrous birds. Golden claws struck out at the wolfen, the creatures yelping in pain.

Everyone else stood back. The Patryns stared open-mouthed, unsure what to do, unbelieving at what they were seeing. It was just as well, for the monsters gave no more thought to them, using all their efforts to bring down the green and gold dragon that had suddenly appeared. A wolfen leaped toward the neck, trying to rip off the scales with its mouth. The dragon shook him off, dark blood trailing down its body. Yet all the while it stood over Haplo like a living shield. Its wings unfurled, making the light even brighter.

But the Labyrinth is intelligent, cruel. Merciless. Because it knew that everything had a weakness.

Some wolfen bounded away from the dragon’s forefeet, slipping around the gigantic body, heading straight for Haplo.

He tried to stand, but the wounds had been deeper than he first thought. His body was shaking. And the light, beautiful as it was, was too much. It pierced through his head. His mind called for darkness. He shut his eyes. The ground shook beneath him.

“Coren,” he whispered before slipping away. The light- too bright, too bright…

---

Wind was blowing through his hair, refreshing and pleasant. Haplo didn’t want to wake up. He felt warmth around him, felt the tiny wisps of magic hold him steady. As they should be, for he was moving through the air, swiftly, flying over miles and miles of land.

Flying.

Haplo opened his eyes.

His body was weak, lethargic. His cheek was pressed against smoothness. Slowly, he lifted himself up, looking down at the scales beneath him. Their brightness was not as dazzling anymore, their surfaced dimmed by a thick coating of blood.

Haplo dared not move. He didn’t have to look around (and wasn’t sure if he wanted to) to know that the dragon was carrying him through the skies; he could hear the continual creaking of the great wings, feel the wind buffeting him even more now that he was sitting up. There was the brief recollection of him hanging onto the dragon’s claw, of softly whispered thoughts to get away. The wolfen were all dead, but the shrieking rocs would not let up their assault. So Alfred flew off, with Haplo clinging onto his back, leading the monsters away from the group; both their thoughts working in tandem, in chilling familiarity, the need to get far, far away.

A shudder beneath him. The dragon began to descend, his wings held still. Haplo looked back, finding holes in the leather skin. Their escape had not come without a price.

They landed on the ground roughly, Haplo tumbling down the side. He got back up in quick motion, and was surprised to find that any wounds he got from the fight had already healed, the circle of his being restored. It might have been the healing sleep, but he didn’t remember invoking it. It wasn’t hard to guess that Alfred must have been the one to do so, though he was hard-pressed to pinpoint just when the Sartan found the time during their flight.

Time to heal Haplo but not himself. The fey creature was riddled with wounds, scales pulled out, claw marks against his neck, the wings tattered. Blood painted its flank, yet still Haplo found the dragon amazing the look at, possessing a deadly beauty only heightened by its scars from battle.

The dragon swiveled its great head toward him, breathing heavily. Golden eyes held him, surrounded his very self, as if suddenly aware of the Patryn’s presence. It moved a great leg toward him, the nose just slightly touching his arm. And it was, for certain, the same dragon from Chelestra, the one that had saved him from the poisonous maws of the dragon-snakes, the one whose voice he heard in his head, wrapping around him pleasantly, ancient and strong and familiar.

Are we… far enough?

Then the dragon stumbled, falling on its stomach.

Whispers still trailing through his head, Haplo rushed forward, trying to think of several ways to close the gaping wounds, of if he even could. Suddenly runes appeared all around the dragon’s body, all of them interconnecting with the other, the words to a complicated, marvelous spell that had given Alfred his form. They lit up the forest floor, illuminated the dark trees, draping them in soft blue. Then they slowly began to dissolve, peeling away from him like a blanket, revealing the man that had borrowed the shape.

Alfred was on his knees, hands digging through the dirt- the dragon’s claws still raking the ground. Blood was on his clothes.

Haplo took a while to move again. He slowly knelt down next to the man, still feeling the traces of magic in the air, brimming like electricity, tightening his nerves. His hand clasped Alfred’s shoulder, opening his mouth to speak.

But the Sartan was faster, gripping the other’s hand in his own. He raised his head. He no longer had the dragon’s eyes- at least not at first glance. Haplo felt their intensity, and staggered before them.

Alfred croaked, barely audible. “Are you…alright?”

Haplo blinked, then twisted his lips into a frown. Of course the Sartan would give little thought to his own health. “Seeing as I’m not the one with injuries, I should think so.”

Alfred smiled tiredly, understanding the Patryn’s irritation. He tried to stand, but instantly crumpled. Haplo caught him around his shoulders.

“I’ll be okay-”

“If you stay still,” Haplo interrupted. “Besides, I believe I at least owe you a healing after what you’ve done.” Gratitude was still hard for the Patryn to express.

“I’m sorry to be of trouble…”

Haplo ignored the Sartan’s apologies, carefully seating him back on the ground. He took both of the large hands in his own, opened the circle of his being, closing it around Alfred.

As his magic connected both his mind and body, the circle connected between himself and Alfred. Life flowed from his arm, through Alfred’s, through the chest, then back out again; an exchange of blood and memories. Through the magic, Haplo looked through the Sartan’s eyes-

-fear paralyzed his insides, water splashed against his hands, deathly cold, trying to pull him under. There were shouts, beastly howls, high-pitched cries. The dog’s barking was right in his ear, rattling his skull. Death was so near, he only wished it would end quickly, please let it end quickly. And then his mind pulled him away, a warning, but- He turned toward Haplo, watching as monsters tore away at him, runes sparking to his defense. The Patryn disappeared underneath grotesque bodies.

Then a different fear filled him, a fear for Haplo, for the man whom he had given his true name. Words to a spell flowed from his mouth. He could understand it , he could retain it, he knew it. There was power, anger; justified and terrible in its own way. They must not hurt Haplo. They cannot. And Coren was fighting off the monster’s attacks, withstanding the Labyrinth’s terrible scream (at this juncture, Haplo flinched, unsure of what he was hearing -the prison had a voice?- and hands gripped his own back in reassurance) and though there were claws trying to rip apart his scales, he flung them away, concern for himself long gone. Then a touch, hands that fell against his side, thoughts flitting to each other. Escape with me, escape, far off, escape-

“I remember.”

Alfred’s voice broke the spell. Haplo opened his eyes, unaware that he had closed them before. Their hands stayed locked with each other. The Sartan was staring at him, a wide smile on his face.

Then he realized. Alfred hadn’t stammered after shedding away the dragon shape. Not like when he woke up on the beach of Draknor, eyes showing nothing at all as Grundle prattled on about him, about this mild-mannered Sartan killing the Royal One.

“I remember this time.” Alfred looked elated; not afraid, not confused. “I was… I was the dragon! Fighting those awful things…” A shudder, but it didn’t dim the man’s excitement. “But I can remember the spell! I’m sure I could even do it now if I-”

“Wait, wait,” Haplo reined the man in, gripping his hands tightly. “Are you saying you still have enough energy to do that again?”

Alfred blinked, suddenly realizing the meaning of his previous statement. He looked away. “W- well, I suppose I am actually quite tired…”

Serpent Mage, they had called him. Haplo wondered if he was just beginning to see the immense power that title held.

“Just hold off on that for now.” He turned his head, looking at their surroundings for the first time. Much of the area was deeply packed, trees lining up with each other, vines and canopy draping across another’s branches. Alfred had managed to land in the only open area, which consisted of a small clearing within the midst of the trees, and scraggly bushes dotting the ground.

What passed for daylight in the Labyrinth was already disappearing, the cloudy sky growing dark. Haplo started to feel uneasy. There was truly no good time to travel in the Labyrinth, but night was especially dangerous.

He looked around him again, trying to find the pathway, the one thing in the prison that would lead him and Alfred forward. You abandon the path at your peril. You keep to the path at your peril. But Haplo would have felt extremely comforted if he had been able to see it, if he was at the very least given a choice to walk on it.

The landscape before him was covered by the trees. He couldn’t even calculate the distance.

“Alfred, how far did you take us?”

The Sartan was silent, then looked off to the side, furrowing his brow. “I’m… I’m not entirely sure. Those monsters kept following me for almost an hour, and I was trying to lose them.”

By veering off in different directions, by circling around trees and mountains. Haplo, remembering through Alfred’s eyes, could see it. The rocs had somehow increased in number, as if pulling themselves out of the clouds. They tore holes in his wings, but he fought back with a roar. A mess of colors and adrenaline. Then silence, none of it calm, not until the moments had passed, until the clearing was in sight.

“Did you finish off all those monsters?”

Alfred looked chagrined. “Not… not all.”

The Labyrinth was immense. It took generations of Patryns to fight their way through, parents leaving their children this legacy of suffering. The prison branched out in several directions, always. One of many tests, to see if the Patryn would make the right choice and survive.

Whatever direction they were in was the wrong one. Far off course, far off from whatever strange city his people were taking him into.

“I just wanted to leave.”

Alfred’s voice was low, shaking. He was suddenly very pale, even though his wounds were gone. The knowledge of their predicament, the sound of the wind blowing harshly against the vines, was bearing down on him. The dragon was becoming harder to recall.

Haplo was helping him to his feet, eyes still on the trees that towered over them. The wind grew stronger, colder. “We need to rest somewhere first. Then we can figure out what to do next.”

The Sartan let himself be carried, planting his own feet before him autonomously. His eyes kept flicking over to Haplo. He didn’t trip over any unseen roots or dips in the ground for once.

“I thought it would be okay.”

“What?” Haplo turned. They had come upon an opening of a gigantic tree, much, much bigger than its nearby kin. The bottom of it had been upturned, revealing a shelter in the ground, the tree’s base as its ceiling. Thick roots straggled around the opening, heavy enough to make Haplo exert some energy in pushing them away. He had been wondering just what kind of creature could have pulled the tree from the hard packed soil- mentally going over categories of large monsters to do just the job- until Alfred caught his attention.

“I mean, well… I felt like we shouldn’t stay. Not any longer. A- and they wouldn’t stop going after you.”

“I know,” Haplo replied, remembering very well the wolfen’s fangs, the roc’s talons. “So you took me and… what about the others?”

“I don’t know, but I’m quite sure I led all the monsters off them.” Then he winced. “I… I left the dog with them. I’m sorry, there was so much going on-”

“Don’t worry. The dog can take care of itself.”

Alfred was able to stand on his legs, unaided. Meanwhile, Haplo searched the little shelter under the tree, scanning for any other creatures that might live there. It was deserted, with hardly any signs of insects scurrying around. It looked cleared out, the walls and floor unnaturally smooth. Someone must have made this and if so, when were they coming back? The Patryn couldn’t get rid of the cold feeling in his stomach. He kept glancing down at his tattoos, dark on his skin.

“And you really have no idea what direction you went?”

“N-no… I told you. I just had this… urge to get away.”

Alfred was staring at him, his hands held close to his chest, shivering from the forest’s chill. There was something else unspoken there, about thoughts shared in the skies. Haplo kept his face averted.

“So you got us lost.” Too blunt. He didn’t have to see to know Alfred wilted at the words, and instantly regretted it.

But still- lost in the Labyrinth. And night was coming.

“Get in here. It won’t be safe out there for long.” He almost laughed. Since when was it ever safe?

“Wait a moment,” Alfred protested. “I still think I can take us back. I can turn back into the dragon.”

“Sartan, you look like you’re about to fall over, let alone transform into a beast the size of my dragonship.” Which must still be in pieces in Chelestra’s waters, he thought bitterly.

“But I’m sure I could do it, if you’ll just allow me-”

A sharp, splintering sound, echoing through the trees- of tough bark being crushed.

Haplo instantly grabbed the Sartan’s arm, dragging him into the shelter. Alfred nearly hit his head against roots. He gasped sharply as he fell to his knees.

“Stay quiet!” Haplo ordered, moving them to the far side. His runes were lit up fiercely.

There was a rumble, moving through the earth, and heavy breathing that was like the bellows to a furnace. A low voice was calling out for prey, words mixed in with the beastly growls. By Alfred’s expression, Haplo knew the Sartan was just starting to recognize it. But he knew it for himself with certainty, and wished he was wrong.

A dark shadow covered them, blocking the shelter’s opening. The beast was just outside. There was the brief sounds of crackling, of flames churning in the belly.

Alfred was holding onto his wrist tightly. “I- I thought that there was nothing here. I searched-”

Haplo clapped a hand over the man’s mouth, glaring at him. Under his breath, he whispered the runes, using the magic to cloak both him and Alfred’s scent around the tree. Too bad he couldn’t get rid of their traces in the clearing.

Labyrinth dragons were the most feared out of all the terrible monsters that roamed the prison. They delighted in torture, ‘collecting’ unlucky Patryns that they come across, dragging out their suffering for days or even weeks at a time. They were closest to understanding the Labyrinth’s own sentience- obedient but intelligent minions that followed the orders of their superior.

Haplo knew the Labyrinth had called it. It was likely that his spell was useless, for the dragon could already know they were hiding at this very spot. Even so, he called on the possibility for him and Alfred to blend in with their surroundings, for the tree just like all the others. They could never be completely invisible, and if the dragon so much as peered underneath the tree, they would be spotted instantly. Still, there was a small chance, and he was holding on to it desperately.

He could hear it shift toward the clearing, spotting Alfred’s claw marks that upturned the ground. It was calculating- waiting for any movement, any sound.

Alfred was eerily still, his mouth still covered by Haplo’s hand. Both stayed rooted on the floor, waiting for anything, dreading it all the same.

I should’ve brought us farther.

Haplo blinked, glancing at the Sartan. Alfred had his eyes closed, as if trying to shut out the moment. It was a wonder he hadn’t fainted just yet.

Words moving through his head. They were not his own.

I thought this place would be enough.

There was the rigid creaking of leather; the dragon stretching out its wings.

Haplo closed his eyes.

Because I asked you to. Right?

He felt Alfred shift, moving toward him just a little closer. Hesitance, but it was crumbling away.

I wasn’t sure if it was your wish or… or my own.

Haplo couldn’t say he was surprised they could talk like this. An exchange of souls, of minds, of turning points within their lives. All in unison, interchangeable.

It was. I needed to breathe after what happened. Haplo couldn’t suppress the image of Marit on the opposite shore, pointedly looking everywhere but at him. I didn’t want to stay.

So much easier to say, to relieve all the things that had weighed him down. The shadow was clearing, the shaking ground getting less intense. His body relaxed.

The ground shook every so often, keeping them wary. They were part of the tree, part of the landscape. If only they could burrow further into the earth.

He felt Alfred timidly remove the hand from his mouth, keeping his own near Haplo’s. It is my fault that all of this has happened. I’m sorry.

Haplo smiled, sad and weary. He opened his eyes, already finding Alfred looking back at him.

But what was the point in leaving? Where could they go? He had to stop Xar and the dragon-snakes. He had no intention of abandoning that goal. But Marit. His people, looking on him with suspicion. Always relying on each other to survive, he had now created a rift between them. It suffocated him.

I’m sorry. Alfred repeated again, unsure, but genuine. Images of the Sartan of Chelestra, a beautiful people that he could never be a part of, Orla lying in her tomb, Hugh the Hand looking at him with both anger and desperation, begging to be freed. Alfred had needed to breathe too.

The ground trembled, nearly knocking them over flat. There was a strong huff, of flames reaching out to lick the trees- but not on their side. Haplo thought about using his magic to see into the clearing, but dared not, for the dragon could sense such a spell if it was directed at it. There was the sound of flapping, the large wings moving through the air. A cry cut through the air, growing distant, subdued.

Both men didn’t move, too afraid to break the sudden silence. Haplo glanced at his runes, slowly dimming, until their light had all but disappeared.

Alfred was babbling. “It left? I thought for sure it would find us!” Then instantly shut his mouth, his eyes darting all around him, suddenly thinking that the silence might just be a trick.

But it was true, strange as it seemed. The dragon was gone.

---

Night in the Labyrinth was never calm. All it did was remind the Patryns of the chill, of the creatures lurking in its shadows, of those who had been ambushed in the darkness. It was always best to set up camp, waiting until the scraggly sunlight broke through again before one continued onward.

Haplo and Alfred were lucky in finding any kind of shelter- and one that was partly underground. The Patryn had traced some runes around the perimeter; a kind of security system that would alert him to any predators, as well as stopping them momentarily. He didn’t move too far from the tree, his eyes continually flicking toward the skies. The dragon had made no effort in concealing its presence. The ground was ravaged, littered with small chasms. The trees on the other side were slightly charred black. It was a wonder the rest of the forest hadn’t been consumed in a blaze.

Alfred stayed huddled in the darkness. Haplo had said it was risky to make a campfire. They didn’t have the comfort of being near a supposed fortified city like their previous group did.

“Would it be alright if I created some blankets?” Alfred asked when the Patryn came back.

Haplo shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

Alfred did his conjuration spell quickly enough, the blankets falling across his arms. He tried setting up a bed for himself, but kept wrinkling the cloth, and succeeding in getting more dirt on it when he was trying to brush it off.

Haplo came to his rescue, smoothing out the blanket with perfection, at least compared to the Sartan.

“You can fight off monsters while carrying me for dozens of miles, all in dragon-shape, but you can’t tame a single blanket.”

Alfred flushed at the comment, but a smile tugged at his lips. “I don’t really understand it myself. I always seem to make things more difficult.”

Alfred was kneeling, his shoulders hunched, his clothes smudged from the dirt. He had cleaned the blood off of them.

He always looked so helpless, so ineffectual to be of any use. Haplo had never given him much thought at their first meeting, yet this was the man who had already suspected of his Patryn heritage, who had somehow been able to put him to sleep and discover the secret behind the then-bandaged hands.

Would it have been any surprise if the Serpent Mage fought off the dragon? Even with his exhaustion? Yet the Labyrinth had sent it, then taken it away.

“You really don’t give yourself much credit, Coren.”

Alfred stared. He said nothing. The echo of his name floated around them both. It had been decades, centuries, since the Sartan had ever heard it come out of another’s mouth.

Haplo laughed softly. “But then, I haven’t much either.”

To anyone besides Lord Xar, now working with the dragon-snakes. Certainly not to the mensch, beings so inferior to him, so easy to control- not to the children of Chelestra, to Grundle who had always suspected, to Devon whom he had cut out of the vines, to Alake who had died in his arms. And not to the Sartan who had taken a dragon’s wings and shielded him from the Royal One’s hunger.

An integrity that he did not possess. And he thought he could stop Xar.

“Haplo, wait, stop.” Hands clasped his shoulders, bringing him out of his thoughts. He blinked. The images faded from view.

“I wouldn’t have been able to do anything if it weren’t for you,” Alfred said, suddenly looking stern. “I’d still be in the Vortex, hiding…” Ready to die, came his own thoughts. Orla laid out in the crystal coffin, an empty one placed right next to her. “And even if we don’t survive this, I’m grateful to you… I want you to know that.”

Haplo smirked. “Grateful that I dragged you out into this deathtrap?”

“You said you needed me.”

“I did. I still do.” A pause. “I’m glad you’re still with me.”

Alfred slowly let go of his shoulders, suddenly overcome. “Of course I am.” I choose to be with you.

Haplo kept silent, eyes staring at the ground, at the bits of rock crushed into the soil. To choose, taking control of one’s own self was frightening for Alfred, to give it away was frightening for himself. Even if the Sartan was protection incarnate.

“You know, you’re the only one so far that hasn’t tried to kill me yet?”

Alfred stuttered, unsure how to take the strange compliment. “I- well, that can’t be true. No, wait, what I mean is t-that I would never do so and I’m s-sure the others-”

But the Patryn had already moved in, taking Alfred’s mouth hostage, pushing him against the dirt wall. The other made a strangling sound in the back of his throat, his body stiff, his eyes wide.

Haplo gripped his arms tightly, keeping Alfred near, needing him to be. Because he knew the man would faint, or fall, or try to pull away. But out of all these times, Haplo wanted him to stay, wanted to have a semblance of power like he used to, before the dragon-snakes and their poison, before Marit’s distance, before a young girl had died because of his incompetence. He needed to have the Sartan’s mouth, fitting against his more closely, to be warm and inviting and-

And Alfred leaned into him, kissing him back with just as much force. A low moan, hands clutching his shoulders, allowing Haplo to choose this path for them.

It wouldn’t be like the Sartan though without at least some kind of protest. “Ha- Haplo, wait- Are you sure-?”

“Just don’t faint,” Haplo ordered, pressing their bodies together, his clothing already feeling much too constricting. Hands grabbed the Sartan’s wrists, pinning them against the wall. A need for emphasis that he was doing this, that to denying him was not an option.

But Alfred was receptive to his touches. He didn’t shy away from the kisses that became longer, deeper, warmer. A tongue slid through his mouth and he embraced it with his own.

Both were seated on the ground, Haplo moving over Alfred, feeling the coarse material of his own clothes as they shifted against each other. He kissed his neck, the Sartan gasping, making new sounds, soft and whispering against his ear. A plea for something slow, but the night was cold, and there were always hungry monsters lurking through the trees. Haplo needed relief, to vent out his own failings against the one person who could accept it.

He pushed Alfred to the ground a little roughly. His hands clutched around the other’s waist, pulling it upward. A hardness, familiar, moving in time with his own.

“Haplo, this is- this is too much…”

The Patryn didn’t reply. The heat was tightening around his stomach, stretching him. He undid his pants quickly, his erection jutting out. He was already working on Alfred’s own, despite the other man’s repeated efforts to slow him down. But they were still only words, attached to images of their closeness, floating through both their heads. Alfred laid back, shivering once their naked members touched, looking very willing for it all to continue.

He kissed Alfred hard, grinding his hips, his body melting against the friction. Alfred’s own hands were on his bare waist, keeping to the rhythm. He kept trying to catch Haplo’s eyes, but the Patryn was already intent on getting rid of the rest of his clothes, his leather vest and shirt already falling to the side.

This is why we left, came a strange thought, in a voice that wasn’t his own. He ignored it, pushed it away.

His fingers slid under Alfred’s velvet coat, even more tattered than it usually was, and went to work on its removal. Skin was what he needed, no matter the dirt around him, and their movements provided enough heat for the night’s brisk air. After he peeled off the last bit of clothing from Alfred’s frame, he didn’t notice how the Sartan was still, not until a palm rested against his chest, pressing his heart-rune.

Haplo. Again the thought. He looked down, Alfred’s eyes slipping through him.

His own name. It was different than speaking it aloud. A private design etched onto his skin, like a private song sung behind closed doors.

Alfred was looking at it, his eyes memorizing its details, unique to every other rune on his body that had sprung out from it, to all the designs etched on his back, that twined around his arms and legs. Haplo was frightened, but not because his own true name was revealed. He knew very well of the scar that slashed across the sigil. A magic that had come close to unraveling, and still could at anytime.

Alfred was about to talk. Why did he insist on doing so? During this?

“Not now,” Haplo whispered, kissing him again. The hand stayed on his chest, gentle in its touch.

“But I just-” Alfred tried to say, only to have it swallowed away. His body moved, the heat growing intense between them. He arched his back, gasping for air.

Haplo grasped both their erections, wetness trailing down his hand. Alfred moaned, his other hand slipping around Haplo’s shoulder. Certainly this was something they both wanted, going by the Sartan’s sounds, on how his body kept moving. The Patryn couldn’t understand why there was hesitance. His hand traveled up and down, thumb sliding over their tips, and already the end was in sight for him. He had intended for this to be quick the moment their lips touched. There was risk in prolonging this, more than it needed to be.

He already moved on toward preparation. His hand slid around Alfred’s back, his fingers wet from them both, and then, softly, moved through tightness.

Alfred stiffened. His fingers curled, leaving Haplo’s chest.

“You’re… rushing through this.”

Haplo lightly bit his neck, thrusting his fingers, easing, coaxing. “Do you want this or not?” he asked, slightly annoyed. Can’t the man just give him a straight answer?

Alfred took his time before speaking again. Haplo kept to his movements, opening the Sartan, all the while watching. He was grateful for the brief silence- and very brief it was.

“This can’t end so soon,” Alfred finally said, shivering.

So he wanted something sentimental, romantic even. But such things couldn’t exist here.

“Too dangerous. This needs to be fast,” Haplo breathed. And he meant it. It was not the first time he had found pleasure within the Labyrinth- all of it done for relief from the terror, to get away before something struck. This was no different.

Minutes passed by, the space filled with their panting breaths, their heat. He then started to stroke his own length, eager for the tightness he would be in until Alfred (Alfred, why do you insist?) cut through his head, his heart, his thoughts.

“You’re afraid.”

The hand laid against his chest, not quite at the heart-rune, but still near.

He was so close. His head was filling up with doubt and regret again. If he could just reach the end, just expel it all away in this one moment.

Haplo kept his voice steady. “I need to be done.”

“No.” Alfred shook his head.

The chill went through his bones, settled inside his ribs. “What do you mean, Alfred?”

A finger traced the sigil, softly, almost reverent. Haplo couldn’t hold back a shudder, creating a whole new different feeling. It went beyond his flesh, his blood, toward the intangible.

“What… are you doing?” he asked. His voice cracked.

Alfred’s words enveloped him in complete softness. No one could be this sincere. “You can let go, Haplo. It’s…it’s okay. I promise.”

The Sartan leaned forward, pressing his lips against the broken heart-rune. A light kiss, chaste and kind and genuine.

And it was the gentleness that Alfred wielded so skillfully that made Haplo shudder, the pleasantness overtaking his limbs. The heart-rune was the most delicate thing about him, and here was the Sartan, planting kisses over it, flicking out a tongue over the ink. A process, healing him through.

He gripped his own erection tightly, tensing his muscles. His other hand clutched Alfred’s shoulder. “You need to stop, I-” he swallowed, already drowning. “Please, stop this, please.”

But Alfred continued, his eyes closed. His own arms encircled Haplo’s back, keeping him on top. All the while, he kissed the sigil, tasting its years, the inherent nature of it. And the Patryn could do nothing. He was reduced to a shivering mess.

This is why we left, came the thought again. Not his voice, but he knew. Alfred’s hold was soft and warm, the images a light hue, of bright wings cutting through the sky.

“Stop it…” Haplo bent his head down. He needed a moment to breathe, but the Sartan’s tongue was traveling down the pathways of ink, re-tracing them, memorizing, devouring.

You were hurting inside. Alfred’s thought, wrapping around Haplo’s head. So I took you away.

“Coren…” Haplo whispered. He felt Alfred shudder underneath him at the sound of his name, his teeth lightly grazing against the scar. The Patryn nearly cried out. This was painful, wonderful, impossible. He rode on the waves, his chest vulnerable to Alfred’s mouth, his member throbbing. He couldn’t stop pleading.

Haplo had only begged once throughout his life; for forgiveness from his lord, his second father. Never had he felt such intense shame when Xar had spoken to him that day. The torture that followed had been relieving. Haplo believed he had been cleansed of the Sartan’s corruption then, that Alfred’s influence over him had been completely banished. The burning ache of his heart-rune, torn, ill-repaired, was a reminder of what he had overcome. He had welcomed its pain.

Then Sang-drax had reopened it, and none of that mattered. Broken and weak was all he had felt.

And now he couldn’t stop the words, moving free from his throat, past his tongue, to the air that was continually brimming with traces of terror, of faint -very faint- hope. All of them were pleas for Alfred to stop, for mercy, of all things. But the Sartan’s tongue continually traced the sigil, slowly, taking great care in its design. Magic coursed through the ink, responding from the Serpent Mage whose own power just barely rose to the surface. The affection, the closeness, the sheer amount of great care that Alfred gave, hurt Haplo’s chest more than anything.

The Patryn was panting, hands gripping the other’s shoulders. This was supposed to have been quick. He needed to get away -if he could just catch his breath- to remind the Sartan of their situation, that they simply didn’t have time for something so agonizingly slow. But all he could manage was strangled moan, a barely uttered word. “Stop…”

“It’s okay,” Alfred kept repeating, reassuring. “It’s okay…”

Vulnerable, open to the Sartan’s touches, under the enemy’s control. This was treason in its lowest form. It betrayed generations of hatred born and nurtured through years of suffering. But he thought back to Chelestra, to when Alfred told him of other Sartan that had also been sent to the Labyrinth. Did his ancestors slaughtered those that came? Or did they work together, surviving? The prison demanded blood, offering no comfort. Where else could they find such a thing except in each other?

Besides, enemies didn’t hold each other like, didn’t take hold of the most sacred of the other’s being, cradling it like the fragile thing it was. Haplo was vulnerable, secure in Alfred’s arms.

It was relieving.

“Coren, Coren,” he called out. He felt a hand take hold of his chin, followed by a deep kiss. He moaned his gratitude, the Sartan sucking on his tongue, giving it to him willingly. There were wet sounds, setting his heart beating frantically. “I can barely…”

“Shh…” Alfred grasped onto Haplo’s erection, his fingers wrapping around its girth delicately. He began to stroke it, moving easily on the slick surface.

The Patryn groaned, his cheeks flushed. Alfred was kissing his chest, engulfing his heart-rune once again. His hand never stopped its movement. His tongue swiped across the scar. It winded Haplo up, craning his back until all the heat pooled between his legs. It was too much for him to handle, too much for him to even comprehend. He came fast and hard, barely getting enough air.

Alfred kept him near. His hand was soon covered in white, his fingers idly rubbing Haplo’s flesh.

“It keeps…” Haplo began, but kept panting into Alfred’s shoulder. His mind was still full. The darkness hadn’t lifted. His scar throbbed, more pleasant than painful.

Alfred hadn’t let go of the Patryn’s shaft. “You’re still hard.” He didn’t sound surprised.

“I can’t take anymore of this, I can’t…” Haplo’s body was covered in sweat. The warmth was suffocating.

“Hush, it’s alright,” Alfred’s voice was so reassuring. He kissed Haplo’s forehead, his other hand curling in his dark hair. “I told you, this can’t end soon. Not when there’s so much here.”

His hand settled against Haplo’s chest that was heaving and hot to the touch.

“But it’s not safe… to keep going,” Haplo argued.

“Nothing will happen to us here. At least, I think so…” Alfred gave a tiny smile.

“You think?” If the Patryn weren’t so overwhelmed, he would have laughed.

Alfred pulled him into a kiss, putting off any more protests. Haplo flowed into it, feeling their members rest against each other. Moans slipped out of his throat, images of shadows plaguing them.

Then Alfred shifted his body, their hips meeting. He held the man’s still hard shaft, guiding it down.

Haplo scrambled for a better position, already eager. Alfred restrained him easily enough.

“Slow, I told you.” He smirked. “More for me this time instead of you.”

Haplo’s limbs moved with Alfred’s hands, with his words, his reassurances. He let himself be carried away without much resistance. Relinquishing control to another.

He slowly entered the Sartan, gasping at the tightness, the incredible warmth. He felt Alfred shudder, breathing against his neck.

“You also…wanted to leave, didn’t you?” Alfred was whispering, unwinding himself. He lifted his hips, angled his body. A repeat conversation, but aloud this time. “You wanted to leave with me.”

Haplo kept sliding in and out, opening, slowly burying himself up to the hilt. “With you…but I didn’t…expect…”

“Are you regretting this?” Alfed asked with some fear.

“No…” His thrusts went deeper, bringing out a hiss. “I need to move faster.”

“Not yet…” Alfred had his eyes shut. “Only when I tell you.”

He lifted his hips higher just then, his breath coming quicker. The shift in angle made all the difference to the Patryn. He gasped, fingers digging into Alfred’s side. His thrusts stuttered.

“You’re gonna make me beg again, aren’t you?” he asked, his mouth pressed against Alfred’s cheek.

“Take your time.” The Sartan’s body was also shaking, gasping every so often. “You need to.”

Haplo had no choice but to follow, his thrusts slowly starting to even themselves out. Slick sounds echoed in his ears. Walls clenched around him. Pleasure suffused his blood to the point of pain.

But he held back his voice, focusing on his breath, on Alfred’s voice. For the Sartan kept whispering, guiding him, climbing with him to the top. The doubt, the self-degradation, the frustration all fell away. He unconsciously brought Alfred’s hand up against his heart-rune, palm pressing into it, completely engulfed in this comfort. Just movement, repeating, relaxing.

“You can…go fast now.” The words came through in a haze. He didn’t react right away, still panting and shaking. Alfred whispered again, slowly bucking his hips up.

It seemed to be enough. Haplo groaned, moving his hips, heat tightening around his member so well. The friction grew intense, the cold already forgotten.

And there was Alfred’s hands, his words. He couldn’t understand them anymore, just the brightness flowering inside his head. He bent down for a kiss, both of them moaning loudly, muffled against the other.

It’s alright to let go.

With skin hitting each other, with hardness pressing into his stomach, Haplo lost sight of their shelter. All he knew was the warmth and gentleness of another, of arms cradling his body, as they had his soul- like on Abarrach, like in the Vortex. And he knew the Sartan would always give him that protection. Perhaps giving was all he knew. He had given Haplo a place to rest, to let someone take hold of the reins.

So Haplo did. He surrendered himself completely, following Alfred’s directions, moving faster when he needed to, then harder, then slower, longer, deeper. His body came near exhaustion, his sounds of pleasure unrestrained. To be so loud in the Labyrinth should have been suicide, but Alfred had been right; it was safe for now.

Hands took over his limbs, a voice calmed his head. A voice that was humming, low in pitch, with a slight treble. The hand against his chest caressed the skin. The heart-rune gave off a faint glow, hearing the call of another familiar entity, of magic that had emerged from the same source.

I need you, Coren.

Haplo came then. He groaned, shooting out warmth in intervals. He came harder than he could ever recall, for it took away his body, reducing it to a memory. Lips mashed against his own. He had grabbed Alfred’s erection, wanting the Sartan to come with him, but wetness already splashed against his stomach, marring his tattoos. The body beneath him grasped him tightly, and he curled around in response.

The Patryn would have tried to say something- only inane things, barely comprehensible- of paralyzed limbs, of choking heat, of the Sartan’s mouth, the taste so sweet in that moment of climax. Movement, light, and a picture of a tall man, holding him up, of white cloth that enveloped them both. The wave of magic beneath him fluttered, rose, then dove back down again.

He remained silent, taking deep breaths, his face nestled in Alfred’s neck. The Sartan already knew.

It was enough.

---

Alfred’s knowledge of the Labyrinth was limited. Before his banishment, all that he had known he had gleaned from the Sartan’s books; a rehabilitation center for the broken, a learning tool for those that had strayed down their path. It was to have been like a game, a hard game, and nothing more.

And then he obtained Haplo’s memories. They were images soaked in shadows and exhaustion, of adrenaline surging through the body, of blood on the ground. The creation of the Labyrinth took the deepest fears of the Sartan and made them manifest. No longer a game, but a fight for survival. No one could evade the Labyrinth’s mission for everyone to be fixed, to be redeemed of their dark ways.

But even with all that, Alfred had not been aware of the very real sentience of the prison until today. It was only because of his power -or Coren’s power, to be more precise- did he finally understand. As the dragon, he fought back against the monsters, hearing an indecipherable voice in his head, not male or female, yet exceedingly familiar. It spoke with the runes, with pictures, with the fear and cruelty of its long years.

Where can you and your friend run, Serpent Mage?

It goaded him on. A challenge. And still he tried, Haplo gripping onto his scales, dodging the rocs that swerved around his flying body. It had trailed behind him, always there, always watching, always waiting for the very next opportunity to get rid of its Sartan descendant.

He was not entirely sure what had made it change its mind.

The sun had been up for the past three hours, just barely slipping through the clouds. He worked out the kinks in his back, moving to a sitting position. Haplo was laying next to him, fast asleep. His face was calm and peaceful, much more so than he had ever been, even awake. Alfred watched him, smiling, then brushed a lock of brown hair that had fallen over his eyes.

Both of them were clothed. They had stayed up much of the night, simply holding each other, riding on the waves of comfort. Alfred wasn’t sure if he had slept at all. He didn’t even feel tired.

Serpent Mage. Coren. Chosen. To choose. All of those were his own now. It was a change… unless it had always been there, making it more of an unveiling. He had never felt so whole (at least he assumed he was, mostly), not until Haplo needed help that he didn’t know how to ask for.

So Alfred was aware of the Labyrinth’s eyes. It moved through the roots of the tree, through the hard-packed dirt of the ground. Haplo had suspected this shelter- much too convenient, much too clean and deserted. And Alfred was beginning to know why.

They had been expected.

Did you enjoy yourselves?

The voice echoed through his head. It staggered him, but he remained seated where he was.

What do you want? he asked. His inner voice was firm, steady, nearly unrecognizable from the befuddled Sartan’s usual tone. A hint of danger underlined it, something the Labyrinth picked up immediately.

For you to leave. It has been long enough. And you have already fulfilled your wants.

His hand lay idle by Haplo’s head. He remembered back to when they first stumbled upon here. It had been a trap- the dragon lying in wait for them. They were going to die-

You could have killed us.

The Labyrinth, perched on his mind like a bird of prey, said nothing. But he sensed the curiosity, voyeuristic in nature. It had not been the first time people have laid with another in its domain. But a Serpent Mage with a Patryn. That was quite different. So it had anticipated, waited.

I’ve allowed you this.

Alfred clenched his fists. You’ve allowed us nothing. Not for anyone. Not for him.

Hesitance. A spark of anger that dimmed. Never dying out completely.

You must leave. Will you do that?

Alfred was suddenly very tempted to counter it again. The spell came to mind. His energy was full. He could fight a horde of other dragons if he wanted to. But he calmed instantly, a little mortified at his recklessness.

But the Labyrinth’s words meant nothing to him.

You should know what my answer is. I choose to be with him. A reveal of his name, his intentions, all within the maze of death. But the twisted creation had no power over him, and not over Haplo.

The Labyrinth didn’t have a face, didn’t have lips, or eyes, or a nose. But even so, he swore that it smiled.

You must live with the consequences then. Then it was gone from his head, as much as it would ever be, leaving him to catch his breath.

The prison -at its black heart- was a coward. It would not send anything their way, at least not yet. Alfred supposed he should be a little frightened that he could read the Labyrinth’s actions already, and he was a little.

But his hand clasped against Haplo’s wrist, squeezing gently. Everything at ease, balanced between their hearts. And he remembered- the wave corrects itself.

“Haplo,” he whispered, touching the other’s cheek. “We should probably leave.”

The Patryn roused himself quickly enough, eyes blinking up at the older Sartan. A smile stretched his lips, looking genuinely…happy. At ease. Alfred had the sudden urge to embrace him.

Haplo said nothing- words can only help so much. He clasped Alfred’s hand, connecting themselves, projecting warm colors, like a dark orange and a calming red. Gratitude was still hard to express, but it was a real emotion all the same.

Haplo looked around Alfred’s shoulder, still smiling, an eyebrow arched questioningly. Alfred felt a wet nose prod his hand, not surprised at all. He patted the animal’s head.

It would still be a while before Haplo would be whole. All in time.

“Dog,” Haplo called laughingly, scratching behind the black canine’s ear. “Where did you come from?”

Wretched and Exalted (Homestuck, Aradia/Equius, PG-13/R)

eiviiaru — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 00:04:04 GMT

Title: Wretched and Exalted
Author: eiviiaru
Rating: A pretty hard PG-13, maybe R depending on your sensibilities
Warnings: BDSM themes, some violence, mostly-unrequited pairing; Equius POV, with all that implies
Word count: 636
Summary: Even though it all went wrong, he'd stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on his tongue but "Hallelujah."
Prompt: Homestuck, Equius/Aradia: "She tied you to her kitchen chair, she broke your throne and she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the halleluja" (jeff buckley recommended)
A/N: I'm really sorry this is so late! The prompt was for May 5th, but RL destroyed me this month. I also have a sneaking suspicion that this really wasn't what the prompt poster wanted, so I apologize for that. It's just what happened.

Aradia barely looks at him these days. Equius treasures every glance she spares him, eyes burning with lustful scorn, but they are growing fewer and fewer with every day they spend in the grey halls, and he suspects soon she will manage to ignore him entirely. The blackrom he kindled in her robot body is diminishing, day by day, replaced only by an unromantic and undisguised resentment -- a resentment she acts out by pretending she can't see him, that he simply doesn't exist.

Equius doesn't mind.

Even Aradia's disregard is electric, an unclean and delicious heat that grows in his chest and radiates outward. She is the dirtiest of lowbloods made beautiful and strong, so strong that she can cavalierly ignore him. Her disrespect for one so far above her, for the creator of her exaltation, kindles the most delicate hate he has ever known; he loathes her, and he cherishes that loathing. It is not what he built her new body for, but he cannot bring himself to be disappointed.

He built Aradia to break his bones, but her smoldering glares are substitute enough.

---

In the few feverish moments that Equius sleeps, he always dreams. His dream find him in one of the twisting hallways of the meteor, cornered by Aradia like a gutterblood trapped in its warren by the culling drone. She grabs one arm in her cold, strong hand and twists. His bones snap like bowstrings, muscles ripping wetly, and the pain sends him to his knees; in that moment, he knows he is a wretch, a chitinbeast unworthy even to be hurt by her. He does not beg or grovel, though, even as his eyes fill with pained tears and she stares down at him with carnal malice. She knows he has broken him, and he will not sully that by admitting it.

The dream has only begun.

Upon waking, drenched in sweat, Equius knows that his mistake was crafting the soulbot with indigo blood. The proper highblood is often called upon to be cruel, but it is against their nature to be imperious to one of their own position in the hemospectrum, and he knows instinctively that this is why Aradia has yet to break him as he longs for her to do. He should have built her soulbot with violet blood to imbue in her a knowledge of her station and her responsibility to destroy him as an insolent and hideous creature. It was his mistake, and it is only right that he is suffering for it.

In the dreams, the ragged hole in the soulbot's chest still bleeds, dripping blood of a color beyond sight, a color so high even the Condesce would genuflect. Aradia is wrathful and perfect, farther above Equius now than he ever was above her, and he knows in the last moments before his extinguishment that it is right.

---

Nepeta can see his weakness and tries her best to keep him distracted, as a good moirail should. Equius knows that she fears he'll act out to try and get Aradia's attention, but she, as a simple greenblood, doesn't understand what binds him. It is not his place to act against her, not if he wants her wrath to be born from caliginous lust and not a platonic hatred. If she chooses one day to destroy him, he wants to know in his last moments that she hungers for him as the howling fangbeast hungers for its prey. To die without knowing that would be to fail more utterly than he already has.

Equius will bide his time. Here on the meteor, they have nothing but time, and his dreams will feed him until she awakens to what he knows she wants. In time, she will bind him and ruin him, and he will be grateful. Equius is wretched, and he is beyond regret.

Sleepover (Sherlock, Sherlock/John/Moriarty, PG-13)

misura — Thu, 31 May 2012 19:02:25 GMT

Title: Sleepover
Author: misura
Rating: PG-13 for language and Moriarty
Warnings: none, really
Prompt: Sherlock/John/Moriarty: Voyeurism - Puppets
Summary: Moriarty grinned widely. The pajamas didn't make him look any less mad, although they did make him look less like a psychopath who blew people up for the hell of it and more like ... well.
A/N: A few days late, for which apologies. Also, the puppet element got a bit lost in favor of the voyeurism element, which got a bit downplayed in favor of the threesome element.

Moriarty's pajamas had got little yellow ducklings on them. John wasn't sure why that surprised him.

"Forgot your teddy bear, did you?"

Sherlock was wearing an old shirt that made his legs look longer and also skinnier. John would have complained about it, except that the shirt was already a hard-won concession (price: one blowjob) and a vast improvement over Sherlock not wearing anything at all.

All of which left John the only one with proper nightwear. Well, him and Mrs. Hudson, but she wasn't around right now, and John devoutly hoped she wasn't going to show up either; hilarious as it might have been to hear her rip into Moriarty like he was the devil incarnate - which, actually, not that far from the truth, there were such things as personal safety to consider.

"I'm all grown-up now, Daddy. I like sleeping with real dolls. They're so much more fun to play with."

John looked at Sherlock 'a little help here'. Sherlock shrugged. 'not my problem'. Typical.

"Oh, that's nice," Moriarty said. "And naughty. Naughty, John, talking about other people as if they weren't there. I like that. Mom and Dad having a little private talk."

"I'm not your mother," Sherlock said curtly. 'there. happy?'

"Then what are you, Sherlock? What's a hero, without a proper villain? What's a happily married couple without some bloke one of them's seeing on the side?"

"We're not married," John said, because he'd got that reference loud and clear, thank you.

"The great Sherlock Holmes and the oh-so proper Doctor John Watson. Living in sin." Moriarty grinned widely. The pajamas didn't make him look any less mad, although they did make him look less like a psychopath who blew people up for the hell of it and more like ... well.

John didn't have any plans to be bringing over the boyfriends to meet the family, that much was for sure.

"Do grow up, will you? This is the twenty-first century."

"I wasn't talking about the sex," Moriarty said. "Although really, Sherlock. Kitchen tables are so twentieth century. Did you know I'm a wanted man in sixty-three countries?"

"How do you - " John started.

"Sixty-four," Sherlock said. "You forgot Dubai. Cameras."

"Dubai, Schmubai. What the fuck is in Dubai, anyway? Spoilsport."

"Cameras? What cameras?"

"A lot of money. His, of course."

"You watched us have sex," John said slowly, then, turning to Sherlock: "You knew about this. You let him watch us have sex."

"Bo-ring. It's just paper. Or numbers. Mostly numbers, really. Add a zero there, remove a few here and there, and there you are, from prince to pauper. Or pauper to prince. Much more fun. And it's only fair, isn't it? Not as if they earned all that money."

"Consider the alternative," Sherlock said. "And you didn't earn it either, did you?"

"It was there, I took it. You were there, I watched you. Still got the tapes if you're interested, although I must tell you, John, I expect the live show to be so much better. They always are."

"Fine," John said. "I'll just ... lie back and think of England or something, shall I?"

"You should think of me," Moriarty said. "All those boring little people who're just going on and on and on with their boring little lives, because oh, too bad, I'm busy tonight. Does that turn you on?"

Sherlock glanced at John. 'keep calm, will you? musn't upset our houseguest.' "You're not his type. You could be, if you made the effort, but right now, you're not."

"Oh my, that does sound awfully much like a challenge, and you do know how I feel about challenges."

"Let me guess," John said. "You think they're boring." A man could always hope, surely. Granted, Sherlock hadn't exactly swept John off his feet the first time they'd met either (or actually, he had, but that was besides the point) and supposedly, Moriarty was almost as smart as Sherlock was.

"Not always. And I do like to play a bit sometimes, instead of just watching all the time."

"Well then," Sherlock said, "meaningless chitchat and pleasantries out of the way, shall we get on with it now? Don't know about you, but I did have some other plans for tonight."

Lessons in the Art [Rurouni Kenshin, Aoshi/Misao, M]

vastate — Thu, 31 May 2012 18:46:44 GMT

Title: Lessons in the Art
Author: Vastate
Rating: M
Warnings: An awful lot of dirty talking, and some sexing
Prompt: "May 31: - Rurouni Kenshin, Aoshi & Misao: Master of the Art – “Fight dirty. Talk dirtier.”"
Word Count: 2999
Summary: "Ssh. I'm teaching you to talk dirty." "I didn't know this is the kind of dirty talking we were discussing!"

“KANSATSU TOBIKUNAI!”
Three kunai land cleanly in the target’s sackcloth head; one slips by its ear, shearing the canvas before disappearing into the trees behind the dummy. The fifth misses entirely, burying itself in a tree trunk a foot off-target.
“Shoot!” Misao yells, punching the ground. “Stupid silly cloth-headed target dummy! You totally dodged that!”
“Your grip is off.”
Misao flushes crimson, tucks her chin as Aoshi emerges from the trees, her errant blade between his fingers. “A-aoshi-sama,” she mutters. “I didn’t see you back there.”
He pulls the knife from the tree, then the three from the target. “Never aim for the head,” he advises. “The head is a small, mobile target. The torso is just as vital, and a much broader target.” He tosses the handful of darts back to her. “Now show me your grip.”
She scowls down at her knives, curls them between the fingers of her left hand, holds her hand out obligingly.
Aoshi curls cool fingers around her wrist, turning her palm this way and that. “These three are fine,” he notes, tapping the blades held between her fingers. “Your thumb is the problem.”
“Hm?”
“Don’t curl it over your palm.” His hands envelop hers as he shifts the position of her thumb. Goosebumps rise on her arms and she resists the urge to wriggle. “Fold it straight back. Use the pressure between thumb and forefinger to hold the blade in place. You could hold ten blades steady this way.” He releases her hands, grips her shoulders, adjusts her until she stands square with the target.
“Deep breath,” he commands.
She inhales through her nose.
“Exhale.”
She breathes out through her mouth.
“Focus on the target.” She can feel his voice vibrating in his chest. His shirt brushes her braid when he breathes in. She shakes her head and glares at her target.
“Ten meters,” she intones dutifully. “Angle of zero degrees. Wind blowing left to right, but not with enough force to cause error.”
“Good,” he says. “Go.”
“Yes, sir!”
The kunai whistle through the air.
All five bury themselves in the target’s chest.
“YEEEEAAH!” Misao crows, leaps into the air. “All right! I am the greatest onmitsu who ever lived! Take that, stupid cloth-head target dummy!”
“Misao.” His voice breaks into her celebration, sobering her instantly.
“Yes, Aoshi-sama?”
“Your aim is fine. Work on your trash talk instead.”
She gapes up at him, eyes massive. He looks down, not smiling, but there’s an arch to his brow and a smoothness in his eyes that tells her he’s teasing.
Her mouth works silently until she blurts, “Aoshi-sama?”
“Fighting is psychological as much as physical,” he informs her. “If the best you can manage is ‘stupid cloth-head,’ your opponent will be amused, not discouraged. A well-placed word can be more damaging than a physical attack. You already know how to fight dirty. You need to learn to talk dirtier.”
She gawks. He stares back. Eventually, she swallows and manages, “You’re teasing me, Aoshi-sama.”
“I am not.” She almost believes him. Almost. But she knows the slight bend in his cheek and the tic in his eyebrow and the tremble in his lips and she grins in something near astonishment, something very like delight.
“Aoshi-sama! You’re teasing!”
“I never tease.”
“You totally are.”
He ripples. Her world spins, flips; she shrieks in delight, in terror, and lands on her back with an ‘oof!’
She grins up at him. He rises over her, blots out the sun with his back, his broad shoulders. He looms. She smiles.
“I do not tease,” he repeats. “And if I did, I would tease far better than that.”
Her giggle is high-pitched, giddy. “You’re totally the master of teasing.”
His face is dead serious. His voice is warm. “It is an art.”
She snickers, wiggles underneath him. “Ooh, Shinomori Aoshi-sama, master of the art of teasing, taunting, and talking dirty.”
His brows twitch. “I suppose Saitou could present a challenge in taunting.”
“Ugh. That stupid bamboo-face, beat you? Impossible, Aoshi-sama.”
“Bamboo-face,” he snorts, and when she focuses on him she realizes he’s leaning in closer. “That is the perfect example of why you need to learn to talk dirty.”
She arches up, pouts in his face. “Maybe you should teach me, O wise master.”
“Maybe I will.”
The world spins again.
When it stops, she is straddled across his thighs, and he is sitting upright, hands wrapped around her waist. His thumbs touch above her navel; his middle fingers brush each other on her back. He contains the sum of her in his hands.
She trembles.
One hand slips down, grips her thigh, pulls her closer. The other comes up to the back of her head, pushes her face into his shoulder, a gentle pressure. She is pressed against him, thighs to collarbone against his chest. He inhales; she feels it in the arching of her back has his chest expands. His exhale is a warmth against her ear, down her neck as he bows his head. His cheek is against her hair, his mouth against her ear; his words are no more than a whisper when he says:
“You’re a virgin.”
Her spine goes stiff. “Aoshi-sama?! Wh-why would you ask-”
“Ssh.” His hands move up and down her back with firm pressure, until she begins to relax against him again. “I’m teaching you to talk dirty.”
“I didn’t know this was the kind of dirty talking we were discussing,” she whines against his shoulder. He snorts. She swallows, tries to will the flush of blood out of her cheeks.
He strokes her back, her hair. “Good girl,” he rumbles. “Just listen.” She gulps in a breath, full of his scent, green tea and tempered steel. She exhales.
“You’re a virgin,” he begins again. “Far too young, and a virgin. I remind myself of that frequently. Normally it’s easy. You smile, and you laugh. And it’s easy to not want you. But sometimes...” The word is half groan, low in his throat. “Sometimes you cry out, or you moan, or you look at me with eyes that are far too wise, and then I want to take you in my arms and hold you until you shatter.”
She grips his arms, corded and hard, fingernails sinking into his flesh. Muscles flex beneath his skin. He tenses, relaxes.
“I imagine how you would taste, if I kissed you.” She inhales sharply, pushing her chest against the planes of his. “Your mouth, small and soft, and I’d have to teach you to kiss me, I’d have to sit with you for hours and do nothing but kiss that sweet small mouth, kiss you until your lips were swollen and chapped and tasted more of me than you.”
She swallows thickly. His fingers tighten on her back. Her mouth is dry, her breathing too loud.
His voice drops deeper, quieter. “I could take your clothes off, slowly, slowly. You would blush when I opened your shirt, when I knelt to kiss the skin between your breasts, and you would taste of under-ripe fruit and the lightest touch of sweat. But you would flush again, even brighter red, when I took off my own shirt.”
Her fingers curl into his collar, tug consideringly. He stills, waits for a moment, lets her take her time. She plays with the zipper at his throat, hesitates.
Slowly, tugs it down a few inches.
Her shaking fingertips slip inside to experience his throat, his collarbones, the fringe of hair at the back of his neck.
His stomach clenches. He starts, too suddenly, too hastily, to speak again. “I could stroke your breasts, kiss them - you would fit my hands, shapely and soft, it would be so perfect - but I won’t. Because you are far too young, and virgin, and I can’t.”
His zipper inches lower. One small hand flattens against his chest, explores the vast webbing of scars. His fingers aren’t trembling, aren’t hesitant as he begins to undo the knot of her sash.
The breath he draws in is shuddering, uneven. “Imagine how you would shriek, how you would turn bright red and try to hide yourself with your hands when I pulled your trousers away. You would shake, shake so hard I’d have to lay you down before your legs gave out. I would kneel with you, watch you tremble, watch you blush, and then I would spread your knees.”
She shifts against his hips. Pulls his zipper down to his navel, pushes his shirt open. He pulls his arms back, helps her push his shirt off his shoulders until it hangs limp around his waist. Her palms are flat against his pectorals, nails scraping over discoloration and markings in his flesh. He meets her eyes, unashamed; his scars are a retelling of his life, his pain, all that he had carried, all that he is. She swallows.
Her nails run down his chest. His eyes flutter, his head falls back slightly. His fingers clench against the skin of her back, slip around her waist, rise between them. He strokes her stomach, feels her skin tremble.
“You’re wet.” It is a statement.
Her legs feel weak. She sinks deeper against him, presses her weight into his lap. Feels pressure between her legs, firm and unyielding. She sucks in a sharp breath.
“You’re hard,” she gasps, manages not to stammer. His eyes widen slightly. A brow arches.
“You’re learning.” She giggles again, too high-pitched, almost hysterical. His hands travel down her sides, grip her hips, rock her against him. She whines, high in her throat. Her back arches.
“I would touch you,” he whispers. It grates in his throat, rumbles in his chest, in her palms, almost a growl. She shudders against him. His hands move, behind her hips, his palms putting the lightest of pressure on her buttocks. “I would touch you, and you are wet, so very wet, beneath my fingertips. Wet, and soft, and so very warm...” He looks up at her. Face solemn, he notes, “But not as warm as your cheeks are right now.”
She blushes deeper. Runs her hands up and down his chest in retaliation, lets her fingers dig into each of his ribs, watches his brow tighten and release every time her nails bite his flesh.
His hands rove, brush over her hips, the curves of her ass, the indent of her waist, the swell of her breasts.
“I want to touch you,” he tells her throat, lips against her pulse, nose deep in the hair behind her ear, the smell of her sweat and her hair almost overpowering.
She trembles.
“Ask me for it.” It is a command.
She gulps, nods against his shoulder. “Please,” she gasps, voice high and thin, her hands slipping around his back, nails digging into his spine. “Please, please.”
He breaks free of her arms, pulls her shirt over her head.
Puts one hand - his fingers nearly cover the span between her shoulders, nearly cover her whole chest - over her sternum. Presses her down, watches her arch into a backbend, small breasts round and exposed, and his throat is dry.
“You are,” he groans, and it sounds like thunder in his throat. “So very beautiful.”
He ducks his head, covers one nipple with his mouth. She tenses, draws tight against him as he sucks, inhales a shriek when he pinches with his teeth.
Her hands clench in his hair, pull it taut at the roots, and he tugs at her nipple every time she pulls harder, just to make her do it again. She whimpers and pants and moans shamelessly, a small miracle in his arms, a woman and a wonder.
His head rises from her chest.
She straightens slowly, shaking, hips shifting erratically against his, seeking friction, seeking pressure, seeking anything. She looks down at him. Takes in the green eyes, dark and knowing; the dark hair, twisted into messiness from her fingers; the straight, serious mouth.
Pushes her fingers into his hair, watches as he tilts his head back for her, allowing her this movement.
Carefully, slowly, presses a kiss to his mouth.
His breath fills her mouth, fills her head in a rush, and she is overwhelmed with him, tea and tempered steel, the sea breeze and the sea itself. He touches her, his fingers curling into her hair, her cheeks, her forehead; he directs her, the tilt of her head and the pressure of her lips. He teaches her; he guides her; he creates a path for her into the dark. He gives her his skill, this art of which he is master.
Then he breaks free, head jerking back with a gasp, and he looks up at her, and he burns like the ocean on fire.
“Stand up.”
Shakily, her legs wobbling beneath her, she rises. His hands curl around her thighs, supporting her carefully. She puts her hands on his shoulders for balance, finds it, stands straight. Smiles down at him, celebrating this minor victory.

“Take off your pants.”

She stares. He nods, once. Promises, “Trust me.”

Her fingers tremble as she undoes the tie at her waist, tugs the short pants from her body, and stands bare before him.

He rises up onto his knees, beckons her closer. Wraps his arms around her waist until she stands astride his legs, his face pressed to her stomach, her thighs across his shoulders.

His face turns to the side, his teeth carefully pinching the flesh of her thigh. She shivers. He looks at her, meets her eyes.

“I would like to touch you,” he tells her. The barest hint of a fingertip ghosts between her legs, skates over her, finds her damp and hot. He closes his eyes, groans into the inside of her thigh.

“I am going to make you come, Misao,” he informs her, and it sounds like an oath in her ears, as \ serious as any other he has sworn. “I am going to make you come, until you scream. Until you forget where you are. Who you are. What your name is. I am going to touch you, and touch you, and touch you, and touch you, until you forget everything except how to scream.”

He feels it in his palms when her thighs flex and tremble. “Would you like that, Misao?”

She swallows. “V-very much, Aoshi-sama.”

His mouth is hidden against the inside of her leg, but she feels it in the curve of his lips and sees it in the lightness of his brow when he smiles. “Thank you.”

He tugs her closer. Lowers himself to his knees, ducks his head.

His finger slides over her, opens her, spreads her dampness. He strokes her once, twice. A third time, with more pressure. A fourth time. Again.

His mouth closes over her.

She cries aloud. Her legs shake violently. His tongue strokes her, entrance to clit and back again, mimicking the motion his fingers had forsaken. The tip of his tongue swirls around her clit, presses firmly, and she almost weeps above him.

A slim fingertip tests her entrance, presses gently inside. She shrieks against the intrusion, rises up onto her toes. He hums against her, a soft vibration that eases her, his free hand rolling her back onto her heels, down onto his waiting fingers.

His teeth bump against her clit. She gasps, cannot find air. One finger swirls inside her, strokes slowly, steadily, an inescapable rhythm. She rocks with him, from her heels to her toes, her legs shaking almost too much to support her. He has an arm wrapped underneath her thighs, is probably supporting most of her weight, and she thinks of nothing but the beat of his fingers and teeth and tongue.

He sucks gently. She shrieks. He adds a second finger to the one stroking her insides, presses with more force. Pushes deep, fingertips searching, finding the unique texture of that secret spot inside of her. Pressing.

She cannot breathe, cannot stand. Clutches at his shoulders and his hair, at anything solid, and he is the most solid thing she knows. Her back arches. Her toes point, rising to a point as his fingers work inside of her, as his tongue works against her.

His mouth breaks free of her, his thumb coming to stroke her clit in the absence of his lips and tongue. He cranes his neck to watch her face, flushed red, raised to the sky, shining with sweat.

She is beautiful.

“Come, Misao.” He pushes inside of her, feels her muscles flutter against his fingers. “I want to watch you come apart. I’m right here. I’ve got you. Come apart, beautiful girl. I’m here to catch you.”

His fingers stroke the core of her, his thumb presses firmly on her clit and swirls, once, twice, three time and she snaps, a taut bowstring finally released. She screams, loud and unashamed and clear as a clarion call. Her thighs tense, tremble, clench around his shoulders. Her insides flutter around his fingers, so beautifully tight.

She falls into his arms and it is the most wondrous thing he has ever known.

He holds her close, her knees folded up between her body and his. He tugs the shirt from his waist and wraps it around her, smiles as it swallows her up in its folds. She gasps for breath in his arms, slowly finds it, and he kisses her brow as she returns to herself, strokes her hair and wipes the sweat from her cheeks.

Her sigh is worn, sleepy, content. He snorts, tucks her head under his chin and rocks her carefully, slowly.

“Oooh, Aoshi-sama,” she moans, smirks into his chest. He rolls his eyes, squeezes her gently. He lifts her boneless body, almost smiles when she winds trembling limbs around his waist and shoulders, clinging like a creeping vine. She hums into his shoulder, giggles giddily.

“Whatever will you teach me next, O master of the art.”

A Change Would Do You Good (DOGS; Heine/Badou; PG-13)

opalmatrix — Thu, 31 May 2012 01:47:37 GMT

Title: A Change Would Do You Good
Author: opalmatrix
Fandom: DOGS
Warnings: Lots of swearing; thoughts of noncon
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 669
Pairing(s): Heine Rammsteiner/Badou Nails
Spoilers: Mild for their backstories
Notes: Written for springkink. Prompt: Battlescars - "Try a little tenderness." Title from Sheryl Crow: A Change Would Do You Good. Beta by smillaraaq.
Summary: Badou's had enough of the same old stuff.

Read it here or on Archive of Our Own.

Heine's pulse was still throbbing with after-fight adrenaline as he pushed Badou down on one of the two mattresses in the little room they usually shared at the church. Sometimes this was what it took: hard muscle beneath him and boney arms around him and a strong hand stroking him to a shuddering climax. It wasn't what most people would call a relationship, but who cared?

"Forget it," said Badou, and pushed Heine off onto the floor.

"What the hell? You're just as hard as I am!"

"Yeah, well, my hand's always there if it gets too bad, you know?" Badou fished out his cigarettes and lit up.

Heine stared at him in disbelief. They certainly weren't lovers - hell, they were barely fuck buddies - but at those times when only another live body would do, Badou had always been there for him. "What's with you, you idiot?

Badou was looking away from him. At this angle, his face looked whole, the black straps from the eyepatch an unnecessary but exotic adornment. He blew out a thin stream of smoke and rubbed absent-mindedly at his scarred hand. "It's nothin' that would make any sense to you."

"Try me, asshole."

Badou snorted. "Asshole yourself. It's not like you ever tell me what you're thinking." He took another hit of his smoke. "It's always the same old with us, ain't it? A little groping, some wrestling, then off with the pants, hands on the dicks, and wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. Th' hell with it."

"What, you want me to fuck you or something?"

"Goddamn, you're ever stupider than I thought. Look, I get the crap beat out of me all day, every day. Why the fuck would I want more of the same in my own bed at night?"

Heine growled softly. "I stick with you 'cause you're a tough little shit, even if you are a butt monkey. Now you're looking for hearts and flowers? Who the hell do you think I am? I'm not some wimp who wipes other people's noses for them."

"So the Bishop's a wimp?"

"That's what you want? Good luck with that, 'cause I don't think you're his type, Badou. Not even if Granny Liza finds a fancy dress to fit you."

"Shut the fuck up," said Badou, wearily. "I'm tired as hell." He snubbed out his smoke and lay back on the mattress, crooking one arm over his eyes. His arm, bare below his T-shirt sleeve, was blotched and streaked with fresh bruises and older marks, punctuated by the long scar that went right through his hand. Heine would never scar like that: Kerberos took care of it. And he would never know what it felt like to have had a real family, even if it were just an older brother, like Badou once had.

Badou's breathing was deepening and smoothing out, even though he was still hard in his jeans. The hand that lay on his lean, hollow stomach drifted downward to his crotch. He was just lying there, open and vulnerable, shielded only by his own arm and thin layers of denim and cotton knit. Heine was suddenly hungry, ravenous for him. He wanted to grab those long. wiry arms and dig his fingers into those bruises, to rip off Badou's clothes, hold him down, and bury his lust in that lanky body.

Bishop would throw him out. Nill would learn at last what he really was. And Badou would never work with him again.

Heine inched close to his partner, reached out to gently finger one of the bruises on his arm. It was hot to the touch. He licked at it and then slid his hand down Badou's belly, threading his fingers with Badou's over the bulge between his legs. Badou stirred and lowered his arm to look at Heine. "So I thought you were too tough for this tender shit?" he asked, his voice husky.

"I thought I'd give it a try, just this once," said Heine, and pressed his lips to Badou's.

thought experiment (Saiyuki, Homura/Nii, PG)

incandescens — Tue, 29 May 2012 00:23:55 GMT

Title: thought experiment
Author/Artist: incandescens
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Prompt: May 29 - Saiyuki, Homura/Nii Jianji: sympathy and empathy, the appeal of nihilism, connections made through despair and desperation. “I didn’t think that creatures like you existed.”
Word count: 1248

Homura threw himself down on the couch and lay there, looking up at the ceiling. “Today I thought about destroying the world,” he said.

“It’s been done before,” the man in black answered. His head was bowed over the papers strewn over his desk. He smelt of old sweat and rotten spices; the room had no windows and no ventilation, and the odours hung in the air, to the point that Homura associated all three things together; this man, talking to him, and the couch that he was supposed to lie on. It was, apparently, custom.

“Destroying the world?” The ceiling was tiled marble. Every piece was exactly the same size and shape, however much Homura tried to find one that was out of proportion or imperfect.

“Thinking about it.” The man put the tip of his pen to his lips, and sucked on it thoughtfully for a moment. “I believe we would have noticed if it had actually been destroyed. The world, that is. Not the thought.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me that I should have more proper aspirations?” Homura asked.

“Annh.” The man’s sigh was very bored. “Why do you bother asking me that sort of question? If I haven’t told you that already, why should you think that I would tell you it now?”

“All the other Sanzou did,” Homura said. He folded his hands behind his head and studied the ceiling.

“And their success rate was so blazingly impressive that they all got sent away again,” the man said. “Clearly their approach isn’t quite the sort of thing for you, mm?”

Homura yawned. “This wasn’t my idea. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Then be grateful,” the man said. “At least this way you can’t be blamed for whatever happens, can you?”

“Nothing’s going to happen.” Homura yawned again. “This is Heaven. Nothing ever happens.”

“Well now, that’s a very interesting way of looking at it,” the man in black said. “After all, there was Son Goku, and one could say that happened, couldn’t one? Or the business with Konzen and the General and the Marshal, and –“

Homura froze. “How do you know about that?”

“Oh, anyone who really wants to know can find these things out, can’t they? Dirty little secrets are only kept that way by the people who don’t want to know about them.” His voice was light and unconcerned. “I would say there’s no excuse for a lack of effort, wouldn’t you?”

“What are you telling me?”

“Me? I’m not telling you anything. They brought in a Sanzou to counsel you, and then another one, and then another one – so many Sanzou, you’d think there was a pile outside Heaven’s back door to drop them on – and now I’m here, but the whole point of this is that I’m supposed to listen while you talk. But you’re very bad at talking, Toushin Taishi. So for the moment I’m just pretending that I’m talking to my little bunny rabbit here. You’re welcome to listen.”

Homura snorted. He wasn’t sure how to answer that. An expression of arrogant unconcern usually worked when dealing with the dignitaries of Heaven, but the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that the man in black could see right through it.

“So what would I say? I’d say that sometimes we need to listen to ourselves a bit more clearly. Why do you think you’re thinking about destroying the world?”

“Because I’m angry,” Homura suggested. It was a tempting thing to suggest.

“Oh no no no. If it were just you being angry, you’d have thought about it a long time ago.”

“Mm.” That was true enough. “Because I wanted to shock you.”

“Of course you did,” the man in black said. His tone was almost patronising now. “Such a childish thing, don’t you think? Toushin Taishi?”

“You keep on calling me that,” Homura snarled. “If you are going to address me by my title, then you will kindly do so properly and with due respect –“

“Titles, address, respect, yes, yes,” the man interrupted him. “And it all goes together with the thinking about destroying the world, doesn’t it?”

Homura sat up and swung his legs round to rest his feet on the ground, turning to face the man and leaning forward. The heavy chains swung between his wrists. “Explain,” he invited the man coldly.

“This.” The man in black put his thumbs and index fingers together to make an O. “Toushin Taishi, you’re in a little bubble here, all alone with your thoughts and your titles and your respect. That’s because nothing’s real to you outside that. Outside here. Outside the tiny little circle of your thoughts. I’m right, aren’t I?”

For a moment, Homura thought of her. “There was someone else, once,” he said. It wasn’t disagreement. It was a kind of protest against the man’s words, but it wasn’t disagreement.

“Oh, I’m sure there was. We make our own rods for our backs that way.” He chuckled, his face split with a smile that had absolutely nothing of humour to it. “There was someone else, once. But now they’re gone, and there isn’t anyone else. Even if you take a temporary little interest in someone amusing, there’s still nothing but the vast emptiness, and you alone in it. Of course you think about destroying the world. When you’re the only real thing in it, destroying it is the only option.”

“But if one could find something else real –“ Homura started.

“Of course, of course,” the man in black said, and his tone was so bright and brittle and casual that it was obviously a lie, a huge joke that he was sharing with Homura in open acknowledgement of its worthlessness. “That’s what we all say, just to keep ourselves going. Just to keep ourselves busy. We might as well just slit our wrists here and now otherwise, mightn’t we? Is that why you wear those bracelets, Toushin Taishi? To keep your veins from the knife?”

Homura looked down at the heavy shackles on his wrists. “I think that you should go now,” he said, paying out the words with difficulty, because Shut up would have been far easier to say, and You don’t know what you’re talking about would have sounded too light and too false.

But he had to say something. Otherwise it was only him and the silence. Nothing else real in Heaven, nobody else real, and though his prison had expanded from one dark cellar to a thousand marble-walled celestial halls, still it was only a prison, and if he pushed hard enough on the walls, he was afraid that they would all come tumbling down to leave a vast and empty space, and him alone in it for all eternity.

“Not a problem,” the man in black said, getting to his feet. He tucked his rabbit doll under one arm. “One thing you might like to think about, mm? Thinking’s all we do. Thought experiment. If you did destroy the world, for real, instead of just thinking about it, would it matter?”

The door shut behind him. His smell was still in the room. The memory of his voice echoed against the marble walls.

Homura looked down at his hands, putting his fingers together as the man in black had done, and then parting them.

He could take his own boundaries away, and nothing would be left but empty air.

Nothing at all.

A Little Restraint (Iron Man, Pepper/Tony, PG-13)

misura — Mon, 28 May 2012 17:46:25 GMT

Title: A Little Restraint
Author: misura
Rating: PG-13 for implied kink
Warnings: none, really
Prompt: Pepper/Tony; Restraints – Sometimes, handcuffs are the only way to get his attention.
Summary: "Why, Miss Potts. Did you just handcuff me to my desk?"
A/N: A few days late, for which apologies.

It happens more or less like this:

Tony is in his workshop, fiddling with the biggest waste of vibranium ever made (and, seriously, vibranium? like, what, they discovered it and thought it would be good for making sex toys out of or something?). He hears Pepper coming in, but he doesn't really bother to look up or anything.

He's got a picture of her standing on his desk, these days, in the frame the picture of him and his dad used to be in. Happy thoughts, and all that.

When she gets close enough to touch (he doesn't, but he could. He wants to), Tony figures that it's either coffee or lunch - or on second thought, make that dinner.

"Thank you, yes, there's an empty spot over there if you want to - " and there isn't, in fact, an empty spot where he's pointing yet, but if anyone's going to be shoving papers and models and tools aside, it's going to be Tony, because let's not risk accidentally setting off any bombs again, shall we?

He doesn't actually smell any food, so it must be just coffee. He doesn't smell any coffee, either, but, well, he does smell workshop smells - metal and solder and oil, so there.

"Would you mind - just a little bit to the left," Pepper says, close enough now to smell her, and Tony's seriously reconsidering that whole gentlemanly thing he's got going on here; sure, she'll be busy, with paperwork waiting for her back at the home office, but he's sort of busy, too, so, really, if he's willing to make a few sacrifices, she should be fine with it, too. Surely. "And turn around."

"There's something on my face? Someone upstairs to see me? Is it Rhodey? Because if it is, I'm pretty sure he's not going to mind if I've got a little - " He feels her reaching for his wrist, of course he feels her reaching for his wrist (her hands are still small and soft and strong) but he doesn't really think ... because this is Pepper, and the kinkiest thing they've ever done that was her idea was have him sign paperwork naked which, on reflection, not really kinky. "Why, Miss Potts. Did you just handcuff me to my desk?"

"Yes, Mister Stark. I believe I did." She's dimpling at him. Tony loves it when she does that.

"This is new." The handcuffs look like solid workmanship. He wonders if she got them at a sex shop - on-line, maybe, delivered with discretion, which usually means they wrap the package in the kind of plain brown paper that might as well have 'look at me, I'm a (discretely packaged) sex toy' stamped on it. Not that Tony's got any first-hand experience with those sort of packages or anything. "I like it."

More dimpling. "They were a gift."

Tony's not wearing the suit, so it's really ridiculous to feel like some sort of 'alert: danger!' sign has just started flashing, just outside his field of vision. "A gift." His, then - nobody else is sending Pepper gifts that he knows about - and he would know about it. He's sort of pathetic that way. "It wasn't your birthday again, was it?"

"No, Tony, it wasn't my birthday." Underneath her jacket, she's wearing ... not a whole lot.

It's kind of distracting, making it hard to think, which is unfair, really, because strip-teasing in progress or not, Tony's pretty sure he's not going to get any tonight unless he figures out what the handcuffs were supposed to be a gift for.

"Was there an anniversary? You know I'm really bad at anniversaries."

"You really are," Pepper agrees. "Keep guessing."

Possibly, at this point, it might be more productive to figure out how to pick the lock. It's a mechanical one, so it must be possible. "Okay, all right, so it's not a birthday and it's not an anniversary. What else is there?" Pepper takes off her skirt. Tony's brains do this thing where, basically, they don't do anything anymore. Not helping, clearly. "Can I give up now? Is that a ... thing I can do? Just say: you win, I'm an idiot, I don't deserve you? And then, I don't know, still get sex?"

Pepper smiles. No dimples, but there's a whole lot of Pepper visible by now, so Tony doesn't mind. "Maybe."

She means it, Tony knows. When Pepper says 'maybe', it's not like with other women, who say 'maybe' when they really mean 'yes' (or 'no', sometimes, which is why Tony always made sure he got a 'yes' before he invited people over to the house).

On the other hand, she's also getting quite up, close and personal, so his chances are looking pretty good. "I have absolutely no idea why I gave you a very nice pair of handcuffs, but I'm sure it was for a very special occasion which I'm obviously deeply, deeply sorry to have forgotten about."

"Uh-huh." Pepper starts working on his shirt, which is nice - Tony is all in favor of Pepper taking his shirt off whenever she wants to. "I don't think - that's the thing about handcuffs, see?" He's still showing a fair bit of chest. He's been told it's a nice view. By mostly sober people, even.

His pants are next. Those come off just fine - no problem with the handcuffs there.

"Pep? A hint, maybe?" Pepper is ruthless, yes, but Tony likes to think she's still got a soft spot for him.

He's not sure what sort of hint, if any, is supposed to be conveyed by shoving him back against the desk and kissing him like she's actually trying to blow his mind (bit of a waste of effort, really; it doesn't take that much to reduce what remains of Tony's higher brain functions to mush; just feeling her naked against him is enough to accomplish that much already) but at that point, he figures it really doesn't matter.

"Gift from Natasha," Pepper says, looking smug and a little bit messy and like the only woman Tony will never have had sex with often enough. (Conveniently, he's her boyfriend.)

"From Natasha. And you're sure they're not poisoned or something? You've checked to make sure the key works?"

Pepper gives him this look that makes it clear that she's not a guy. Which, yeah, Tony'd sort of noticed, thanks, but even so. "Tony. It's fine. I've got the key right here, see?" It fits, too. "She's a good friend, really."

"Agree to disagree?" The handcuffs were sort of a good gift, admittedly.

Tony makes a mental note to ask JARVIS to replace them as quickly as possible with an identical looking pair. With any luck, Pepper will never find out.

The Imp and the Demon [Song of Ice and Fire/Safehold series, Tyrion+Merlin, PG-13]

dogmatix_san — Mon, 28 May 2012 15:30:09 GMT

Title: The Imp and the Demon (a fanfic in three parts)
Author: dogmatix_san
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language
Word count: 4831
Summary: Tyrion's bodyguard is more than meets the eye.
A/N: Set during the first three books(which are all that I've read so far) so warnings for spoilers for those, since it's heavily canon-based.

The Imp and the Demon

Part 1Battle of the Blackwater – Aftermath

“What did I tell you about going into battle without me?” the dryly amused tone intruded on Tyrion Lannister’s drifting consciousness.

“Oh but it seemed like such a good idea at the time.” Tyrion managed to mumble past the bandages, making his bodyguard snort with laughter. It was a miracle either of them was still alive after the battle to defend King’s Landing, moreso in Tyrion’s case than Merlin’s. If Podrick hadn’t been there to kill Ser Mandon Moore, Tyrion would be feeding the fishes even now.

“I would’ve liked to let you rest some more, but things are happening that you need to know about,” Merlin’s voice went serious.

Tyrion cracked open an eye, and was it took him a moment to realize what was odd about Merlin – even in the candlelight, the bright blue surcoat with a black owl was heartstoppingly clear. “What is that you’re wearing?”

“Mm.” Merlin nodded, “I was knighted,” he grimaced, “by your lord father’s command.”

There wasn’t a trace of pride or victory in Merlin’s tone. Tyrion’s bodyguard understood exactly how bad this was for Tyrion’s position, that Lord Tywin Lannister would usurp Tyrion’s power as King’s Hand like this. And it wasn’t like Merlin could have turned it down, although from the sound of it he would have liked to.

“Shit. Why didn’t you wake me?” Tyrion asked angrily.

“Even with my help, there’s only so fast a human body can heal, especially since I couldn’t take you out of here. That wound by your shoulder kept trying to get infected again, and I finally had to.. ah. Actually I have a bit of a confession to make.” Merlin shifted uncomfortably. The man had a perfect mask for his expressions, but he couldn’t fake expressions worth a damn. Either that, or he was so perfect even Tyrion couldn’t catch him at it.

“My pet demon has a confession? Should I be worried?” Tyrion tried to make light of it, but unease crept into his stomach. Merlin Athrawes was one of the strangest men Tyrion had ever met, unpredictable in ways that made no sense – Tyrion had promised his bodyguard riches and a knighthood, but it felt more like Merlin was playing along than anything else, as if he neither wanted nor needed gold and status. And Merlin was intelligent, so intelligent it was frightening, and strong beyond anything mortal. He’d saved Tyrion’s life on more than one occasion, not the least of which was when he’d acted as Tyrion’s champion that first time, against Ser Vardis Egen at the Eyrie. Tyrion was torn between trusting Merlin implicitly, and distrusting him as much as he did Varys. He called Merlin his ‘pet demon’ as a jest, but there was an uncomfortable amount of truth to it.

“I,” Merlin cleared his throat, “I did something to help you heal.”

“What, you cast a spell on me?” Tyrion asked, only half-joking.

Merlin grimaced again. “No. But I can’t explain it to you in a way that you could understand, so calling it a ‘spell’ is probably the best word for it.”

Tyrion stared at his bodyguard, hard. “Ignoring for the moment how insulting that was, what did you do to me?”

“Your lip and nose are completely healed. There will be a scar, but nothing more. And… you will never take ill again. Ever. From anything.”

Tyrion took a moment to let that sink in. He explored his lip with his tongue, and found that while he could tell where the axe had split his face, his lip was whole. There was no lingering ache in his limbs, and even the wound by his shoulder felt whole, where just a few days before it had been seeping pus and rot. This was beyond any maester’s arts.

“Merlin. What are you?” There was silence, and Tyrion could see Merlin searching for words. “And don’t give me that horseshit about not being able to understand. Make me understand. Who are you? What are you? Why are you helping me?”

Tyrion had accepted the strange man’s help without too many questions until now, and Merlin had always been true to him, but Tyrion’s burning curiosity had never left him, and now Merlin had worked magic on him. Tyrion wanted explanations, and he meant to have them.

Merlin matched Tyrion’s glare, lips tight. “I’m not refusing to tell you because you’re stupid, Tyrion, Hells, you’re one of the smartest people I’ve met. But even if I told you, it wouldn’t make any sense to you. It’s… you don’t have words for what I am, it’s….” the man blew out a frustrated breath, collected his thoughts. “I could tell you that I’m a Personality Integrated Cybernetic Avatar. I could tell you that I injected you with nanotech to help you heal. I could even tell you I come from Old Earth. But for you to understand any of what I just said, I’d have to explain, among other things, what the stars are, why the sun rises, and how birds fly.”

Tyrion was half angry, half confused. It was true that Merlin hadn’t made any sense with his ‘explanation,’ but Tyrion couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being jerked along like a goat on a leash, being led wherever Merlin needed him. “Of course the sun rises, you dolt, it does it every day,” Tyrion answered tartly.

Merlin looked like he was about to speak, but then he just gave Tyrion a wry smile, and held his tongue.

Tyrion eyed his bodyguard uneasily. He made himself stop and consider the conversation rationally. He had never given it much thought, truly, but surely the world, sun, and stars were the workings of the gods. What else could they be? And what was Merlin, that he knew the workings of the gods?

“You are a wizard then, or a demon,” Tyrion said at last, “or, perhaps… a god?”

“No,” Merlin said immediately, jerking his head sharply in negation, “I’m no god, Tyrion.”

But he hadn’t refuted any of Tyrion’s other guesses, not that Tyrion would have believed him if he had. “If nothing else, I need to know why, Merlin. Why me? Why help me, the hated Lannister Imp?”

Merlin got that searching look again for a few long moments. “Because you treat Shea and Alayaya like people instead of things.”

Tyrion frowned. “You’re helping me… because of two whores?”

Merlin shrugged. “Yes.”

Tyrion scowled at his pet demon, but Merlin only gave a small grin. “I warned you my explanations wouldn’t make any sense to you. But I can give you this, Tyrion Lannister.” Merlin turned serious. “There may come a time when our paths diverge, but while I serve you, I will never lie to you. And if I cannot serve you any longer, I will tell you so. I swear on my honour.” Merlin held out his hand. “Deal?”

Tyrion had never been confident in his hold on Merlin’s loyalty, the man’s strangeness making it difficult to predict him. Even this much – that Merlin would let him know before he left – was oddly reassuring. And it was almost a relief to know for sure that Merlin wasn’t human. Maybe that meant that Tyrion really could trust him, after all. “Deal,” Tyrion replied, offering his small, stubby hand in return. Merlin’s large, elegant hand engulfed his as they shook and it must have looked like a bad joke, yet the handshake was firm and earnest.

“Now,” Tyrion said, bringing himself back to more grounded concerns, “was there a reason you were getting me up?”

“Several. The first of which is that Chella and her Black Ears have almost reached King’s Landing. If you don’t want them turned away at the gate, I suggest you get down there to let them in.”

Right. “Help me up.”

Part 2Brave New World

No plan of battle survives contact with the enemy.

That certainly seemed to be the theme of Merlin’s life of late. Or his life, period, if you measured from the time when Nimue Alban’s cybernetic avatar had woken up several millennia later than planned on a world that she never could have imagined.

Thankfully Commodore Pei had managed to leave her an updated briefing, because the last thing she remembered had been skiing with her father. That was, of course, not the last thing Nimue Alban had done before she died, but it had been the last time she’d used her mechanical double before the final desperate flight from the alien Gbaba.

So she knew about Langhorne’s psychotic plan to set up the perfect planet, with himself at the head. She knew about the steps Shan Wei and her allies had taken to work against that. And she knew about how it had all gone to shit when the colony ship actually reached its destination.

The original plan for her, had been to wake her up about a thousand years or so after the ship’s arrival. From what she could tell, the people in the Seven Kingdoms had an oral tradition that stretched back at least ten, twelve thousand years, so obviously that hadn’t happened. And while her PICA body and some of the equipment stored with her had survived relatively unscathed, there had been nothing left in orbit. Not that it would have mattered much, Nimue had much bigger issues to deal with. Like magic.

Merlin wasn’t sure how magic worked, but it obviously did, and most of his spare time and extra resources were dedicated to finding out how it did what it did. He hadn’t made much progress so far.

As for changing from Nimue to Merlin, well, Nimue had taken one look at the information the single operative SNARC platform had gathered and decided grimly that female just wasn’t an option at the moment, not if she wanted to be taken seriously. It was easy to romanticize the European Middle Ages, and to forget the stark historical facts about the treatment of women, especially from the comfortable distance of a Fleet commission and several centuries of equality between the sexes. But here and now the world was brutal, cruel, and petty, and while women could be taken seriously and rise to power, that was very much the exception rather than the rule. And so ‘Merlin Athrawes’ had been created, the PICA’s sex and various others features adjusted, and he’d gone tromping out into the wide world.

SNARC reports were all fine and well, but after all there was no experience like first-hand experience. A few weeks into his reconnaissance, he’d had his face well and truly rubbed in the fact that for a great many people, life was ugly and short. The infant mortality rate was horrendous, medicine was little more than habit and hearsay, and the primary anesthetic was opium. Which didn’t even touch on all the social issues. The entire system was entrenched in a medieval mindset, and had been for at least eight thousand years. Somehow, a Renaissance had never sparked – no massive plague to destabilize society, no gunpowder to shake up military structuring, no remnants of ancient Greek or Roman civilization to give bright minds a push in a different direction.

There was nothing to break the feudal cycle. Except him. Part of Merlin had been aghast at himself, that he could be so arrogant as to think he could start an entire social revolution all by himself. Another part had felt utterly inadequate in the face of so great a task. But on the other hand, with his original mission against Langhorne moot, wasn’t the next-best thing to carry out the spirit of that mission, and give people back the advances and technology their ancestors had worked so hard to achieve? And he couldn’t just dismiss the Gbaba out of hand – just because they hadn’t shown up yet, didn’t mean they couldn’t show up tomorrow. No, he owed it to those who had worked so hard to put him here, to the people suffering out there right now, and to his own sense of duty and honour, to at least try.

He figured this self-appointed task would keep him busy for easily the next thousand years. Then he’d gone among the people who lived in the Seven Kingdoms, and grimly revised that to two thousand. The most difficult part was where to begin. He hadn’t quite figured that out yet, except to cross gunpowder off the list of options - he wanted to improve the standard of living, not drive it to shit.

As for the world itself, Merlin wasn’t sure which made his head hurt more, the insane seasons, functional magic, or dragons. And whatever was making his SNARC’s remotes malfunction in the north left him with a very, very bad feeling.

Sometimes tough, patience was the only real option, he decided. He’d keep an eye out for any opportunities to further his ultimate goal. Until then, he’d work towards it in any way he could. So, he’d ventured further into the Seven Kingdoms, and met Tyrion Lannister.

He’d met the man when Catelyn Stark, a local noble, had taken Tyrion captive in a small inn. She’d called on those knights present who owed her family fealty, and then asked for sellswords. For no better reason than liking Catelyn Stark, Merlin had volunteered his services. He’d ended up guarding Tyrion, and that had been the start of it. At first it had been curiosity that had drawn him into conversation with the diminutive young man – if there had been any dwarves in Nimue’s time, Merlin couldn’t remember ever seeing one. Then amusement at the audacity he found there; here was a man who could bluff and scheme with the best of them. Probably a necessary skill, Merlin reflected. And yet there was something more about Tyrion.

Merlin liked Catelyn Stark – she had an inner strength and fire. But Tyrion seemed able to outstubborn and outmaneuver even her. Catelyn believed the young man guilty of sending a cutthroat to murder her crippled son, but the more Merlin found out about the incident, the less sense it made for Tyrion to have left such a blindingly obvious trail. Tyrion Lannister might have sent a cutthroat if he felt it necessary, Merlin judged, but to use such a traceable and unique weapon? Instead of any old kitchen knife with a good edge? No. Tyrion was smarter than that.

Merlin spent a lot of time talking to the young man as they traveled towards the Eyrie. Of course he realized that Tyrion was trying to win him over, dropping hints of gold and other rewards. But mixed in with those were assurances that ‘Lannisters always paid their debts,’ and that Tyrion would repay loyalty with loyalty. Not that he came right out and said that last, and there was plenty of normal banter mixed in with the bribery, but still, that was what caught Merlin’s attention. He hardly needed money for food, travel, or weaponry – was probably safer without it, to be honest. Accumulated wealth was only as useful as what it could buy, after all. But loyalty now. That was something Merlin was willing to take a chance on.

So, when Tyrion had called for a champion in his hour of need, Merlin had stepped forward.

Part 3Trial by Ice and Fire

He’d been a fool. Such a fool. Tyrion sat, numb, as the laughter rose, mocking and cruel, derisive, dismissive.

How could he have believed, even for an instant, that there could be any other outcome? Of course the trial would be a farce, of course they’d dig up every idle and not-so-idle threat he’d ever made, of course they’d drag Shea in, have her betray every sweet moment they’d ever shared.

“My giant of Lannister, he made me call him,” Shea sobbed again, describing falsely how he’d forced her into horrific and debased sexual acts, against her will and wishes.

Until this very moment he’d hoped, some stupid, stubborn fragment of his heart had hoped that the trial might be fair, even though he could tell how it would end long before they’d done this, heaped this last indignity on him.

With curt anger, Tyrion demanded Shea be removed, so that he might ‘confess.’ He looked then, not at Shea as she was being removed, but at Merlin. Cersei would call Ser Gregor Clegane to champion her. Merlin had offered to champion Tyrion from the start of this whole farce, but Tyrion had refused, unwilling to place his one true ally in front of The Mountain That Rides if there were any other option.

Now, Merlin looked at him calmly, one of the vanishingly few people not roaring with laughter. The swordsman put one hand on the hilt of his absurdly thin sword and nodded once. Do it.

So Tyrion did. He called Merlin as his champion, and Lord Tywin, thin lipped with fury, had no choice but to allow it.

The next morning, everyone turned out to see the fight. Tyrion wondered if he was about to get Merlin killed. His bodyguard might not be entirely human, but this was Gregor Clegane. And yet, Merlin hadn’t even looked nervous this morning – had actually managed to eat something for breakfast, which was more than Tyrion had been able to do.

Merlin wore only chainmail under his surcoat, and his sword’s reach was less than Ser Gregor’s. Tyrion’s stomach was in knots as the duel started, his small hands gripping white-knuckled at the arms of his chair. Merlin was sure to be killed, to be cut down in a single stroke – without proper armour, he couldn’t afford to be hit even once.

Tyrion had seen Merlin fight at the Green Ford, and against Ser Vardis Egan. He was good, very good, but-

Clegane’s giant blade came whistling down, and this was it- but no. Merlin seemed almost to vanish, he moved so fast. A murmur went through the crowd. Clegane roared and swung, and again Merlin side-stepped, neat as you please. And kept right on doing it. At first there was stunned silence. Then, ever so slowly, a chuckle started to rise up out of the crowd. Two minutes. Three. And still the lithe bodyguard evaded every blow, untiring and quick as a snake. Clegane’s roars grew in volume and rage as the crowd started to laugh. And now there were cries for Merlin, supporting the cat-quick man as he darted and dodged, making the duel seem almost a dance.

Clegane was experienced though, and drove Merlin back, this way and that, until the bodyguard came up against the crowd, and threw a startled look back as he stumbled into a young man. Sensing victory, Clegane roared again, sword flashing. Impossibly, inhumanly, Merlin’s sword was there to meet it.

The swords – a two-handed greatsword and a thin whip of a blade not even half the breadth of a bastard sword – came together in a ringing clash, and Merlin’s sword-

Held.

Tyrion found himself on his feet, hands balled into fists. Merlin was down on one knee, Clegane’s greatsword not even a handspan from his head. The swordsman’s hands and arms trembled with the effort of holding the deadly steel at bay.

And then Merlin twisted out from under the blade, lightning quick, and Clegane stumbled forward.

The crowd had started to yell as they climbed over each other to get away from the combatants, where just a moment ago they’d been crowding in closer. Confusion spread like ripples from the two knights, but Tyrion was still in a perfect position to see what happened next.

Clegane brought his sword up for another enraged blow, and Merlin came up under his guard, displaying that inhuman speed again, and the tip of his blade snaked out. Unerringly it found its target, and Clegane roared blood as he staggered back, Merlin’s sword coming out dark and wet.

Clegane threw himself towards Merlin with the last of his strength, but the bodyguard evaded him almost contemptuously. And then the Mountain that Rides was dead.

Cheers rose up haltingly as people started to realize what had happened, making Tyrion narrow his eyes. Just a shade too unenthusiastic, that cheering. They’d seen Merlin’s inhuman strength, and it had made them uneasy. The speed had been amusing, making a fool of such a great knight, but what kind of monster was that strong? And to best the Mountain That Rides without taking so much as a scratch must surely be sorcery. Not to mention that sword…

Merlin was walking slowly towards him, breathing heavily and obviously favoring one arm, probably hurt during that impossible block. He turned and grinned at the audience, waving good-naturedly at them with his good arm. The cheering picked up in the face of such a smile. Sometimes, Tyrion could strangle Merlin out of sheer disgust.

Later, after Merlin had begged off the celebration of his victory to tend to his wounds (which he insisted on doing alone), Tyrion and his demon bodyguard sat opposite each other. Tyrion sat stretched out on his bed, contemplating the simple dinner he was pushing around with his fork. Merlin sat at ease in a chair, arm in a sling, chewing thoughtfully on a pear.

“I suppose I should be happier,” Tyrion said absently, “I survived, after all. Proven innocent by combat in the sight of gods and men.” He snorted. “Fat lot of good that’ll do me.” He wondered for a second if he should try to guard his tongue, but why, after all? What did it matter if Varys’s little birds told the eunuch every single fucking word? “I’m no longer Master of Coin, and not like to get it back, either, no. Proven innocent, but show me one man who says he believes that, and I’ll show you a liar.”

“I know you didn’t do it.” Merlin lifted one shoulder.

“Oh? How?” Tyrion demanded sharply.

“Because you would have been smarter about it.”

Tyrion’s fork stilled. “If you’re suggesting that my wife had anything to do-“

“Peace, Tyrion. All I can say with certainty there, is that Samsa didn’t strike me as the type, but I didn’t know her that well. The point is moot, anyway.“

Tyrion settled down grudgingly. Part of him wanted nothing more than to drown himself in a wineskin until he passed out, but the rest of him never wanted to see a wineskin again. How had it all gone so wrong? He’d arrived in King’s Landing with his own people, wild though they were. He’d been King’s Hand. He’d damn well saved the whole misbegotten city at the Battle of Blackwater. Now?

Chella and the Black Ears had been sent away while he was imprisoned. The city hated him for saving it and blamed him for the whoring tax. No longer King’s Hand. No longer Master of Coin. He would never inherit Casterly Rock, no matter that he was the only son available - his father would rather give Casterly Rock to a dog than to his dwarf son. Even Shea had been turned against him, lovely, warm Shea, who had lied, and lied, and lied.

And here he was, lashing out at the only man besides Jamie who had ever… what, cared about him? Considered him worthy of loyalty? Seen him as a man instead of an ugly shrunken curse?

“Aye,” he agreed, sighing. He put down his fork, suddenly repelled by the thought of food.

Merlin eyed the core of the pear before eating it, stem and all. Another of Merlin’s small quirks. Then the two of them sat, silent, listening to the fire crackle quietly in the hearth.

“I have nothing left here,” Tyrion said, getting the words out before they choked him. Listened to how to they sounded. “I have nothing left anywhere.”

“You have me.”

Tyrion’s mouth flattened. “I would hazard that my access to coin disappeared when my title did.”

“Tyrion,” Merlin said gently, patiently, “you have to at least suspect by now.”

It was almost too strange to be true, and yet… there it was. “You’re not doing this for coin, are you.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Why then? If you have designs on my soul, I warn you it’s a bit threadbare, and smaller than most.”

“It’s the largest, brightest soul I’ve seen on this entire world,” Merlin said so earnestly and forcefully that Tyrion nearly choked, and if it had been anyone except Merlin he would have laughed in their face and mocked them relentlessly. But Merlin was a demon, and if he was serious-

“And no, I don’t have ‘designs’ on your soul,” Merlin chuckled.

“Oh. Well, that’s good to know,” Tyrion said, half in jest and in complete earnest.

There was silence for a time, and Tyrion moved the platter from his lap. He wouldn’t be eating anything tonight.

“Tyrion, is there anywhere you’d like to go? If you could go anywhere, I mean.”

Tyrion shook his head wearily. “No. I have not given it any thought, but… no.”

Merlin nodded contemplatively, seeming to stare off into the distance. “I was thinking of going somewhere.”

“Oh?” Tyrion asked, unable to stir any real interest.

“There have been some… unsettling things happening up North, by the Wall.”

“Thinking of taking the black?”

“No. Just of, hm, investigating. I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

“To the Wall? I’d freeze my balls off! And most likely get killed along the way!” It was true, too. With how ravaged the countryside was, it’d be a miracle getting anywhere without being beset by brigands, and he remembered all too well how cold it was up by the Wall. Not to mention that it was where his father had wanted to send him. For an instant he wondered if Lord Tywin had put Merlin up to this, but he couldn’t find any way for that to make sense in the context of, well, Merlin.

“So that’s a no?”

Tyrion glowered at his demon. “You’re going to get me killed,” he said in disgust, then sighed. “I suppose you want us to leave tomorrow?”

Merlin’s smile was impish and bright, not dimming one whit in the face of Tyrion’s scowl. “Certainly. And, there’s one more thing. Wait here a moment.”

Tyrion snorted derisively. “Well, I’m not like to go skipping down the hall,” he called after Merlin as the demon slipped quickly from the room. Tyrion wondered if he should be worried by the fact that he wasn’t worried about Merlin anymore. Especially since Merlin’s ‘hurt’ arm had either already healed, or never been hurt in the first place, for all care he took with it.

A minute later, Merlin was back, and yes indeed his arm was completely out of its sling. He had something bundled in a tunic. Tyrion eyed it curiously as Merlin came to sit cross-legged on Tyrion’s bed, showing a fine disregard for rank or personal space. “And what witchery have you there?”

“A gift,” Merlin said as he folded open his bundle. A sword lay there, looking plain and utilitarian, with a leather-wrapped hilt and a functional crosspiece and pommel lacking any patterning or inlaid jewels. It was small for a regular sword, but just right for Tyrion’s hand, he noted as he took the sheathed blade from Merlin. Tyrion glanced up at Merlin and held back the dismissive remark he wanted to make. Merlin would hardly give him an ordinary sword. So he gripped it by hilt and sheath, and drew the blade.

“Valerian steel?” Tyrion breathed in surprise as the layered patterning glinted up at him in that distinctive rippled flow on the blade. “Where… how? Valerian steel?” Tyrion repeated.

“Well, it’s not exactly Valerian steel,” Merlin admitted with a grin, “but I guarantee you that it will cut anything Valerian Steel can cut, and then some.”

“So. Demonic Valerian steel,” Tyrion said dryly, but couldn’t stop the smile that kept tugging at his mouth.

“That you’ll never need to sharpen,” Merlin confirmed with a grin, gaze dropping to the blade.

It was truly a magnificent gift, and Tyrion would not have traded the deceptively plain sword for a thousand bejeweled and pompous blades, not even if they’d been offered to him by Lord Tywin himself. “And, does my trusty blade have a name?” Tyrion asked, feeling the perfect balance of his sword, overall just a shade lighter than he expected.

“Excalibur,” Merlin said, and Tyrion could hear something of fondness, and something of reverence in that word.

It was a foreign name, but fitting somehow. Tyrion held up his new sword so it caught the candlelight and sent it back in a shimmering wash. Well then, if he couldn’t stay here, then he could do worse than to join his demon on a quest, he supposed. Even if he did freeze his balls off.

“Excalibur,” Tyrion echoed, and the name tasted like hope.

FIN

Now, Right Now | Rurouni Kenshin (Kenshin/Kaoru) | NC17

sonjajade — Mon, 28 May 2012 13:46:42 GMT

Title: Now, Right Now
Author: Sonja Jade
Series: Rurouni Kenshin
Word Count: 1,814
Rating: NC17
Character(s): Kenshin/Kaoru
Summary: Their first quickie definitely won’t be their last… unless Sano and Megumi screw it up.
Author's Notes: This is the first time I’ve written Kenshin in a sexual situation. I’ve never been able to do it because I feel dirty afterward, like I’ve made Mother Theresa into a whore! I hope this was convincing and in character and not detrimental to Kenshin’s virtue!
Prompt: MAY 28 - Rurouni Kenshin, Kenshin & Kaoru: hit-and-run sex / booty call – "Do we even have time for this?"

( His Violet eyes widened. "What?!" he exclaimed. "Right *here*?" )

History 101 [Safehold series (David Weber), Merlin+Cayleb, G]

dogmatix_san — Mon, 28 May 2012 05:22:39 GMT

Title: History 101
Author: dogmatix_san
Rating: G
Warnings: Er, none? How'd that happen?
Word count: +- 4600
Summary: Without Staynair to vouch for him, Merlin decides to tell Cayleb anyway.
A/N: I have an entire page of author's note, so I decided to stick it at the end.

History 101

Part 1

Cayleb knocked on Merlin’s door, then opened it without waiting for a reply. It was late, and Merlin sat on his windowsill, looking out over the lights of Charis. There was a faraway look in those sapphire eyes.

He was seeing his visions, Cayleb knew. Merlin could see almost anything, anywhere, if he looked. He’d warned Cayleb that he could see almost anything, but not everything. Even so, Merlin was the only reason the Kingdom of Charis still stood, managing to hold out against all the kingdoms arrayed against her by the Group of Four. One kingdom against a dozen or more, it shouldn’t be possible, and yet Merlin made it so.

Cayleb laid a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Anything interesting?” he asked.

“No, not so far. Nothing new, at least, all the messages are still in transit,” Merlin said distractedly, then blinked and focused his attention on his Prince. “How’s your father doing?”

As if Merlin wasn’t keeping an eye on King Haarald himself, but Cayleb grinned, “Better.” He sat down opposite Merlin, so that their knees almost touched. “Thanks to you, that is.”

Merlin shook his head, “I only helped. Haarald has the constitution of a draft dragon.”

Cayleb didn’t say anything, but he knew better – the near-fatal wounds his father had sustained in that battle aboard ship, defending Charis, should have killed any man in a day. Demon or no, Cayleb owed Merlin the life of his family and his kingdom. And Merlin was a demon, Cayleb no longer doubted that. Or if he wasn’t a demon, then he might as well be for all the difference it made. Cayleb never said that aloud, but every now and again his heart would clench up cold and painful in his chest as he contemplated that he, Cayleb, was a heretic, an apostate, working against Mother Church and using Merlin’s more than mortal abilities to help him.

But he meant what he’d said that night aboard ship, when he’d pressed Merlin into helping him communicate with King Haarald, four thousand miles away. It didn’t matter what Merlin was; if God could let His Church become so corrupt that it would attack a kingdom without need or warning, if Merlin could lead him to damnation by asking no more of him than that he follow his better nature, then the God of Safehold was no longer his God.

He was, fortunately, old enough to know not to reveal that to anyone.

“What’s bothering you?” Merlin asked.

“Don’t you know?” Cayleb asked his friend with a lopsided grin.

Merlin snorted, “I see visions, I don’t read minds.”

“Just… glad my father survived. Worrying about the war. Wondering about you, again. Sorry,” Cayleb added, suppressing his grin at Merlin’s sour look, “but you’re just so interesting.”

“Ha! I guess I should know better by now – there’s no distracting the Ahrmakh curiosity once it’s gotten the scent, is there.”

“I know you’ve said you’re neither angel nor demon, but for all people call you a seijin, you’ve admitted you’re more than that.” Cayleb shrugged, “And I don’t really care what you are – you’re certainly more than mortal – but I just can’t help… wanting to know.”

“I shouldn’t tell you,” Merlin said at last, but Cayleb thought he detected a slight wavering there. “Where would I even begin?” he asked helplessly.

“At the beginning?” Cayleb said hopefully, giving Merlin a wide-eyed look of innocence.

Merlin almost said something, then changed his mind, and got a thoughtful look instead. “The beginning…”

“Merlin?”

“Cayleb, remember what we talked about on Dreadnought that night I went to warn your father? About the Proscriptions?”

Cayleb’s heart skipped a beat, and a part of him writhed in unease. The Proscriptions had been handed down by the Archangel Jwo-jeng, but… Merlin had said that the Proscriptions were a lie, and that Jwo-jeng wasn’t an Archangel at all…. And Cayleb believed him, but the idea was still terrifying. “…Yes,” he said after a too-long pause.

Merlin looked at him with a small, pained smile. “It would be more of the same, Cayleb. A lot more. Explaining everything to you.. I honestly don’t know how.”

Cayleb wavered for a moment, new uncertainty nagging at him. Merlin was willing to back Charis in the face of the entire rest of the world – for this explanation to have the demon at such a loss, it must be truly terrifying. Cayleb thought that Merlin would be willing to try if Cayleb insisted, but did Cayleb himself want that truth?

What must it be like, he wondered suddenly, to live with people who didn’t, who couldn’t know all of you? How lonely must it be? Merlin had shared everything he thought he could, Cayleb suspected. He’d even let Cayleb press him into revealing more than was safe, that night on Dreadnought. And yes, Merlin might be a demon of Shan-wei sent to tempt Cayleb into damnation, but Merlin wasn’t the one threatening to burn Charis to the ground and rape or kill all her people. No, that was Mother Church, directed by the Group of Four.

Merlin was a demon. And yet Cayleb trusted him with his life, and even with his soul. Cayleb might be wrong, but he’d committed to this path and he didn’t regret it.

If he was going to trust Merlin, he decided suddenly, he was going to go all the way. Besides, he might not want the truth, but maybe he needed it. “You said, you said the truth involved ‘ideas and concepts’ that I didn’t have.”

Merlin nodded slowly, reluctantly. “Yes.”

“Then why not start there?”

“Cayleb,” Merlin said, still looking a bit uncertain, “once I start this, there’s no turning back.”

“I want to know, Merlin. I want to know the truth.”

“Are you sure?” Merlin asked.

Some part of Merlin wanted to tell Cayleb, but he was afraid to, the prince realized. Maybe demons weren’t so different from humans.

“Yes, Merlin, I’m sure.”

Indecision showed plainly on Merlin’s face for a few seconds, then the seijin let out a huff of air. “Alright, alright. I still don’t know if this is a good idea, but if I tell you, we do this my way.”

Cayleb nodded solemnly.

“And this isn’t something I can do in a night, it’s going to take a while, weeks even, otherwise none of it will make sense.” Merlin warned.

“I understand.”

“Okay,” Merlin paused, gathering his thoughts. “I suppose the beginning is as good a place to start as any. Alright, this probably won’t make much sense at first, so try to bear with me.” Merlin waited for Cayleb’s nod.

“Imagine a world that isn’t Safehold.”

“Another… world?” Cayleb blinked. “Did God create this other world?”

“Mm. I believe so, but I can’t give you a definite answer, because I don’t know it,” Merlin said, and gave Cayleb a moment to think that over.

“And on this world, a long, long time ago, people started living together in large groups that eventually formed cities. Nobody is exactly sure when this happened, because all this happened before the people there could write.”

Cayleb frowned. “Before people could write? But that doesn’t make any sense. Did God only give them writing later?”

“Well, you see… Nobody gave them writing,” Merlin glanced up at Cayleb’s perplexed face, “they invented their own.”

“People can do that?” Cayleb asked, dumbfounded. “But, why didn’t God give them writing? Did they reject His gifts somehow?”

A conflicted look settled on Merlin’s face, like he was desperately looking for a way to delicately word something. “Merlin! I’m not made of blown glass – I’m not going to shatter if you tell me something impossible. Something else impossible,” Cayleb corrected himself. “Just tell me!”

Merlin grimaced, but continued. “You know just how to ask the really difficult questions, don’t you. Okay. It was never a possibility for them. They didn’t worship God, or even a god, they believed in many gods, and even goddesses, most with specific domains. A god of the sun, a goddess of childbirth, and so on.”

Cayleb felt like he’d been hit between the eyes, “what-“ A thousand questions crowded his tongue, but Merlin continued before he could pick one to start with.

“Of course, that group of people is long gone now, and nobody worships those gods anymore. Most people who came after them considered those gods to be nothing more than stories, made up to explain rain, and illness, and things like that, things that people didn’t understand.”

“But,” Cayleb frowned, head whirling. People inventing writing? And a different god, many different gods, but they might not have been real? Where could anywhere be that wasn’t Safehold and how did Merlin know about it? How- Why-

Cayleb found himself standing, hands on Merlin’s shoulders. He was breathing heavily and the skin across his shoulders twitched like someone was about to put a blade between them. “Stop.” He managed, voice thick.

“I’m making a mess of this,” Merlin said unhappily. “I shouldn’t have- Cayleb, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Cayleb shook his head and squeezed Merlin’s shoulders – warm, solid, and real under his grip. “No, just… just give me a minute.”

“I know you’re probably having a hard time believing me-“ Merlin started, and Cayleb startled both of them with a bark of laughter.

“That’s actually not the problem, you know. I do believe you. I don’t think I’d be panicking half this much if I didn’t. It’s just… I don’t understand,” Cayleb managed to make himself say. Merlin had always said that Cayleb wouldn’t, but Cayleb had never quite been convinced. He supposed that’d teach him to have a little bit more humility.

“It’s just not like anything you know here,” Merlin agreed quietly. “Cayleb, I think this is enough for tonight.”

Cayleb made to protest, but Merlin held up a hand. “I think I’ve unbalanced your world enough for now. It’s not going to get less strange from here on out,” Merlin added, “give yourself some time to think about what I’ve said so far.”

That… might be a good idea, Cayleb conceded reluctantly. “But you will continue?” he asked.

“Yes,” Merlin’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “You’re remarkable, you know that?”

“Just too stubborn for my own good,” Cayleb said, amused in spite of himself. Trust a prince of the House of Ahrmakh to walk into his own damnation with eyes wide open.

Part 2

It became their nightly habit, the Prince and his bodyguard sequestering themselves in Merlin’s chambers for an hour or so, and the rest of Cayleb’s protective detail adjusted around it.

Cayleb wondered if his bodyguards would have been quite as blasé about it if they knew what their charge and the resident seijin were discussing each night. It never became easy to hear Merlin’s tale – Cayleb always came away feeling like his brain had been scooped out with a rusty spoon – but after the first week Cayleb thought he was starting to get a handle on it. He could just about imagine the world Merlin was telling him about by now; a world where people invented their own writing systems, where there were many ways of thinking about the spiritual world, where the Proscriptions were being learned through trial and error and the consequences of violating a Proscription weren’t a targeted punishment, but a natural law. Merlin had spent an entire night just explaining that one. Illness due to not following the dietary rules, for instance, was a natural consequence, like falling if you threw yourself over a cliff, instead of a direct intervention of holy wrath.

An unanticipated result of their nightly discussions was that Cayleb would almost without fail end up holding Merlin by the wrist or hand. It was a kind of anchor, a reassurance that however much it felt like his world was turning to sand beneath him, Merlin would always be there, real and solid. Very, very solid, in fact – Cayleb had held so tightly once or twice that a normal man would have been in a fair amount of pain from the bones grinding together in his hand. Merlin never gave so much as a grunt of discomfort.

The concept of the other world developing in radically different ways in many different areas had been bewildering at first, but Cayleb had gotten his head around it more quickly than he’d thought he would, and the most difficult thing now was keeping track of all the different strands – Europe, Asia, the Americas, and even the smaller island nations, although not much had happened on the continent called Australia for a long time. Merlin had recounted what he called the ‘Renaissance’ in the European area of the other world, which sounded akin to the Asian area’s flowering of technology during their Han Dynasty. Interwoven with the Italian Renaissance was the history of Catholicism. Judaism, Islam, and Catholicism, which all came from a common point of origin, were very, very close to the Church of God Awaiting, and it made Cayleb frustrated and uneasy that Merlin was being cagey about those similarities. There was something there, something that Merlin didn’t think Cayleb was ready for yet.

An offhand comment that Merlin was glad Cayleb knew that worlds were round had occupied them for an entire evening, as Cayleb pestered his demonic bodyguard to recount the progression of knowledge from the sight-based assumption that the world was flat to the people’s logical conclusion that the world must be round, which had been proven by the European discovery of the American continents. Even though the Europeans were actually thoroughly lost and not at all where they thought they were. It fascinated and amazed Cayleb, this fumbling, haphazard journey towards what God had seen fit to provide to Safehold at the outset.

Even with Merlin’s graphic descriptions of how horrible life had been for most people without the Proscriptions in place to govern diet, hygiene, and construction, Cayleb developed a healthy admiration for the people of the other world.

Merlin had described the blossoming of the sciences that followed after the Renaissance, including the Scientific Method and all the advances in weaponry that resulted. Here, Merlin had become vague, giving Cayleb only theoretical overviews (if anything at all) of some of the weapons when they came into the narrative.

“These, these are more advanced than ours,” Cayleb had said with wide-eyed wonder as Merlin rushed over the description of automated guns. At least now he knew where Merlin’s store of knowledge about ships and weaponry came from. Merlin flat-out glossed over the mechanics of the atom bomb, although just that vague outline was enough to make Cayleb ill.

Merlin’s description of outer space had taken some getting used to, especially when the seijin had explained that the other world, Terra, orbited around its sun, instead of the other way around. Several grapes and an orange had been called upon for scale-model purposes, and Cayleb still wasn’t sure what to make of it. But space-flight! Merlin’s description of that had Cayleb wanting to experience such a thing with a fierce hunger. To stand on a moon, or a different planet. To see Safehold as a burning blue jewel in the utter blackness of space… Merlin’s description had been so vivid that Cayleb knew without doubt that this was something Merlin had experienced personally.

Cayleb almost couldn’t imagine the enormous space-ships that Merlin described, and he felt even those imaginings must fall far short of what Merlin was describing as if he could see the sprawling, floating machines stretched out before him. There was a kind of joy, and a kind of hunger, in Merlin as he did so.

These, Cayleb realized with a shock, were Merlin’s ships. Could Merlin… could he be from that other world? Were all the people there demons? Was… was the world he was describing somehow.. hell? For a fleeting instant he considered that – the lack of divine presence made sense if Terra was hell… But no, Merlin hadn’t described those people as capable of feats like his. Not that Merlin had really concentrated on individuals, but the people as a whole all sounded perfectly human. Well, outside of the ridiculously long lifespans, at least.

And then Merlin described the new threat. Aliens from another world that were nothing like humans, that did not think, act, or look like humans. And he described the war. The first encounters, the battles, the arms race. And the end result.

Merlin clasped his hands together and waited for Cayleb’s response.

“Humanity… lost?” Cayleb asked, stunned.

“Yes and no. The aliens, the Gbaba, were beating them, but the Terrans were catching up to the Gbaba, in terms of weapons and technology – maybe even starting to surpass them. But there weren’t enough Terrans left, and they didn’t have enough time to get their weapons widespread enough to make a difference. So, they devised a plan. A last hope, you could say.”

Cayleb took a deep breath. “They took their ships and fled.”

“Yes. Operation Ark, they called it. The plan was to start a new colony, far, far away, where they could hide and heal. There was a decoy maneuver involved, and ships were sacrificed to make the Gbaba think they’d gotten all of them, but even more, the remaining Terrans had to erase all traces of what the Gbaba tracked them by.”

“The advanced technology.”

“Yes. And to do that, the colonists agreed to let their memories be erased, so that they would never be tempted to create something they couldn’t remember, at least for the next few centuries.”

Cayleb looked up, a horrible, absurd suspicion starting to kindle in his mind.

“Some of the naval officers and scientists suspected a plot by the colony leaders, to… adjust the memory wipe. They were right, but even they didn’t think the new colony’s Administrator would go as far as he did.” Merlin fell silent.

Merlin was perched on the edge of his bed, while Cayleb sat in a chair at a slight angle to his friend, their knees almost touching. Now, Cayleb reached out and took Merlin’s hand to get his attention, and out of a nameless dread that he could feel building in his stomach. “Merlin?”

“The colony’s Chief Administrator was Eric Langhorne. The Chief Psychiatrist was Dr. Adoree Bedard.”

Blood pounded in Cayleb’s ears. He felt like throwing up. He felt cold. “No,” he breathed in denial, but it was as much question as statement. Merlin had told him that the angels and archangels were men, that night on the Dreadnought, and he thought he’d come to accept that, but this was so much larger than anything he could wrap his mind around.

“The memory-wipe was effective. So were the memories given to the colonists. Langhorne and Bedard chose parts from several religions from Terra-“

Cayleb breathed out harshly, unable to find his voice. Those religions that had seemed so similar to the Church of God Awaiting… He tightened his grip on Merlin’s hand. “Stop,” he strangled out.

Merlin fell silent. The only sound in the room was Cayleb’s harsh breathing. He wasn’t sure what to think, or whether to think anything at all. Cayleb found himself sitting next to Merlin. They stayed there the rest of the night, not speaking.

The next day passed in something of a haze. Several people asked him if he was feeling ill. Cayleb kept coming back to what Merlin had said and shying away from it. Cayleb didn’t go to Merlin’s chambers that evening, and Merlin didn’t come to him. Cayleb was guiltily grateful for it. It felt like his head was about to explode. He wanted to reject what Merlin had said, but he realized with helpless and slightly hysterical amusement that some part of him had already accepted it.

The following day was easier, or at least he’d stopped feeling like the world was about to fall out from under him. Instead, it was as if he was seeing everything for the first time. Everything seemed… deeper. He thought about the stories – the histories – that Merlin had told him about. He looked around him and considered what had been stolen from him, from his people – the history of getting this far not through divine intervention, but by themselves. Then he thought about God. He thought about God for a long time. He prayed, even though going into a church and seeing a mosaic of the ‘Archangel Langhorne’ almost made him walk right back out again. Then he wondered why he was praying, but he prayed anyway. He worried his new knowledge one way and another until his head felt like it was going to fall off. He didn’t come to a definite conclusion.

But he supposed he didn’t need to figure out everything right this second.

It was like everything snapped into focus then, and he realized he was at dinner, fork halfway to his mouth. Suddenly he wasn’t just there, he was present again. He saw Merlin’s furtive glance at him from down the dinner tables, and realized that Ahrnold Falkahn had been guarding him for the past three days. He brought his fork the rest of the way up, chewed, swallowed. “Hey, Ahrnold,” he leaned over to talk to his bodyguard, “ask Merlin to see me in my chambers later.”

There was just one last thing to figure out, Cayleb had realized. Exactly how Merlin tied into all this.

Cayleb wasn’t surprised to find Merlin knocking on his door later, and even managed a respectable smile for the seijin. Merlin nodded and returned the smile, but there was something careful, something uncertain in the set of his face.

“Worried I was going to condemn you as a demon?” Cayleb asked once Merlin was safely inside and away from prying ears.

“A bit, maybe,” Merlin admitted. “I do technically qualify.”

“You do. I just don’t care,” Cayleb admitted with a grin that felt real, and he realized he was telling the absolute truth. Huhn. How about that. “There are one or two more questions I have though,” he added as he seated himself. Merlin settled into the chair opposite Cayleb’s.

“I’d be worried if you ever stopped having questions,” Merlin said, amused, his good humour starting to resurface.

“First off, who was Shan-wei, really?”

“A scientist and historian who disagreed with Eric Langhorne,” Merlin said, a sad note in his voice.

“Did you know her?” Cayleb guessed. It surely wasn’t possible, but he had to ask.

“Yes. Her and her husband, Kua-yung.”

“Then, I suppose that brings us full circle,” Cayleb said. He caught Merlin’s gaze and held it. “Merlin. What are you?”

“That was what started all this,” Merlin said, bemused, then scrubbed his hands across his face. “Okay. Do you remember I told you about the mechanical prosthetics, the artificial bodies?”

“Picas, right?” Cayleb had been a bit perturbed by the idea of a mechanical toy made to resemble a person, a machine even more advanced than the communicator Merlin had shown him one evening. The idea that people could move their memories into something like that was disquieting, although Merlin had reassured him that not only were Picas uncommon, but that strict laws had governed their use and the time someone was allowed to stay in one. At the time, Cayleb had thought that Melin was using these mechanical toys as an example to illustrate what the Terrans had been capable of. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Personality-Integrated Cybernetic Avatars, or PICAs, yes,” Merlin nodded. “There was a member of one of the fleets, a woman named Nimue Alban, whose father had bought her a PICA. She was part of the decoy effort-“ Merlin stopped abruptly. He took a deep breath and Cayleb could see tension being forced out of his shoulders. “She was part of the decoy effort, but her PICA was stored with the main colonist cargo. The last memory recording Nimue made for her PICA was in preparation for going on a vacation with her father.”

“So imagine my surprise when I woke up in the Mountains of Light a thousand years later, instead.”

It took Cayleb a moment to connect it all. “But you- you’re not- you’re not-“ he sputtered, shocked.

“I’m not-?” Merlin asked, expression strangely closed.

“You’re. Not a, a woman.” Cayleb blurted out the first coherent idea that blundered onto his tongue. When Merlin had explained that PICAs were machines, he hadn’t exactly pictured something made of metal and wire and wood, not after having seen that communicator, but he certainly hadn’t imagined something indistinguishable from a person.

Merlin shrugged, looking a bit… uncomfortable? Embarrassed? “Picas are. Malleable, to a degree. The model that my father bought me was meant as a toy for the very rich. I suppose it made sense to add all the bells and whistles to it that they could. You can change a PICA’s gender, hair colour, eye colour, even its height, a bit. I actually shortened myself by an inch.”

“But. Wait, you said there was a time limit on PICAs, that they could only be active for a few days.”

Merlin nodded. “That’s true. There was a computer programmer. A… a scientist, who worked with machines. He, hmmm,” Merlin frowned, searching for the words – Cayleb knew that expression all too well by now, “PICAs have certain built in instructions, like a valve that shuts off automatically when a tank is full enough. The ten-day time limit is like that, and it’s very hard to tamper with. However, the programmer found a way to… break that part of the instructions, or at least bridge over it, so that this PICA’s countdown timer doesn’t work.

“You. You’re a machine? Like the machines that ran the star-ships?”

“An Artificial Intelligence?” Merlin gave a smile, but it was a sickly, broken thing. “I suppose I am.” Merlin stood so abruptly he almost staggered, and went to stand in front of Cayleb’s window, staring blindly out through the closed glass.

For a handful of moments, it was all Cayleb could do to sit there and gape at Merlin as the seijin, the machine stood by his window, ramrod stiff, arms closed around himself like he was holding in a belly-wound.

“Are you-“ Cayleb floundered to a stop. What could he say?

“Sometimes,” Merlin said quietly, voice thick, “I don’t even know if I’m real.”

Oh. This, Cayleb realized, was the weight Merlin had been carrying. This maelstrom of doubt, of difference. Merlin wasn’t even alive. Or was he? Cayleb felt torn. Seijin, demon, woman, ghost, machine. What was Merlin, really? Was he even a person?

Cayleb felt shame flush over him. ‘Was he even a person’? What kind of question was that? What did it matter exactly what Merlin was? Hadn’t Cayleb already accepted that Merlin was a demon, or the next thing to it? Merlin was a person. A brave, loyal, lonely soul who made Cayleb strive to be a better man and a better prince, just by expecting the best from a reckless young hothead.

Cayleb put a hand on Merlin’s arm. The seijin turned his head stiffly, eyes too bright. And Cayleb put his arms around his friend, and hugged him. It was like hugging a statue, at first, but gradually the inhuman stiffness bled out of the seijin, until Merlin was leaning into Cayleb’s touch. Finally, Merlin returned the hug. Even if Merlin hadn’t been physically indistinguishable from a human, he would still have been real.

“It doesn’t matter what you are,” Cayleb said with certainty when he drew back to meet Merlin’s eyes. “Because I already know who you are, and that hasn’t changed just because I know more about you. Whatever you are, it’s still you in there.”

“Cayleb….” Merlin started, ran out of words. The last of the storm seemed to settle then, and Merlin quirked a shadow of a smile at Cayleb. “Thank you.”

*******************************************************************************

A/N: I was desperately looking forward to the whole ‘Merlin comes clean with Cayleb’ conversation/situation that I was sure was going to crop up in the Safehold series. And then Weber went and short-circuited it with the Order of St Zhernau and a cut-scene explanation that we’re told only lasted three hours, fooey. :P Don’t get me wrong, I love the series, but I really wanted to see this play out between the two of them. So I decided to write it myself. ^.^;;;;

See, even with Staynair to vouch for Merlin, I don’t know if it could have only taken three hours, and certainly I doubt that Cayleb would have been hung up on Merlin’s dead/female status of all things, unless it was as a defense mechanism to prevent him from having to examine too closely that Merlin and Staynair had just nuked his entire worldview. Unless Cayleb still doesn’t have the whole truth, but I don’t see how they could have explained just a part of it to him, Cayleb’s too smart not to ferret out the parts that don’t make sense(to him), and the only way it’d make sense would be if they gave him at least an overview of everything. I mean think about that.

Yes, Cayleb is smart, open-minded, and determined. I think Cayleb can take it, but it’s frankly a huge adjustment. Yes, Cayleb basically rejected the Church’s version of God on the Dreadnought, and conditionally disassociated himself from God if God wasn’t a loving and just God. But he’s still using a framework of ‘God created everything’ with no idea that there could be different worlds or, I mean, he doesn’t even have the concept of ‘ancient, defunct cultures’ because on Safehold there is no such thing.

It’s like the whole blue pill/red pill scene in the Matrix – his entire reality is about to be revealed as a lie, an illusion, a fabrication made for cynical, self-serving ends. And Cayleb didn’t grow up in late-20th Century USA like Neo did, and late-20th Century USA is pretty dang open-minded in comparison with the Safeholdian company line.

Also, I tweaked this so it’s a bit AU, making it so that King Haarald survived that last battle, because that means that Cayleb isn’t king quite yet (and I like Haarald =P ) which gives him more time to hang out with Merlin as opposed to getting caught up on OMG KINGSHIP!

I'm also not entirely happy with the ending, it feels a bit abrupt. But anything past that feels supurfluous, so, I dunno. =/

1 - yes, Safehold canonically subscribes to the geocentric theory of the universe (ie. sun circles around the planet).
2 - I don't know if Merlin adjusted his/her height, I made that up. (PICAs heights are adjustable in canon, I just don't know if Merlin took advantage of that)

Tick-Like Thing [Torchwood, Gwen/Tosh, NC-17]

merryghoul — Sun, 27 May 2012 04:05:42 GMT

Title: Tick-Like Thing
Author: merryghoul (formerly missvmarigold)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dubcon
Word count: 777
Summary: One day Tosh saved Gwen's life. After that, things were awkward.
A/N: For the prompt "May 27: Torchwood, Gwen/Tosh: fuck or die - This was going to make things awkward in the Hub."

The fic, on Dreamwidth.

Not All Punishment is Pain (Weiss Kreuz, Crawford/Nagi, M)

mereprototype — Sun, 27 May 2012 03:28:27 GMT

Title: Not All Punishment is Pain
Author: MerePrototype
Rating: M
Warnings: Dubcon, manipulation, adult/minor sex (character ages are 35 and 15), pseudo-incest (see prompt for explanation)
Prompt: Weiss Kreuz, Crawford/Nagi: father complex – “You’re really fucked in the head, aren’t you.”
Word Count: 1210
Summary: Certain that Tot's dead, Nagi's so desperate for comfort that he'll take it from whoever offers. Even if he knows it's fake.
A/N: I am very, very sorry for how late this is. I ended up having a surgery moved up to the date this was originally due, so I put it off until I'd recovered completely. Many thanks to nuraya for beta-reading for me.

It feels like his world has come to an abrupt, agonizing end. Nagi doesn't know that Tot lived – he only knows that he tore everything apart in his fit of rage afterward and came to cocooned in blankets in a room familiar in its unfamiliarity. Every motion, every breath, every thought takes more effort than he ever imagined possible. The painful peace only lingers for seconds; Schuldig's voice cuts into his head an instant later, snickering at Nagi in languages both familiar and strange. Several sharp seconds pass until that, too, ends and the bedroom door creaks open. Rolling over to see who it is would be more effort than it's worth. Only Crawford would bother coming to talk to him right now. Crawford's the leader, Crawford's the creepily-composed conductor of Schwarz's affairs as the day for their second betrayal draws closer, and Crawford's the one who'll punish Nagi for the inevitable list of things he did wrong. He wasted his energy, he dared to think of leaving, he let his emotions get in the way of their goals, he....

"You were reminded that afternoon of where your priorities should lie," Crawford points out. Nagi nods and forces himself to roll over slowly although it disturbs how perfectly the blankets are wrapped around him and how warm they keep him. That simple motion makes his stomach rumble hard enough to hurt; how long has it been since Nagi ate? Combining a massive use of power with a delay of what he thinks is only a day or two means he'll put a small dent in his bank account as soon as he can order something to eat. From that position, he sits up slowly and clutches those blankets, waiting for the blow or the icy lecture that he's certain is going to follow.

But it doesn't come. Instead, Crawford wraps his arm around Nagi's shoulder in an act so blatantly comforting that it's almost certainly fake. He leans into it anyway, craving both warmth and comfort no matter how false the latter is. Tears blur his vision; he blinks a few times and they run down his cheeks.

"Did you ever consider that I did that because I knew what was going to happen and wanted to spare you the heartbreak?" Nagi wipes his face with the blanket corners and looks up, his blue eyes wide with confusion. At the time, the thought hadn't crossed his mind at all. But now....

He shakes his head several slow times. "You didn't give me time to consider anything." And now Nagi can't help doubting himself and what he did. If Crawford told him then, would he have done it anyway? Would it have still happened if he knew what to expect and when to move Tot out of the way?

Crawford sighs, draws Nagi in closer, and strokes his hair. This feels so much stranger than the touch that he can't tell any more if this is an act or not. He's too exhausted to put a lot of effort into thinking and despite hating most of the world, including Crawford off and on at varying points, Nagi doesn't hate him at the moment. He ends up jerking away quickly the moment he realizes what sort of reaction he's having instead.

"What's wrong now?"

Forcing himself to stay blank doesn't work and Nagi's face turns pink while he inches across the mattress. "It's personal. If you leave, I can deal with it."

"If I stay, maybe I can help with it."

Nagi can feel his empty stomach clench with nerves and he keeps items from rattling around them mostly because he hasn't had time to regain any strength, physically or otherwise. Part of him knows, deep in the corners that remember facts, that men living together for long periods of time sometimes end up intimate for relaxation if nothing else, and that same part knows that he's a teenager no matter how mature he tries to act. Hormones and random arousal are normal; they will be for a while still. And it's obvious that he can barely move, much less use his telekinesis to deal with it on his own. If it weren't for the fact that Crawford's coming across as fatherly right now, it would be easy to take the offer.

He says that quietly, but it does nothing to help his body.

And Crawford laughs. It sounds enough like his usual self that Nagi's sure he's about to get up and walk away acting like the last few moments never happened. Instead, he pushes the blankets off Nagi's shoulders and pulls him towards the middle of the bed.

"You're more disturbed than I assumed. That's not a problem at all." He tugs Nagi's loose pants and boxers off without hesitation. He wraps his warm, callused hand around Nagi's erection and starts stroking. At the same time, Crawford moves his body enough that his belt buckle rests in front of Nagi's mouth. "I would appreciate it if you put aside your interpretation of my actions long enough to do at least something in return."

At this point, saying no doesn't feel like an option even if he wanted to. Nagi's always been the type to get caught up in what he feels – if he weren't, he wouldn't be in this situation – and what he feels right now is enough arousal that his fatherly notions towards Crawford aren't going to get in the way. Maybe they even make this seem better to whatever part of him enjoys things or people that are supposed to be forbidden, just as Tot was.

Nagi clumsily gets Crawford's belt open and only bothers moving enough fabric out of the way to ease his dick out. He starts to pay slow, firm attention with his hands only to pause when the hand stimulating him turns into Crawford's mouth instead. He rocks his hips without thinking; Crawford holds them still. Nagi takes a slow breath before working his own mouth around just Crawford's tip, figuring it's easier to do two things at once than risk gagging. If nothing else it helps muffle the sounds he makes with every swirl of Crawford's tongue and press of fingers behind his balls.

His body is finished even faster than it is when he's efficiently masturbating in front of his computer. Crawford doesn't seem to mind, though, and pulls back after a couple brief swallows. With no more distractions, Nagi pushes his mouth down a couple more inches but keeps moving his hand as well. It feels like ages before Crawford suddenly shoves Nagi away, fists his length several times, and finishes on Nagi's neck and shirt.

They both move back to their original positions – Nagi curled on the bed and Crawford standing next to it – without saying a word. Although he expects Crawford to leave, instead he finds his face being gently wiped off with a tissue before Crawford kisses him. Nagi's fingers tug at his hair in surprise until he pulls away.

"Whether or not you see me as a father, it can happen again only if you're not foolish enough to waste your time and energy on damaged girls with no future worth seeing."

the first step (Full Metal Alchemist, Roy/Riza, PG)

incandescens — Sat, 26 May 2012 23:55:05 GMT

Title: the first step
Author/Artist: incandescens
Rating: PG
Warnings: Relationship implied
Prompt: May 27 - Fullmetal Alchemist, Roy/Riza; Fetish; He likes watching her take off her boots.
Word count: 450

They have agreed on the boots as a neutral zone.

Roy would like all of it, all of her; there is not a single part of Riza’s body that he doesn’t enjoy seeing bare, and the removal of clothing is as pleasant as the state of nudity. There’s the anticipation of watching the piece of clothing slide over her body, and then the sweetness of seeing her bare skin beneath it.

It’s not that she’s defenceless. Oh, she’s so very far from being defenceless. She’s simply beautiful, and he appreciates it.

But she doesn’t like to show him her bare back. That he can understand. There are too many memories and associations in her half-burned tattoo. It’s no fault of hers, and perhaps it’s even no fault of his, but she dislikes baring that part of her body as much as another woman might shield her bare breasts.

So when she is undressing, she always begins with her boots. Boots must come off before trousers can be removed, that is a simple law of anatomy, and he can even watch her doing it without quite the same degree of tension as when she removes her trousers. He can sit back in his chair and fold his hands as she lifts her right ankle to put it on her left knee (she always unlaces the right boot first), watch her firm hands with the close-cut nails as she unties the bow at the top of the lacings, as she loosens them all the way down the boot, and listen to that little contented sigh she gives as she eases the boot off her foot. Her trouser leg falls loosely round her ankle, freed from the boot’s clasp. Her sock is marked with the boot’s lines, impressed into her foot over the course of the day.

And then she takes off her left boot as well. Each movement is careful and precise but without actual conscious thought. Her face eases at these steps towards release from uniform, and sometimes a few strands of hair fall loose to drift against her cheek.

The boots are a neutral zone. After that, the evening’s campaign will commence, heading for an eventual mutual victory in whichever bed they’re occupying.

“If you’re going to put all the women in miniskirts, Colonel Mustang, are you going to put them in high heels as well?” Havoc once asked him hopefully.

“Nonsense!” Roy said firmly. “Women look more attractive in firm definite boots with strong rugged character. Besides, high heels might impair their combat effectiveness.”

But it was the first reason that truly swayed him. She wouldn’t be the same without her boots, and the way that she removed them.

The Ache of the Inevitable (Transformers G1, Skyfire/Starscream, PG-13)

niyazi_a — Sat, 26 May 2012 00:23:51 GMT

Title: the Ache of the Inevitable
Fandom: Transformers, G1
Characters: Skyfire/Starscream
Rated: PG-13
Warnings: none
Prompt: G1 Skyfire/Starscream 'an elegy for what once was''

a complicated plot (Bleach, Ukitake/Shunsui, PG)

incandescens — Fri, 25 May 2012 23:52:57 GMT

Title: a complicated plot
Author/Artist: incandescens
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Prompt: May 26 - Bleach, Ukitake/Shunsui: gardens and growing things, tending plants, natural beauty.
Word count: 1216

“I have a wonderful idea,” Shunsui said. He dropped his books on his desk and waited for Jyuushirou to ask what it was.

Jyuushirou put his books down more neatly. “What is it?” he asked on cue.

“I’m going to make you a garden,” Shunsui said.

It was too early for Shunsui to be drunk, so Jyuushirou had to assume that this was a genuine sober idea, rather than some alcoholic fantasia which would be regretted later. “That sounds nice,” he said cautiously.

Shunsui snorted. “Nice? Just nice? Doesn’t the idea of a quiet little arbour suit you? Somewhere out of the way, with willow trees trailing their roots in the water, and –“

“Shunsui,” Jyuushirou said quickly, before Shunsui could get down to details, “it sounds lovely, and it is a wonderful idea, but wouldn’t it take a lot of time and effort? And our work –“ He gestured at the books in front of them, and then at their zanpakutou. “We have a lot to do.”

Shunsui shook himself thoughtfully. “So we do,” he agreed, and flung himself down at his desk. But there was something in his eyes which made Jyuushirou think that the idea had not been abandoned, merely postponed.

---

Next month, there was a large package from the Kyouraku homestead sitting on Shunsui’s bed.

“Shunsui,”Jyuushirou asked curiously, “why has your mother sent you all those works about landscaping and drainage?”

“Something to do with studying up on our castle’s defences at home,” Shunsui said airily. “More tea?”

---

Several months later, it was the middle of winter, and Jyuushirou walked into their room, brushing snow off his shoulders, to find the floor covered with bulbs. Some of them were still wrapped in straw, while others had been uncovered for inspection.

“Shunsui,” he said peacefully, calmly, and with the inner control and balance of someone who really wasn’t going to grab his roommate by the collar and point out that they had an exam the next day and did he want to fail it, “why are there bulbs all over the floor?”

“I’m just inspecting them,” Shunsui said defensively. He began scooping them back into a couple of baskets. “Don’t eat them. Even the ones that look like onions. They’re not onions, they’re narcissus.”

Jyuushirou snapped his fingers in understanding. “Is this for the upcoming medicine examinations? You have to grind it with wheat flour paste, don’t you?”

“I’ll just get them out of the way while you put out the revision texts,” Shunsui said. “And I’ll make some tea.”

The thought of tea distracted Jyuushirou, cold as he was, and he never did get round to asking Shunsui about the bulbs.

---

“Now that is not the sort of movement I like to see,” one of their weapons teachers said later in spring. They were trying various forms of spear and glaive, and for once Shunsui was receiving low marks for style, rather than for recklessness, lack of effort, or trying to be cleverer than the teacher. “Kyouraku-kun, what do you call that low thrust? You look as if you were handling a hoe rather than a spear! Have you no memory of how you are supposed to use it?”

“I apologise, sensei,” Shunsui said, looking down at his feet, his cheeks crimson with embarrassment. “I was careless. Thank you for the correction.”

“Hnh.” The teacher snorted, glaring at him. She folded her arms, considering his stance and finding fault with it. “You will be staying after class, Kyouraku-kun. I am not having you leave this room until I am sure that you will not disgrace yourself like that again.”

“Yes, sensei,” Shunsui said, and bowed.

“Do I need to pass on apologies from you to anyone?” Jyuushirou whispered, in a break from sparring.

Shunsui shook his head. “No. Believe it or not.” He grinned, just a little.

“What, not even Akemi?” Jyuushirou was fairly sure that Shunsui had been bringing her flowers and sweets just last week.

“The beautiful Akemi-chan has forgotten me,” Shunsui said with a sigh. “Her heart belongs to Kuchiki Kaoru. I am merely a leaf in her path, lost on the wind, ow!”

The teacher walking behind them drew back her cane to strike again. “If you boys have time to speak, then you have time to spar. Am I wrong?”

“No, sensei,” Jyuushirou and Shunsui quickly said, and returned to proper and enthusiastic practice. And in the confusion of looking sincerely apologetic and energetic, Jyuushirou completely forgot to ask who Shunsui was seeing, and if not, why not.

---

“Shunsui?”

“Yes?”

“You’ve got new callouses.”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, Jyuushirou.”

“Should I worry?”

“No. You should definitely not worry. Have some more wine.”

“All right. Oh, just one thing.”

“Yes?”

“If you want me not to ask you any questions, you might want to hide that mysterious bag of heavy clanking wood and metal items which you bought at the market yesterday.”

“Right. Wine it is.”

“Wine is your answer for everything.”

“ . . . I fail to see a problem here.”

---

The sunlight was warm on his face.

Jyuushirou blinked sleepily. He had planned to sleep in that morning, since it was a rest day. But the sun was bright and clear, and the sound of birds –

Wait. Why could he feel the sun on his face and hear the sound of birds?

He sat up, pushing aside his cocoon of quilts. He was lying beside a small huddle of willow trees, on a little bank of ground that looked out over a small lake. Lilies floated on the surface of the water, and azaleas, hydrangeas, and lilacs crowded round the edges of the area in a brilliant confusion of colours. There weren’t any nearby city noises, so they must be on the edges of the built-up territory, out towards farming lands.

Shunsui was sitting at the water’s edge, dabbling his bare feet in the water. He turned at the sound of Jyuushirou’s movements, scrambling upright. “Jyuushirou, are you --?”

“It’s lovely,” Jyuushirou said. He should find some better words, something more artistic to say, more sincere, something that better conveyed what he felt, but all he could do was state the obvious. “Shunsui, it’s beautiful.”

Shunsui shook his head. “It isn’t quite how I planned it, and I couldn’t get anything else to come up at the same time as the narcissus flowers, and then it was raining that week and I didn’t want to show it to you then, and you wouldn’t believe how annoying the wisteria were, and –“

“You made me a garden.” Jyuushirou looked around at it again. “You made me a beautiful garden, and you did it all yourself. How can I thank you?”

“You don’t need to thank me.” Shunsui dropped down next to Jyuushirou. “You should just sit back and enjoy the morning sunshine.”

A bird sang in one of the nearby trees, dropping a string of notes into the air like a gift.

Sometimes all you could do with gifts was accept them. You couldn’t even do more than say thank you. But what you could do was enjoy them.

“It’s beautiful,” Jyuushirou repeated, and watched the dazzle of the morning sunlight on the water.

Into the Deep (Wild Adapter; Kubota/Tokito; R)

opalmatrix — Fri, 25 May 2012 01:53:57 GMT

Title: (Into the Deep)
Author: opalmatrix
Fandom: Wild Adapter
Rating: R
Word count: 672
Pairing(s): Kubota/Tokito
Spoilers: nothing major
Notes: Prompt: Intimacy - lead into the light of love deep like the sea. Title - and prompt theme - from Poets of the Fall: Can You Hear Me? (And my thanks to the original requester for introducing me to this band!) Beta by smillaraaq
Summary: In the middle of the night, they can finally close the distance between them.

Read it here or on Archive of Our Own.

Tokito was dreaming, and he knew it.

All around him were other bodies, men and women, all of them faceless and naked. He felt exhilarated and revolted at the same time. This is Kubo's fault - he has all that porn, he thought, and then he heard a regular, soothing whooshing sound. He thought it must be waves.

He woke up. The room was dark, with bits of light from other buildings and the street coming through the blinds. He was half-curled over Kubo-chan, who was sprawled out on his back, and he was hard. He was pressing into Kubo-chan's thigh. This happened all the time: no big deal. Even if Kubo-chan were awake, he wouldn't say anything. They would just roll apart - or as far apart as the narrow bed would allow - and go back to sleep. Or not: sometimes one or the other of them would need to beat off. Sometimes they'd do it together - except not, really, because neither of them would purposely let the other know what was going on. Things happened. It didn't matter. They never talked about it.

But Tokito didn't move. "Hmmm?" said Kubota, sleepily.

"I don't want to," grumbled Tokito,.

"Want to what?"

"Stop," said Tokito, and his face felt hot, even though it wasn't warm in the room.

"Then don't," said Kubota, and he shifted slightly, moving away from the edge of the bed. The movement felt good against Tokito's cock, and there was a soft slither of shifting cloth. Kubo-chan was putting his hand down his sweatpants, to touch himself, thought Tokito. He heard himself whine, very softly, and Kubo-chan slid his other arm around Tokito's shoulders, drawing him away from the wall.

"Is that OK?" he asked, and Tokito nodded, his forehead pressing into Kubota's ribs. Kubota's arm tightened, and he pulled until Tokito's head was resting on his chest. It was hard and boney, and Tokito didn't care. He thrust with his hips, rubbing himself against Kubo-chan's leg, and listened to the whisper of cloth and the faint rasp of hair as Kubo-chan stroked himself.

For a few moments, that was good, better than Tokito would have thought it could be, and then it wasn't enough. He pulled at the sheet over Kubo-chan's chest, pushed his left hand underneath it. Kubota wriggled a little, loosening the sheet to make it easier, and Tokito followed the line of his arm, followed it to where Kubo-chan's hand was grasping himself, and then Tokito wrapped his hand around Kubota's. "You need me, right?"

Kubo-chan laughed, or maybe gasped: it was hard to tell. "Yeah. I do," he said. They pulled together, and Tokito listened to Kubo-chan's breathing, hard and struggling, like he was climbing a steep set of stairs. Tokito was breathing that way himself, listening to him, and he thrust harder against Kubota's thigh. When Kubota's breath hitched and he groaned, Tokito felt stronger and happier than he ever had before. He ground himself against Kubo-chan and lost himself in his own release.

When he came back to himself, he was listening to Kubota's breathing, sleepy now, right there beneath his ear. It was like waves, and he realized that must have been the sound in his dream. "Gross. Kubo-chan, my shorts are wet."

"My pants are too."

"I don't want to get up."

"We could just take them off."

They never did that. "Don't people do that ... before sex? Not afterward?"

"Why should we care about what anyone else does?"

Tokito grinned against Kubo-chan's ribs. "Yeah, I hear you."

In a few minutes they were curled around each other again, skin to skin for the first time, the dirty clothes tossed into the corner of the room. It was warm and cozy and a little exciting, but Tokito was too sleepy to do much but think how good it felt. Kubota smelled like himself, but more so: musky and salty, like the sea, but better. He put his arm around Tokito again, and Tokito fell asleep to the tide of his breathing.

And see: There lies the answer [D.Gray-man, Allen/Kanda/Lavi/Lenalee, R]

alice_pike — Thu, 24 May 2012 03:49:07 GMT

Title: And see: There lies the answer
Author/Artist: alice_pike
Prompt: Allen/Kanda/Lavi/Lenalee: reunion celebrations, reclaiming each other's bodies, reaffirming each other's bonds - "No matter how far away we are, we always remain connected."
Rating: R
Warnings: Some character death in battle. They're people we know, but not any of the main characters.
Word count: 6,309
A/N: I admit to losing track of the prompt here a tiny bit. This is sort of the alternate, ot4 ending of the Allen/(Neah)/Kanda/(Alma) fic I'm currently writing, so some of the backstory here is tied up with that canon, but it's totally not necessary to know the details. (Essentially, though: Cross, Link, and Kanda stay with Allen while he fights (and overcomes) Neah's possession; Kanda and Allen have intense feels and sex, in that order).

I will probably write the porn that this fic is so obviously leading up to and that the prompt very much calls for soon. I'm just so late in posting as it is, I wanted to get it up asap.

You can also read it here at AO3.

_____________

No one is expecting Allen Walker to show up.

The Order has been battling the Earl's forces head-on for days; skirmishes have been won and lost for weeks. Everyone knew the end was in sight, even if they couldn't see what exactly the end was. But for all of their preparations, there was one thing they couldn't account for: The Earl was nowhere to be found.

At first, this seemed of little consequence—he was waiting for the final strike, of course. But as the battle dragged on and both sides sustained serious losses, his continued absence put everyone on edge. They knew he would come eventually, but with what? When? And more importantly, would there be anyone left to fight him?

A lot of people were expecting Neah.

But it's just Allen, in the end.

"Go," Komui tells her, as Lenalee hands him his coffee one rainy morning in London, Headquarters in disarray as everyone makes final preparations for the oncoming battle.

"Thank you for the coffee, dear sister," he adds with a smile.

"Be careful," his eyes say, and "I love you"—just in case.

"Of course, Nii-san," she replies, and goes to find Marie.

Lavi is still unconscious as he is draped over Marie's shoulders: He does not see Lenalee cutting down his captors; he doesn't hear her crying over the body of his master.

What's left of the Order is huddled under the Time Record, attempting to stave off their injuries and fatigue. For all that they've taken down their fair share of the enemy, their numbers have been steadily dwindling, the absence of almost half of their Exorcists painfully obvious.

The Generals plan for their final offensive.

When the orders have been given, Miranda assures them with a weak tilt of her head that she can hold the Time Record for a little bit longer, and they break out already in formation.

The Akuma have been waiting, and they descend immediately, disorganizing the Order for the Noah's counter-strike. Tyki and Road have been as absent as the Earl, but only Lulu Bell and Sheril are still on the field; the Generals focus their attacks on them, trying to draw them away from the rest of their forces.

Lenalee is not surprised to see her brother on the battlefield, ordering the Finders and Science Division members to aid Timothy, Krory and the Thirds. The remaining Generals—Klaud and Tiedoll, from the looks of things—seem to be holding their ground against the Noah, but there is no end to the Akuma, no matter how many they seem to cut down.

Even from a quick glance at this distance, Lenalee knows they haven't returned one moment too soon; their force is too small already, and all three of them pick up their pace, sprinting into the fight without a second thought.

Komui is the first to spot them. The sky lights up behind him and he turns in time to see Lavi's hammer taking down a Level 2, Lenalee and Marie methodically wiping out the company of Level 1's sent to attack the Order from behind. Before he can even shout to alert the others, they've fought their way to the Order's front line, drastically strengthening their offensive.

Their early triumphant yells quickly die down, however, as Lulu Bell and Sheril turn their attacks on the newcomers and more Akuma bear down on them in never-ending waves. The Earl's forces succeed in separating them, and their attacks get more brutal as they continue to outnumber the Order's forces.

Tiedoll calls for them to regroup, but the Akuma have already started herding them into the center of the field, building up a wall around them.

None of them bother to think defensively; they will die here either way, and no orders need be given for them to know they'll go out fighting.

They're nearly surrounded when the first high note pierces the air, followed by a rapid round of gunshots. Sheril falls to the ground and as his body crumbles into dust the Akuma start to buzz in confusion, the Level 4's screaming orders that go entirely unheeded.

Cross and Link fall against the Earl's ranks, Maria's song filling the air. The Generals take advantage of the confusion and order a charge, the Akuma being beat back for the second time that day.

Again, though, their advantage is short-lived.

They have gained considerable ground in the last thirty minutes, but now something like a tremor suddenly runs through the Order's forces; their fatigue rushes over them, inevitable and heavy, their old wounds unstitching, their bones re-breaking.

Timothy catches himself before he collapses, and when he regains his balance, he scans the horizon for the glow of the Time Record, only to find that it is not there. Instead, he sees Marie crumpled on the ground in front of Miranda, Lulu Bell looming over her.

He watches in a daze as Lavi and Lenalee descend on the last remaining Noah. They shift the battle away from the fallen Exorcists, but as Lulu Bell lets Miranda go, she falls limply to the ground and does not move again.

Unexpectedly, the sight grounds him, bringing him back to himself. He's mostly unhurt if newly exhausted, so he picks himself up and fights his way over to the Generals, Tsukikami bloodstained and determined in his wake.

If Lavi feels at all out of shape for combat after months in captivity, Lenalee cannot tell. He is fighting as fiercely and as skillfully as she's ever seen him before. If anything, she feels like she should be concerned that he's channeling his emotions—his rage, and his loss—into the battle, which would be worrisome even if he wasn't a Bookman.

There is no time to dwell on that, however, as Lulu Bell shifts and darts around them, making no move to evade the fight but refusing to face them head-on. Lenalee does not follow Lulu Bell's movements as best she could, also hesitant to attack first, and she can tell that Lavi is holding back as well, trying to preserve his strength. Lulu Bell must realize this too, though, because she takes on a human form just long enough to crack at them with her whip, beating them back and driving them away from the main force.

Lavi summons a fire seal to distract her so they can attempt to regain their ground, and she makes the mistake of shifting into water to escape it. Lenalee invokes her Sound Shackles and lunges at Lulu Bell, connecting solidly and forcing her back. She lands lightly on the Noah's other side, and nods at Lavi as he closes in.

At this moment, though, something catches her eye over Lavi's shoulder, and she glances away for a few seconds, trying to discern what it is.

It doesn't take her long to figure it out. A Level 4 is looming in the air in the empty space between them and the rest of the battle, a familiar wispy blue light dissipating around it. Timothy's body is spread-eagled on the ground below, the failed possession and Tsukikami's fatigue leaving him wide open and vulnerable to the Akuma.

Lenalee cries out on pure impulse alone. She knows that everyone is fighting their own battles—that if anyone else even saw Timothy, they'd be powerless to come to his aid.

Conviction blossoms deep in her gut, giving her strength: She refuses to lose anybody else.

Channeling that conviction to her Innocence, Lenalee lashes out once more with the Sound Shackles, and this time the blow forces Lulu Bell back into her human form. Her attack barely finished, Lenalee invokes the Iron Shackles and strikes at the Noah from above before she can adjust to the shift and find steady ground. The blades cut down across Lulu Bell's spine, and her whole body spasms once before reverting back to its true Noah form, no longer able to shift.

Lenalee lands from the attack several feet away, already running towards Timothy and the Level 4, leaving Lavi to finish Lulu Bell off. She's worried that she might already be too late, but before she can even reach her destination the Level 4 recoils, letting out a shriek that doesn't quite disorient her the way she remembers. She grits her teeth against it and keeps running, and she's crouched over Timothy's body before she can really take in the sudden stillness around her, the way the battle seems to have paused.

Her gasping breaths are loud in the otherwise unnatural silence of the battle, the Akuma's cries a dull, ringing white noise in her ears.

The stillness only lasts for a few seconds before it erupts into chaos.

Across the battlefield, the Akuma break ranks and scatter, the Level 1's and 2's retreating, the 3's and 4's just disorganized enough to make themselves easy targets. No one has time to process what that truly means before the Order is giving them chase, hunting down the last stragglers with fresh vigor despite their losses.

Noise floods into Lenalee's ears as the Order mobilizes around her. In the next second, her senses snap back into place and she launches herself at the Level 4 still hovering in front of her, cutting him down with the Shackles that she never bothered to deactivate.

She's kneeled and has dragged Timothy into her lap before the Akuma is even fully disintegrated. He's regained consciousness for the moment, and he blinks up at her wearily.

"Len—a—lee?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah, Timothy," she answers, brushing his hair away from his face with gentle fingers. "It's me."

"Thanks," he croaks, before passing out again.

"Lenalee."

Lenalee looks up at the sound of Lavi's voice, unsure and brittle like she's never heard. She's immediately on guard, and she studies him as he approaches, but can't seem to pinpoint what's wrong with him. He looks a little worse for wear, sure, and she can see where he's limping slightly, but otherwise he looks to be just fine.

She tries to ignore what could be tear tracks etched into the dust and blood on his face.

He glances questioningly at Timothy's prone form, and she decides to let it drop.

"He's fine," she tells him, with a grateful breath. "Just passed out—exhaustion, most likely. His wounds don't look that bad."

"Tha's good," Lavi nods, and then inclines his head back in the direction they came from. "Check it out."

Behind Lavi, Lenalee can see two figures approaching, obviously bruised and battered even from this distance. It takes her a second to really process what she's seeing, but then she's laying Timothy's head down gently on the grass, and then she's running across the field in their direction, calling out as she goes. Lavi falls in behind her.

"Allen!"

Lenalee launches herself at him, nearly knocking him over. All of a sudden she's crying into his shoulder, not really believing he's there, with them.

"Hey," he laughs, pulling her tighter into his embrace. "It's good to see you."

She pulls back to see him smiling at her—with what appears to be the first sincere smile she's ever seen. She can't help but smile back at him through her tears.

And then she launches herself at Kanda in turn. He pulls her close and lets her cry into the front of his uniform, and then he lets her beat her fists against his chest when she's recovered herself enough to demand, "Where have you two been? You idiots, thinking you could go off and do this all by yourself, we could have helped you, we could have—"

Kanda reaches out and brushes his thumb across her cheek, wiping away her tears; the gesture is ridiculously intimate, and it startles her into silence.

"You shouldn't cry," Kanda tells her. "We're all right, Lenalee. We're here now."

She sniffs once and then hastily moves to wipe at her cheeks, visibly collecting herself. "You're right," she tells him. "We're alive. That's what matters." She swallows back whatever tears she had left.

He nods, satisfied.

"Glad you guys could make it," Lavi says lightly, but they can hear the strain in his voice, and he's not grinning like he usually does.

Kanda can feel Allen tense up beside him and he knows that Allen noticed this, too. Neither of them replies, and the silence is just beginning to get uncomfortable when Kanda finally forces out a response.

"Could say the same for you, Usagi," he says, in the most off-handed tone he can manage.

"Too true, Yuu," Lavi quips, a little more of the mask slipping into place this time. "Got Lenalee here and Marie to thank for that," he adds, his voice back to its usual lightness, but so obviously forced that Kanda doesn't even hide the suspicion is his gaze.

Lenalee looks between them and asks, "But where were you guys, really?" both because she wants to get them talking about other things, and because her curiosity can only be put off for so long. "Marie and I were doing all we could to cover for you, but Komui told me Central couldn't even find you, anyway."

"Well," Allen begins, tension lacing his voice, but then—

"Lots of places," Kanda interrupts, and Allen relaxes, his hand surreptitiously brushing against Kanda's in thanks.

They walk back in silence.

Komui and Johnny have already set up a makeshift hospital by the time the four of them arrive at the base on the near edge of the battlefield, Timothy slung over Lavi's shoulders. It's a testament to just how bad of a shape everyone is in that Komui steps away only for a moment to pull his sister into a tight hug, tears streaming silently down his face.

She hugs him back just as fiercely, but steps away after a long moment. "They need you, Nii-san," she tells him, inclining her head to the rows of stretchers behind them.

Komui nods, taking a last long look at Lenalee before relieving Lavi of Timothy and turning his attention back to his patients.

Link doesn't exactly run over when he spots them, but he does march straight up to Allen, reaching out to grip his shoulders tightly as if to make sure that Allen's still alive, still real.

"Allen," Link says, and although the word is flat and unremarkable, Allen can tell it's a question.

"Yeah," Allen smiles up at him weakly. "It's still me."

Link doesn't smile, or nod, or do anything but pull Allen into a crushing embrace, his eyes falling closed as he holds him. Allen smiles and wraps his arms around Link in turn.

A moment later, though, Link seems to remember himself and lets Allen go, but he clings to Allen's shoulders for a few seconds longer before relinquishing him completely. He nods at Kanda, who inclines his head respectfully.

"Bookman, Miss Lee," he addresses Lavi and Lenalee, almost as an afterthought. (Lenalee nods in response, but Lavi freezes at being thus addressed, the first time in his life he has been so).

Silence has barely settled around them but already Link and Allen are on the same page. Allen knows that Link would stay with him, that some part of Link wants to stay with him. But Allen also knows that where he truly wants and needs to be is with the Thirds, although his sense of loyalty will not let him go without permission.

"Link," Allen says, and when Link looks up at him, the sheer pride in his eyes is startling.

"Go to them," Allen tells him softly, and Link doesn't need to say "Thank you" for Allen to hear it.

Sheets cover the dead, but it is clear from the scarcity of those left standing who is under them: Most of the Finders, Reever, Madarao, Chaozii, Miranda, General Socalo, and three Exorcists from other branches.

Allen, Kanda, Lavi, and Lenalee stand together at their feet, heads bowed.

Kanda takes Lenalee's hand, and she does not cry.

Headquarters is largely undamaged: Most of the fighting happened elsewhere, and the damage that the Cathedral did incur in its few early skirmishes was nothing too out of the ordinary. After a week or so of repairs, it will be as good as new.

Most of the Order lives there even while the repairs are being done: The entire European Branch returns, and only the higher-up officials of other branches return to their own HQs to assist in their own repairs.

Everyone helps out, and the four of them work together, quietly hesitant about letting each other out of their sights. It's late by the time Komui suddenly appears to fuss over them, and he sends them off to bed without another word.

They linger at the top of the staircase, none of them making any move to part ways and return to their own rooms. No one says anything, but after a moment Allen takes Kanda's hand and leads them off, the other two following without being told.

They wind up in Allen's old room.

Link's bed is still there but they ignore it, Allen and Lenalee sitting on the edge of Allen's and Kanda taking the floor next to Allen's legs. Lavi leans against the adjacent wall, close to them but still visibly separate.

That unspoken tension still holds even now, and they all know where this could go—where this has been heading for some time now. Still, if any one of them made a move to just curl up together on the bed and go to sleep, they would all follow suit without question or complaint, content with just being together. But no one does, and the silence starts to get suffocating the longer it goes on.

Abruptly, Kanda swings himself up off of the floor, coming to stand in front of Allen. Three sets of eyes follow the movement, and Allen looks up at him with the smallest of smirks, his eyes dancing in the dim light.

Kanda leans down and kisses him without preamble. The familiarity of it is obvious and it surprises Lenalee and Lavi, for all that they'd suspected. They had noticed from the moment Allen and Kanda returned that the two of them pretty much refused point-blank to be apart, and that although they spoke less than they ever had, they were more in tune than ever before. And they were tactile with each other, constantly in each other's space, communicating with lingering touches and subtle gestures. Lenalee and Lavi both assumed that this was an inevitable result of months together on the run, but they only had some idea of how deep it all went.

They stay close even after they break apart, Kanda resting his forehead against Allen's, the two of them breathing the same air. Allen reaches up and gently brushes his knuckles across Kanda's cheek, and he leans up to kiss Kanda quickly on the lips before they both turn to look at Lenalee beside them.

Allen smiles at her as Kanda straightens up and steps over to stand in front of her, as well. Lenalee lifts her face to meet his gaze and Kanda is momentarily taken aback by how happy she looks, how he's never seen this kind of visible contentment in her stature before. He's hit with a wave of fierce protectiveness, and more purposefully than he did with Allen, he leans down and kisses her, too.

Allen takes her hand in the middle of it, and when Kanda breaks off Lenalee can't help but smile up at him while she catches her breath. Kanda smiles back at her (kind of stupidly, Allen thinks fondly) and any tension that was between them is gone now, something that just feels right settling down in its place.

They're all kind of caught up in finally being together, but they know that something is still missing. The three of them turn their heads in unison to look at Lavi, who's watching them expressionlessly.

Lavi didn't have any illusions about where this was going when he followed the three of them into this room, of course he didn't: He's better at reading the signs than just about anybody. But even though he knew this was going to happen he's still terrified that it is, and a large part of him wants to leave before it goes any further because he's Bookman now and he certainly can't be doing this—the Panda would kill him if he knew—and he's terrified that he let himself get into this situation and that he wants it as badly as he does.

Because he knows that he shouldn't, that he can't; but his whole life is spread out in front of him and at this very moment he wants nothing more than to say "Fuck it," to denounce his identity and what he's supposed to be because this—these people—are what he truly wants. He knows he's being selfish but he doesn't fucking care, because in all of human history there have never been people like the ones in front of him right now and he thinks that maybe they are worth risking everything he has worked for.

It's too late anyway, he thinks sardonically. He has already broken Bookman laws; the emotional damage has already been done, whether he acts on it or not. He can walk away from this and dwell on it forever, or he can do this now and not regret it. Either choice seems so unreal to him that he decides to just do what he wants—and fuck, if that isn't the scariest, most forbidden thing he's ever done.

But then Kanda is walking towards him and suddenly Lavi is hit with blind panic, because it's actually happening now and it's completely out of his control and he doesn't know what to do: He has never trained for something like this and when Kanda stops mere inches in front of him, Lavi has to avert his gaze because he has spent the last twelve years of his life repressing the kind of emotion that he sees in Kanda's eyes. It's too much, it's way too much all at once because Lavi recognizes it; he loves this boy in front of him and he wants nothing more than to express that, but he still feels paralyzed with both fear and uncertainty.

But then Kanda takes Lavi's chin in his hand and gently tilts Lavi's face back up to his.

The feel of Kanda's fingers on his skin sends sparks through Lavi's whole body and every instinct he possesses screams at him to stop.

He ignores them.

He lets himself be touched although he still doesn't move, still hesitant to start something he shouldn't even want. But he sees the challenge in Kanda's eyes and is powerless against it; he knows that any objection he might mount is nominal, and nothing else. Because he loves these people, and long gone are the days when he could ever tell himself otherwise. He loves them, and he will do anything now to be able to keep them.

Kanda leans in and kisses him.

Lavi's eyes fall shut almost immediately, but otherwise he doesn't respond, still held immobile by an impulse he can't quite fight.

But then Kanda starts to pull away, and Lavi's consciousness shrinks to this one moment, to this one thing, and he reacts all at once. His eyes snap open and he reaches out to wrap a hand around the back of Kanda's skull, hauling him back in. His fingers tangle possessively in Kanda's hair as he kisses him, and his other arm snakes around Kanda's waist, keeping him where he is.

Kanda growls, low and satisfied, and his hand trails from Lavi's chin down to his throat, a barely-there pressure on his windpipe that Lavi can feel every time he breathes. He gives in to Kanda with all of the emotion that he's been ridding himself of for the better part of his life, and suddenly he wants more: He needs all of them, and he pushes up against Kanda to mean they should get to the bed.

Allen and Lenalee had observed the exchange with bated breath, and they watch Lavi closely as he approaches them, trailing just slightly behind Kanda, who is leading him with their fingers loosely entwined.

Kanda sits down next to Allen, his fingers slipping from Lavi's, and Allen smiles at him, strangely proud. Kanda leans in to peck quickly at his lips, a silent acknowledgment, before they all turn their attention back to Lavi.

It's clear to them from his expression that despite his conviction, Lavi is still overwhelmed and just a little bit terrified, but they understand how huge this is, that in the course of one night he's broken the pledge that he had sworn to live by.

As unassumingly as she can, Lenalee reaches out and takes Lavi's hand, smiling up at him sort of sadly but with such genuine happiness that Lavi is there, with them, that it calms him down just enough for him to make the first move. He squeezes in between her and Allen on the bed, and lifts his hand to cup Lenalee's cheek with slightly trembling fingers. She leans into the touch, and Lavi guides her forward to press his lips gently against hers.

She holds the chaste kiss for only a few seconds, and Lavi responds immediately when she opens for him, licking into her mouth. She tilts her head to deepen the kiss, her fingers coming up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.

When they break apart some moments later, Lavi rests his head against her temple, eyes closed and content, thinking of nothing but the present.

"My turn," Allen says impatiently after another minute, and Kanda scoffs indignantly at his complete lack of tact. But Lenalee laughs, and Lavi smiles for pretty much the first time since he was rescued and gladly turns to face Allen, ready for it when Allen lunges at him, wrapping his arms around Lavi's neck.

The kiss is sort of sloppy but neither of them minds; it's only when Allen almost head-butts Kanda trying to pull Lavi down on top of him that they finally break apart, Allen's weak "Sorry, Kanda" obscured by his snigger.

"Tch," Kanda says brusquely, after having swerved out of the way. He takes this moment to push himself fully back onto the bed and settle down on the far side, propping himself up on his elbow.

"Come here, Lavi" he says, reaching out, meaning to pull Lavi down next to him, but Lavi stays where he is, frozen awkwardly half-draped over Allen's body.

"Bookman," Lavi says, although it's a token correction and it sounds tried, even to his own ears.

The tension that falls over the four of them is nevertheless palpable, but Kanda refuses to let Lavi dwell on this, refuses to give Lavi a reason to hate himself for what he's doing.

"Lavi," he repeats pointedly, the challenge in his voice almost imperceptible but still intractably there.

The silence holds for a minute longer and a large part of Lavi is still recoiling from their flagrant disrespect of Bookman laws and the knowledge of his own failure within them; but after another long moment, Lavi sighs and shakes his head, resigned to whatever fate he now has.

He pushes back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged near Kanda's knees.

"Tha's not actually my name, y'know," he says with a smile, trying to make a joke, trying to dispel what tension still lingers, but his smile is more sad than amused.

Allen turns towards him. "What is your name?" he asks, with the near-reverent tone of someone who knows what it is to be without one.

"I don't—" Lavi hesitates, not sure how to articulate centuries of Bookman tradition, practices that are beyond time. "I don't have one," he says finally, not only because it's true, as far as it goes, but also because it's easier than telling them he doesn't remember.

"Lavi, then," Lenalee says like the matter is settled, and Lavi thinks that maybe it is.

"Now come here," Kanda all but growls, breaking the tension once and for all, and Lavi can't help it—he laughs.

"All right, calm down," he says teasingly, and unfolds his limbs to sprawl on his back beside Kanda.

Lavi looks up at him, and he tilts his head in the smallest of nods, approving. They hold their gaze for a few more seconds, and then Lavi is surging up to meet his mouth when Kanda leans down to kiss him. Lavi drags him back down with hands cupping his face, and Kanda rolls over and collapses onto him bonelessly.

He bites at Kanda's bottom lip, running over it with his tongue. Kanda groans into Lavi's mouth, his tongue pressing insistently against Lavi's teeth until Lavi opens for him, letting him inside. Kanda pushes himself up onto his elbows so he can thread his fingers through Lavi's hair, angling Lavi's head for better access to his mouth.

He suddenly gets an idea and has to try not to grin. Accidentally-on-purpose, he catches his nails against Lavi's skull, scraping down and away from Lavi's face in even lines.

Lavi immediately breaks off the kiss to let out a strangled moan. "Fuck," he says appreciatively, voice low, as Kanda does it again, harder this time. He butts his head against Kanda's hands like a cat, and then he hears Lenalee giggle.

He spares a glance around Kanda's shoulder to the foot of the bed. Lenalee has tucked her knees up and Allen is resting between her legs, her arms slung loosely over his shoulders and across his chest. They're watching him with identical smiles.

"What? Feels good," he declares shamelessly, smiling up at Kanda, who ducks down to place a chaste kiss at his temple.

"Hey," he says, after another minute has passed. He's looking at Kanda but addressing all of them when he asks, not a trace of embarrassment in his voice, "Can we just sleep?"

"Of course," Kanda replies without hesitation. "I'm fucking exhausted, anyway," he adds.

"Yeah, me too," Lenalee agrees, nodding.

"Same," is Allen's response.

Lavi nods gratefully. "Okay." Then, more playfully, "Get over here, you two," leveled at Allen and Lenalee, who spring up immediately like they were only waiting to be asked.

"Covers," Allen reminds them practically, as he shuffles on hands and knees towards them. Kanda rolls his eyes, but he and Lavi rearrange themselves and slide under them.

Allen stops about halfway up the bed and sits on his heels to look back at Lenalee. "Miss Lee," he announces gravely, bowing his head and making an exaggerated, sweeping hand gesture to indicate that she should crawl in next.

Lenalee stops where she is, and rather than pushing past him and getting into bed, she sizes Allen up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. Allen freezes sort of awkwardly when Lenalee just keeps looking at him, and his entertainer façade visibly slips a little in bewilderment.

Lavi snorts at Allen's obvious (and oblivious) confusion.

"Wha—?" Allen begins, but then Lenalee pounces, more or less tackling him flat onto the bed.

"Oh," he says, a huge grin starting to turn up the corners of his mouth. "Hi."

"Hi," Lenalee responds breathlessly, grinning back at him. Allen starts to lift his head, and Lenalee meets him halfway. She kisses him once quickly, and then can only smile against his lips, not wanting to pull away. But when Allen flicks his tongue out to trace the curve of her mouth, she melts down into him, her giddiness abruptly replaced by need.

Allen's hand comes up to settle on her hip and she rocks into him almost imperceptibly, kissing him more intently. Almost without conscious thought, Allen bends his knees a little, spreading his legs just enough for Lenalee to settle between them. She hoists herself up his body a little more, bringing the kiss to a better angle.

Allen cuts off a moan when it's still in his throat, and breaks off the kiss while he still can. Lenalee nestles into the curve of Allen's shoulder and her warm breath on his skin makes Allen shiver.

"You young'uns about done?" Kanda deadpans, looking over at them. Allen takes one look at his completely expressionless face and cracks up from where he's still trapped under Lenalee's body. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

"You two aren't that old," Lenalee scoffs, lifting her head from Allen's neck and reaching over to swat Kanda playfully on the arm. She picks herself up and scoots over to Lavi, slipping her legs under the covers and dropping down on top of him instead. She leans up and kisses him on the cheek, his arms wrapping around her waist.

"And 'trying to sleep,' please," Allen adds, getting under the covers in turn. "It's not like you weren't enjoying the show."

"Mmm. Man's got a point," Lavi concedes, to no one in particular.

Allen doesn't miss Kanda's smirk.

It's a tight fit, but they fall asleep like that, woven seamlessly together.

Morning finds them in the same position, limbs still entwined. Kanda wakes first before sunrise, but the others soon follow, stretching lazily against each other as sunlight begins streaming through the laths on Allen's window.

They are decently well-rested, considering the previous weeks, but they stay in bed for a little while longer, dozing on and off, content to just be.

Allen's growling stomach ruins the mood.

"Of course," Kanda scoffs, while they drag themselves out of bed, the fondness in his tone nevertheless evident. "You're always hungry."

They each stop by their own rooms to change clothes and freshen up before heading down to the cafeteria.

Jerry has the kitchens in full swing when they arrive, wailing about malnutrition and probable starvation and something about how he needs to nurse these poor kids back to health.

The four of them take the end of a table closer to Jerry's window ("Easy access," Allen had explained) and while they greet the other Order members as they arrive, their attention is focused on each other.

Komui stops by their table not long after to give them their orders, which are unsurprisingly to assist with the cleanup effort. They are assigned to the labs—one of the hardest hit areas—and they breathe a collective sigh of relief that they will be working together. Before he leaves, Komui says that he's thrilled to see them looking so happy; and then he hurries off, wiping at his eyes suspiciously.

They work mostly non-stop over the next two days, but by the end the labs are cleaned of debris and what could be salvaged has been removed and inventoried. Their workload slowly dwindles, and the influx of free time allows them to start thinking about other things.

They've gone no further than they did that first night, but it is obvious now to all of them that this will soon change.

Allen, Kanda, and Lenalee had had one terrifying moment of panic the first time Lavi had been addressed as "Bookman" at Headquarters, as they'd checked in with Johnny in the labs on that first morning.

They hadn't wanted to draw more attention to it than necessary, but the three of them froze in their tracks, glancing nervously at Lavi and trying to gauge his reaction. He'd visibly stiffened at the title, but his face was eerily serene as he acknowledged the address. They'd been worried that such a sudden and unexpected reminder of his true identity would cause him to second-guess his decision and thus regret his actions, but as they walked to their station he'd caught each of their eyes, silently reassuring them that nothing had changed.

More than one person had commented on how well they all seemed to be taking things, and while each of them had offered their own personal reasons for that, they knew it was because of each other.

By noon of the second day, none of them had been focusing wholly on their work. They'd found themselves stealing sidelong glances at each other, inventing reasons to work near each other, sitting closer and closer together on their increasingly frequent breaks.

By the end of the third day, it was almost unbearable. They knew that they'd been growing careless, but it was getting harder and harder for them not to touch, not to fall into each other the way they did behind closed doors.

The more time that went by the more anxious they became, until even Allen was all too willing to throw down his dinner plates before he was finished, the four of them excusing themselves and making a hasty retreat.

Retiring to Allen's room already feels natural in a way it shouldn't after so short a time, and it is that, more than what they've finally come here to do, which prompts Lavi to speak.

He holds back just inside the door, waiting for the others to settle down. They sprawl out together on the bed, but look up at Lavi curiously when they realize he's still standing.

"I can't stay," he tells them, seemingly apropos of nothing, but they stay silent and wait for him to continue. "I have a job to do and I mean to do it, but—" he falters, looking at each of them in turn and wondering—not for the first time, and most certainly not for the last—why it feels so right to belong to them.

"But I don't have to leave just yet," he finishes, and one by one, they smile.