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[Fanfic] 99 Robblems, but Theon ain't one [ Game of Thrones, Robb/Theon, M, complete ]

2012-10-05T16:52:33Z

Fandom: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire
Title: 99 Roblems, but Theon ain't one
Pairing: Robb/Theon.
Word Count: ~5,800
Rating: M

Summary: Modern AU. In which Robb's a mellow drunk, Theon sort of goes along with it, and somewhere along the way, Robb's car is christened.

Warnings: sex, gratuitous use of the word 'fuck', boys being pissed to the eyeballs, boys smoking cigarettes, 101 metaphors, pop culture references, and Theon getting psychoanalyzed.

Wine loosens the tongue, wrangles your innermost thoughts and desires from places where they'd been left to rot tied down by dignity, comformity, and a lot of other -ities, and heroically wrestles them out of you - only to have you regurgitate them all over your best friend in near-literal word vomit.

Some poet must have said that before. Or something similar, anyway. Shakespeare, mayhaps?

In any case, Robb is sure, the wine is entirely to blame for why he stretches out his legs on the back seat of his car, gives Theon a radiant smile, and announces, "You like me," with all the zest of a first-grader winning the annual spelling bee.

Theon, for his part, looks much like aforementioned first-grader who's just forgotten how to spell 'orange.' "What?"

"You like me," Robb repeats, because the more he says it the more sense it makes in his wine-addled brain. "You do. In the gay way, too. Jon was right."

Theon nearly manages the fantabulous feat of falling all over himself while seated on a fucking car seat. "I do not. That is ridiculous."

"It's not." Robb leans in with a giant smile that just might be sort of drooping at the corners and roars, "YOU LIKE ME."

Theon just sort of stares at him. The moments pull past. Robb's starting to think that the rain drops on his car windows look really fucking amazing (because they're all glistening-y! And on his windows!).

Unceremoniously, Theon snaps Robb's wandering attention back to himself with an indignant, "How much have you had, mate?"

Robb grins. "I had wine."

"I know, I was there." Theon eyes him. "You – you must have been drinking before you dragged me into your car, though."

"Yeah," Robb says. Thinking. The neurons in his brain correspond to roughly one of each slow, wide blink. "...Kind of?"

"Kind of, or kind of a lot?"

"Uhmm." Robb scrounges up his face in thought, and raises his hands.

"Oh bloody hell," Theon hisses. "You are not counting that on your fingers."

"Well." Robb lowers his hands. "... I had to pee a couple of times?" A pause. "A lot of times, come to think of it. Heh."

Theon gives him a look. Robb guesses it's supposed to be kind of reproachful and stuff, but his only vision kind of swims until Theon's face is burry pale oval, with his eyes winking out of it like stars.

It makes Robb smile.

Theon is kind of like that, he thinks. Always is, always has been. He wears his smiles like armor, shoots insults like missiles, sharpens his arrogant looks to spires. As if it all meant something, as if he had to by the law of his dignity or whatever, as if Robb couldn't see. Everyone else may fall for it, everyone else may believe that Theon is just who he tries so hard to pretend he is, but Robb has always noticed the traces of insecurity and longing and hurt that lingers whenever Theon puffs out the sharpened air around him. It clings to him, subtle like an afterthought.

...Can smells have an aftersmell, though? Tastes have an aftertaste, but do smells have an aftersmell?

… Uh.

"Mate," Theon says with a nervous little shift. "You look high as a fucking kite, and I can almost guarantee you that tomorrow you'll wake up and decide this was the saddest fucking thing you've ever done in your life, ever."

Theon's rant sort of sloshes into a puddle of words and sentences that Robb knows, yet can't be arsed to make any sense of. Theon is being silly of course because Robb is drunk, not high (and that difference is important), but everything else seems less important, right now.

"Theon," Robb says instead, low and sensuous. He enjoys the way the name tumbles out of his mouth, how his tongue taps his teeth at the 'th,' and then how at the end of his name – the 'on' – it makes him purse his lips. It's a good name, it's a familiar name, the name of his best friend, and it's sweet on his tongue, like some of the awful girly drinks he's downed half an hour ago, but without that awful fake pinch to it. Nothing feels fake right now.

The car is warm and the night is cold. Theon is warm, too, when Robb presses up against him, folding his legs up beneath himself to make rooms within the confines of his car. Hot, almost.

So, Robb decides to tell him that.

"I'm what?"

"Hot." Robb nods. "You are. And you like me." He leans in to nuzzle his face in Theon's neck. It's salt he tastes when he flicks out his tongue to run across his jugular. Just a hint, just a promise of it, really, but it makes Theon's spine stiffen and muscles tighten oh so deliciously, and Robb is spurned on by the reaction, drunk on not only wine now, but this, all of this, Theon and him and them.

"You're..." Theon's resistance is chipping away. Robb can visualise it splattering away like old mottled paint on an abandoned work shop's walls, a little bit more and a little bit more after that, with each insistent press of his body, each lick along his neck.

He hears the rain's monochromatic drizzle on the roof of the car. The thump-thump-thump of Theon's heartbeat. The sound of his saliva pulling past his throat when he swallows.

"I'm sick of all this." Robb breathes shakily against Theon's neck. "You like me and I like you and Jon says we should just fuck, he's said it hundreds of times, or a thousand, I don't even remember, I don't know, I don't know, but I do know that, you know what?" He raises his eyes to look into Theon's. "We should."

Theon's eyes are drawn, his jaw set. He's not Theon the playboy now, and not Theon the sarcastic arsehole; he's a boy completely out of his wits, and he looks so lost that for a moment, something like sobriety cuts through the alcohol-ladled mess of impulses that is Robb's brain.

"Tell me no." Something in Robb's chest sinks. "And, and we won't – we won't ever speak of it again. Really. I'm not going to – force you or anything, I just..." He trails off. Speech is hard right now. Speech requires moving his tongue and forming words neatly wrangled into the confines of proper syntax, all of which seems as impossible right now as the scribbled numbers on Jon's advanced calculus notes.

"...Robb," Theon finally says. "We're in your bloody car."

"Is this the part where you list all the reasons why we shouldn't?" Robb rolls up his eyes in thought. "You... fucked Jon's girlfriend in my car on Valentine's day. You little bitch."

"...Oh yeah," Theon breathes. "I did, didn't I?" He languishes in masculine smugness for a moment, before he reins in his smirk again when he remembers what this is and where they are. He manages, somberly enough: "You are so wankered that you probably don't even know how many fingers I'm holding up right now."

Robb blinks. He tries to focus on Theon's hand. His rather blurry hand. "Uh…"

"Point," Theon says, and jabs an accusatory index finger at him.

Well, Robb can't really argue where his sobriety is concerned, but: "... Fuck off. Like you've never had sex when you were drunk," because that, Theon can't argue with, hah.

Theon pauses. "You're my... friend."

"That's not a Robblem," Robb says.

"... A Robblem?" Theon's eyebrows raise.

"... Uh. Problem, okay. Problem. Look – talking is hard, okay?"

"You're a proper Robblem, Robb."

"Shut it. I just made a mistake." He closes his eyes, and breathes. "Don't make it this hard, Theon." Then he realises how that sounds. "... In other news, I think I just need to give up talking."

They look at each other across the lull, one smiling fondly, the other conflicted.

Theon is the one to break the eye contact, again. "Jesus," he exhales, in that way that Robb's learned means that he really, really craves a cig or a dozen right now. "Just… give me a break here, okay? Okay. Okay. You ask me to come over, and once I do I find out you're drunk as a skunk. Okay, then, so I process this much. No big deal, right? Only then I'm dragged to your car like some anime nerd's blow-up doll, where you proceed to drain my bottle of Chardonnay and then ask me - your very straight friend - if you could, ugh, fuck me like it's some sort of normal side-effect to being pissed to skip three stops along the Kinsey scale -"

"I did not say that," Robb says, interrupting him. "That... that I wanted to fuck you, I mean. I think, I think." A pause. Words, they're difficult. "I think I'd quite like you to fuck me?"

The words linger.

Theon tenses. Goes very still. Gazes at him in a way that takes Robb a full moment to figure out is fear.

And then Theon forces a smirk onto his face, drags it up and plasters it all over his face, even though it doesn't fit and looks all wrong because it doesn't reach his eyes. Wrong again when it curls up his upper lip and bears his canines, ready to spit out an insult, as if this thing they have could be undone by a gay sneer. As if everything they are and could (would) be is not worthy. As if it can be swept away if Theon just turns mean enough so Robb will never love him.

He decides not to let him do that.

Robb swats away the twitch around around Theon's lips that would have solidified into armor by leaning in and capturing it with his lips.

Theon tastes of those awful cigarettes he smokes, but it doesn't matter right now because his lips are still soft when Robb parts them and nibbles on the lower one. He sucks it into his mouth and runs his tongue along it, and waits.

The drizzle of the rain rises to a steady beat in his ears, overlaid by the music that Theon put onto his stereo when they first got into the car. Robb has been tuning it out, but he hears it now: throaty voices and the wails of guitars.

Everything that Theon listens to is loud and feral and entirely unapologetic. It's never content being stuck somewhere in the middle, of flickering through the wishy-washy lands of genres entitled 'melodic rock' or 'jazz pop' or some shit like that; instead it lavishes in the extremities of sound, raw and full and somehow just too much, too much.

Theon's a bit like his music, Robb thinks.

Then Theon kisses him back and Robb can't think much of anything anymore.

Theon kisses like he's got something to prove, all teeth and tongue, and Robb lets him have it if it's this important to him. If that is what he needs. Theon tastes of the last cigarette he smoked and something salty, but Robb doesn't mind.

Theon pushes him back and Robb pulls him with him by the shirt until he has a Theon-shaped blanket above him and he wonders why in the world he didn't just drink a quarter of a liquor store by himself weeks before this.

Theon presses him down, kissing him as if he can't allow himself a moment of pause because he might realise what he's doing if he did.

Robb doesn't want that to happen. "Yeah." A little pant when Theon's mouth breaks away, and then another: "Yeah." He buries his hand in Theon's hair and pulls him closer. "Just like... that – mmph." Theon grabs him by the neck and lifts up his mouth, forcing Robb's mouth open and thrusting his tongue inside it hard and deep.

Robb moans at the realisation just what he's simulating, here. Robb moans and responds to the kiss as hard as he can, rutting against him shamelessly.

Theon breaks the kiss with a low, surprised and completely gobsmacked, "Fuck."

That sounds pretty darn good to Robb right now. "Mmh."

"No," Theon says, but he seems to struggle with the word. "I'm not..."

Aeons ago, before Robb started to get irrationally aroused around his best friend and before Jon started all these caustic little remarks and before Theon started to flinch at any casual touch, before any of it, Theon always used to tell him stuff.

About how all girls had some sort of last-minute slut defense. That moment when they've already consented, but that consent still manages to stir shame and self-loathing. Or something like that, anyway; Robb never cared to listen too much to Theon prattling on about the intricacies of any of his ill-begotten drunken bathroom romps.

Maybe this is sort of like that, though. That last-minute defense. Only with Theon, it's bound to be about –

"I know," Robb says. "No, you're not gay." He arches up beneath him and gives him a smile that he hopes is sexy and not half as drunk as he feels. "Now shut up."

With that, he pulls Theon down again.

Robb can tell the exact moment when Theon finally breaks.

It's when Robb bites his lower lip again and lets his hand drift down along Theon's tightly-wired body, along a rib cage that vibrates with the sharp beats of the heart beyond, and finds his cock.

Theon moans, squeezes his eyes shut, lets loose a string of curses – and slumps his entire weight forward to pin Robb against the car seat again, hard and hot and desperate now.

The bottle of wine flies off the seat. Limbs tangle with limbs and bone grinds against bone as they struggle within the limited space of Robb's car. There's an elbow in Robb's stomach but he barely has time to hiss an, "ow" before Theon kisses him again and touches him and moves against him, and the pain soothes.

Then Theon tugs on Robb's shirt and he obliges, lifting his arms so Theon can tear it off and by the time the world blinks into (alcohol-dulled) focus again, Theon's torso is bare as well.

They look at each other. The trickle of the rain slips into Robb's consciousness again. Bleary pumpkin light falls through the car window and illuminates the sharp incline of Theon's nose, his dark stubble, the razor-sharp glint in his eyes.

They jump toward each other at exactly the same time and meet in the middle. Robb falls back against the seat (again) and his head decides to remind him that he's still very much drunk when it starts to spin (again), round and round like a fucking merry go-around at a fair or some shit like that before the world stops keeling enough for him to become aware of Theon tugging at his trousers, and –

"Hah." Robb squeezes his eyes shut and bucks his hips, grinding his cock against Theon's hand. "Yeah, ah."

"That's fucking admirable... getting it up in this state. Always open for business, huh?"

Robb laughs, but the laugh is cut short in the middle when Theon's hand gets faster and he's suddenly too busy moaning and rocking into that hand.

" – before?" Theon says.

Robb blinks; he must have missed some of that. "Uh, what?"

Theon grins a bit. It's not like his usual smirk. "I said, have you done this before?"

Robb chuckles. "I'm not some pristine untouched virgin. Jeyne –"

- is obviously not the right person to mention right now. Darn it.

"Fuck that bitch," Theon snaps. "...I meant, with a – with a – you know."

Robb doesn't talk about himself very much when he's sober, and, were he any more sober (and, maybe, less intent on getting screwed three ways to Sunday right now), he would probably have let out a dismayed growl at that.

Since he's not sober, all bets are off, thus: "Eh, no, never, but. But I've been doing it with my fingers in the showers, you know, pushing them in. I just thought maybe if Jon were right and things would happen that I should be prepared and -"

"God." Theon groans, cutting him off. "Stop giving me these mental images, will you?"

Robb smiles, because it's so easy to smile when your entire body feels warm and hot. So much easier when you're not supposed to be the dutiful son and heir and wear your masks. His is a different mask from Theon's, less hostility and more duty, none of the near-desperate efforts at self-fulfillment and more steely wall of self-preservation, but it's the same in more ways than it isn't.

"In the glove compartment," he says, to shake himself of those thoughts. "Lube."

Theon gives him an incredulous look, makes a comment on how Robb must've fucking planned this, but then thankfully half-climbs over to the front seat to fumble around there, and Robb takes the opportunity to wriggle out of his jeans.

Theon re-appears with the lube in hand, and Robb palms Theon's cock through his jeans and discovers that, while opening belts and buttons and zippers within small pick-up cars might pose a certain challenge to a sober person, it's a quest of high fantasy-style epic proportions when pissed to the fucking eyeballs.

He still manages, though, by sheer will power or maybe luck or tenacity, whichever, and Theon helps out at this point and punches down his jeans to his knees and then, when they're both naked and hard and panting, Theon remembers that he's still a boy, and that Robb's a boy, too, and that unspoken boy protocols dictate they take a moment to take notes here.

"...Longer," Theon says after a long appraisal, grin on his face.

"But I'm thicker," Robb says.

Theon tosses Robb the bottle. "Show me what you did in the shower."

Any other time, Robb would have floundered at that.

Drunk Robb, though, is not that bothered by the idea, and the prospect of an orgasm is really starting to look quite swell right about now, so he just spreads some lotion on his fingers, reaches down, and slips one in.

Theon's pupils widen.

Robb tosses a curl of hair out of his face with a little shake of his head. "You like that?"

Theon doesn't answer. Robb would be disappointed by that if Theon didn't kiss him instead, which, all things considered, sort of invalidates a verbal response.

Especially when Theon kisses him like this, all heady and raw, and Robb closes his eyes and opens his mouth and adds a second finger down there, and it's then when Robb has one hand on Theon's cock and two fingers of the other buried in his arse, only then, that the doubt starts to churn in his belly.

What if this is a mistake what if I'm just drunk and stupid and then he's gone and it will be awkward awkward awkward and it'll be my fault for pushing –

But it doesn't last very long because memories flash through his mind: that flare of jealousy on Theon's face when Robb first met Jeyne. That chipping mask of apathy he wore thereafter. And on that other day, at the beach, when they sat there and watched the frothy foam run along the waves and Theon looked at him and told him he was the best mate he'd ever had. How he averted his eyes later as they rubbed the salt off their skin in the showers. Flashes of eyes and smiles and touches infused with different meaning drift through Robb's mind.

And of course Jon, Jon groaning, running a hand through his hair, and proclaiming, "I can't believe that I'm the one to come to terms with the fact that you're fucking gay first, while you're still -"

He's kept kissing Theon and moving his fingers throughout all this, but then Theon breaks the kiss and pants, "Condom?"

It takes Robb's brain a good few seconds to catch up to the meaning of that. "... In my jeans. Somewhere?"

"No, I have some myself, thanks." He gives a little snort. "I meant, if you wanted to... ah." He ruts into Robb's hand.. "...Use one?"

"... But I can't get..." Robb frowns. "Oh. Oh. Diseases. Right."

Theon stares. "You weren't seriously going to say that, right?"

Robb bites his lower lip.

Theon shakes his head. "Anyway, so you want to use one or not?"

"Well, I'm clean. Are you?"

"Sure."

"That's what you tell all the girls, though, innit?"

"Yeah, but you're Robb." Theon pauses.

Robb kisses him, reaches down to fumble for Theon's cock, drums his heels against his arse to urge him forward, and says, "Go."

And Theon goes.

Robb inhales and holds the breath there. The muscles in his calves cord and twitch, and he throws his leg over the seat to settle in more comfortably.

It hurts, but not as much as he had thought it would. It burns, yes, but it's probably dulled by the alcohol in his veins, the feeling rather more strange than simply painful.

Theon doesn't seem to think it's very strange at all. "Fuck." His body tenses against Robb as he slumps forward and pushes in deeper until he can't go in any more, and then chases that movement with a sharp thrust that makes Robb tense and Theon moan. "Fuck. So tight. Unbelievably –"

"Yeah." Robb grasps him by the shoulders and pulls him down until he can feel Theon's weight on top of him, put his arms around his skinny body, hook one leg across his waist. "Yeah." He's been hard and aroused for so long that even if this feels strange, it still feels good, still feels like relief, like everything he never knew he wanted.

Theon's stubble scrapes against his cheek when he raises himself up on his arms to withdraw. When he thrusts forward again, he half-collapses on top of him again, and lets out a long, low groan.

Since Theon's mouth is close to his right now, he takes the opportunity to kiss him, and Theon responds ferociously, kissing and biting and clicking their teeth together while he fucks him, and Robb feels all the blood rush south. He hooks one arm over Theon's shoulder and slides down the hand of the other to his own cock, giving it a sharp little twist.

Ah.

He never expected Theon to be a very caring lover, and Robb doesn't want him to be. This is not the type of sex where you should stop every few seconds to ask if the other is all right, pat down their hair and kiss away their tears. This is more primal than that, the culmination of months of words that weren't said and touches that weren't made, and Robb hears himself saying, "Fuck me, just fuck me, just do it, just –"

Theon chuckles at that, low and dirty. "So demanding... are we..."

"Shut... up," Robb presses out. "I don't like that kind of teasing. It's not, it's – hah."

Theon manages to shut him up, because it's then that Theon does finally fuck him properly, and it's all Robb can do to hold on to his shoulders for it.

Theon's hips snap forward and out again and in, in, in again, and then – "Ah." – there's a pleasure center he finds down there and suddenly it feels legit good, hot and hard and much better than just a couple of digits. His head beats with the drum of his heart and the slow slide of the alcohol and it's then that his brain gets too fucking many signals and starts to wave a giant, blinking 'OUT OF ORDER' sign when it shuts down completely with a pathetic wheeze.

It's unable to register any but the most primal input: how Theon's cock is wet with the lube and splits him open, fucking in and in and in, and how they each try to kiss each other every once in a while but keep missing each other's mouths, and how Theon smells of masculine sweat, the way a locker room smells after practice only better, only more Theon

Words are difficult right now, for both of them, but there's a few: "Fuck, you're so good," Theon groans, and his eyes look hard as glass while he rocks back and forth between Robb's legs. "You're good, way too good, I can't -"

Robb, for his part, seems to have been had his vocabulary reduced to one word only, so he repeats it over and over again: "Yeah, ah."

"Eloquent..."

"Fuck you, Greyjoy, just..." Kissing seems like a good option right now, Robb's brain informs him, so he pulls him down and crushes their lips together and shoves his tongue into Theon's mouth and times the thrusts of it. His tongue fucks Theon's mouth with the same rhythm as Theon's cock fucks his arse. Theon's mouth surrenders helplessly; he only moans and gasps and lets Robb's do as he pleases.

The car is probably rocking by now, the windows fogged up, and anyone with half a brain can probably figure out what's going on inside, but it's not even a blip on the radar of Robb's mind. He just wants more, more, more, and Theon gives it to him when he reaches down along their sweat-slicked bodies and swats away Robb's hand to close his own around Robb's dick.

That's all it takes, that right there, and Robb clenches his eyes shut and is catapulted up into white oblivion, coming harder than he has in a while, and only comes down when his body stops convulsing and his dick stops pulsing and he notices that Theon's still not done.

So he wraps his legs around Theon's hips, locks him in, breaks the kiss, and demands, "Come for me, right now, do it," and Theon's breath against him is hot and rugged, and his pupils blow into fevered black pits, and Robb clenches once, twice, and again, intend on milking it all out of Theon. "Do it, do it, I swear to God –"

God might have heard him. That, or Theon just reached his breaking point.

Theon locks their hips together and pulses inside. Robb can feel his orgasm shudder along his spine, hear it in his groan, see it on his face –

He looks nice when he comes, Robb thinks. Eyes clenched shut, mouth open, features tightly folded -- only for the tension to melt away, into something sweetly naked and honestly grateful. Robb lies there and enjoys it with Theon, that moment just after coming, when people glow and shine and still sigh in little aftershocks.

And then Theon stills, and it's over, and his rapid heart slows against Robb.

Robb wraps his arms around him and holds him.

There's a lot in that embrace that he wants to say that he never could if he were sober. Can't even say now that he's drunk, really. Wine might loosen the truth, but some things are too tied down by expectations and rules and dignity and pride and all those other pesky things to come tumbling out. Wine might loosen the chains on the secrets kept in the psyche's basement lair, but it can't free them. Not even now.

It's enough, though, he likes to think, and maybe Theon understands, just a bit. They remain like this until their shared body heat becomes too stifling and Theon draws back and pulls out.

Robb can feel his body clench around nothing. Slow pain pulses in his arse, and he grimaces.

Wordlessly, Theon avoids his eyes. He bangs his head against the roof of the car, hisses his pain, then reaches down to pull some tissues from his pocket. A few swipes and the stain on Robb's car seat is gone.

Robb is irrationally afraid at what else might be gone, now.

"So," Theon says.

"So," Robb says.

"... I wiped off most of it, but there might still be a stain. I don't know."

"It's no problem." Robb's head starts to spin, so he flops down onto his back. "God, my head is spinning. And I'm so tired."

"That's what happens when you come while drunk," Theon says easily. He opens the door of the car and the night air rushes in to skate along Robb's body, lodging a freeze into his spine that makes him shake. Theon throws out the used tissue and slams the door shut again.

Silence.

Robb lies on his back and stares at the roof of his car. He hears the rustle of Theon going for his pack of cigs, and when Theon offers him one, Robb takes it.

He only smokes during special occasions. He guesses this probably qualifies.

Theon's lighter is a spit of fire against the murky darkness of the night. He lights his own cigarette, and then Robb's, and he doesn't like the taste of it, not nearly, but he likes the feel of it, the slow thrum of the nicotine in his veins. It's comforting, like a heart beat.

He holds the smoke in his lungs and then puffs it out. He's fascinated by the ringlets. They puff out of his mouth in perfect, poised form – Theon taught him how to do that, long ago – but they soon turn in on themselves, twist and turn like a broken circle, then disintegrate in the air, gone.

Something about this observation unsettles him.

It's Theon who breaks the silence. "I hate this post-sex silence." Robb can hear him take a drag. "It's such a let-down, every single time."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. You know the type. When you're torn between getting the fuck out and trying to salvage things, and always end up doing only one of those anyway."

"I'd say things, but I don't really know what kind." He pauses. "I don't suppose you want me to sing you a song?"

Theon snorts. "I will legit never forgive you and Jon for crashing my party with impromptu Katy Perry karaoke."

Ah yes, Robb had been drunk then, too. Good times. That day, too, seems like ages ago now, though.

Robb laughs out a few ringlets of smoke, then throws a still-lit cigarette out the door.

He says, "Theon."

"Yeah?"

"I know what you're thinking." Because he's sober enough now to get it, but still drunk enough to be daring. Mental reservations not entirely set free, but loosened enough to let a few things slip through before the portcullis of duty and etiquette and fear shut them off. "You were probably right in that, tomorrow I'll regret my giant hang-over, but you're wrong about the other thing, I won't, I won't." He takes a deep breath, ignoring the rattle of the portcullis. "I won't be regretting that."

He can feel Theon glare at him even through the hazy light. "How can you be so sure?"

Robb laughs at that, because Theon is just always like that: too suspicious of any bone thrown at him, like a dog that doesn't allow itself to trust anymore after it's been abused. It's kind of soul-crushingly sad, but it's also so Theon that it makes his mind spin.

"Shut up and just believe me. I won't. I was drunk –" And the world shutters a bit again, and he remedies that with, "- am drunk, but I'm not a different person. I'm not."

Theon is quiet at that.

Robb sort of expects him to just get up, get dressed, and leave any moment now. Possibly without another word. Because he might just not be ready, it might have been too soon, or, more somberly, not soon enough.

But then:

"... I gotta say one thing, Robb." Theon looks at him, and the smile on his face is one of the most genuine he's ever seen. Not the flare of his protective smirk. Quieter. More vulnerable. Theon pauses, and then finished with, "If we're going to be doing this, I think you need a bigger car."

Robb kisses him for that.

-----------------

When Jon burst into the room carrying what looked like half the contents of a liquor store, Robb didn't know what to do other than blink for a good few minutes.

Ignoring said look, Jon walked over to the desk on which Robb had been working on his English assignment, and dumped the liquor factory onto it.

Robb watched out of calm eyes as Shakespeare got crushed beneath Russian vodka, twenty bottles of Jaeger, brightly-colored girly drinks, Martini, perfectly translucent Gin bottles, and half a dozen drinks Robb couldn't even name and said, "So. I guess there's an explanation for this."

Jon ran a hand through his hair. "Will 'from the Tyrells' suffice?"

Robb's eyes flickered toward the ceiling in thought.

Well, thinking of 'the Tyrells,' not all that much came to mind. They were Jon and Sansa's friends more than they were Robb's, which was why he had been perplexed to find them display an unusual sort of interest in Robb and his friendship with Theon for a while now. Margaery was all wink-wink nudge-nudge and Loras liked to smile at him as if he expected him to have something useful to say. As for Jon himself, he liked to tell Robb that he just had to say something, period.

Robb dealt with each of them the same way: not at all.

Avoidance was a thing, see.

None of this explained why Jon was in his room presenting him with enough liquor to dissolve Syrofoam on the spot, and he cleared his throat. "I still don't understand the meaning of this. I'm not having a party."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't like it any more than you do, but just – anything to help, I guess. Do what you gotta do, et cetera et al and so on."

Robb twirled his pen in his hands and gave Jon a look that could quite possibly spell out a complete lack of understanding in Morse code.

Jon pointedly ignored him. "...All right. Be safe and all that." He started toward the door, and came to a halt right in front of it to send Robb a look over his shoulder and say, looking somewhat squeamish, "... And whatever you do, don't tell me about it tomorrow."

Robb opened his mouth to say something, but by then Jon was already gone, and he was alone in his room, with only an Irishman's stock for St. Patrick's Day for company, an English paper to write, and – he looked at the clock on the wall – half an hour until Theon got here.

Sighing, Robb hunched back over his assignment, but the letters started to blur. He put his pen down, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the alcohol.

It stared back.

Or maybe it didn't, but it sure seemed like it did.

Robb glanced at the clock, then back at the bottles, and mulled it over in his head.

Well, he thought, and reached for the first bottle. Why not? It was free alcohol.

And what was the worst that could happen, anyway?

===============

Notes:

I have no excuse. I am sooooorry, hahaha.

As you may have noticed - the quote, "I'd quite like you to fuck me," is from Richard Madden's TV show Sirens. In which that gorgeous, gorgeous man actually says those words. If you haven't seen it (in which case, WHY ARE YOU STILL READING?) you might want to go on youtube and search for 'sirens church scene' or something, haha. I just couldn't not have Robb Stark say this. I couldn't nooooot.

Also, this was my first time writing Robb's POV, and though he wasn't exactly acting 'himself' throughout most of it, I enjoyed getting my feet wet with him. Drunk!Robb was TONS of fun to write, I must admit.

Comments are loved as always! Thanks to everyone for reading this story, and to everyone who read, liked, and/or offered concrit for my previous ones.

[Fanfic] Lies, or maybe Truth, pt. 2 [ Game of Thrones, Robb/Theon, M, complete ] F

2012-09-16T22:25:55Z

Fandom: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire Boy
Title: Lies, or maybe Truth
Pairing: Robb/Theon.
Word Count: ~7,900. Split into two even though I have no clue why because it's less than 10k, but OH WELL. HTML hates me.
Rating: M

Summary: Robb, Theon, and the illusion of intimacy.

STOP! Have you read part 1? If not, go back one post. XD

Robb's hand shot down to Theon's. Grasped him by the wrist. Yanked it out of his breeches, and tossed it to back down Theon's side.

"No," Robb said. Simply. With finality.

Those blue eyes looked at Theon cold and hard while the heat rushed and the blood drained and still his breath came in short gusts that billowed out in front of him in hazy blazes.

Shame burned down his spine. All other emotions gathered in his guts where they tangled and shook until he felt like retching.

"…As you will. Then we shan't." He straightened his back, and forced a casual smirk. "It makes no difference to me either way."

Robb looked slighted. It made Theon feel slightly vindicated.

Theon had expected Robb to do a number of things. What he ended up doing was lacing his breeches back up, adjusting his cloak, clearing his throat, and breezing past him with an unceremonious yet decidedly no-nonsense, "Follow me."

I have no choice, Theon knew, and so he lowered his head, bit his lip, and fell into step.

Warmth greeted them as soon as they stepped inside. Servants drifted past, greeted them with bows or curtsies. Robb nodded at each but said not a word, instead cloaking himself in silence as he went down stairs, bristled through heavy-set wooden doors, waltzed across the granite of the entrance hall, and marched deeper into the bowls of the castle while Theon retreated into his own head and gradually filtered out all external input to return to a place of mulish avoidance.

So much that, when Robb stopped, Theon nearly walked into his back. Stopping just inches from him, he blinked and let his gaze wander.

Granite floors. Flames popping in the brazier. Bookshelves hugging the walls.

Robb's bed chamber.

He wanted to ask what this was about. He wanted to smirk and make an easy joke that would lighten the atmosphere. He wanted to put up his barriers and defenses and go back to where he belonged.

He got to do none of those things, because he was grabbed him by the shoulder, twirled around, and pushed forward, forward, forward, until Robb had his wrists pinned against the wall, his body trapped between a hot body and cool stone, and Theon hopelessly, shamelessly, needlessly aroused.

Theon stared, completely taken aback.

The look on Robb's face roused the first wave of vertigo in Theon's ears.

"If we're going to do this," Robb said, voice grave, "we're doing it on my terms."

Theon's brain spun and spun while trying to come up with a suitable reply – any reply, a well-placed jape, a little dig, a cynical remark – but all thoughts froze in mid-dance when Robb's face snapped forward and mashed their lips together.

Breath caught at the back of Theon's throat. Heat shot into both into his face and down to his crotch. Thoughts tore free from their frozen lock long enough to scream and wail a mantra of, "he's kissing you, he's kissing you, he's -"

And then they, too, ground to a halt again and all wits left him in their entirety when Theon tilted up his head, grabbed Robb by the back of his neck, and yanked him into a thing too harsh and domineering to be a kiss. Heaving his weight forward when he ground open Robb's jaw, and subjected him to the dictatorship of his tongue.

Not for very long. Robb groaned, deep and low, and slammed Theon back against the wall for his trouble, yanking away control over this thing that was not a kiss and using his superior body weight to keep Theon in place while he shoved his tongue into Theon's mouth this time, large and wet and entirely without compromise.

Theon moaned. His body shuddered, his cock hardened, and his hips slid forward, grinding against Robb's heat, desperate for sweet, sweet friction. He heard someone's groan melt into moans and then slosh into something close to whimpers; it might have been him, but it didn'tsound anything like him. None of this was like him.

Robb forced open his mouth and pushed his tongue inside as far as it could go. (Not like him at all. Much too...) Robb's tongue rubbed against his, strokes inexperienced and a little too wet, but so full of enthusiasm and aggression that it made Theon's body sing. (Much too...

...submissive).

This tought would have angered him, if he had been able to muster up the mental resources to care.

"Robb." Air flooded his lungs when Robb let go off his lips to trail presses of his lips along Robb's jaw, neck, ear. "Robb. Robb, Robb, Robb," he said, like a mantra or a prayer or a curse.

Robb shivered against him and tore at his clothes, discarded Theon's cloak and buttoned down his doublet, and Theon lifted his arms where appropriate to help in the process until the air roused goose bumps on the skin of his exposed upper body.

As soon as Robb had finished his task, Theon tried a small jape, feeling dizzy by now. "Your future wife won't have any complaints."

Robb leaned in and claimed Theon's mouth again, bidding him to be quiet.

But Theon wasn't quiet, not nearly. Robb's stubble scratched against his face, his tongue dominated his mouth, flooded Theon's mouth with his taste (not sweet like some of these whores, no: earthier, spicier). Large, calloused hands ran across his chest and down to his waist and lower – and still Theon didn't stay quiet. He moaned. And then he laughed.

Unsurprisingly, Robb's broke apart to shoot him a quizzical look. "What's funny?"

Theon had no idea, not really. Except maybe for: "You do it like it's a battle." He laughed. "Remember what I said?" He reached down to press his palm against Robb's breeches again. "Think with your body. Think with this."

He earned a rugged moan for his efforts that went straight to Theon's cock. He held on to the opportunity for dominance and rounded on Robb, grin on his face.

Savagely, he tore open the laces on Robb's breeches and pushed down his hand to wrap it around Robb's cock. He rolled his fingers over the head before giving the shaft a sharp tug, and thought, A little thicker than mine, hmm.

Robb's torso slumped forward. "Oh, gods."

"Battlefields is where you'll need those. Bed chambers are no places for gods. Not the new ones and not the old."

It happened fast, so very fast that Theon's senses blurred and only cut into sharp awareness when he was well on his back, atop a bed, with Robb hovering above him.

Theon's hand still wrapped around Robb's cock, he gave it another tug, and then another, easily setting on the short, hard pumps he himself preferred when he tended to his needs by hand, and looked at Robb.

Robb's face looked nothing as much as someone who didn't quite know what he wanted, only that he wanted, and Theon didn't know why that was so exciting, only that it was.

"Your body betrays you," Theon said, willing a bastardized version of his trademark smirk onto his lips. "It's telling you, 'this is new, this is good, what did I wait so long for?' Look at your cock, Robb, look at it, all hard and red and slippery at the tip." He gave it a tight squeeze. "Your body says, 'I want release, I want to come, I want, I want, I want -''"

Near-violently, Robb tore away Theon's hand from his cock, face darkening. "Turn around."

Theon dropped his grin. "You can't mean -"

"You told me to think with this." Robb's cock ground against his hips.

To Theon, it felt sharp as a knife. "And it's telling you that its most latent desire is to bugger me in the arse?! I'm not a wench– "

Momentarily insecure, Robb soon found his footing. "And I am?" He ground again, as if for emphasis. "I thought you said you had no..." He trailed off to moan at the friction, then fumbled back for his voice to finish with, "... no virtue to speak of?"

Is this a game, I wonder? Because if it is, I'm losing, fast and hard. Though those are kind of unfortunate words at the moment. "I – "

I have never, Theon could not say.

Í'm scared, Theon could not say. Nor could he follow this with, But I kind of want to.

"I don't think you're man enough," is what he could and did say, infusing the words with just enough challenge and stubbornness to make Robb's nostrils flare, and the next thing he knew, Robb was tearing at his breeches and pulling them down to free his cock. Theon's embarrassingly hard cock, with the tip glossy in the fiery cast of the brazier popping beyond.

Robb gave it an unceremonious tug.

"Ah." Robb's movements were sloppy and inexperienced, but they felt better than anything had in recent memory. "Gods, Robb – "

"No religion in the bed chambers. It's not a battle," Robb reminded him, in the voice closest he ever got to sounding cheeky.

Theon wanted to kiss him, kiss him and not wrestle with their mouths, really kiss him now.

He didn't. Mostly because Robb got there first.

Tongues slid and fingers ran through hair, padded along jaws and necks and shoulders, and then somewhere along this sensory journey, Theon's brain proved too addled to take in many impressions but these: red lips bruised by kisses, half-hooded blue eyes, moans and gasps and skin sliding on skin, and then –

"Turn around," Robb ordered again, and this time, Theon did.

What would my father think of me, was the first thing that came to his mind when he settled on his stomach, naked from head to toe. Sudden, irrational panic pricked his spine, lingered at the base of it, then shot up again to tumble out of his mouth in a mad rush of, "You won't tell anyone. You can't."

Robb said, voice serious and humble, "I would never, Theon. As well you should know."

The worst aspect of this was that, in the rare moments when he was honest with himself, Theon really sort of did.

Robb gave him a weighty look. "I would never, because. Well." He hesitated. You're …."

Not this, Theon thought. Not this type of talk. Not yet. "I know what I am." He bowed his spine and threw a look over his shoulder. "I'm more concerned about whether you know what you're doing."

That put the discussion and Theon's temporary bout of some sort of male version of last-minute maidenly panic to rest, only to discover that Robb really sort of – well, didn't know.

After explaining to Robb that he couldn't just shove it in there without preamble – Theon might not ever have gone this far with another man, but he knew this much, at least – they each scrambled for something to ease the endeavor. Halfway through that, Theon ended up laughing at the sheer absurdity of their current situation: the both of them, one naked and the other barely keeping his modesty with a droopy doublet, rifling through a bed chamber looking for something so Robb could more easily bugger Theon in the arse. Some things in life just had to be appreciated for their inherent comedic value.

At long last, Theon presented Robb with a jar of scented oil he had swiped from under the bed.

Oddly and oddly endearingly, Robb blushed at that. "Present from Daemon Sand, when he visited a few years ago. I had forgotten – "

Theon cared much less about its origin story than the fact that it was there, so he just judged it with a, "That'll do," and kissed Robb some more until they were both hard and breathless again. Drunk on arousal by now, he didn't hesitate when he plopped down onto his stomach, didn't let shame get in the way when he dripped some oil onto his hand, and allowed him not to think of those eyes watching when he reached behind himself and eased a finger inside. And another.

It wouldn't block out Robb's erratic breathing, though. When Theon threw a look over his shoulder, he saw him propped up on his knees, the purple head of his cock appearing and disappearing from view with the strokes of his hand, face flushed so hard that the rosy tint extended down to his neck and what was visible of his chest.

Theon stumbled through a haze. "There." He slipped out his fingers. "You can figure out the rest, I trust."

After much fumbling and groping and hissing, Robb proved that he could, indeed.

Only, it wasn't at all like Theon had hoped. His muscles tightened in knobs of pure, unadulterated, intimately invasive agony. He hissed as if the breath had been punched out of him. He involuntarily squeezed and relaxed and squeezed again around him. Hot and unyielding, it pushed into Theon's body, a tiny bit at a time and then another, and another in what felt nothing so much as being ripped into – and yet Theon didn't want him to stop, not really (Why?), and when Robb dug his fingers into Theon's hips and asked, "Are you all right?" in a shaky voice that betrayed real concern, Theon endured.

Bravely. Theon looked over his shoulder to catch a whisper of heated blue eyes. Putting on his best re-enactment of his own infamous smirk, he said, "A maiden no more. It suits you well."

It really did: Robb looked good like this, dim light tracing fire in his auburn hair, eyes cast in shadows, and the blue of his eyes reduced to a fevered ring around the blown pupil, mouth opened in the lushest little 'oh,' he just – he just looked so –

Theon's and Theon's alone, in this moment only.

Their eyes met, and Robb's hips slowed. "... You're hurt."

He was, but no matter now. "I'm also a... Greyjoy – hah." He half-moaned, half-hissed while soldiering through the pain. "We... may get fucked. But when we do, we deserve the decency of getting fucked properly."

Then Robb's finally reached the point where he couldn't go in any deeper, and Theon kept very still. His muscles kept tightening and clenching around Robb as if trying to push him out; every little movement of Robb's sent flames of pain racing up his spine to bury in his brain and explode in bursts of sun-bright agony. Theon did his best not to cry out, but some mewls still passed, and he tried and tried not to shudder, but some tremors still made his muscles coil.

And Robb pulled out.

Irrationally, anger roused. "What are you doing?" Theon growled; in his world view, he had agreed to subject himself to the humiliation of being buggered by another man, so he was very well going to, and he was not going to be discarded mid-fuck like a whore you'd just found out was cavernous as a godswood. "I – hey – "

Robb grabbed him by the hips, spun him around, tossed him onto his back on the bed, raised one of Theon's legs to rest on his shoulder, and thrust back into him, all so fast that Theon had little chance to even get a single moment's reverie before Robb's cock was back in thereagain, and oh. Oh.

Oh.

"... Better?" Robb's breath breezed along the beads of sweat pearling on Theon's forehead. Blue eyes probed. Probed as if he could take apart Theon bit by bit, to study him, to learn, to see, to understand how things worked and where they had gone wrong so he could put him back together right.

Theon's body twitched helplessly. This, this new angle, he hadn't known it would feel like this, he had never, never, not ever, and it still hurt, it did, but something else mingled with that searing pain now, different and kind of, kind of, kind of good, and next thing he knew he was sort of rocking into Robb and had his legs spread like a cheap whore, and taking it like one, too.

If he had been any more coherent, he might have thought about how the position made him a little looser and therefore granted easier passage. Mayhaps even a darker, oft-silenced part of himself would've slipped through the pleasure long enough to whisper treacherous tales of blue eyes and smiles and Robb's face and Robb, just Robb.

But he wasn't coherent and so he thought of none of these things, only watched the way Robb moved, felt the way Robb moved, becamethe way Robb moved: faster now, better now, thrusts still over-eager and sloppy (and painful, here and there), but –

His eyes caught on Robb's lips, and he grabbed him by the back of his neck to yank him down to tangle their lips together in a kiss.

Or something that was not so much a kiss as it was this: clicks of teeth and desperate, uncoordinated smears of saliva and the thick heat of tongues, and then Theon had one plump upper lip caught between his teeth and Theon bit with no reason of cause but that he could and that he was drunk on sex and this and him.

"Ow." Robb broke the kiss with a wet smack, somehow managing this without interrupting the rhythm of his hips. "What did you do that for?"

"I don't know." Theon laughed, only to groan when Robb seemed to fuck him harder as if in retaliation. Theon tried to speak. "I... hnn … don't know. Nothing. Everything." He laughed, loud and abrasive and past the point of bloody caring, because he was on his back getting fucked by Robb Stark and this was in equal parts the most absurdly hilarious and thrillingly forbidden thing he'd ever heard, and he decided he could probably love it just for that.

Robb's lips quirked into a small smile before he propped himself up on his palms, took hold of Theon's waist to pull him closer and up, and continued his rhythm. "Is this... good?"

Even if it weren't, Theon decided, he probably wouldn't say so.

"Show-off," Theon said mock-annoyed. "You know very... hah. Very well." Every thrust dulled the pain a little more, until finally, by the hundredth or however many there had been by now, it had simmered down to a vague sense of discomfort nearly lost in the stream of pleasure. "Hnng."

A twitch, that was all Robb's smile was before it slid back into his face.

Mesmerizing, that face, Theon thought. So nakedly grateful and honestly yearning. Surprise flitted across Robb's features when he discovered how something new felt, as he learned what he liked, what it was like to share pleasure, to share intimacy or simply to fuck a tight hole.

It was then that Theon noticed the signs of Robb losing control and edging closer to his climax: his groans morphed into shameless moans, his grip on Theon's waist tightened until his nails bit into the flesh, and his thrusts grew hard and rough and desperate, not so much thrusting aspounding, in, in, in, in.

In, in, in, and Theon bounced with him, all rational thought forgotten, and they may have been at it for a moment or a fortnight, but then Robb was saying:

"I – soon. I am. Soon." His eyes shone down wide and questioning. "I – where?"

"In-inside," Theon said, and he would worry about why this turned him on later. "Do it –"

Everything narrowed down to the eye of the pulse. Robb fucked him with a few more thrusts, his hips snapping forward as though locked in the motion, harder, harder, harder, sloppier, more desperate, and still harder –

And then Theon felt it: a shudder, a pulse, a splash of wet somewhere deep inside him, all this just moments before Robb collapsed against him with a long drawn-out moan.

Robb's heart thudded hard; Theon felt the beats even through the clothes Robb still wore. Hot breath sped along Theon's sweat-slicked neck where it scuttled down his spine and made him shudder.

Painfully aware of his own cock still jutting up hard against Robb's hip, Theon reached down. A tug and then two was all it took before Theon finally, finally, finally stumbled into the bleach-white glare of orgasm himself. He spilled into his hand and onto Robb's hip, and almost as soon as he had, when his breathing had gone back to normal, a deep, bone-crunching tiredness swept up his entire body in a cocoon of sated warmth.

They remained like this for a few moments: Robb on top of him, still breathing heavily, softening and slipping out of him with a wet plop. Robb's release poured out thick and lazy, trickling down onto the bed.

Shooting an arrow was not like coming after all, Theon mused. Surprisingly enough, coming was most like coming.

Since Robb was starting to get heavy, Theon fidgeted. Taking the hint, Robb mumbled, "Sorry," and rolled off of him onto his back next to him where he collected his breaths until they simmered into something calm. When next Theon glanced over at him, he was Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell again all over again, poised and cool and controlled.

Except not. "I liked that." Robb rolled over to look at him, and paused. "Did you?"

".. Friendly advise, Robb: women do not usually appreciate this sort of question." Theon rolled onto his side and locked their eyes. Smirked.

"But you're not one," Robb said.

Theon couldn't argue with that. "... Hmm."

He shifted. So did Robb.

Awkwardly.

This was always the part Theon didn't like as much. The post-sex part. The part where you got up and left – or got up, paid, and then left – while going about your business and pretending like it had meant nothing, like it was just about thrusts and gyrating hips and the sweep of orgasms, and nothing else.

Sex was like wine: a great equalizer, a force that simultaneously allowed everything and stripped it of all meaning. Flushed professions of affections, heated kisses, caresses and private smiles and whispers; all were permissible as it happened and waved off after it had, brushed aside as having been brought on by the passion of wild rubbing bodies. An illusion of intimacy and little more.

Robb had been right and he'd been wrong, though Theon would never admit this to him or anyone else, because this wouldn't be any different. It wouldn't be.

So he put on his defenses in the only way he knew how, and smirked. "So, how does it feel to lose your maidenhead, sweet Roberta?"

Robb looked at him, nonplussed. "That's rich, considering who played the part."

Theon stifled a laugh. "And I played the part because I wanted to, not because I lacked the skill."

Robb frowned.

And that made Theon laugh, rich and throaty, and in that way that was both comfortingly familiar (the laughter of aeons past, when they had been children, and their games had not yet been corrupted, when Theon had still hoped), and then Robb smiled as well, and they might have been young again, for this one moment.

Then Robb said something Theon had never expected: "Then why did you lie?"

The words hung there, suspended in the air, tight like a physical weight.

Why, indeed.

Theon shuffled forward, and put one hand on Robb's shoulder. His lower body burned with pain, his nerves sang with vertigo, and exhaustion dripped through his bones, but none of that mattered now.

"Don't say a word," Theon said. "Let's just stay like this, for a bit."

Robb considered. "How long?"

"I don't know. A while."

Wordlessly, Robb placed a hand on Theon's waist and let it linger there and looked at Theon and Theon looked at Robb, just like he always had. Comfortable silence settled over them, one that didn't need words, only occasional grins and yawns.

And then, just like this, in the warmth of Robb's bed with their eyes locked together and that deep-seated, not entirely unpleasant pain burning low in his lower body, Theon allowed himself to hope again.

Just for now. Just for this little bit.

Where was the harm in lies, after all?

-------------

Author's Notes: Hi! This be my first GoT fic. :D And, eh, also the first piece of prose I've written in like half a year, ahahahaha. Ha.

Well I'm pretty nervous about posting this here as a fandom newb, so all comments are welcome and much appreciated! GoT is the first thing I've felt fannish over in a long, long time. I never thought I'd end up writing for Robb/Theon of all things first, but I guess it... sort of... happened........................

In any case, thanks for reading this far! :)

[Fanfic] Lies, or maybe Truth, pt. 1 [ Game of Thrones, Robb/Theon, M, complete ]

2012-09-16T22:09:19Z

Fandom: Game of Thrones
Title: Lies, or maybe Truth
Pairing: Robb/Theon.
Word Count: ~7,900. Split into two even though I have no clue why because it's less than 10k, but OH WELL. HTML hates me.
Rating: M

Summary: Robb, Theon, and the illusion of intimacy.

Shooting an arrow, Theon liked to think, was a lot like coming.

There would be a period of heightened concentration during which every little detail cut to sharp attention. The light would gleam on the arrow's polished shaft - or a pearl of sweat coalescing on flushed skin. Veins would pulse in the target's neck - or throbbing against a lover's. All of this followed by the moment of pressure mounting until muscles coiled, and the body was tightly strung, the heart beat so hard it was like to give, until finally –

Beside him, Robb loosed the arrow. It arced through the air in a soft, purring whoosh, sloped down in a way Theon could not mentally describe as anything other than 'pitiful,' exhilarated in its downward descent, and bore into the target's lower half with a low, thrummingthunk.

Theon felt his trademark grin stretch across his lips. "Not bad."

Robb's eyes dashed over to him, held Theon's for a beat, then fell away again, back to the target.

Wordlessly, Robb nocked another arrow, pulled back the string until the feather was to his ear, creased his eye brows in concentration. Loosed.

Better than the last, this arrow hit a few inches closer to the heart of the target. It might have looked impressive, if Theon's own hadn't been swarmed with arrows not a few feet to the right.

Robb's expression was controlled as always, betraying neither resentment nor jealousy when he said, "I'm not as good as you are at this."

Theon smiled. "Well. It might be that a wolf's paw is not entirely suited for this art of war." He lifted an arrow from his quiver with the ease of a shrug, nocked, marked, loosed and hammered it into the target, where it split apart another arrow already lodged there and knocked aside another. Tension seeped out of him sweet and thrilling, as did the boast. "Mayhaps it is the speed you lack. Or the dexterity."

"Dexterity," Robb repeated, as if tasting the word on his tongue. He paused, then nocked another arrow. "You would have the skill."

A smile played across Theon's face, just wide enough to lift him into the terra incognita that lingered between genuine and genuinely mocking. "Everyone's good for something. In my case, I'm even good at listening to orders in addition to shooting arrows. And fucking." His smile crossed the line. "I'm good at that, too."

"I wouldn't know about that," Robb said, his tone flat and even. "Well, I do know about the arrows. Not the other thing."

There had been a time, not too long ago, when Robb would've pinned him with a glare while the heat pulsed rosy-red beneath his cheeks at any mention of that word or any like it. Now, he had learned to just let it roll off his shoulders, leaving Theon floundering between reluctant admiration and the subtle dismay at having had the edges of one of his favorite japes salted and ground away like the spikes of a sea shell off the coast of his father's castle.

"...Aye, and you're not like to hear more of it." Theon's smile loosened when his mind returned to his earlier talk with Lord Stark. He flipped an arrow from his quiver and drew the bowstring to his ear, his eyes boring into the wide, gaping, lusciously red ring of the target ahead. "Stark honor and all that."

He loosed the arrow and shook his hair out of his face without even bothering to check where the arrow had landed; he'd learned to tell by the sounds they made upon impact long ago.

Robb knew what he was talking about, of course. Dry and witless and far too literal he may be, but his ears worked as well as anyone's, and he had a mind quick to apply itself to where questions of duty were concerned. "My lord father had no choice but to close down the brothel in Winter Town, Theon." Locks of auburn hair tumbled forward to splay across his cheekbones when he inclined his head to study his arrows.

Theon tried to mask his snort by clearing his throat. "Of course not. The fact that five fools so deep in the cups they were like to come out the other side got robbed down to their last coppers is cause for your father to enforce an involuntary act of chastity for everyone."

"Bannermen. They were my lord father's bannermen. Not fools."

"One does not necessarily exclude the other," Theon said, dipping into the pools of mockery before swiftly withdrawing. "Be that as it may, they were victims, whatever else they were." He loosed another arrow. "Would that I could just find the long-fingered wenches, I'd have more interesting targets to practice with."

"It will not kill you to go... without." Robb paused. "Until the matter has been settled. Surely."

An easy grin found its way back to Theon's lips. "No more than a lack of mead, one would think. Yet I'm fairly sure a fair few would contest you on that."

"No one I recall."

Theon sighed. "It's just a matter of preference. You prefer to keep honorable, I don't, that's fine with me. You prefer a sword, I prefer a bow, that's fine as well. Admittedly a lot of that comes back to skill, but -"

Robb turned to him, and his eyes barreled into Theon's. "You will not," he said, "criticize my lord father's decisions in front of me any further."

The words settled in between them, wrapped themselves in the drifting snow, and turned to ice and cold and silence. A few flakes caught in Theon's hair, melted, and ran down along his cheeks like wet fingers. They dangled down his chin and dropped down into the furs of his cloak. Scattered.

Theon tossed back his hair, slipped another arrow from his quiver and flung it at the target, and then another, and another, teeth grit tight, eyes narrowed, his hands reaching and pulling and loosing. Iron wailed against wood, again and again, thuck thuck thuck like drums, until at least, when he reached for his quiver to slip out another arrow, his hand grasped only air. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, lodged his signature smile onto his face, and looked over to the heir of Winterfell.

The Stark boy stood there calm and still, sheathed in shimmering snow and cast against the jaundiced glow of the torches lining the doors to the towers. A frown had etched itself across his features, drawn together his eyebrows, and forced his eyes into a small squint.

Blue, Theon thought absently. His eyes are very blue.

As were Theon's own. Though his own, he liked to think, were blue like the tossed-up waters in the iron bay. The Stark boys were not like Theon's and they weren't like Lord Stark's, either, who had eyes like frosty fog and icy sheens and all things winter and North, no.

His were neither sea nor frost but the sunlit blue of the rivers in his mother's home.

And yet. And yet.

Theon felt the fingers of resentment dig into the pit of his stomach. "Forgive me." The words tasted ashen, but he managed to sweeten them with the curl of a skeptical upper lip. "My lord."

Silence reigned. Theon looked at the Stark and the Stark looked at him like two animals testing where the water was wide and the rivers tore. Auburn curls clung to pale skin where the snow had landed, and blue met blue spun across two orbits of waiting.

Until finally: "I'm no lord yet," Robb said. His tone rang neutral now, the consonants softened.

"Just so. Not yet." Theon grinned.

Robb looked at him for a beat, then another. The cloak's fur that framed his face suited him, Theon thought; it made him look regal and well-muscled and even handsome, just like a little lordling should be.

Then Robb broke eye contact and turned back to the target, signaling Theon in not so many words that he considered the conversation flung aside, wrapped in the Stark colors of dispassion and brusqueness, until he decided to pick it up again, in a voice simple and clear, "And you were wrong, by the way. About your preference for archery over swordsmanship being due to skill." Blue met blue. "You would make for a good swordsman if you applied yourself more. No worse than I."

"Kind though you are, you forget that you're years younger than me and yet have always bested me." He laughed through the bitterness. "No match for a young wolf's strength, I fear."

Robb's eyes rested on him. "Is that what you think?"

Theon grew serious. "Well, yes. I came here as a boy of two-and-ten, with you barely past your seventh name day and yet you wielded the sword like the extension of your arm. You and your bastard brother both. Am I wrong?"

"No." Robb seemed to weigh his next words. "I think that you might want to ask yourself if you are no good swordsman because you lack the skill or..." He considered his words. "Because you never really wanted to be, is all."

Robb. Robb.

Robb, Theon had always thought, was just too perfectly positioned within the stream of his destiny. Certainly, at present Eddard Stark functioned as the rock onto which the Stark family leaned and relied, but who doubted that Robb would seamlessly take on those stony robes of responsibility? That sour-faced bastard that always side-eyed Theon might be smarter in some ways, but he'd long since accepted himself as ultimately inferior. The pretty Stark girl loved him as well, and the long-faced one might prefer her bastard brother but seemed loyal enough. The other two, though scarcely more than babes, were set to accept him as their lord father's heir as well. His future had been carefully laid out for him like marks on a high lord's battle map and sweetened with such promises of future songs that Theon was half-convinced that a future so excessively promising would find its natural closure in nothing but tragedy.

Worst of all, Theon himself could not deny that he, too, liked Robb Stark. Sometimes, he just wasn't sure how much. Sometimes, he was sure of so very little.

For example, not even why he sauntered over to Robb, slipped behind him, put a hand on his right arm and the other on his shoulder, and said, "Do you want to be better at archery?"

And when Robb's eyes widened at that, he thought he might know at least one of the reasons why he'd just done that: because little was more thrilling than completely upsetting a Stark's rigid world view. "I... yes. Yes, that's why I'm practicing."

Theon took another step closer. "Then I'll teach you."

Robb's face remained nonplussed. "Ser Rodrik teaches us, as our master-at-arms."

"So he does, but I'm the best archery teacher you're like to find." He bumped his hip against Robb's to straighten his spine and lifted his right elbow. "It wasn't me who taught you wrong posture, was it?"

Robb fit against his chest well enough that Theon found it easy to grasp his bow and yank it into position. "A bow is not a sword, Robb Stark."

"I know that." A hint of petulance crept into his voice. "Ser Rodrik has taught me what to focus on when loosing arrows. I need to lean into a longbow and bend it as I draw -"

"Has he taught you this?" Swiftly, he slipped an arrow from the quiver and drew it back with his hand placed atop Robb's, holding the arrow in position with the string strung tight. The arrow shook and kicked with tension.

"Can you feel it?" Theon only had to lower his head a little to position it right next to the Robb's pink ear. "Can you feel the tension? Hold it. Bear it." A smirk pulled up the corners of his lips. "Feel it mount inside you. Feel it reach toward the top -" Mock-casually, he added, "Does it remind you of anything?"

It hadn't, not yet, Theon could tell by the half-annoyed, half-quizzical look he earned.

Theon rolled his eyes. "You're not feeling it, then." He let go off Robb's hand, and, catching him off-guard, the arrow merely flopped and then nosedived into the cold, hard, snow-covered ground. "Another," Theon judged. "This time you nock it."

Mouth set into a tight line, Robb pulled back the string until the feathers nearly tickled his ear and Theon could see his arm shake in restraint. Before Robb could loose it, Theon put a hand on his shoulder.

"Now, you will not loose it until I tell you to." He leaned in. "Draw it back a little further... and a little more, and a little more. More. You need to stop when you can feel it. Too far and you'll tear the string, too little and it won't come rushing at your enemies with the force of twenty punches like you want it to. It is what you want. The point... are you ticklish?"

Robb had squirmed away from Theon's mouth (which, he noticed just now, had gotten close to his neck), and shot him a withering look as a reply. "No."

Theon laughed, low and guttural and entirely amused. "Well, excellent then." With a smirk, he leaned in even closer, until his lips were a hair's breadth away from the pasty white skin of Robb's neck. He allowed his eyes to linger for a second, to trace the lines of where his shoulders let to his neck and up to where his auburn curls brushed against a bobbing Adam's apple. "Feel it," he ordered, his voice dropping. "Feel how it mounts. That tension, that delicious tension. Don't think with your head, think with your body. Your instincts. They tell you what they need. They know." And lower still his tone fell, barreling past the levels of suggestive and deep into the pits of sultry. "Ache for release, little Robb.Ache for it -"

A shudder sluiced through Robb's body. Theon could feel it, starting low at the small of his back and slitting upwards, seizing his shoulders, tensing his neck, making his Adam's apple throb.

And then, Robb loosed the arrow.

It blurred in the air, a mere whisper of iron and wood and feather, then drilled into the target with enough force to nearly make it topple, and Theon thought, yes, yes, he's got it now, he has, before he even had time to consider why exactly this was cause for celebration, and Robb's body slackened against his in time with the release of a long, drawn-out sigh.

"...See?" Theon chuckled, and watched a curl of Robb's hair flutter in his breath. "You've figured it out, haven't you?"

The blush beneath Robb's cheeks pulsed with all the evidence Theon would ever need.

"So you have," Theon said, amused. "Well, I shouldn't be surprised. In siring all his whelps, Lord Stark has admirably proven that you northmendo know what goes where -"

The glare that Robb threw at would have burned, if it hadn't been ruined by the fact that a tint of blood red stood high on his cheeks. "Quiet, Theon."

He laughed. Loud and fully, puffing gusts of breath.

Irritated, Robb took another step toward him. "Quit it." Too used to being obeyed within his own household, he proved himself suitably unskilled at managing derision. "I said -"

"I apologize." Another chuckle, but he reined it in when he caught Robb's look. "I meant no slight – well, not this time, anyway -" Another glare. "No, in all seriousness – it's just." Theon smirked, and said, more gently, "You've never, have you?"

Robb's nose twitched. "You've just... seen me shoot that arrow."

"And you've just realised that this isn't what I meant," Theon said, amused. I like him. I do, gods be good. "Don't insult me by pretending you don't know."

The snow continued to fall, the cold kept creeping up on them, and a Stark kept his stone-edge silence.

"It's not any of my concern, in truth," Theon allowed with an easy smile and a shrug of his shoulders. "I'm pretty sure none of you have, not even Jon. All the tales of their lot being lusty and devious notwithstanding."

Robb severed the eye contact then, and poised himself back into archery position. "If you already knew, why ask?"

Because your reactions are half the fun of it. "Call me a dare-devil, but I try not to make assumptions. Not too many, that is."

Robb fell silent at that. Shrugging another arrow from his quiver, he nocked and loosed it in fast succession, foregoing the wait and the ache and the release, the sweet and sinful point of no return. Robb's mouth thinned into a tight line of dismay when he missed.

"…. I can't get married yet. It's not useful or desirable until such time as my house decides that it is. Even if that may not yet make me a man grown in your eyes or anyone else's."

Theon laughed, not unkindly. "You don't have to marry whores, Robb. Take it from me: I'd be married half a hundred times over."

Avoiding Theon's eyes, Robb gazed straight ahead, shoulder square, spine straight, mouth perfectly poised. "I'm not interested."

"Why? Because they taste of cold hard coin and not sweet and salty love?"

Robb shifted his weight, and finally raised his eyes to meet Theon's. "Are you mocking my convictions?" Lacking real accusation, his voice came instead tinted with a dash of curiosity. "Is it really that important?"

"No, and aye," Theon said, and realised that he was speaking the truth. "Maybe."

"I've been taught that it is improper to lie with a woman you have not yet married," he said with all the grandeur of Stark conviction. He grew distant for a second, then caught himself. "I have responsibility to live up to expectations, so wait, I shall. A woman's virtue is to be cherished."

Coming from any Stark other than Robb, it would have annoyed Theon. From Robb, it seemed like part of a game. "Only a woman's virtue by the word of the old gods, you say? So my own has been preserved. I shall rest easy at night."

For a moment, Theon fully expected to be met with another glare of indignation or perhaps a sneer of annoyance.

Instead, Robb cracked one of his rare smiles.

Robb's smiles, ah.

They were never like the firecracker grins of his own. They were not the sour little half-grimaces Jon would give him, and they weren't the poised and perfectly-studied little squints of Lady Catelyn's, either; they were something else: small and whimsical and as honest as they were subdued. No one but Theon noticed Robb for his smiles, he was sure. No one but him.

The private moment stretched and cloaked around them. Robb looked at Theon and Theon looked at Robb, eyes fused together, environment blocked and scattered, the burn of the snow soothed. Titles and names and history finally, finally forgotten.

He found himself smiling back, taking a step toward him, and saying, "Mayhaps you and I should," before he could even think if through, before he had even fully formulated what he'd meant to say in his head, but once he'd said it, his skin cooled in doubt.

Robb didn't comprehend. Eyes fixed on Theon's, he asked, "Should what?"

It was too late. Much too late. He could probably backpedal now, laugh it off, come up with something unrelated, or even just drop it, but he'd been seized by the idea, the one idea that had waltzed into his head unannounced and hammered images into every corner of his head like a series of well-timed arrows, and they were –

Too compelling. Too perfect.

He walked over to Robb. The snow popped beneath his feet. His breath shimmered in the air and mingled with Robb's when he had gotten close enough. Smiled. "You and me. Perhaps we should do it with each other."

Somewhere behind them, a crow cawed. The wind picked up, bit into Theon's skin, and slid beneath his cloaks.

Robb just stared as incomprehension scattered to surprise which rapidly bowed out to embarrassment seasoned with anger. "Do not jape, Theon."

Theon took a step closer. "I wasn't." Another step, until his nose picked up on Robb's scent again. "Why shouldn't we? I'm not a woman. I don't have any virtue left you can still rob me of." Part of it must have been his bout of abstinence, but most of what aroused him right now was the idea in itself, so deliciously wrong and wrongly delicious. "I've shared pleasure with men before. Not often, mind, they're not my preference. But just because a man prefers cakes does not mean he will turn down bread -"

"Why would you compare this to food?"

"Because both are urges that must be met, one way or the other." He leaned in, until Robb's eyes dominated his vision; large and wide and framed by thick dark lashes. "You know it. I know you do. You've touched yourself. You've been touching yourself for years, haven't you? I could do it for you, that's all."

Color shot into Robb's face. Visibly fumbling for words, he eventually settled on a pressed, "Here?"

The grin on Theon's face grew. I have him now, I know it. I have him. "So you do want to."

Robb frowned. "I didn't say that."

"Not in so many words, no."

Robb looked on the brink of annoyance. "May I remind you that putting words into other people's mouths doesn't make them so?"

"Aye, but tell me: would you ask for the price of a hen if you weren't the least bit interested in buying it?"

Robb looked almost offended. "But you're not a hen."

Coloring aside, Robb was a Stark after all. Too bloody literal. Here they were, one propositioning the other for casual sex, the other artfully putting any doubts about the Starks' lack of wits to rest, and having a conversation about the politics of buying livestock.

Theon rolled his eyes, and took a final step forward, placing a casual hand on the front of Robb's breeches. "I think I've heard enough about hens."

Robb's spine stiffened, jaw tightly locked, frown etched into his features.

Rubbing his palm against the bulge, he felt Robb's cock give a satisfying little kick upon being touched. Theon ducked his head to ghost his lips along that cut, stubbled jaw line. "Don't you want me to touch you, Robb?" Slowly, so very slowly, he pulled on the laces. Slipped a finger up below Robb's clothing until the fine hair on his belly tickled his fingers. Let it wanter down, down. "Do you want me to touch your cock?" Theon's voice grew rugged with his own mounting excitement. "Do you want me to make you come?"

His hand reached lower, brushed against curls of hair. He went lower and lower, and his head started to spin, and then he felt it, hot and half-hard against his hand and Theon tore his face from Robb's jaw to look him in the eye.

"Do you, Robb Stark?"

(continued here)

Merry holidays everyone! And original fic. ^^;

2011-12-29T23:14:28Z

Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year! (Well, we’re almost there, so... it counts, right?). School's out, so I'm just at the beginning of a two month winter break. Most of which will probably be spent sitting on my ass all day playing Skyrim. But, well. Fandom isn't really all that fun for me these days, for various reasons. (Not leaving entirely, though!).

I didn't manage to write any specific Christmas fics this time, but I do have something to post, an original fic drabble. It's a drabble set in Aki and my original verse (brief background under cut!), feedback is loved, and etc. etc. I also think that Aki is posting another drabble in the same verse with the same characters today, but they're independent of each other. Chronologically, this one takes place before Aki's drabble, but both can be understood without the other.

(untitled demonslayer fic)
Rating: T, no warnings
Word count: 2,332
About: A rogue demon slayer and his new ~~pet~~ companion, a half-breed fire demon. A prequel to the actual story. (...Yes, we both wrote drabbles for this verse and waited to upload them more or less simultaneously. That's how we roll.)

Background: This verse doesn’t have a proper name yet, although we usually refer to is as ‘demonverse’ -- never have it be said we weren’t original, after all. In this verse, the apocalypse was brought on by the sky cracking open and demons starting to walk the earth, along with a series of natural disasters that decimated much of the human population. The church took the chance to seize political power in the ensuing chaos, so the world is basically a post-apocalyptic second Middle Ages, set on the North American continent -- with guns, cars, and electricity. The main character, Alistair, is a demon slayer, which is an illegitimate profession in direct rivarly with the church-sanctioned exorcists.

It's an idea that sprouted off from something that should have been a demonslayer Code Geass AU, but then mutated and grew into its own, until we decided to make it an original story, with its own verse and rules. It was originally Aki’s idea, but we’ve since expanded the verse together. It's proooobably not hard at all to spot which Geass characters the characters originally were, but I think they're growing into their own? I hope.

- xx -

Before the sky cracked open and the world ended, there were stories.

It wasn’t so easy to read them, nowadays, but everyone knew that there used to be more: stories about gods and goddesses and myths different from the ones signed into state law four months and twenty-three days after the world had ended.

Alistair was probably one of the few who knew any in great detail. His mentor had loved them, too, and so they’d read some together, huddled in sun-lit meadows or stuffy libraries with her lilting voice carrying the stories of Zeus or Kali or Thor.

Now, right before him, an amber blaze crackled in the fireplace and cast a light onto the boy’s face that couldn’t match the flames within, and Alistair wondered where in this whole world of lost stories this boy could fit in.

Alistair pressed his knuckles against his lips, caught in his own orbit of waiting. He glanced out through the window at the moon dangling low in the belly of the sky, then glanced back at the boy. In part, he watched for tell-tale signs: for claws to thrust through the skin where soft fingertips had been, for a ripped spine to pierce his back, or perhaps for muscles to tense and strain against the silver chains wound around the boy’s wrists.

Nothing of the sort happened; the boy’s breath rose and fell, and Alistair’s mind returned back to the stories of the past, recollecting names to mull over them, to try them on to the boy like a new wardrobe, discarding the ones that didn’t fit and modifying, tightening or shortening the ones that seemed to match.

Then the boy stirred.

Alistair’s attention snapped back into sharp focus. His hand tightened around his crossbow, and his spine tensed. The weight of his twin revolvers tucked inside his holsters pressed against his thighs.

The boy’s eyes opened.

For a moment, Alistair didn’t know if it was the shadows of the fireplace that cast the fire into his eyes, or if it was his own eyes, but then --

Moving his head to the side, the boy’s eyes dipped into where the fire had thrown shadows, and Alistair saw.

He swallowed audibly, and leaped to his feet, approaching the boy. Leaning down, even at this careful distance, he could still feel the heat radiating off of the boy’s skin.

Gathering his courage, Alistair met the boy’s eyes, and greeted him with a somber, “You understand English, don’t you?”

Those dizzying eyes looked back up at him, and Alistair couldn’t decide if it was like looking at the fire that nourished or glaring right into the eye of Hell itself. Thick black eyelashes cut against the boy’s bronze skin when he blinked. Fiery amber infused with sparks and crackles cradled a black pupil, and both eyes were lit from within like a gemstone held against the light. Confusion broadened the boy’s face. “...What?”

“I knew you’d say that.” Alistair sighed, and ran a hand through his shaggy black hair. “Whether it’s humans, demons, or half-breeds like you, no one ever gets more original. ‘What?’ they say.”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t... I don’t -- ” He trailed off, and his head whipped up to his wrists and the silver chain wound around them, and a frown cut itself into his features.

“Don’t,” Alistair commanded, “try to free yourself. See that up there?” He pointed to the ceiling. “Bucket of water, right up there. If you break these chains, you’re getting doused. Not so pleasant for a pyropath like yourself, is it?”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he shrunk away from the bucket hanging up overhead. Shrunk away like he was afraid of it, for only a moment.

It didn’t last, and Alistair had known it wouldn’t. It wasn’t in demonic blood to submit so easily.

“Let me go.” The boy’s voice strained in his throat, and his wrists strained against his chains. “Let me -- ” His voice broke, panicked, then finished with a wheezing, “ -- go.”

The heat pressed against Alistair’s face like a gust of desert wind, only more sinister -- suffocating, like it stole oxygen. The chains and the bed creaked, the bed posts rattled against the carpet, but none of that was what captured his attention most.

Gold blazed behind the boy’s eyes, dyeing the pupil brown, brighter and brighter --

“You can’t break those chains,” Alistair said. He noted with relief that his voice still managed to sound calm. “Titanium. Only known material to resist demon strength. Besides -- ”

The boy’s skin lit up even brighter and cast a shimmering mantle of light around him -- until something sizzled, and Alistair realized that he was pulling on the chains enough to tilt the bucket that Alistair had connected to the chains on the floor.

“Water. Yeah.”

The drops fell down like rain, and sizzled on the boy’s skin when they hit it. He groaned, let out a sound that was less than human. The bed ached with the force of his weight slumping back.

Their eyes met once again, and Alistair’s grey stare was met with sunset-colored confusion.

“...Good.” Alistair licked his lips, and took a deep breath. “You calmed down. Good.”

“The -- the water.” The boy stared up ahead, at the dank bottom of the bucket, and fear pulled artfully across his features. “Why does it --”

“It comes in handy,” Alistair said. The water couldn’t harm the boy -- all it could do was weaken him, bring his strength back to a more human level, and maybe give Alistair the precious few seconds he needed to fumble for his crossbow and pierce the boy’s heart in time. The boy didn’t need to know this yet.

Their eyes met, and everything else fell away. The bucket strung high atop the boy stopped swinging. The crack of the fire devouring the logs dulled.

Voice dropping to an almost reverent whisper, the boy asked, “Who...are you?”

“Alistair Adamov.” He pulled up the corners of his mouth into a small smile. “Can you answer the counter-question?”

“I...” The boy paused. “I...”

“Right.” Alistair nodded. “Right.” After a brief appraisal, Alistair met his eyes again. “You’re an approximately sixteen-year old male. East Asian. Chinese perhaps?”

The boy shook his head, and his eyes dulled to shimmering champagne. “What?”

“Right, well, judging by the accent, you are.” Alistair sighed through a lopsided smile, and straightened his back. “Of course it’s all up to me to tell you that you’re a half-pyropath. In other words.” He leaned in closer then, enjoying the dramatic ingenuity of his act, and said, “A fire demon.”

Flames licked at the boy’s pupils when he twitched in panic, with the bucket up ahead rewarding them both with the sloshslosh sound of moving water. “...Sorry.” His eyes shifted along the color spectrum toward a warm amber brown. “I didn’t mean -- I didn’t mean to almost attack you.”

A part of Alistair wanted to comfort the boy. Most of him just wanted answers. “Is that so?” The bait twitched beneath the high arch of his voice.

The boy bit his lower lip, but didn’t look away when he asked,. “...Are you going to kill me?”

Alistair made sure to tuck all his emotions behind the mask of his poker face, folded them neatly into place, then raised an elegant eyebrow at the boy. “Do you think I should?”

Strength returned to the boy’s body, and he looked at Alistair. “...If I’m dangerous.” Something in the boy’s eyes hardened. “Then...yeah, maybe. Isn’t that why I’m here? You said I was a demon.”

Alistair leaned in closer, until he smelled the boy’s scent: burned fabric, spicy sweat, fire. “I am a demon slayer, yes.”

“Well, then.”

The silence reigned between them thick and bitter.

Alistair thinned his lips. Pulled one of the guns out of its holster. Aimed it down, right between the boy’s eyes. Said, “Bullet right into the forehead. You might be a half-breed, but you’d be hard pressed to survive a bullet that pierced your frontal lobe and skewered through your brain at this distance.”

The brilliant iris drifted amidst planes of white with the widening of the boy’s eyes.

Alistair tilted his head. “Besides - ” he clicked off the safety, “ - one thing the Church is still in tragic need of understanding is that your lot is just as...mortal.”

The boy’s eyes relaxed, contracting back around the pulsing iris. Something flashed inside them, quick and bright, like sunlight on a shining crossbow’s sharpened bolt.

What flickered in his eyes was something Alistair didn’t know how to describe as anything other than resignation.

The boy’s lips twitched up into a smile that was nothing so much as fond. “...Okay.” The smile made him look years younger. It smoothed the creases of maturity along his forehead, broadened his cheeks, and made his eyes shine like liquid.

The gun weighed down Alistair’s hand, making the muscles in his biceps protest. The sound of his own blood squelched in his ears.

Alistair stared into the boy’s eyes while the seconds ticked past. One, two, three, ten, a few dozen.

He lowered the gun slowly, and watched as something in the boy’s eyes shifted with the realization.

The boy looked more surprised now than he had before. “You’re not killing me?”

Alistair considered making a snappy comment about how the easiest answer is usually the right one, little grasshopper, but only shoved his gun back into its holster. Running a hand through his hair, he said, voice calm and steady, “No.”

“But you just said -- ”

“I know what I said, thank you.” Alistair rolled his eyes. He hesitated, and edged into the vault of truth with a low, “I knew someone like you once. A half-demon, that is.”

The boy remained silent.

“He...was good.”

The boy opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut. A thin, tiny smile swept across his face, plucking up the corners of his mouth and flooding his face with a sudden warmth very different from the physical press of his heat. “Then I want to be like that. I want to be -- ” He sat up a little, and rattled his chain. The bucket up ahead tipped over, and the splash of water sizzled audibly against his skin. “Agh.”

“There is no learning curve to life,” Alistair said dryly.

The boy stopped struggling against the chains, staring up at the bucket up ahead. “...I don’t remember much from before now, but I think I don’t like water.”

Alistair smiled a little, got up, walked over to the window, opened it, and let the noises from below rush into the room all at once.

He looked out at the city beyond, at the flickering neon lights that were off as often as they were on; most of the electricity in New Galilee seemed to go toward powering the ubiquitous red crosses flashing high atop churches. Their combined shine pulsed back at him like a ghost cemetery.

Cities had probably not been anything like this, before the world ended. People had stories now -- the tin-can wielding man in the street corner over there probably had one, and so did the girl hurrying past -- but they were tiny, tiny threads of story bound together by the only the master web.

There weren’t any stories about half-demons with human souls anymore.

Behind Alistair, the boy stopped struggling against his chains. The sound of breathing swept through the air, low and intimate.

Alistair shut the door, turned around, and looked at him. “Zhu Que. ‘Zhu’ for short,” he said, testing how the words formed on his tongue, how they tasted. Mentally trying them onto the boy in front of him like they were pieces of fine clothing, and finding that they fit.

(They had read about Zhu Que and the other celestial beings of Chinese mythology once, huddled in her attic where the air smelled of mothballs and herbs and history. He remembered the way the tip of her finger slid across the worn painting of a red bird while she had pronounced the name. Vermilion bird of the South. Associated with fire. Wings laced with gold and red and orange like autumn clothes.)

(He hadn’t seen much of them, when he’d found the boy ripping apart raw meat behind the bushes, but the glimmer on his back had been --)

Alistair shook his head to rid himself of the memory. His lips quirked into the brightest smile they had all day when he looked into the boy’s -- Zhu’s -- eyes. “Sound good?”

Zhu turned out to be docile when Alistair loosened his chains; only cracking his shoulders, grimacing, then falling back into the pillows with a sigh and the most grateful smile Alistair had seen in years.

The light beneath Zhu’s skin slowly dulled in his sleep. It made him look human.

Alistair remained by his side for maybe a few moments longer than he should have before he got up to splash his face with water in the bathroom.

He looked into the mirror. His grey eyes were smudges amidst the pale oval of his face, tired and battle-worn and older than his twenty-one years, but he thought he might have seen a light there. Not the supernatural glow of Zhu’s, but something else.

Before the sky cracked open and the world ended, there were stories. This boy wouldn’t change it.

Would he?

[Fanfic] other boy Chapter 2 [ Code Geass, Suzaku/C.C., M ]

2011-11-30T06:22:47Z

Fandom: Code Geass
Title: other boy
Pairing: Suzaku/C.C.
Word Count: 11,000 / 20,000 overall
Rating: NC-17 for sex, language, mature content, angst, etc, etc

Summary: There was The Boy, and then there was the other boy. Dysfunction, co-dependency, affection. A happy ending? Possibly. Post-series.

Chapter 1

( Link to ff.net because it's too long to post on LJ, and also I am lazy )

animu review tiemz

2011-11-25T09:39:36Z

In the interest of my being fucking bored out of my mind, but too spiritually drained to warp that boredom into creativity and actually fucking write, I figured I'd do something somewhat productive but still-not-so-productive-as-to-threaten-my-last-few-brain-cells-cowering-at-the-back-of-my-skull, and after much deliberation (and the survival of a 3-hour Macroeconomics class), I decided to review the anime I'm currently following.

So. I am currently following Persona 4, Chihayafuru, Guilty Crown, and Mirai Nikki. I watched all the first episodes of this season's animu, and deemed those four good enough to follow (or, in some cases, lulz enough to follow), but I think I might download the batch for Un-Go and/or Fate/Zero after they've finished airing. Not sure.

In any case, impressions and review for P4 under cut. I was going to include impressions for the other three as well, before I realized I was really fucking tired, so maybe later.

So, like a year ago or so, I played this game on my PS2, and gushed to everyone who would listen about how much I loved that fucking game. I still do, and the Persona series is by far my favorite series of video games now. If I were to experiment with another fandom (... although I really don't think I will), it would probably be for P4. But I've always been a bit sad at the fact that the fandom was so inaccessible to a lot of my friends, because it is a PS2 game and a lot of them didn't have the console.

Well, now there's the P4 anime, suckers. :D Which pretty much follows the game exactly, so it's a perfect substitute for all your poor suckers without a PS2. Oh sorry, was I too harsh? Don't hate the players, hate the game, yo! Except not this one, cuz this one is awesome.

Why's it so awesome, you sweet little grasshoper ask? Well... first of all, P4 is something of a Scooby-Doo-like murder mystery; you solve murders and look for the culprit by going into televisions and fighting monsters there. Hey, why not, right? It makes sense, I promise. But the murder mystery isn't really what makes it so good.

Most of all, it is awesome for being mature enough to dig a little deeper into the human psyche than most games, while still retaining a fresh image, a bright color palette, and lots of humor. Persona 4 basically tells you this: "Accept your true self," and it does this quite literal by having the characters face their 'shadows' (which are parts of their psyche that they're trying to repress), and then literally fight them until the character accepts it as a part of themselves. The shadows can be quite colorful....

... Yes, this is an actual scene from the actual anime. And yes, he is fabulous. The game has always been notable for me for treating sexuality and gender identity better than most other youth-oriented entertainment from Japan. (Which, in all fairness, is probably because it's one of the few I've seen to deal with these issues at all, but, details). We have one character who is confused about his sexual orientation and one character who might be transsexual; neither issue is just implied, but full-on dealt with.

The game also has the most refreshing, cutest cast of characters. It seriously might have the most adorable band of misfits I've seen since the Scoobie gang of Buffy glory. They're all well-developed, they're all adorable, and they all play off each other well. The anime retains that, and even adds adorable bits of interaction that weren't in the game. Overall, the characters feel as cute, lively and well-developed in the anime as they did in the game. See, I have completely valid, cerebral reasons for liking this game!

... Okay, and it has school boys with gay subtext for each other, but HELLOOOO, this is me you're talking about. All my favorite fandoms have school boys with suspiciously suspicious subtext. It goes without saying that this one has, too. "Yina likes it, so it must be gay," is like saying, "You're Jesus, so you must be holy," or, "It's a kitten, so it must be cute," or, "Yina, you must seriously stop with your metaphors," except maybe not that last one. Cause-and-effect, bitches.

... To get to the meat of this review-thing now, now that we've established that Persona 4 is god and YOUR LIFE WILL NEVER BE COMPLETE IF YOU HAVEN'T PLAYED IT (ahem), how does the anime hold up?

... Well, compared to the game the pacing is quite rushed. This isn't really surprising, since they're attempting to squeeze an 80 hour game into 26 anime episodes. (Granted, you can probably finish it in less than 80 if you plow through the dungeons, but the point is that this game is longer than your mom's moustache).

So, it is rushed. The anime seems to hurry from plot point to plot point, and sometimes glosses over important turning points without giving them the time to leave an emotional punch. Some of the characterization was changed slightly; some of it good, some not so much. Maybe most damning of all, THEY CUT SOME OF MY BELOVED GAY SUBTEXT. The game is much gayer. This is serious, folks. So, I'm tempted to subtract huge points just for that. Worse, I feel like they kind of abused Kanji's shadow (the sweet gentleman with the crotch full of roses above) for cheap laughs when in the game, Kanji's complex was treated much more seriously. Also, the animation fucking sucks compared to a lot of the prettier anime this season, but I'm the last person to care about animation quality when pitted against much more important factors like plot and characterization, so I don't consider it much of an issue, though it is, at times, distracting.

So much for the bad/disappointing points. Now, what's good about the anime?

It's... still P4, really. It still has retained much of the elements I originally loved: the friendship between the Scoobie members, most of all. The plot. The heavy allusions to Jungian psychology. The basic message: find who you are, and live up to it. I have a hard time thinking of a more important message to give to teenagers. There are also a few things that I think the anime does better than the game: while in the game, you control the main guy, and much of the story is centered around you as the player, in the anime, we get a bit more interaction between the other characters; even ship tease for two supporting characters that, by and large, didn't have much ship fodder between them in the original game. They gave the main character (who is a silent protagonist in the game), a personality, and an entertaining one at that; we finally have a deadpan snarker as a main character. Much of the original soundtrack is retained, and even some of the game mechanics made it into the anime. It's by and large a quality product, with the pacing being the single biggest strike against its favor.

... I'll be honest, the pacing issue is bad enough that I can't really wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone. I feel it would have been better to cut a lot of the content, but treat the stuff it didn't cut with way more attention than this. Hedo-chan, who I ~~bribed~~ recommended the series to seems to enjoy it, though, and she's new to the series. At this point, (8 episodes of 26 aired), it's also unlikely to improve drastically in this department.

... However, have I mentioned that this game/anime has gay bath houses and crossdressing? Because it does. It has GAY BATH HOUSES and crossdressing!!

... And that, I think, is the appropriate time to end this impression/review thing... thing.

[Fanfic] Passion Pizza Chapter 4 [ Code Geass, Suzaku/Lelouch, T-destined-for-M ]

2011-09-24T00:58:15Z

Fandom: Code Geass
Title: Passion Pizza
Pairings: Suzaku/Lelouch, eventually.
Word Count: 10,500 this chapter, 35,000-ish overall.
Rating: T so far.
Summary: Lelouch promises to no longer be stingy with C.C.'s pizza expenses when he meets the local pizza boy. Suzaku/Lelouch, pizza boy!AU. WIP.

To Read: ( on ff.net here )

I'M ALIVE

2011-07-09T23:15:55Z

I'M ALIVE!!!!!!!!

Um, still alive and still in fandom and everything, guys. Just got eaten by RPing and before that, it was final exams... and then I start work on Tuesday, so I'm pretty much all over the place right now, eh....
Fic updates will come eventually, though. And yes, I am fine! Even though the kink meme pisses me off a bit lately, lol. Regardless. I'll be around, and perhaps try to post a bit more often here. I'm really on plurk much more often these days (every day?). Some of you should consider getting a plurk!! Or tell me your plurk address if you have one and haven't told me yet. I find plurk such a more convenient method to keep up with friends than LJ.

.... Um. Yeah. *scratches back of her head in embarrassment*

RL and lolkinks.

2011-04-25T12:00:39Z

First things first:

Yina = now single.

...You know what that means, guys...?
...
...

SEX SEX ALCOHOL SEX SEX PARTY DRINKING SEX FANFIC RPING SEX SEX LOL.

(I'm serious. Doesn't still mean I'm sort of heartbroken. It was break-up over text message, too. Can't take the distance, don't see each other enough, blah-di-blargh-bluh. The usual, is all I can say. >_< ... I'm... bitter (and jumped Aki about this on Google Chat - sorry hon lol), but I'm... better. I'll live. I have other interests now, and my (now) ex isn't the center of my life. I have school, I have my friends, I have my family, I have my fandom - all of these things are important, and some of them are more important than he ever was. But. Sucks getting dumped.

...Oh well.

SEX VODKA SEX PARTY SEX VODKA VODKA CLUBS CLUBS LOLLOL. /sighs.

...In the mean time, have a meme. It's always distracting to talk about sex. Thank the universe for the existence of LOLsex. Seriously.

Taken from quite a few people on my f-list. Things I've written in bold. (Also, the conclusion will invariably be, "LOL YINA IS SURPRISINGLY VANILLA." Yes, I am. I'm surprised, too. XD Things I've written in bold).

Creature Fics: ONLY IF IT'S MERLOUCH LOL umm. I'd say, generally, no: animals/bestiality aren't really my thing (...ALTHOUGH I'VE WRITTEN PORN WITH A DOG IN A HUMAN BODY LOLOLOL), and while I don't mind, for example, a boy with neko ears and a tail, it's not really anything that particularly interests me, either. If it's creature fic, I prefer a plot actually (because having to work out a difference in species is interesting rather than a turn-on to me, usually).

Mpreg: ...Only if Charis writes it. LOL. Nah, this one's not really my thing, really; I can't really get beyond the suspension of disbelief enough to buy that one in a serious fic - but, if it's done for the lulz, and a fic acknowledges its own crack to some degree (like Charis's), then I can like it. I won't take it absolutely seriously (BECAUSE LOL PREGNANT MEN), but it's not really a squick, either.

Slave, BDSM, S/M: ... squick if non-consensual, not particularly interesting to me when it's consensual. I really prefer equality in my sex fics... sex between equals and yeah (this explains why two of my OTPs are L/Light and Suzaku/Lelouch, because I think of those ships as very well-balanced in all aspects of power dynamics, etc). So yeah... noooo.... (also see: LOL YINA IS MORE VANILLA THAN YOU WOULD'VE THUNK).

Age difference: … Okay, guilty of that one. KIIIIIINK. GUILTY of differences in general, not just age (also: race, coloring, nationality, built - not so much height though because it tends to freak me out when one person is twice the size of the other or something). But, there's a limit to it: 1-10 years is hot, maaaybe up to 15 is hot, too, but 16 or more really, really depends on the pairing. I have a completely inappropriate fetish for older woman/younger man pairings, though. Like wow.

Blood-play: .... Okay, yes. Mayyybe. Have written this twice (blood-drinking, uh), and... but it isn't really a MAJOR KINK or anything. Also, this was all written during my LOLKINKY phase before I entered Geass fandom (after which I've really surprisingly mellowed down); nowadays I'm not sure how to even tackle that.

Underage (loli/shota/chan): Ah. That's a complicated one. I have obviously written it (LOL KUROSHITSUJI), but I do shy away from it a bit now - and penetration/rape is a no-no for me (the fics I've written in which Ciel was 13/14 were all manual or oral - yeah I know that's still sex and BAD YINA WRITING CHILD PORN but it squicks me a lot less than penetration with a kid that age). And, Ciel is a bit of an exception in that he is a badass shota and totally a seme-in-the-making, so I felt less bad about it. But other than Ciel, not really my thing... (16/17-year olds are obviously ah-okay with me - and is consensual sexystuff between two 14/15-year olds). I don't know if I should call this a kink or not. Maybe, 'kink with a lot of reservations; see the mile-long addendum.' XD

Crossdressing: Have written it a lot. But it doesn't really do much for me, actually; it's just really more for the LOL YOU'RE IN A SKIRT than anything about the act of crossdressing being sexy to me.

Dub-con (dubious consent): Squick generally. REALLY, I'M PRETTY MUCH 'CONSENSUAL EVERYTHING FOREVER.' But, the definition of dubcon is very wide and flexible, so there are probably some stuff that some might argue are dubcon and that slip through the radar for me (for example, consensual drunken sex doesn't hit on my dub-con squick; for others, it does. Oh, and I have written it... and only later realized that people interpreted it as dub-con. LOL. ;;;; ).

Non-con (non-consensual): ... No. I don't like it. It just makes me feel bad inside, and I don't read fic to feel bad, so I avoid it. This is one thing I will not write.

Incest: …SQUICK in general, but potentially interesting. Parent/child incest is like my number 1 biggest squick, so that one is NOOO NEEEVER NUUUH. Sorry, but... uh, no. Siblings, too, generally. But sometimes I like to read incest when it's very lolcreepy and the author shows awareness of, this; it's just not something that turns me on much. (Interestingly, when it's sibling incest, I can deal with same-sex sibling incest much better than opposite-sex incest. It's not rational, but I suppose it's the subconscious, "LOL THREE-HEADED RETARD BABIES LOL"). I tend not to like any incest in the Geass fandom at all, though, regardless of it's same-sex or opposite-sex. Especially not Lelouch with any of his siblings. Squick.

Threesome/moresome/gangbang: Kink, I think. But it really depends on the players, and on the emotional things. I tend to like threesomes/moresomes in PWP one-shots (a lot), but I tend not to like it when they're featured in OTP longfic and turns it into three-way relationship fic (I'M A ROMANTIC SAP, OKAY). Just PWP threesome, I have written, obviously, and do find hot. (LOL Suzaku/Lelouch/Shirley). I also really want to write Suzaku/Lelouch/Kallen and Gino/Suzaku/Kallen some time.

Death: ... people get turned on by death? Huh. You learn something new every day. O.o But no, while death is a wonderful and interesting literary device, it's not exactly sexy to me.

Watersports/scat: Neutral/SQUICK. I don't mind piss so much (especially clear water-piss, not thick and smelly beer or pop-piss), but it doesn't make me hot, either. Scat is a no-no.

Crossovers: LOL, I don't think crossovers are a kink. But umm, in general? Not that much, but with some exceptions. (I'm looking at you, Anla; your Death Note/Geass crossover was amazing).

Unhappy/wide open endings: No/Yes. Not a fan of unhappy endings (again, as with non-con, it makes me feel bad, and I read fic to be happy, so it seems counter-productive; that said, if the fic is really good otherwise and an unhappy ending just fits best, okay). Open endings are cool. My favorites are happy and bittersweet endings.

Infidelity: … No. Squick. No... I just... I mean, it's interesting (ONLY WHEN IT MAKES SENSE, AND THE LINES ARE BLURRY), but straight-up cheating? No. See the, 'I read fic to be happy' thing... (this makes it sound like I don't like angst at all. No, I do, and some of my favorite fics ever are angsty; incidentally, most of them also include some of my squicks, like rape, and I'll still read it when it's plot-relevant and treated with respect and without fetishization. Just in and of itself, infidelity is a sadness-trigger, and this meme is about kinks right? (RIIIGHT? DID I GET IT WROOONG?) So: as with a lot of other things in this list: if it serves the plot, okay, but not exactly a turn-on by itself)).

Self-harming/Attempted suicide: Yes, if it has a happy ending. Could be interesting, and that squicks me less than rape.

Rimming/Felching: Kink/Squick. Rimming is a kink I rarely get to write or read (and only wrote it once), but I don't really see the big deal with it. It feels good to a lot of people (I've heard of a lot of gay men that men especially like it), and I don't really view the anus as too different from any kind of body part - IF IT'S CLEAN AND THEY SHOWERED, OH GOD PLEASE. But yeah, I have no problem with rimming; would actually write more of it. Felching, though, naaah... (Asses are all good, so long as there's no danger of Code Brown).

Fisting: ... Squick, I think. I mean, intellectually, I know a baby can fit through there, and that so can a fist, but emotionally? WHAT THE FUCK NOOO OUCH OUCH HOW DOES THAT FIT OUCH /SCREAMS.

Addictions/Disorders: YESSSSSSSSSS. But, again, less in the 'turns me on' way and more in the 'interesting' way. I think addictions and disorders are a really interesting thing to explore in fiction. Have not written it, but, mind games and psychological disorders are always fun. (GUYS I'M IN GEASS AND DEATH NOTE FANDOMS; IT'S A PARADISE OF MENTAL DISORDERS).

Torture/Violence: Squick/....Kink. But only consensual violence; like, I find it majorly hot when two people beat each other up for a duel or something, or even when they just get into a fight, and then it turns into sex. Fighting-into-sex is probably one of my more esoteric kinks. (... DO I GET MY VANILLA CARD REVOKED NOW?). But, torture and non-con violence/abuse is not my thing.

Toys: Not really? LOL, I don't really see the point of it honestly... I mean, toys just aren't as sexy to me as body parts, so if a cock is available, I'd rather see that inserted somewhere. Vibrators are cute, though, and I can see why they're different and what they do for you. LOL HAVE WRITTEN IT, THOUGH. TWICE. THANK YOU, KINK MEME. Dildos and strap-ons are not my thing, though.

Uniforms (school girl, nurse, military, etc.): ... Does Suzaku's Passion Pizza uniform count? LOL. Um, yes, to some degree: I like hot clothes in general, and the clothes a character wears can influence how hot I find him/her to a large degree. And Suzaku's flight suit! I mean...

Double penetration: Squick. Just, ouch - and a bit too extreme for my taste, maybe? (VANILLA CARD RE-GRANTED).

Anal (het, gay and/or lesbian): LOLOLOLOL OF COURSE. Not so much with het, though. (It's like, "THERE'S A PERFECTLY GOOD PUSSY. USE IT!" I'm aaaall over the vaginal sex in het because I rarely write het to begin with, so when I do, the vagina is like a shiny new toy! (so I’m not into f/m pegging nor into m/f anal. YAY VAGINA). But for yaoi, of couuuuuuuuurse.

Deep-throating: What, of course. Of course-di-course. Why not? (Okay, unless they’re like choking and crying and it’s non-con shoving it down some one’s throat - then not so much - but in general, if they can do it, hot).

Boot, foot fetish: Nah. Feet are smelly. (The only exception to this is something like this: A goes down on B while B rubs A’s cock through his clothes with his/her foot. That’s hot - but that’s less of a foot thing because it’s a foot but more because I like the position.

Chains, shackles, collars, handcuffs, and other means to restrain a character: Consensually, okay. Or maybe, playful dubcon (like, for example, in an established relationship). Not so much otherwise. (LOL HAVE TOTALLY WRITTEN THIS).

Blindfolds: …Yeah, okay? Could be hot, maybe? XD (Again: consensually and within context is best).

Certain places such as dungeons, prison cells, interrogation room, offices (add your own): KINK. YES. Um: offices, public places (bathrooms, parks at night, BRIDGES LOOL), pools, bath tubs, interrogation room, too... dungeon and prison cell? Not so much, because LOL TENDS TO GO WITH NON-CON STUFF.

Mind games/mindfuck (you know, that nice psychological approach to bend a character to one's will and/or break them): Interesting.... but can go too far. I tend to get squicked when the mental abuse gets too far, but it’s intellectually interesting because the mind is a fascinating place - including ways how to break it.

Food play/sploshing: Squick. Uhhh no, no food please. Food is for eating, not for the bedroom! (IMO XD). Although, I don’t mind some things like ice cubes and maybe whipped cream. (BUT I HAVE TOTALLY WRITTEN IT WTFLOLMAORZ).

Gore/guro: …Squick. Nuuuuh, I want my happy in my fiiiiic. D:

Fight for dominance: KIIINK. But can go too far (again: if it goes too far into non-con territory)... but consensual/playful fight for dominance, God yes.

Breath play/asphyxiation: Um, not a squick, but not a kink, either.

Hair-pulling/biting/scratching/bruising: Yeah, okay. As above, not especially much of a squick or kink, but okay.

Gun play/knife play/wand play (knife play does not have to include cutting someone, and you can add some other inanimate object to the list, if you have one!): Somewhat? Not really. Could be interesting.

Drugs or intoxication: LOL YES. Drunken sex is amazing. XDD (Right, Aki?)

Language kink (accents etc.): FUCK YEAAAAAAAAAAAAH. LOOL I’m so reminded of that one time transient_words and I had to restrain ourselves from going off on tangents about the inherent sexiness of the Japanese language in that one RP. (What was it? Two or three passages about elegantly-written kanji? XD). Also: French, several different English accents (British English, New England English, Southern drawls – especially contrasted with one another. I AM A LANGUAGE GEEK, OKAY. SO MUCH YES ON THIS ONE.

Squick fics (aka fics that are meant to squick the hell out of you): What, no. I don’t like the feeling of being squicked, so why would I seek out fics designed to do just that?

EXTRA BONUS! YINA’S COMPLETELY WEIRD FETISH!

… Music, head phones, and ear phones.

Yeah, idek. But the fact that Yosuke wears head phones MAKES HIM ABOUT 100X MORE ATTRACTIVE. IDEK OKAY. But head phones and ear phones are hooooooooooot.

….weirdest kink ever I know.

...I feel better now. XD

Voice Post for anla - PART DEUX VERY ENERGETIC ACTING HERE!

2011-03-06T08:46:40Z

LOL I really got into reading this. XDDD It was so much fun!

Voice Post for tacit_galaxy

2011-03-06T04:54:40Z

A scene from this fic.

You can all make fun of my accent now. :D

SCHOOOOL~! ^___^

2011-03-01T17:51:24Z

Talk about 1) school, 2) fandom, and 3) plurk :DDD

Today is finally the first day of the new semester! :-) I'm taking 19 credits: Marketing Management, Intermediate Accounting, Intermediate Japanese (which isn't really intermediate but w/e XD), Expression and Writing (which is a mandatory Korean writing course for everyone), and not one, not two, but three different English classes. (Bwahahaha. In detail, they're 'English and the Human Mind' which looks to be some sort of linguistc course, 'University English', and 'Reading Theatre in English,' but obviously I'm just takin them for the easy A's... psst).

I"M SO EXCITED / ROMPS THE TABLE.

Finally I will have something to do again other than just being online or meeting friends/bf. It's been an enjoyable vacation, but also a bit boring, really.

...I just hope that the vacation being over doesn't mean that history will repeat itself and I will DROP EVERYTHING FANDOM-RELATED IMMEDIATELY. Sigh, this is usually what happens when school starts - I'm just so incredibly single-minded I can only really focus on one thing at a time. My atittude toward fandom is just so very 'feast or famine' - sometimes I'll spam you with 40,000 words of porn over a single weekend (like, uh, we all remember that right XD) and sometimes you will not hear a word from me for 4 months at a time, and rinse and repeat, ad infinitum.

I really hate it, and I'm really going to try very hard not to let that happen again, sobs. I have so many fics I still want to finish/write, and I RP now...

(HELLO? I think I didn't mention this yet! But I now play Shirley over at amatomnes )

... and RPing is going to make sure I do at least a little bit of fandom-related stuff right now. So I really hope to finish all the stuff I want to do for cgkinkmemeii, and for my multi-chapters too. (SOOOBS PASSION PIZZA, I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU. I'VE EVEN PLOTTED YOU ALL OUT. IT'S JUST A MATTER OF *FOCUSING* ON YOU --).

OH AND THE THIRD THING IS, I NOW HAVE A PLURK. I got enabled by the Lelouch I play with on amat. ADD ME IF ANY OF YOU HAVE A PLURK TOO! <333

Well, I'm gonna go get ready for my first day of school! *giddy*!

...must...try...hard.... not to drop out of fandom again. D: So far I always have when school started up again, but... *clings* I hope anlaaria 's flashfic comm can keep me partially grounded in fandom.

AJDKEJFKEKGJDLE

2011-02-24T12:32:20Z

WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON HERE

an original short story... about Cock, Pussy, and Ass.

2011-02-13T01:02:21Z

Background:transient_words said: I need to stop reading "half-hardened cock" as "half-heartened" cock. The latter = gives me weird imagery."

My answer:

The Tale of Cock, Pussy, and Ass

Cock was rejected by his one true love, Pussy.

He went to a bar to get drunk, sitting there, nursing a vodka.

He was so sad and half-heartened he was drooping. It was a sad sight.

Then a stranger sat down next to him.

"Who are you?" Cock asked.

The stranger smelled and looked a little funny.

"I'm Ass," Ass said.

"Oh," Cock said.

"Yes. I'm Pussy's substitute. For all the guys who can't get Pussy."

"Oh," Cock said. "Is that an offer?"

"Yes," Ass said, and smiled. It was weird to see Ass smile. "Yes, indeed."

Cock swallowed in excitement. "Your place or mine?"

"Always mine," Ass said. "The reverse doesn't work so well."

So they coupled feverishly in Ass's room.

When Cock was satisfied, he spit into Ass's face.

Ass said, "Now I know why Pussy doesn't like you."

"I spit when I'm happy," Cock said. "I can't help it."

"I think I'm a better match for you than Pussy, then. Your spit doesn't cause me to multiply."

"Oh, that's great," Cock said.

The next day, they were married.

The End.

(and that' my friends, concludes my first original 'story' ever XD).

[Fanfic] Petite Rébellion Part 2/2 [ Code Geass, Suzaku/Leloucia ]

2011-02-12T19:07:53Z

Fandom: Code Geass
Title: Petite Rébellion
Pairings: Suzaku/Leloucia (Femlouch). Or Leloucia/Suzaku. Not even I am sure who topped who in this, lol. Either way, this means vagina. AND FOR PART 2, I ACTUALLY MEAN IT.
Word Count: 11,000 for the whole fic; part 2 about 7,000
Rating: M for het sex.
Summary: Princess Leloucia lived all her life in a golden cage. Rebelling against an upcoming arranged marriage, she decides to have a one night stand with one of the guards. It was even better that he was an Eleven.
Note: Written for cgkinkmemeii . Original thread here.

Part 1 here.

To read:

He shoots her a confused look, and for a moment she half-drags him after her before he falls into step next to her, and they're walking down the hallway, her leading with firm steps and him following her, and she's barely processing where she's going. Corners, doors, the click click click of her heels, and then some time during her march she notices she's heading toward her chambers.

Well, where else would she take him to have a talk, she rationalizes. Where else, and - oh gods, she just hopes C.C. isn't in her room right now, because if she is, she'll -

She decides to take a gamble, and flings the door to her room open.

Her shadow wavers in the midst of the strip of light that falls into the dark room now, looking like a fly in amber. Something in her stomach clenches, but she ignores it, and switches on the light with a flick of her fingers, and drags Kururugi in behind her.

Once inside, she looks at him, and wonders what the hell she's just done.

He's probably thinking the same thing, judging by how he looks at her out of wide and surprised eyes.

"Sit down," she says by way of invitation.

He throws a look around the room.

"Not on the bed," she says.

He blinks. "Bed? Who said -"

Heat pulses into her face. "No one." She makes an awkward motion. "Sit down on the sofa."

He gives her one last questioning look before obeying. She watches as he walks over to the sofa.

Her eyes dart around the room nervously.

He sits down and looks at her. "I'm not really supposed to be here, Your Highness."

"I know," she says, maybe a bit more sharply than she intended. "Men are not allowed in a princess's bedroom." Of course. "Just shut up, will you?"

One of her hands flies to her lips, finely manicured thumb nudging between them. So she didn't get out after all - can't really walk out now and have him get into trouble for her hot-headedness, not when he - not when she's somewhat indebted to him, oh gods, she doesn't know what to do anymore. She wasn't thinking when she decided to bring him to her room, of course - this is highly illegal, men are not allowed anywhere near the princesses, to such an extent she's half-surprised the guards aren't all eunuchs (not that she knows of, anyway -) and -

Calm down, Leloucia, she tells herself. Calm down. You can't run on emotions, can't lose in the the whole tangled mess of them. Think. Her thumb nail clicks against her teeth.

Then one thought cuts across the others and resounds: Men are not allowed in my chambers.

Because -

But she doesn't get to finish that thought.

"Your Highness?"

She looks up, and stashes the strands of her emotions back behind her cool veneer. "Yes?"

"I take it's about what happened earlier." He shifts a little on the seat, and he has his hands folded over his fanned out knees, kneading them. "It's not really my place to say that, but - I've heard nothing but good things about Duke Schalkenberg." He tries a small smile. "And I'm sure he'll treat you well."

"Oh?" she asks, already annoyed with him again. "And why is that?"

"You'll make a perfect wife in my humble opinion, Your Highness," he says. "Beautiful, intelligent - confident and straightforward."

Leloucia looks at him. "Are you calling me pushy?"

"What?" His features broaden in surprise. "Oh, no. I apologize. I didn't mean it like that. I mean it in a perfectly flattering way."

"Well, I have absolutely no interest," she says. Then pauses, considers how much she can or wants to reveal and finishes with, "Protecting Nunnally and Euphy is of a higher priority than being sold off like a prim and proper, chaste little -"

She stops. And something in her mind clicks.

Her hands drop. She gulps in breath. Her head spins for a second in the vertigo of that thought, spinning and spinning ("impossible" - "but, it's perfect -" - "I could never -" - "Yes, you can" - "But -")

It's the perfect rebellion, she thinks, and when she fastens her eyes back on his, she knows she's staring, probably with a blush on her cheeks and her eyes dancing. Even better that he is an Eleven. Even better.

Better even than running away and hiding out behind some tree just to spite him. Better than anything else she can think of - the single most taboo thing she can do.

The single biggest no-no.

And as soon as the thrill of that - and a thrill it is, something that showers down her spine and makes her shiver - passes, she realizes what that really means, and panics.

And hiccups. In a decidedly un-princessy manner.

Suzaku jumps on to his feet in alarm, and he's next to her before she knows it. "Your Highness -"

"It's -" Hiccup. "-Okay, I -"

Damn hiccups. She presses her fingers against her lips, and darts him a glance out of the corners of her eye.

He's close now, so close she can smell him, smell where the scent of pine and metal lingers, and she suddenly stumbles through a brief but intense haze of attraction that makes her stomach clench.

Then she blinks. Pulls herself back together, and when she trusts herself to speak, she says, "If I don't run away and get you into trouble that way, will you do something else for me?"

He looks surprised. "Of course. Of course, Your Highness. Anything."

"Anything?" she asks, her voice probing.

"Yes, of course, it's my -"

"Duty, I know," she finishes with a roll of her eyes, and lets her hands drop to her sides, straightening herself.

He's not much taller than her at her five-foot-eight, but different, broad across the shoulders where she is narrow, leaner where she is wider. Her heart is at the back of her throat when she asks, "Are you clean?"

And he - blinks. "Um. I showered this morning, Your Highness."

"Not that kind of clean," she spits, and thinks, 'gods, don't make me say it, you idiot.'

He gives her a blank look before the recognition sets in: first in his eyes, then lingering outward to broaden his face, and - "Oh. Oh. I - what?"

"Are you clean?" she repeats, because there's no backing out now anyway, and she steps a bit closer until his eyes are wide and large in her peripheral vision, and she can feel his warmth, and the tension is so thick she almost chokes on it.

The haze of confusion still clouds his eyes.

She groans. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Fine. Do you have any sexually transmitted diseases or infections?"

He still looks confused. "We - we get physical check-ups every month, Your Highness."

"Good," she says, keeping her voice steady. "Good." Then her voice lowers as she moves in for the kill, "Wouldn't want to catch anything, after all."

His eyes widen. Impossibly, almost comically so, and Leloucia -

- grabs him by the back of his head and pulls him down into a kiss.

He lets out a muffled sound of surprise.

Leloucia ignores him (her heart, it's beating so fast she's dizzy - thump thump thump) and she presses against him and forces his jaws apart borderline-violently, and pushes her tongue into his mouth before she can give herself a second to think about it.

It's her first kiss, but he'll never know that.

His body goes stiff against hers (in shock, she assumes), and his mouth freezes - allowing her to subject him to the dictatorship of her own biting teeth and demanding tongue.

She has no idea what she's doing really; it's wet and it tastes of nothing but slick heat, but his tongue is soft when she moves hers against it, soft and pliant, and kind of pleasant, and her stomach tightens, tightens, tightens, into a tangle of a million nervous threads.

His hands fly to her shoulders and he breaks the kiss. "Your Highness -"

She feels a pang of insecurity at his bewildered expression. "You said 'anything,' Mister Kururugi."

"It's Suzaku," he says, then quickly adds, "But - I'm strictly forbidden to touch any of the princesses."

She still has her hand on the back of his head, and she fists through some of his hair. "It's under my order. I take responsibility for it." A horrible thought twists through her, and her hand relaxes. "Unless you don't want to...?"

It's not like she wants to force him -

He looks so confused it's almost adorable - blush on his cheeks, and complete non-comprehension written all across his features in bolded italics. "I -"

"You don't," she says with resignation, and she shudders with the avalanche of shame rolling down her spine.

"No. No, it's not that - I mean, being with one of the princess - it's -"

She takes a gamble. "Every guard's secret fantasy, isn't it?" She has no idea if that's true; Cornelia once said that, in a stern tone that followed a tirade about how they had to stay away from them, preserve their virginity - but really, she doesn't know, she doesn't know anything, but she somehow manages to keep calm on the outside.

"... Well, yes, it kind of is, but -"

"It is?" she confirms. "Well, then." She takes a second to compose herself, and (she's choking on her own heart, oh gods) and looks him straight in the eye. "As the 9th Princess of the Britannian Empire, I hereby order you to sleep with me. Effective immediately."

And kisses him again, because if she doesn't she feels she might faint (did she really say that - she couldn't have - oh, but yes, she did), and clings to him, and presses up to him, and it's all so new and strange, and she's scared.

She can tell the exact time when his resistance snaps.

Leloucia's pressing up to him, and his body's stiff and slightly shaky beneath her touch one moment, and the next - his resolution's gone, just like that (to hell with it, he might have thought), and his lips press down against hers and his arms wrap around her, and he breaks her dominance over the kiss.

She gasps, or maybe he does, she's not sure; either way it's swallowed by the both of them, and suddenly it's not her tongue in his mouth anymore, it's his in hers, large and warm and insistent, stroking against her tongue, running over the walls of her cheeks, and she -

Feels tightness in her lower body, feels herself clamp down, and she thinks, oh gods, oh gods, it's really happening, and she clings on to him tighter, one hand tangled in his hair and the other on his waist, and when he presses up against her, there's something hard pressing against her lower belly down there, and she nearly chokes on his tongue when she realizes what it is.

Too real now. Too real, much too real.

But now's not the time for second-guessing herself, and so she leans into him, then starts pressing against his chest until he yields and he lets himself be pushed back by her, still kissing, still clinging, and then he hits the bad, and pulls her down with him -

They land in a tangle on the bed; their lips disconnect, smearing saliva over both their mouths before they're kissing again (she doesn't know if she kissed him or he her), and she's on top of him now, awkwardly hovering above him on her hands and knees. She's too flustered now to lead the kiss and so he does, dictating the pace of their circles (it seems like that's how it works, circling their tongues and licking and biting a bit) and then when she lowers herself on him, such a sharp pang of fear jolts through her that her mouth slacks completely.

Oh, gods. It's his - pressing up against her, against the panties beneath her skirt, so very hard and so very strange, but - she doesn't have the time to think, because she's already close to losing her mind over it, and if she doesn't hurry up now, she'll panic, she'll ask him to stop, and she can't now, she can't.

She breaks the kiss, and looks at him. His pupils are wide, the green now a fevered circle around it, and he's aroused (she thinks, she guesses), and she moves her hips awkwardly, rubbing herself against him. She wonders if that's correct, if that's what she's supposed tobe doing, but it feels good, kind of, the friction, especially when she grinds her clit against him through the clothing.

He speaks against her, and she feels his breath against her lips. "How far? All - all the way?"

"Your incomprehension of my orders is appalling. I believe that's what I said, yes." It's embarrassing how out-of-breath that sounds, and she blushes so hard she ducks her head so some of her hair falls over her face and hides the redness. The faster they do it, the sooner it's over, after all.

She's - she's not sure what to do. Should she touch him down there? Just open his zipper? Kiss him down his chest or something? She suddenly regrets she's never been interested in the romance novels with the long-haired men and the big-breasted women she's seen littered around Euphy's bedroom; she tries to remember everything she's ever learned about sex, but comes up with an embarrassing blank.

So, she decides to do the first thing that comes to her mind: sex requires being naked, right? She lets her hand trail down, finger tips sliding over the fabric of his uniform until they brush against the zipper, and she starts to fumble with it.

He - Suzaku, he told her to call him, she remembers - is looking at her out of dazed eyes now, and she avoids them, looks somewhere, anywhere else; the purple pillows, the way the strands of his hair splay over the sheets catch the light from above and glimmer in light auburn, and she readies herself, pulls together all the courage she has, and pulls the zipper down, down, down, and then his shoves his pants right along with it.

And she can feel it. Brushing against her panties, much warmer, much hotter now. Then he's saying something, but she can't hear, can't hear it over the rush of her own blood in her ears and the constant wailing of ohgodsohgodsohgods, so he says it again -

"Wait." His voice is low, urgent. "Wait, Your Highness, there's a - there's a condom in my pocket -"

"No." The word falls off her lips so easily that even she is surprised. "No condom." She's not even sure why. Why, of course she should -

"Why?" His breath is hot and desperate against her mouth, and he struggles beneath her.

"Because," Leloucia says, and realizes halfway through the sentence that it's true, "not using one is even worse."

And before he can say anything else - before he can ask, 'are you on birth control,' or one of those embarrassing things she knows he's going to say - she leans down and kisses him again, hard and fast and breathless.

His muscles tense and his hips buck up, maybe involuntarily, maybe not, and she can feel him pressing against her panties now, so she reaches down, kissing him to distract him as much as herself (don't think don't think), and when her fingers brush against her panties, she winces.

Already wet. So very wet. When did she -

She may or may not have let out an embarrassed groan, she's not sure, but it's lost in the coupling of their lips and tongues. His hands are on her now, everywhere - running down her back, cupping her waist, one hand trailing up to cup one of her breasts through the material of her dress.

The hand she has placed on Suzaku's chest tightens. The other pushes her panties down, over her hips and down legs, then shakes them off until they land on the bed somewhere.

She feels exposed; the shame rushes to her face and settles on her cheeks, she knows it without even having to look into a mirror, and she kisses Suzaku harder to dull it.

Then his fingers are down there, and he's brushing against her, and a finger's inside of her before she knows it.

"Nnng." This time, the kiss doesn't muffle the sound. She breaks away from his lips, stringing a rope of saliva between both of their kiss-bruised mouths. She doesn't want to look at him (eyes shining, flushed red, eyes firmly trained on her), and she looks away again, over the pillows and off the edge of the bed.

It feels - strange, but pleasurable, when he pushes his finger in deeper, past the second knuckle now (she thinks), curling his finger inside of her. She slumps forward a little, and notices to her horror that her hips are moving on their own now; moving down, down, down onto that finger, pushing it in, in, in.

"Are you all right, Your Highness?" His voice is warm and muffling, like a blanket. "Does it hurt?"

She shakes her head; no, it doesn't, it really doesn't, but it's embarrassing and weird, and she'd rather just hurry it up, and so she reaches down - down over her billowing dress (at least he can't see her down there), and snatches his finger out of her, then searches with her other hand, wraps her hand around him (it's hot and hard), and positions herself.

And 'wow, I'm really going to do it,' is the last thing she thinks before she lets her hips drop.

He gasps, low and masculine.

She does, too, high and pained.

It stings, it burns. It's an awkward fullness down there that stretches her, forces her apart. Tears sting the back of her eyeballs, and she drops her chin to her chest, trying to hide as much of herself as she can.

And Suzaku's -

"You're - you're a virgin?"

- flustered enough to even forget to tack on the "Your Highness," and his hands fly to her sides, trying to steady her or push her away, she's not sure which.

She rips his hands off of her and pins them to the bed. "Of course I am," she barks. "Everyone knows the princesses are virgins." She says this as coolly as she can while rocking beneath the assault of the pain.

"O-of course, but - seeing as how you were so, um - straightfoward, Your Highness, I thought -"

"Oh, you thought I regularly sleep with random people?" she spits. Did her hymen just break? She wonders if she's bleeding, if there will be blood stains on the sheets tomorrow ( and how would she explain that to Sayoko -)

But no matter now.

Too late. She's here now. Fucking an (almost) random Eleven in her bedroom without protection while her wedding's coming up in a month.

The thought alone is so wrong that it makes her feel better. Just a bit.

"And just shut up now," she orders, "And let me do this."

Something in his eyes melts, and trying to help her, trying to steady her with his hands.

She swats them away. She shifts a little on her knees, searching for a less painful angle; when she resigns herself to the idea that she's not going to find one, she lowers her hips, taking him in inch by ripping inch.

A lot bigger, less flexible, and decidedly harder than his finger, she decides.

She settles down on his lap when she takes in the last bit, and lets out a breath she didn't realize she's been holding. It comes out as, of all things, a groan.

She keeps still like this, trying to get used to the feeling; when the pain has finally dulled to something a bit more manageable, she begins to move. Slowly. Lifting her hips, then gritting her teeth and letting them fall back down. Up and down once; up and down twice - and oh gods.

It hurts.

Which is when Suzaku rolls them both over and he's on top of her suddenly, and still inside her.

She stares up at him.

"Let me do this, Your Highness," he says; looking at her humbly, almost shyly, as if they were not in the middle of - that. "It will hurt less if I -"

"No," she spits. How dare he take the control away from her? She struggles beneath him, trying to roll him back onto the bed, but the more she struggles, the deeper the press becomes, and then his hands are on her wrists and he's holding her down, and she's about to scream at him, yell at him to get off this instant, when he leans down and kisses her again and her mind is swiped clean of all thought.

He's not moving his hips, just holding her down and kissing her, nudging her lips open with his tongue, and she opens her mouth almost instinctively, and then they're kissing again, and it feels good (that, at least, feels good), and she doesn't remember that she stopped struggling, but must have because then his hands are on her body, cupping her breasts through her dress, caressing her sides, stroking her hair, and Leloucia's muscles - are drained of tension.

Her jaw slacks. Her hands are on either side of her head now, not moving. And down there, she also feels herself -

He pushes in deeper just as her muscles unclench, and she moans into his mouth. Just once. Low and sweet.

She wraps her hands around his neck, and pulls him closer, and he deepens the kiss, pushes his tongue in as far as it can probably go, stroking along the back of her tongue, and she's so distracted she doesn't even notice he has started to thrust, just small little movements of a few inches, but she doesn't mind anymore, not at all, and the pain - lessens to a dull throb between her legs.

Moving her head to the side, Leloucia breaks the kiss, and she says, "Harder. Do it harder." If he refuses to let her be dominant all the way, at least she can control that.

She can't see his face now because it's buried in the crook of her neck and she's glad for it, because when he does do it harder - withdraws a bit further and pushes back in with a bit more strength, hard enough to slap against her pubic bone - she gasps. "Ah."

Suzaku lifts himself up on his elbows, and looks at her. Smiling; a bit crookedly now, but still encouraging.

And Leloucia thinks that looking into his eyes while having sex with him is probably the most chillingly intimate thing she's ever done. Something in her chest slides and moves and re-arranges, and she's in the midst of deciding what that new feeling is, when - "Ah." Another thrust, another gasp; half-pained and half-pleasured now, and then -

She arches her back, and she knows her mouth is open and she probably looks disgusting, but she doesn't care, not right now; now she's not prim and proper, for once she's not a princess (and certainly not a virginal princess anymore); now she's everything she's not supposed to be.

She kind of loves it.

"Why are you... grinning, Your Highness?" Suzaku asks, skin flushed, eyes glassy, hair a curly mess, and slams his hips home ("Ah").

Wrapping her legs around his hips, she pulls him closer. "You're doing... good." ("Ah. Ah.")

She only notices that her hands are between her legs when there's a spark. "Ahhh - what?"

His thumb is on her clit, pressing and moving in slow circles while his hips keep on moving.

Leloucia pulls him closer, until he leans down to hide his face in her neck again.

She buries both of her hands in his hair and lets the feathery strands run through her fingers. "Ah."

And then, he picks up on speed.

Leloucia cries out, and suddenly there is nothing - nothing but the steady slap of their pubic bones grinding against each other, and the wet sounds they're making, and her own staccato "Ah, ah, ah," and she's tearing at his hair now, probably hurting him but she doesn't care, and it feels good, finally, the pain drawing back to make her feel good, his thumb still massaging her clit, pressing harder until she's shuddering, until she's jerking her hips upward to meet his thrusts, and the surroundings blur, and she doesn't know anything anymore, nothing but this, this, this, and then, her orgasm suddenly hits.

It catches her by surprise, and shrieks.

Suddenly she can't think, can't think about anything anymore; can't think and only feel, feel how her insides are being shot through by jolts of pleasure, and how her lower body contracts in rhythmical waves, once, twice, thrice -

She shudders and moans and then shudders and moans some more, until she stumbles down from her peak and reason trickles back into her thoughts enough for her to remember who she is.

She blinks. Snaps her eyes back into sharp focus.

His thrusts slow down, and his thumb on her clit stops moving.

He's looking at her, and his entire face is lit up with, of all things, pride.

Leloucia really feels like smacking him. "What?"

"Nothing, Your Highness," he says, the teasing evident in his voice.

"Stop looking so smug."

His face straightens. "I apologize."

And she almost wants to laugh at how absurd it is he's apologizing to her while they're still in the middle of having sex.

Only, they're about to stop having it, she realizes, when he proceeds to pull away from her.

She grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him back down. "Where do you think you're going?"

His eyebrows rise in surprise. "But Your Highness - you have already -"

She grits her teeth in embarrassment. Does he have to be so obvious about it? "You're not going anywhere." She pauses, and then says, "Just hurry up and finish." Just to make sure in case he still doesn't get it. He seems kind of stupid, after all.

Hesitance flits over his features before he nods. "I'll be quick then, Your Highness. Please do tell me if I'm hurting you."

And she just wants to say something like, "Don't flatter yourself," and is almost about to - mouth already open, words at the tip of her tongue - when he picks up speed and whatever words she's had prepared only come out in a low and deep, "Nng."

He picks up speed again, and this time, it looks like he's really not holding anything back: his hands grab her by her waist to angle his thrusts, and he's pounding into her - really pounding now, harsh slaps and all, in, in, in - so hard she's surprised it doesn't hurt her as much as it probably should. He pushes her up along the bed every time he rocks his hips, making her shudder right along with him.

He was mostly quiet and very attentive before, but now his eyes are starry and he's groaning with every increasingly sloppy thrust; he's trying to make himself come as fast as he can.

And after a few minutes of this, she hears his voice, thick and husky; his accent thicker now, words lilting, "Y-Your Highness - I am... about to -"

She barely registers the words (feels too nice now, much too good), but then the meaning sinks in, and she tugs even harder at his hair. "Y-Yes. Do it."

"I have to -" his breath comes out strained, and there's another thrust ("Ah") - "- pull out -"

Which is when Leloucia sees the opening.

She grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him to the side.

His eyes widen in shock, but he is too far gone to resist.

Pulling him down onto the bed, Leloucia climbs back on top of him, somehow managing to never let him slip out of her as she does so, and once she's back on top of him, she hugs her knees along his torso, and pushes her hips down hard. "No."

His eyes are so very, impossibly wide. "Y-Your Highness. I -"

"No," Leloucia says. She raises her hips and then lets them fall. Sharp. "No pulling out."

"I -" His hands dig into her wrists. "I - nng."

Leloucia watches him come.

His eyes squeeze shut. His hips start jerking up, movements messy and uncoordinated for once.

And all Leloucia can think while Suzaku pants his release is, 'I wish His Majesty could see me now.'

When he relaxes beneath her, she moves up and down a few more times before she feels him getting soft, and lifts up her hips. Wetness trickles out of her, thick and lazy.

Suzaku looks at Leloucia, face to equal parts bewildered and sated.

Leloucia looks at Suzaku, thinking she probably looks as thrilled as she is feeling right now.

Then, some of the satisfaction on his draws back to let the confusion take center stage, and he pulls out of he scoots away, backs away from her, up toward the headboard of the bed.

And as for Leloucia, the thrill shrivels up in the red-hot glare of the embarrassment, and she snaps her knees shut and sits down on her heels to smooth her dress over her legs.

The silence is so thick and all-encompassing that it feels like a physical miasma in the air, and even the sound of her swallowing her own saliva, when she draws it to the back of her throat and then presses it down, is loud and jarring.

He fixes his clothing, zips and buttons his uniform back up, and then climbs off the bed.

He looks just like he did when she saw him in the hallway. A slender man with tousled hair and interesting eyes set in a casually handsome face.

It's kind of hard to believe now that she just slept with this man, and that she's no longer a virgin. Even though a slow ache pulses between her legs, and even if she can feel the wetness, now trickling slowly.

No longer her father's perfect little marionette.

The silence finally shatters when he says, "Shall I take my leave, Your Highness?"

"You have not been dismissed yet," she says with a frown. Then shuffles on the bed to examine the sheets.

Specks of blood dot the fine white linen like dark freckles on pale skin.

His eyes are drawn to that spot, too, and she sees something resembling guilt settle on his features -

She really has no patience for that right now, so she takes a pillow and covers the blood with it, and tells him, "Sit down on the bed. And you can skip the, 'Yes, Your Highness.'"

He lets himself lower on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance between them.

She starts to speak in a low monotone. "You don't have to worry about the consequences. No one will ever know it was you. Even if someone asks me. I will not betray you. Whatever you might get fired for, it won't be because of what happened in here. You have my word."

He looks at her. "I - I wasn't even thinking about the consequences for myself, Your Highness. Though I thank you -"

She frowns. "And I'll take responsibility for any other consequences. And you may call me 'Leloucia'" she says, and she doesn't even know why - but suddenly it bothers her, suddenly she doesn't want him to call her this over and over again.

"I - thank you." He tests out the name with a small, "Leloucia."

"Did you like that?" she asks casually, and doesn't even know why she cares.

He pauses, and she can visibly see him floundering for the answer. "To be honest, I don't know what to think about it. But as long as it's what Your Highness wanted -"

"That's not what I asked," she says coldly. "Do you have problems with the Britannian language?"

"... Physically, it felt amazing."

She sighs, and decides to take pity on him and stop asking him what he feels. "How old are you?" she asks, and doesn't even know why she cares.

"Seventeen, Your - I mean. Leloucia."

"The guards keep getting younger." She grabs another pillow, and hugs it to her chest. Strands of her hair tumble forward to splay across her vision.

"I decided when I was very young that I wanted to serve in this palace."

She hugs the pillow tighter. "Tell me more."

He hesitates for a second, two - then says in his lilting, quiet voice, "I decided it the moment I held Her Highness Princess Nunnally in my arms. From that moment on, that was my wish." His voice is quiet, but she hears the emotion brimming in it. "To protect you."

"Even though my mother just slapped you away and never thanked you?" Leloucia says, and the irritation needles just beneath the edge. "You should have decided right then and there that your oppressors were terrible people not even decent enough to thank you for saving their life. Rather than - deciding to protect them."

"Your mother might not have thanked me. But I saw the gratitude in Her Highness Princess Nunnally's eyes. And yours."

I never forgot your eyes, either, she thinks. Outwardly, she only says, "You have no self-respect, Suzaku."

He ponders this for a moment. "Maybe not. But I think that there are things in the world more worthy of respect."

She wants to kiss him again, the impulse searing sudden and irrational.

This, her spiteful small rebellion, has already been completed, and there's no need to kiss him anymore. No need and no reason.

So she doesn't.

"You're dismissed," she says, and draws her eyes to the pillow.

She's brushing her hair all by herself today, trapped in an orbit of calm pensiveness.

She's been doing that a lot lately, too. Euphy has told her she's been more quiet and withdrawn than usual, and whenever she sees C.C., she only thing the witch seems to want to do is tease her.

She hasn't talked to Suzaku since that night either. She has, however, seen him around a few times, wandering down the hallways on duty, mostly surrounded by a mob of clangorous guards, who nearly tripped over themselves bowing to her when she greeted them in passing.

Suzaku bowed, too, with an obedient, "Good morning, Your Highness," and it's only from that little clench in her guts that she knows that she really doesn't like when he addresses her like that anymore.

They don't talk, but sometimes they catch each other's eyes, and everything else will warp away and scatter to insignificance.

Though then she will invariably remember - see the pictures dragged up from her memory (the way he smiled at her, that wounded yet determined expression when he told her he wanted to protect her, the way he contorted his face when he came inside her -) and emotion zips through her so sudden she has to look away.

She came to a decision one night, wrapped around her blankets and burying her face into the pillows.

And right now, although she is expecting it, the knock on the door still makes her flinch.

"Come in," she calls, and puts the hair brush aside.

Nunnally steps into her room, quiet and hesitant.

Leloucia smiles at her, full and unwavering. "Sit down, Nunnally. I have something to tell you."

Nunnally lowers herself on the filigree couch. "It's about the wedding, isn't it?" Nunnally asks, and looks at Leloucia with a small smile on her face. "You always were so stubborn."

Leloucia gets up from the seat in front of the mirror, and walks over to sit next to Nunnally on the sofa.

She swallows. Stares at her hands. Tries to muster the courage and - "I'm going to propose that we leave the palace."

Nunnally says nothing.

"It's not just about how I don't want to marry this Duke. It's also about you. Because after me, and after Euphemia, you are next." She pauses. "And it might be the right choice for her, but I don't think you're any happier with the situation than me."

"No, I'm not," Nunnally says with a slow shake of her head. "I'm not happy with it, either, Leloucia."

She digs her canines into her lower lip before letting it slide back out. "I'll be honest with you. I know it's a lot to ask. We'll be disinherited. We'll be on our own. It won't be easy."

For a moment, Nunnally is quiet. Then, a slow smile spills on her face and she asks in a tone that is both gentle and teasing, "Dearest sister... could this mean that you are pregnant?"

Shame burns down her spine.

Nunnally is the only one she's told about her romp with the guard. C.C. is not shy about voicing her suspicions (and they're embarrassingly spot-on), but Nunnally is the only one she told, in a moment of weakness and insecurity dulled by the blanket of sisterly bonding, and Leloucia is starting to regret telling even her.

"No," she says, almost with too much force. "That is... I don't know yet." She draws her eyes back to her hands. "My period's due in a few days." She's still not sure how she feels about the possibility of that, but she'll take it either way - she was the one to insist on this gamble, after all.

But she doesn't want to shuffle down that particular writhing, creaking mental staircase right now.

"But it doesn't even matter if I am or not. This proposal has little to do with it. I don't want to live in the cage of this palace any longer. And I don't think it's the right place for you, either."

Nunnally considers it for a moment, her pale violet eyes probing and searching.

Then, she says with a soft smile that lights up her eyes, "Wherever you go, I will follow."

Leloucia shudders. "But I don't mean it like that. I don't want you to feel you have to follow me if you like it better here." She takes her hands, and squeezes them. "Would you really?"

Nunnally smiles wistfully. "Under one condition?"

"Yes?"

Nunnally laughs. "You tell His Majesty about it."

And Leloucia feels so many things at once she almost can't define them all. Relief, for once, overwhelming relief. Love, love for her sister, so much it almost makes her dizzy. And followed by the heels of that, the dreadful churn of fear.

"I will," she says. "I will tell him we're leaving. I will. I can."

"And make sure to tell him about the fact you're no longer a virgin, too. As a parting gift?"

Leloucia sighs, then grins, just a little. "Telling him what I did will be highly amusing. He'll freak out."

"Dear sister, what I think you mean to say is that he'll have a cow." Nunnally laughs.

"Just like old times," Leloucia says, and she's laughing, laughing with the sheer joy and absurdity of it all, and she hugs Nunnally close.

"I love you," she says, low and choking. "I do."

"I know," Nunnally says, and strokes her hair. "And you don't need to deny yourself love of any other kind, either."

Leloucia buries her face in Nunnally's hair and breathes in deeply.

[Fanfic] Petite Rébellion Part 1/2 [ Code Geass, Suzaku/Leloucia ]

2011-02-12T17:57:59Z

Fandom: Code Geass
Title: Petite Rébellion
Pairings: Suzaku/Leloucia (Femlouch). Or Leloucia/Suzaku. Not even I am sure who topped who in this, lol. Either way, this means vagina. Though not in this part yet.
Word Count: 11,000 for the whole fic; ~4,800 for part 1.
Rating: PG-13 for the first part, M for the whole fic.
Summary: Princess Leloucia lived all her life in a golden cage. Rebeling against an upcoming arranged marriage, she decides to have a one night stand with one of the guards. It was even better that he was an Eleven.
Note: Written for cgkinkmemeii . Original thread here.

Note: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH, LJ ATE MY ITALICS. WELL, FUCK YOU, LJ. READ IT ON FF.NET LATER IF YOU CARE ABOUT INFLECTION BECAUSE I'M NOT GOING OVER THIS AGAIN TO FILL IN MANUAL ITALICS. FFFFF---

To read:

They're in her chambers, pouring over pictures – or well, Euphy is. Leloucia is mostly keeping to herself, sitting on a chair by the window and staring out into the garden.

"Hmm," Euphy hums, peering at the photographs, light frown on her face, and cheeks slightly puffed out in concentration. "This – this one's not bad." A rustle, and Leloucia knows she's waving some photograph in the air right now. "Hey – Leloucia -"

Leloucia turns her head to look at her sister, pale pink knees peeking out from beneath a white skirt folded over the chair she's sitting on. There's honesty and sincerity on her face now as she waves the picture of a young, aristocratic-looking man in her hands. "Him. Duke Schalkenberg." She smiles. "He's not bad, is he?"

Leloucia lets her eyes flit over the man – he is good-looking, she supposes, mouth set into a strong jaw, eyes a fierce blue staring back at her – and then she goes back to staring out of the window.

A late-blooming sun ladles syrup over the trees.

"Leloucia," Euphy huffs, and there's honest concern there, Leloucia knows. "Father has pre-approved all of them." A pause. "Wouldn't it be better if you picked one yourself rather than waiting for him to make the decision for you?"

Leloucia bites her lower lip.

"He's handsome," Euphy says, tone one half convincing and one half dreamy. "He's not a -"

"I don't care about his looks," Leloucia says, maybe a bit sharper than she intended. "Romantic compatibility doesn't happen through mutual physical attraction alone."

"But it certainly helps." Euphy's smile is resigned but honest, and – yes she might be naïve, but it's not like she's entirely without a point -

"In any case," Leloucia says with a wave of her hand, and finally slides off the windowsill, smooths down the fabric of her purple dress, and proceeds to saunter toward the door. "It's not like him having a nice face to look at negates the fact that I have absolutely no intention to marry some random stuck-up aristocrat I've never even met."

"Well." Euphy hesitates. "But you could. Meet him, that is." She gives her a small and very fond smile. "It's not like you're lacking in high-profile suitors, Leloucia."

She's by the door now. "I'm not interested," Leloucia says, and the words fall from her mouth with finality. "It's my responsibility to stay here with you and Nunnally – and mother. Not some man in a foreign country."

Euphy sighs. "Wait – Okay. I'll put the pictures away, okay? Can I - can I just brush your hair?"

Leloucia considers. She has always liked having her hair brushed by Euphemia, and they have done each other's hair since they were little girls. She almost wants to refuse (maybe a bit of childish stubbornness there – didn't they just have the closest thing to a sisterly dispute since the time Leloucia broke her porcelain doll when they were ten?), but then –

"Fine," Leloucia says with a sigh Then, a bit more gently, "Sure." She walks over to the dresser looming in the corner, settles down on the satin-covered chair. The mirror blinks back at her, and then there's a flash of pink in it when Euphy steps up behind he.

"Hey Leloucia," she says, and leans forward to snatch one of the brushes off the counter.
Her voice drops to a girlish, conspiratory whisper. "Is there someone you like?"

Leloucia frowns, and her mirror image frowns back at her; eyebrows drooping toward stoic purple eyes framed by high cheekbones and sloping down to a narrow jaw. "You're asking me if there's a boy I like?"

"Sure," Euphy says, voice bright. "You're seventeen."

She wants to say, "I'm not aware that seventeen-year old girls are somehow required to be lovestruck fools," but bites back her tongue – she doesn't want to offend Euphemia in case there is someone she likes, and well - she's brought up her opinion about her crushes more than once. So she just shrugs, and watches as some of her hair rises and flows with the movement. "No, I'm not interested in anyone."

"Huh," Euphy says, eyes on Leloucia's hair, fingers slow and languid as she smooths it down with the brush. "No, I guess no one's quite good enough for you." It's entirely without malice or mockery; she really means it, says it with the utmost sincerity, and Leloucia sighs again and wishes she never had to leave her.

Leloucia pauses for a moment. "What about you?" Leloucia says, voice testy. "Is there someone you like?"

There's a blush on Euphy's cheeks now, and her hands go still.

Leloucia stills right along with her for a moment. "Who?"

"Oh, it's – it's no one special," Euphy says, and gods, she is actually flushing now, just a little, a fine dust of pink stretching over the paleness of her cheeks. "I've never even actually spoken to – to him." She shakes her head to herself and adds a bit too hurriedly, "It's nothing."

Oh, Euphy and her puppy crushes, Leloucia thinks with an internal sigh. There have been so many of those, starting with the son of the Chinese maid when they were eight and culminating in a dramatic episode last summer with a Britannian commoner (the butler of a patron) she met at a banquet. Always the same: the blush settling on her cheeks like a barometer of excitement, and eyes shining with girlish joy.

Sometimes she wonders who her little sister has inherited that sentimentality from.

But no matter now; Leloucia has more pressing matters to occupy herself with. She watches Euphy weave a purple headband around her hair out of impassive eyes, the wheels of her mind trotting along the roads of her winding thoughts.

She's barely even listening when Euphy meets her eyes in the mirror and asks, "Hey. Um." She fiddles a little, insecurity heavy in her tone. "Going out with a – a guard is pretty much the worst thing we could do, isn't it?"

Leloucia shrugs, mind not really with her. "Of course. The guards are all commoners. Some are even Numbers. Off-limits."

"Yes," Euphy says, and her eyes dart away. "I guess that's so. It's not like we're allowed to date even if it's someone of noble standing." She giggles to herself, somehow off-key and nervous. "Off-limits..."

Leloucia nods, says, "Thank you for brushing my hair," gives Euphy a small smile, and leaves, already so lost in thought that she has forgotten the conversation entirely by the time she reaches her chambers.

She's shaking with anger.

"Now receiving: 9th Princess of Britannia, Leloucia vi Britannia," a booming voice announces, and the doors in front of her creak open. Light rushes into her face and almost blinds her.

She hopes the light rushes in to fill the cracks the fury has left in the mask of her usual apathy.

She keeps her head held high, and spills into the hall with a long stride. Her heels click along the way, and she feels eyes on her – dozens, hundreds of them, most of the court assembled to watch her strut along the carpet with her hair swinging behind her and her features set in what she hopes is cold determination.

Even as the sweat trickles down her back and she can feel the fury clench her stomach into a painful knot that leaves her face aflame and fingers icy.

She doesn't recognize most of the faces along the way, and she doesn't care – the silhouette of him – her father, the Emperor – first a blob and then a human that grows into his colossal size the nearer she draws, until she's close enough that his features snap into sharp focus.

She comes to a halt in front of him, and holds his gaze. Her jaw is tight, her hands are balled to fists – and she waits.

"You have requested an audience?" the Emperor asks.

Dislike writhes in her stomach.

She raises her chin, dares herself to look as haughty as she can, and says, "Honorable Father." She can't help it – her upper lip curls upward as if she's tasted poison. "I'm here concerning the proposal -"

"Oh yes." He nods his head, but his wig's waxy curls remain static. "The dear Duke Schalkenberg. I'm sure you were," he gives her a smile that burns, "most overjoyed to hear his family has accepted my request."

Leloucia has to take a moment to compose herself, to quell the warring emotions.

She rarely sees her father. Of course, he has to keep up appearances – oh, of course, the Emperor loves all of his children and all of his mistresses and is not treating one more favorably than the other, thank you very much – but Leloucia has always been able to sense it.

The way he looks at her as if she were an especially interesting species of a butterfly he couldn't wait to study, dissect and crucify upon a spindly needle.

Interested, maybe, but distant.

Leloucia grinds her teeth a little harder, fumbling for the slippery rope of her emotions. "I am here to request you to reconsider." She pauses, and adds sharply, "Honorable Father."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow at her, and he's amused, she can tell. "And why would that be?"

She licks her lips. "I do not wish to get married at the moment." Or ever. "I have duties to attend to – and Nunnally – and –"

"Duties?" He wonders aloud. "I can scarcely think of a duty both more honorable or more suitable for you than that of a wife in the name of the Empire. Dutiful and beautiful and obedient as you are -"

She wants to spit at him, but she contains herself. "Honorable Father," she says, and she holds her breath, knows everyone is looking at her, and pauses before she lets the hammer fall with, "My body is not yours to auction off. I am-" and her eyes harden, "-not your whore."

A frisson runs through the hall, communicates from bystander to bystander, through the whole eagerly gossiping mass of them.

She ignores them all and looks at no one but him, looks at how his eyes first widen, then narrow, glaring -

The pain is a flare of agony, and she's on her hands and knees before she knows it. Mind dazed and cheek throbbing, and it takes her a second to piece together that he has just slapped her - slapped her like this in front of everyone, and -

He's standing before her, tall and regal, and when she looks up at him, she's five years old again.

She can hear the hall gasping in surprise, people breaking into gossip ("Did you see-" "She had it coming-" "She's-") but she's not listening, she's not hearing, she's looking at him, glaring at him, with the hatred churning in her stomach.

And then he booms, "Silence."

All sound cuts off, smothering them in a vault.

Leloucia looks at her father.

He looks at her.

Voice like steel, he says, "You will obey me."

She feels the tears needle at the back of her eyeballs, from pain and humiliation and worst of all, resignation.

She can't win. She knows she can't.

She thinks this at about the same time an idea hatches, and the splay of the determination cracks its shell.

Her eyes never leave him when she scrambles on to her feet – slowly, wincing at the pain throbbing at her cheek – and then she's standing again, and the royal robes are heavy around her shoulders and nearly drag her down again.

She descends the ladder from white-hot rage to controlled anger.

"Fine," she says, and her voice almost cracks, but doesn't. "Fine." Her tone hardens. "Have it your way, Your Majesty."

"Now if that wasn't a temper tantrum," C.C. greets her in a somber tone.

Leloucia doesn't even look at her. She can't - she can't deal with the court witch of all people right now, even if they have become somewhat reluctant friends (comfortable to the point that C.C. will invade her private chambers without announcement or apology), but not. Right. Now.

"Shut up," Leloucia seethes, and flings the door shut with a kick. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

Leloucia's not looking at her, but she knows C.C. is shrugging right now. She says nothing and Leloucia is glad for it; she storms off into the corner of her bedroom and yanks open a drawer. She rifles through the things - lip stick? As if she'd need that right now. Did Euphy leave her that little pink stuffed toy? Ah, there - money.

She collects the coins in her palm and stuffs them into a pouch, her fingers shaking around the metal. Her heart is in her throat and the gate in her mind has been lifted, the thoughts storming into her head while falling all over each other like racing horses at the starting sign.

" - now?" C.C. finishes.

Leloucia snaps her head around to glare at her. "What?"

"I asked," C.C. says, and slides forward on the bed she's sitting on, closer to the edge, "what you think you're doing to do now, little girl?"

Leloucia bites her lower lip. "Leave," she says. "Leave. I can't stand being here for a second longer. I don't -"

"You're not allowed to leave at this hour," C.C. interrupts, tone even and bored. "As I'm sure you're well aware."

"I don't care," Leloucia snaps, and she stands there with the money pouch pressed against her chest and stares at the woman lounging on her bed. "I don't care. I don't."

C.C. holds her gaze. "Interesting. Didn't you say you wanted to protect Nunnally and Euphemia?"

"Of course I do. Just not - not right now. I need to get out." She pauses. "I'll be back soon enough. In a few hours, or tomorrow."

"Oh?" C.C. cocks her head. "Coming back to marry your prince after all?"

Leloucia grips the pouch tighter. "Shut up."

C.C. shrugs her shoulders. "You always did hate not being in control. Is this your form of rebellion?"

She can't stay here right now, not after - not after the humiliation out there, not when everybody has seen her get slapped, not now when she knows Nunnally will come to her with gentle concern in her voice but her eyes creased with worry and she doesn't need pity.

"I can't be here now," she says again, almost to herself, trying to calm herself down, rationalize herself. "Guh."

C.C. hikes up her voice a few tones to imitate Leloucia's speech, "'I hate my father." Her voice drips with gentle mockery. Then sighs. "Teenage girls never do get any more original throughout the ages."

Leloucia straightens herself, and her voice is cold when she says, "I didn't ask for your opinion, witch."

"Of course you didn't," C.C. says. "If you did, giving them would be boring."

"I'm leaving," Leloucia says. "Going out into the city. I need air. I -"

"Going to bribe the guards with that?" C.C. nods toward the pouch in Leloucia's fingers. "You think that will work?"

Leloucia shakes her head, runs a shaky finger through her hair. Not right now. Just - not right now. "I'm leaving," she says, and struts over to the door. "Keep an eye on them for me."

She stops at the door when C.C. speaks again. "Try not to hate him too much." She can hear C.C. shift on the bed, maybe curling up, drawing her knees to her chest. "I've been here long enough to know it's fruitless, little girl."

"We'll see about that," Leloucia seethes. Mostly to convince herself. "We'll see," she presses out, and then she opens the door, and she's gone.

And then she's not, because C.C. stops her one final time. "That Duke will be delighted, you know," she says neutrally. "To be wedded to a Britannian princess. Proper manners. Impeccable upbringing. Beautiful." She pauses. "Chaste and virginal and all."

She has her back pressed against the wall, glancing around the corner.

Maybe her father has already issued a command to keep her in the palace at all costs, or maybe she still has a chance to slip away - she's not sure, but whatever the case. She presses the pouch a bit closer to her chest, and darts her eyes around.

High ceiling, dangling chandeliers, European art clinging to the walls - no trace of a human.

She allows herself to relax a bit, and rounds the corner, toeing down the hallway. Just a bit more, and there will be the door to their private kitchen, where she knows there's an employee's-only door connected to the gardens.

She throws a glance at the windows lining the hallway, and sees the sun dipping down to sink into the grasp of another palace, and she knows - there won't be anyone in the kitchen at least, and with any luck -

Which is when she sees a guard rounding the corner.

Her breath hitches in her throat.

She tries to duck behind one of the flower pots, but - shoot, she knows it's too late, knows he's already seen her, so she tries to save what's left of her dignity, straightens her back, and fixes him with a cool glare.

He stops in his tracks at the sight of her, surprise spilling over his features. "Your - your Highness?"

"Indeed." She eyes him with a look that she is suitably insulting. "And you are?"

She's seen him before, she realizes; there's something about his face that's strangely familiar, but she's not sure where she's seen him before. Perhaps she's just seen him around the palace a few times, but she pays so little attention to the guards that none of them ever stick in her mind.

This one in front of her is a guard through and through: the white royal guards uniform fits snugly around a lean, now very straight and tensed body, this tension mirrored in his guarded, unsure, overly polite look. She notes the unusually intense color of his green eyes, but other than that, she finds little out of the ordinary.

Then she realizes that his eyelids curl down at the corners into an almond shape and she can finally place the guard's ethnicity.

The East somewhere, the Chinese Federation, maybe - but no, they don't have Chinese guards anymore, do they? She checked this in the data base just a week ago. Which leaves - Area 11 or 12, possibly?

Then he snaps out of his reverie, and finally remembers his manners: he slaps his fist against his chest and bows his head, a torrent of soft-looking brown curls tumbling down along his tanned skin. "Suzaku Kururugi, Your Highness," he says hurriedly, almost reverently.

Leloucia decides right then and there that she kind of likes him; at least this man knows his place. So she lifts her chin and decides to begin with the obvious: ignoring him.

Keeping her eyes pointedly drawn at the door right behind him, she starts walking, black skirt swishing at her ankles. Maybe he'll just let her. Maybe he'll -

"Your Highness," he says, voice unsure, and when she looks at him, his face is puzzled. "Might I inquire where you're going at this hour?"

She looks at him in a way that spells, 'don't you dare stop me,' and says, "Out." Just that, and that single syllable seems way too loud in the deserted hallway.

He licks his lips. "I don't think I can allow you to do that, Your Highness."

"Oh, really?" She raises one eybrow at him. "I'm not sure if people will be quite happy to hear I was harassed by a guard on my way out."

He looks at her for a moment, long and twining, and Leloucia's just about to snap at him for looking at her like that when he says with a slow, apologetic shake of his head, "I'm sorry, but I have orders not to let you go out tonight."

So Daddy has made precautions. Anxiety blocks her throat at the very back of it, but she swallows, wills it down. "Let me pass. I just want to get some fresh air. I'll be back soon." Her eyes narrow. "It's an order."

A long moment passes before he breaks it with a quiet, "I apologize." And gods, he actually looks apologetic.

Leloucia promptly revises her earlier favorable opinion of him.

He shakes his head. "But I have orders from the Emperor and I'm afraid he outranks you, so."

She'll have to resort to this, then. She tosses him the money pouch, almost disgustedly, and it hits him on the shoulder and then tumbles to the floor in a loud clutter. "Will this sway you, then?"

The guard - Kururugi, she reminds herself - actually flinches, then eyes the discarded pouch. "Your Highness," he says, and gods, he sounds almost appalled, "are you trying to bribe me?"

"'Bribe' is not a pretty word," she answers easily, and crosses her arms over her chest. "I prefer the ring of 'persuasion'."

They look at each other for a moment, long and drawn-out, and she knows she's smirking, just a bit, looking at him and taunting him with her eyes.

Then he shakes his head again, and, out of all things, smiles.

Leloucia is so taken-aback she doesn't know what to do.

"I guess that's how it works for the royals," he says, and despite the tone he's still smiling, in a way that lights up his eyes with fake understanding and fake fondness and he squints his eyes. "And I might just be a lowly guard, but - I have my principles. Your Most Revered Highness."

"There's a lot in there," she seethes. "Fishing for more before you have even checked the amount?" She nods. "Shrewd."

He shakes his head, and still won't let go of that smile. He falls into a crouch, and it's so effortless and elegant that Leloucia can't help but stare as his tanned fingers close around the purple pouch before he leaps on to his feet again, fluid like water. "Here." He holds out the pouch toward her.

Leloucia frowns. "Are you stupid?"

"Possibly," he says, not looking the least bit offended.

"You're a Number and you're working here. Under the very people who subjugated your country. And I'm willing to pay you enough to quit and leave, and you don't take it?"

"To summarize," he says. "Now, if I can escort you back to your -"

Leloucia is too stunned to answer for a moment. So much, in fact, that she doesn't realize he's walked up to her, that he's put his hands on her arm, and she flinches and takes a step back. "Don't touch me."

"I apologize," he amends, and his features fall. "I apologize, but -"

A lifeline, she thinks, there has to be a way out of this. She's always been good at finding the loophole in things, brilliant at finding the last way out of a hopeless chess match - surely, she can -

"Who," she presses out, and she knows her eyes are probably blazing at this point, "ordered you, exactly?"

He hesitates. The hand he put on her arm still up in the air. "Um. It was Sir Jeremiah, to be exact -"

She latches onto the opportunity. "I outrank him," she says. "I outrank him. You like ranks, don't you?"

"But the orders did come from His Majesty -"

"Did he say that or was it just implied?" she presses. "Did he say, 'these are direct orders from the Emperor himself'?"

He didn't, Leloucia realizes with a thrill that scuttles down her spine. He didn't - she can tell, from the way his features falter, the way the hesitation splays over his features, can practically see the wheels in his head churning -

"If it wasn't the Emperor's direct orders," she says, hoisting herself up on the rope of opportunity, "then my wishes are definitely to be considered before his." She gives him an icy look. "Mister Kururugi."

She sees the emotions shift on his face. There's surprise there, then contemplation, and when that ebbs away what she's left with is finally - "Understood." He lowers his eyes. "Your Highness."

"Good," she presses out. "Good. I might actually not fire you now. Consider yourself fortunate." A beat. "And you can keep the money."

With that, she turns on her heels, chin raised, spine straight, and she's just about to go when he speaks up again.

"I'm not saying this out of my duty as a guard, but - it's dangerous out there. You shouldn't go out alone. Though I can't and will not stop you." Leloucia hears his footsteps, and she turns around.

He takes her hand, and presses the pouch into her palm. "And I won't be needing this. Though I'm grateful all the same, Your Highness."

She curls her upper lip. "I'll be fine," she says - almost spits out - "I've gone out there hundreds of times."

"Like I said," Kururugi says. "I won't stop you. Even if it will get me fired." He pauses, and adds with a half-pained, half-forcefully cheerful expression, "Which it definitely will."

And she almost wants to ask, 'what's wrong with you?' because she can't figure him out, not one bit - why is he doing this for her now when he knows he's getting fired, when he knows that outranking strategy was just her betting on his stupidity? But then she thinks of nothing much anymore because he's smiling at her again and gods -

She wonders how in the world it can both look so fake and so -

No.

She searches for his eyes and waits.

And again, she's sure she's seen him some time somewhere before, she just can't remember the time or place. But she remembers, faintly; there was a boy like him before, looking at her like this, and she searches the chambers of her memory (so many guards, so many insignificant people) and when the neurons finally connect and something in her head pings, she gasps.

"You-" she says, and her voice almost breaks. "You - it's you. From ten years ago."

He doesn't answer, but his expression - that little quirk at the corners of his lips, and the flash of recognition behind his eyes - is answer enough.

She licks her lips. "You pushed Nunnally out of the way of the truck that day."

He looks a bit embarrassed now, eyes darting to the floor.

She remembers now, if only bits and pieces from so long ago; her and Nunnally and their mother stepping out the car on their way to a dinner party, and her getting into an argument with one of the bodyguards, just long and intense enough for Nunnally to slip away until they heard that screech -

And that boy who shoved her out of the way until she collapsed and how he asked her, "Are you okay?" in broken and accented Britannian while holding her. And then she remembers: her mother shrieked and ran toward them, and yanked Nunnally out of his arms; and as for him, she recollects the little self-deprecating, that little resigned smile of his.

"You saved Nunnally that day." Something in her chest moves. "You saved her, and I never thanked you."

He shrugs, and finally meets her eyes again. "You don't have to. Of course I had to do something."

She sees him in a completely new light now. She's thought of him before - of that boy - but never knew he was right under her nose. And now it's so obvious she doesn't know why she hasn't recognized him sooner; those haunting eyes are so unique, and she never noticed even though she must have seen him in the halls dozens of times.

And in that moment, she thinks he's - she doesn't know.

But she's torn now, decision wavering. She wants to go, she wants to stay here, she wants to look at him, she wants to - whatwhathwat she wants she doesn't know, but then she doesn't get much time to decide because there's footfalls in the distance, rounding the corner somewhere, and Leloucia does the first thing that she can think of.

She grabs his wrist, hisses, "Come with me," and tugs.

-

continues here.

Initation Ritual -- part 1 of... this.

2011-02-04T01:12:23Z

Seriously, don't ask me.

SERIOUSLY, just don't

I mean it guys.

DON'T.

DO NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT~

Posted here because I couldn't stand the LOL typo galore of this on the kink meme. Also, added in a part that was kind of funny ~~to my inner eleven year old~~ and I put it in here.

BASICALLY KOR/SUZAKU IN THE CRACKIEST WAY EVER.

People, when I say, "I don't even know," I DO mean, "I don't fucking know, okayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy~ >_____<"

Suzaku hadn’t been naive enough to think that the ‘initiation ceremony’ his fellow Knights of the Round had been speaking of in hushed voices followed by conspiratory glances (and in Gino’s case, a big, saucy wink) would amount to anything even remotely innocent.

He hadn’t expected anything borderline ‘normal,’ either. Certainly not something as innocuous as getting drunk in a bar, and not even something a bit more not-normal yet completely feasible like beating each other to a bloody pulp.

What exactly he had expected, he didn't really know, though. In movies, they flushed the new guy’s head down a toilet or stripped him naked and sent him to prance around the building making animal sounds. Maybe he had anticipated something like more along the lines of that.

He knew what he hadn’t seen coming, though, and that was this: being blindfolded and tied to a bed, with someone (he actually had no idea who, but guessing by the size of the hands, likely a man) currently trying to wriggle him out of his newly-appointed Knight of Seven pants.

“Hey?” he called. “What -- what are you going to do to me?” Upon not getting a verbal reply, “Hey!”

“So innocent,” a female voice he placed as Monica’s said, sneer practically visible in her voice.

“That only makes it much more fun~” a male voice replied. Suzaku quickly checked his memory of the various men and women he’d been introduced to only a few days ago, and decided it was Gino’s.

“Says the guy who only lasted two rounds,” said a bored female voice. Anya.

“Hey -- I was really young, okay?”

A silence followed which Suzaku interpreted as Anya giving Gino a pointed look at that.

“I mean, comparatively,” Gino amended.

“Think he can last longer than me?” Since there were only two men present other than Suzaku, he correctly pinpointed this voice as Luciano’s. “I went up to four.”

“Well, you also only had two other Knights of the Round to put up with,” a third female voice said. No-- what was her name again? Suzaku could barely remember her face.

“That has nothing to do with it, Nonette,” Luciano grumbled.

Oh yes. Nonette. Right. But there was still one question that just begged to be asked --

“So.” Suzaku said, and licked his lips. “Care to tell me just what are you going to do with me?” He had a vague idea of it now, now that Gino had somehow managed to wrestle his pants from him and he was currently blindfolded and tied to a bed in nothing but his boxers, but he wasn’t ready to allow that particular thought to crystallize in the sea of his thoughts yet. Mainly because he wasn’t quite sure he wouldn’t lose his mind over it.

And as much as other people liked to judge the quality of said mind, it would still be a bit of a waste, there.

“We’re going to have a party. And play a game,” Gino said.

“It’s sort of our ‘initiation ritual,’” Monica supplied.

“That doesn’t sound too good,” Suzaku said, voice heavy with premonition. He wriggled a little against the ties, testing their strength. He could probably free himself from them if he really wanted to, but -- first he was going to find out what this ‘ritual’ entailed.

At least he was fairly sure at his point it wouldn’t involve chicken blood, Latin hymns, and virgin sacrifices. At the very least.

“Should we tell him the rules first or after the first round?” Anya wondered aloud.

“Hmmm. Toughy-tough,” Gino said.

“I mean, what if he gets it right the first time,” Anya drawled. “Not much fun in that.”

“But eh, we can always lie --”

That sound he just heard probably involved Anya’s foot making acquaintance with Gino’s shin, if the hissing sound was anything to go by.

“Seriously, you amateurs,” Monica huffed. “I’ll explain the rules to him.”

He could feel more than see her move, stepping closer to the bed. “It’s pretty easy, Seven. So we will --”

“No, let’s explain later,” Gino piped up.

“Oh, for chrissakes,” she huffed. “You --”

“Everyone, stop it.” That was Luciano, who apparently fancied himelf the leader of this -- game. Or whatever. It hadn’t really started yet, from what Suzaku could tell.

Pensive silence reigned. Suzaku was getting quite aware of the fact that he was wearing nothing but his boxers, and probably looked like someone straight out of the cover of a bondage porno right now.

….Not really the image he wanted right now.

“So, can I go first?” Gino asked.

Okay, Suzaku decided. This didn’t sound good. Not good at all.

“Hey, um. If I may say something. You know, as the guy currently tied up?”

“I’d like to go first, personally,” Monica said.

“Oh, come on, you got to go first last time --!”

“Hey,” Suzaku tried again, in case they’d forgotten about him. “Don’t I get any say in this?”

Silence settled over the scene. Then, Nonette asked, “Seriously?”

Okay, okay. So much for that then.

He settled back against the bed. “It was worth a try, I guess.”

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Gino said, picking up the thread of his ongoing conversation with Monica. “I want to go first.”

“I’d go first, but I’m kind of tied up here,” Suzaku joked tiredly.

Apparently, not even bad puns could throw them off their determination. Monica’s voice was taut when she said, “Rock, stone, scissors, Gino. At the count of three. One -- two --”

Okay, at this point they just had to be fucking with Suzaku. Seriously. Because, no -- way --

“Three!” she called. Then, “Oh, dammit.”

“And here we go: Gino Weinberg, knight extraordinaire, first as always,” Gino hooted. “Better luck next time, Monica.”

“Fuck you,” she muttered.

“Love ya too, honey.”

Suzaku really wanted to make another sarcastic comment at this point, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything he could say. At least they had gotten somewhere in their -- game. Or whatever.

Suzaku thought of his eight AM meeting with a kind of forlorn longing akin to pining for a long hot bath after a long hard day’s of work. Somehow, he figured it was supposed to be the other way around.

He also figured that the day wouldn’t be the only thing that would be hard, and uh, long today when he realized that someone was touching him. Down there. And judging by the sounds of it, it was Gino.

“Take off the boxers already,” Monica huffed.

“Such a sore loser,” Gino teased.

“Get to it or I’m going first,” was the caustic reply.

Well. Well, well.

Suzaku didn’t know how to describe the situation, but ‘what’ and ‘the’ and ‘fuck’ about a trillion times just about covered it.

They couldn’t seriously --

But they kind of were. And Gino’s (at least he thought it was Gino’s) fingers hooked under the fabric of his boxers, and pulled them down, exposing him for the world (or a least, five sadistically-inclined KoR) to see.

Someone with a female voice whistled. He couldn’t place right now if it was Monica or Nonette. “Not bad. Bigger than yours, Luciano.”

“Libel,” said Luciano muttered.

“Ah, I still think it’s smaller than Gino’s,” Anya said. “Though not bad for an Eleven.”

“Must be the deluxe sushi roll,” Gino said. He knew it was Gino this time, because he could feel him -- him and his breath, breaking over the skin of his --

OhfuckingGodthisisn’thappening. Or, fuck, or dear non-existent God -- or fuck, Amaterasu or whoever -- say this isn’t happening. Say I don’t have my cock up Gino’s mouth right now.

But God (or Amaterasu or whoever) wasn’t being kind today, he realized at the stroke of a tongue up his length.

Maybe daddy had been right about visiting the temple more often.

Suzaku grit his teeth and strained against the ties, wriggling his hips when he felt himself stir beneath Gino’s tongue.

“Are you seriously going to suck my dick right now?” Suzaku asked. Juuust to make sure.

“Yep,” Gino said.

“Indeed,” Anya said.

“And that’s all of us,” Monica confirmed.

Oh. Oh, okay. So -- this was that ‘initiation ritual’?

Well, he’d heard of worse fates, and -- fuck, he was hard right now, wasn’t he? Yes, he was. In front of everyone.

He knew he was blushing pretty bad right now, heat flaring beneath his cheeks. He couldn’t decide what was worst about the whole situation here -- that he was getting sucked off by Gino, or that he liked it.

Because Gino was actually pretty good at this. And he wasn’t being dainty, either.

It was almost like Gino was asking him to come as soon as possible, mouth fastening hard around his cock, sucking at the tip, then trailing down his tongue along the length with his lips following suit, sheathing all of Suzaku inside the tight hot velvet of his mouth.

“Fuck,” Suzaku said, and grit his teeth. “Gino, I --”

“Ah, ah, careful with moaning names there,” someone said. It was probably Nonette. “Or the game might be over sooner than expected.”

“I think it’s time for a switch,” Anya suggested. “He already knows it’s Gino, where’s the fun in that?”

“True,” Luciano said.

Gino, meanwhile, continued to twirl his tongue around Suzaku’s cock, bobbing his head up and down, teeth lightly raking over the sensitive skin, and Suzaku -- just couldn't help it. He hissed.

“Definitely time for a switch,” Anya judged.

That’s when Gino finally withdrew his face. “Aww, it was just getting fun, too.”

“Down, boy,” Anya said.

Suzaku shivered a little at the sensation of the saliva drying in the cold air, and suddenly felt very vulnerable, tied up like this, blindfolded, and cock probably already glistening, but --

It didn’t stay cold for very long. He didn’t even see the mouth coming, hadn’t even heard any of the signs -- no bed springs creaking, no footfall -- but suddenly there was another mouth down there, and he hissed again.

Smaller, this time. Tongue a little smoother. Suzaku guessed it was a woman but had no idea which of the three women it was. Why hadn’t he paid better attention to their mouths earlier? If he was getting a blow job, he rather appreciated getting a visual with it, too --

Except then that mouth sucked hard at the tip of his cock, and all of Suzaku’s thoughts decided to pack up their bags and vacation in Haiti.

“Good, good,” someone commented. It was probably Luciano.

“Excellent,” some other mouth said. Beyond knowing it was probably not the one with its lips around his cock right now, he had no idea how to place that one, though.

But then he realized he didn’t really give a flying because that mouth down there -- whoever’s it was -- was doing kind of amazing things down there.

“Nnng.” He moved his hips a little, thrusting up in the slick heat. Okay, so he wasn’t quite past the whole, “what the fuck” part of this, but he decided he could get around that -- or this. This whole... thing.

Also, he was about to come.

Suzaku had come inside mouths before, but this would mark the first time he’d ever do inside a completely anonymous one. He guessed there really was a first time for everything.

He was probably panting harder now, but he wasn’t really sure; all he could focus on was that tongue and that mouth, sucking and licking and rolling lips down and up, and down and up, and squeezing and biting just so that it still felt good, and -- oh gods.

“Fuck,” he said, and came with his eyes clenched shut, and one single, drawn-out moan.

The mouth around him took him in deeper, throat muscles constricting around him as he pulsed right into -- someone’s -- mouth. His hips jerked a few times in broken motions before stilling. Suzaku gasped for air.

The mouth withdrew.

“Five minutes and thirty-two seconds,” Luciano said. “Not bad, Seven.”

Suzaku was too puzzled to think of any response to that.

“His come isn’t that bitter,” someone said, and Suzaku realized with a start that it was Anya. So she had been the one to --

“Good to know,” Gino said.

So, well. That had been pretty good, considering, Suzaku thought. Since he kind of figured getting a mind-blowing blow job was quite preferable to having your head pushed down a toilet. “So,” Suzaku said, licked his lips, and tried again, “are you going to untie me now?”

“Well, I’m sorry to inform you, but you failed this round,” Luciano said.

“I came,” Suzaku said. Just to make that clear. In case they’d missed it or something.

“I’m very aware,” Anya drawled. “But that’s not how the game works.”

“Well, okay,” Suzaku said. “At this point, I’m just going to be frank with you: what the freaking fuck are the rules?”

“It’s easy, man.” That was Gino. “You shout someone’s name when you come. If you guess right, we untie you. If you don’t -- well, we’ll have to undo it again.”

“You’re not serious,” Suzaku said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’m afraid we don’t have a Knight called ‘Fuck,’ Seven,” Luciano crooned.

“You’re not serious,” Suzaku repeated. Because they just couldn’t be. “I’m not even hard anymore.”

“A minor technicality,” someone -- Nonette -- said.

“I think the more pressing issue is: who goes next?” Monica said.

Suzaku slumped against the bed. Well, wonderful.

“You people are all crazy,” he told them in a defeated tone.

Silence.

Then, “Are you saying you aren’t?” Gino asked, honestly baffled.

Well, couldn’t really argue there.

Then the by-now familiar chime of, “Soooo, who’s next?” started up, and Suzaku gave up with a sigh.

Author's Notes: Seriously, I do not know. MY ADHD DIDN'T ALLOW FOR ME TO LEAVE THE 'UNPURE' VERSION UP THERE. IRONY AND ALL. D: OR MAYBE I'M JUST A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT AND RIDICULE. Anonymous comments allowed for this post. FOR OBVIOUS REASONS. Yeah, I wouldn't admit to reading this, either. Except I fucking wrote it.

I think I need some vodka.

Don't judge me too badly. D::::: /whimpers/

Lelouch of the Porn Battle

2011-01-26T12:10:43Z

So, a while ago, drakyndra and I were spazzing out on anlaaria 's journal talking about some sort of SuzaLulu porn star AU fic.

Then she (indirectly) asked us to get on and write it.

And how can I refuse her?

It's a sort-of fairytale.

Or, it would be one, if fairytales involved lots of sex, gang bangs, and other adult themes – well, hold on except for in ye olden days, they actually did. Whatever. Moving on.

There was once a beautiful Empire that lay sprawling to the deepest ends of the country. Magnificent and prosperous, it was one of its kind – had, in fact, been the very first of its kind. It came into being stemmed up by one very hard-working and tireless man named Charles, helped out greatly by the invention of the video camera and that of the internet.

The hero of our fairytale was one of the Empire's prince, a boy with sharp intellect and sadly, an even sharper fear of running track.

When he'd been little, people had told his father was a movie-maker.

He had sort of expected that something was up even then (him being a very bright child, see). It hadn't seemed quite right how one adult would say 'movies' while another in the background nearly strained his eye muscles winking conspiratorily at the mention. Or the blush that would creep up high on the maids' cheeks whenever he steered the conversation toward the subject of his father's movies.

One maid eventually told him. “Anatomical documentaries,” she'd called it.

Lelouch was around 13 when he really started to understand that what he'd thought was his Empire was really nothing but a giant, sprawling, writhing... okay, that had been a bit of an awkward word choice there.... anyway. Giant porn company.

It was so giant in fact, that the world 'Britannia' – the 'Empire's' name – had become synonymous with 'porn.' Once he'd gotten a little older, he'd heard classmates whisper, “Dude, where to stash your Britannians,” with a juvenile grin and an air of masculine conspiracy on more than one occasion.

Worst of all, he realized around the same time, he, Lelouch, was one of the heirs to-be.

And if you think that most teenage boys in his position would have been ecstatic at the prospect of once having an entire porn conglomerate at his disposal that featured everything from vanilla sex to obscure 'eating-cum-covered noodles while vomiting' porn, then – well, then you'd be right.

But Fate is a cruel bitch, and she just so decided to make Lelouch the most awkward virgin who had ever lived.

Lelouch was not very happy with the fact that the food he ate and the bed he slept in had been paid in the blood and sweat, and... other bodily fluids of thousands of porn actors and actresses. So much in fact, that he moved out with his youngest sister and decided to live under a fake name the fall he turned 18.

So he was sort of like a secret prince in hiding. Only, he was a porn prince. Who was a virgin. Yeah.

And so, everything was well for a while. He went to school, aced his classes, continued to fail at track, and played with his sister (not in that way, I think). But this wouldn't be a proper fairytale if there wasn't a twist and blood feuds and drama, and so –

Well, I would like to tell you that it was a meaning-pregnant night with thunder stitching the sky to the earth while the wind howled like the cries of tortured souls, but alas. It was a beautiful day in spring, and all that really happened was that Lelouch had a lapse in judgment and got drunk with his brother Schneizel.

Which lead to --

“You're a disgwace... hic... to the family,” Schneizel said, trying to balance on his chair. And mostly failing.

“I am not,” Lelouch said. Roared, more like. You know, like a lion. “I am not a...diswace... I can do everything you do.”

“I can jump,” Schneizel said. And jumped.

Lelouch's eyes narrowed. “I can jump higher,” and jumped. Higher. Somehwat wobbily, due to previously outlined circumstances of intoxication. Then, he slapped on a triumphant grin.

Schneizel acted as maturely as could be expected from someone with his age and eloquence. "Baw, you fucker."

Lelouch just kept grinning. Then: “I can growl,” he growled.

“I can growl deeper,” Schneizel, well, growled deeply.

Lelouch looked disheartened for a second. “I can dance,” he said. And danced. Or something like it. Mostly just swinging his arms back and forth.

“I can dance better,” Schneizel countered, dancing the Macarena. Sadly, not in a tutu.

Lelouch frowned at him.

Schneizel plumped back down onto his chair, leaned forward and said, “I can make porn.”

Lelouch's eyebrow twitched in challenge. “I can make porn better.”

Schneizel raised an interested eyebrow.

That was around the time Lelouch passed out and woke up the next morning with a taste in his throat as if something had crawled down his throat and died down there. Also, with a note tapped onto his forehead, on which, Schneizel had written, “I accept the challenge, you bloody little prat.”

Lelouch looked at it for a long, silent, highly dramatic moment. Then he said, “Well, fuck.”

But as unfortunate as this little brotherly dispute was to the brothers, it came at a rather judicious time, since Charles had long since been eying his sons (not like that, I think. I hope) to determine the most adept candidate to succeed him in the ever-rotating power dynamics of the empire. And thus, on the same morning, he called both brothers to his office and proposed an idea. Not that kind, by the way. This time I'm pretty sure.

“I witnessed your little dispute last night,” Charles said, rubbing his chin. “I decided to give you both the opportunity to follow up on your words.”

Lelouch blinked groggily. Mostly because he was nursing the hangover of the century.

Schneizel didn't look much more awake.

Charles surveyed them both. “You two shall pass on my legacy. You two shall...” He paused for dramatic effect. “Change the destiny of porn.”

Lelouch just sort of gaped through the (skull-splitting) haze of his massive hangover. “Bwuuuuh?”

Charles bulldozed right over Lelouch's protests. “Lelouch, your company shall be named 'The Black Knights'. Schneizel, yours will be 'The White Knights.' Each of you will given limited funds, and trusted Pricks of the Rounds to help in your endeavors.” He got up then, and smoothed down his robes. “I expect you to work hard and delight me with movies that will make me proud. And hard. But mostly proud, because the other thing would be kind of awkward.”

Lelouch's forehead made intimate acquaintance with the desk that day.

It should be noted at this point that The Pricks of the Rounds, or PoR for shot, were the most trusted and best-paid actors in all of Britannia. They were at the top of their game, every single one of them –Luciano with a penchant for making every BDSM movie he starred in look almost too real for comfort, or Gino with his unmatchable enthusiasm and unfortunate tendency to fall in love with his co-stars.

They were rounded up the next day for the two (now rival) princes to assess. Again, not in that way. Sadly.

Lelouch had gotten over his hangover by then, and after going through the motions – which had included screaming like a little girl and cursing his brother and his heritage – and was staring at the assembled men.

Schneizel made his pick quickly, pointing at Luciano and then waiting for his brother to make his pick.

Lelouch had a more difficult time choosing.

On account of previously outlined circumstances of VIRGIN, he was not familiar with any of the men giving him polite, but reserved smiles that day.

“Having a difficult time choosing?” Schneizel drawled.

“Stay out of it,” Lelouch snapped.

“Well, I know a trick that could make it easier on you.” He looked at the assorted PoR, then let his face fall and pointed at somewhere behind them. “Look! It's a spaceship!”

All of the PoR scrambled around to look for the alleged ship, at which point Lelouch was presented with a row of white-clad, perky butts.

Which made the decision a bit easier.

“That one,” Lelouch said, pointing at the nicest. It had been an instinctual thing, okay. Lelouch was an ass man, see. When he wasn't too busy being a virgin about it.

The owners of the row of butts turned around, and the one Lelouch had pointed out put his index finger to his nose to point himself (the way the Japanese pointed at himself, Lelouch would learn later) and asked, “Me?”

“Yes,” Lelouch said, because to hell, he'd already made his decision. “You.”

“Excellent,” Schneizel commented.

“Excellent choice,” Charles noted from beside them, in a slightly creepy tone. “Suzaku, move over to Lelouch. Luciano, you go over to Schneizel. From now on, you two will aid them, help them grow their companies.”

Lelouch had not entirely gotten over the 'bwuh' part of the entire situation, but didn't mind when the guy – Suzaku – shuffled over to stand beside him.

“Well, then,” Charles said, positively brimming with excitement, “Let the porn battle begin!”

Author's Notes: It feels like all I can write lately is either crack or porn. I just couldn't resist the siren's call of 'porn crack.' It's like a match made in heaven.

I actually had a semi-serious idea for this, too. Maybe I'll write a drabble of that too. IDK.

Hope you're not too terrified, anla. XD

[Fanfic] Fanfic ABCs [ Code Geass, crack ]

2011-01-24T11:10:24Z

LOL surprisingly I do have a C.C./Shirley icon. LOL

Fandom: Code Geass
Title: Fanfic ABCs
Pairings: Um. Suzaku/Lelouch (more or... less O.o), Shirley/C.C., Kallen/Euphy -- but mostly just crack. Cough.
Word Count: ~2,000
Rating: M for language and non-graphic sex.
Summary: Becoming lesbian seemed like the totally reasonably thing to do when Suzaku and Lelouch kept being MIA having sex in yaoi fanfic.

Warning: Somewhat anti-yaoi. O.o But all in good fun. Considering, you know, a yaoi fan wrote this. Totally sporfing myself here, actually. XD Also, somewhat brain-melting crack all around, there.

“So,” CC said, taking a bite from her pizza. “It's just the four of us again.”

They were currently in a non-specific location the author had forgotten to get into in any great detail. But, they did have a table and they were sitting around it, so that was a start.

CC settled back back and surveyed the other girls. Kallen over there, silently cursing to herself, because, as we all know, she's a potty-mouth. And Euphy was over there looking spazzed-out with glinty roses twirling around her face. And Shirley was blushing. CC didn't really know why.

“I guess, yeah,” Shirley said, putting her cheek into her palm and sighing, drawing circles on the table with the other hand. “Guh. Lelouch's never here anymore.”

“Neither is Suzaku,” Euphy said, joining Shirley in her sigh.

“Or Zero.” That was Kallen, sounding indignant.

Then they all turned to CC, looking expectant.

CC blinked. “I'd take all three of them?”

All three assembled girls went back to pouting in their own orbits of nervous waiting. Somewhere, a non-specific clock was ticking. One of them was also tapping her foot against the floor in a steady and rather distracting rhythm.

It was Euphy who broke the silence first. “Where are they anyway?”

Kallen and Shirley looked away.

CC chewed, and swallowed. “They're probably having sex in some fanfic right now.”

Ominous silence reigned over the quartet.

“But,” Euphy said, wrinkling her nose, “they're not gay.”

“Well,” CC said, “they are now.”

“It makes no fucking sense at all, you hear me? Fucking sense at all!” Kallen boomed for no discernable reason, jumped up from her table, shadow-boxed, then sat down again. “Sorry, out of character moment. Anyway, that makes no sense at all – he was attracted to me.”

Shirley blinked. “And to me?”

“And to me?” Euphy joined the blinking.

Kallen snorted. “Not to you, princess.”

“Oh honestly,” Euphy huffed. “You and your oversized water ballons that you call your -- ”

“Careful there,” CC interrupted. “People might think you have UST.”

Shirley blinked. “And that is...?”

“Unresolved,” CC took another bite, because she was CC and CC was always eating pizza, right? “Sexual tension,” she finished after a chew and swallow.

Kallen stared at her. “We do not.”

“Everyone ships enemies together. Harry and Draco. Sephiroth and Cloud.” She shrugged. “Suzaku and Lelouch.”

Realization sank in around the table.

Shirley fidgeted on her seat. “What can we do about it?”

Something flashed behind CC's eyes. “We could go take a look?”

All three other girls perked up.

-XXX-

The four girls found themselves in another non-descript room of some sort. They had teleported there after CC had extracted a scroll from her wallet, upon which FANFIC DRAFT #1 had been written in large block letters, a mere touch of which had made the girls feel like they were ripped apart and sent through space and time. Which they might have. We're not sure.

“Wow,” Shirley said, looking around and studying the room. “Where are – “ She froze in mid-sentence. “It's Lelouch!”

The girls snapped around to see Lelouch strolling into the room. Only –

“That guy doesn't look much like Lelouch,” Kallen said.

“Not... all that much like I remember him, either,” Euphy said, wrinkling her nose.

The man who had walked into the room was magnificent. He wore a tight black vest that was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a strip of hardened pale skin. There was also a rose in his teeth for some reason.

“Suzy,” he boomed. “Come over here and let me fuck you against the wall.”

Shirley blushed horribly. Kallen let out a sound of disgusted anger. Euphy seemed torn between giggling and bouncing on her toes.

“Let me introduce you,” CC said sullenly. “This is Seme-Lelouch.”

“Sem-what?” Shirley asked, wrinkling her nose.

CC shook her head. “You'll see.”

From the other end of the room, another boy stumbled into the room, one that assembled girls immediately recognized as –

“Suzaku,” Euphy breathed. “He's here. Heeey!” she waved. “Heeey. Suzaku!”

He didn't look at her. He only came running to Lelouch and kneeled in front of him. His hair was very tousled. And his eyes were about twice their usual size. Also, he was blushing.

“It doesn't seem like he can hear you, princess,” Kallen said snidely.

Euphy shot her an evil look, then tried to catch his attention a few more times before giving up.

“Kallen's right," CC said. "He can't see or hear you."

“Why?” Euphy asked, eyes widening.

“I don't think you exist in here,” CC said. “Also, he's Uke-Zaku.”

“Oh.” Euphy lowered her hand, looking crestfallen.

In front of them, Lelouch said, “There you are, my little lap dop.” He let out a bellowing laughter. “Just in time to fulfill my,” his voice lowered, growling seducitively, “needs.”

“Oh, Zero,” Suzaku breathed, eyes wide and blush high. “What lewd sexy-sexy little game of your exquisitely oh-so-very-titillating fantasy will you subject me to today?”

“I'll whip you, because you're a masochist,” Lelouch said. “And I top. Because I'm taller. Disregarding the fact I have the stamina of an asthmatic toddler.”

“That makes sense, my Lord,” Suzaku said submissively.

“Why is Lelouch growling like that?” Kallen asked.

CC shrugged. “Looks like this author has a thing for Fukuyama's voice.”

“Oh.”

“Whip me, my Lord,” Suzaku was begging, wiggling his behind in the flight suit he was wearing for no apparent reason. “Whip my precious behind until I bleed.”

“Aaaand Suzaku's butt,” CC added tonelessly.

Euphy gulped.

“I think I've seen enough of this,” Kallen said, looking vaguely ill.

“Yeaah,” Shirley added.

CC nodded. “On to the next part then.”

-xXx-

Another scroll and another bout of time-space mendy-bendy shenanigans, the four girls found themselves in yet another room. Suzaku and Lelouch (or whatever they were now) were there, and this time, the girls realized, they realized they were in a classroom. Though it was notably missing tables, chairs, walls, or people other than the two boys.

“Ashford Academy,” CC said wistfully. “Where nobody checks the classrooms to see if anyone's screwing in them.”

“Are these two Suzaku and Lelouch now?” Shirley said, peeking at the two boys standing in front of the teacher's desk, dressed in school uniforms.

That was when Lelouch started speaking. “Oh, Suzaku. You bad, bad boy. How dare you touch my virgin boy parts.”

CC shook her head. “Looks like we've just met Seme-Zaku and Uke-Lelouch.”

Kallen gawked at them. “Okay, at this point it might be stupid to ask, but.” She licked her lips. “Why... why is Lelouch crying?”

“He's uke here,” CC said. “That's what they do. When they're not busy blushing.” She pondered that statement. “Although it works well in combination, too.”

“Lelouch,” Suzaku said, snapping the girls' attention back to them. “Don't be like that. Let me touch you. Let me make you feel good.” Then he touched him there. The author insisted it was a 'manhood,' but CC chose not to relay that bit of information.

“No,” Lelouch whimpered. “Don't do this to me. No, S-Suzaku. Oh what is this I'm feeling? I'm so hot and I never felt like this before. What are you doing to me, Suzaku?”

“Lelouch, it's gonna feel sooo good,” Suzaku drawled, moving in on the shaking, crying, blushing, and drooling Lelouch. “Let me handle this.”

“No,” Lelouch moaned, fingers threading through Suzaku's hair. Snot was running down his nose and down his jaw. “No – no – oooh. These feelings and these emotions, my god, what -- ”

Shirley hit her face.

Kallen gaped.

Euphy said, “I'm pretty sure Lelouch knows what sex is even if he hasn't had any.”

“Logic,” CC said. “Unfortunately they don't sell it at Wal-Mart.”

Pensive silence settled over the foursome.

CC shook her head and turned around from Seme-Zaku fucking a whimpering Uke-Lelouch against the table. “Let's go back, girls.”

-xXXx-

They were back in the room now, sitting quietly at the tables.

“And that,” CC said, “is what the boys are doing when they're not here.”

Baffled silence reigned.

“That was --” Shirley started.

“Pretty ridiculous?” Kallen interrupted. “God, yeah.”

“There are perks to being overlooked in fandom,” CC said.

“Well, fuck,” Kallen said, because Kallen had big boobs and that made her a potty-mouthed slut. “What can we do about it?”

“Nothing much, I'm afraid,” CC said, eating pizza. While hugging Cheese-kun. Who had magically appeared in her arms. Because she needed to be eating pizza and hugging Cheese-kun every time she was mentioned. In any fic ever. “Wait until the writers are done with them? I don't know.”

“Here's a thought,” Euphy said.

Three pairs of eyes trained on her.

She blushed. “Um – I was thinking. Well.” She fidgeted. “I was thinking if the boys are, um, busy, we could – just entertain ourselves?”

Everybody glared at her.

Euphy sank deeper into her chair. “Or not.”

“The fuck?” Kallen said eloquently.

CC shrugged. “It's worth a shot, I guess. Euphy, you make out with Kallen.” She looked at Shirley. “That makes you and me.”

Shirley blinked. “That makes no sense at all.”

CC looked at her. "Shirley," she asked seriously. "Does anything you've seen today make the slightest bit of sense?”

“Well, no.”

“See.”

The girls fell quiet, considering it.

Then, CC stood up, went over to Shirley, and kissed her on the mouth before she could protest.

That left Euphy and Kallen. Who were glaring at each other. Daggers. That's how dramatic it was. Mostly because the author didn't have enough experience to come up with anything other than cliched phrases. But, moving on --

And then, Kallen sighed, cursed a few more times, and said, “Well, might as well,” and went over to kiss Euphy.

-xXx-

And somewhere, in an alternate dimension, Lelouch and Suzaku woke up. Naked.

They were used to this by now, so they mututally decided to forego the obvious – screaming and covering their man bits – and got up to get dressed, very careful not to look at each other.

“Sometimes I'm not sure the mind-raping will ever stop,” Suzaku sighed, slipping into his pants. “It's been going on for years.”

“Tell me about it,” Lelouch said. “It's not getting any easier. My ass hurts.”

Suzaku frowned. "I'm sorry."

Lelouch shrugged with the sigh of an old man. "It's not your fault, Suzaku. It's Seme-Zaku's." He winced as he bent down. "God, they insist on making me a virgin every single day."

“Mary wished she knew your trick,” Suzaku sighed.

“She should have starred in a boy love-baiting anime then,” Lelouch said caustically.

Suzaku laughed. “Hey. Hey, Lelouch – remember... the girls?”

Lelouch stood, and frowned. “You mean the ones we were in love with before the mind-raping started?”

“Yeah, them. Euphy, and Shirley, and --”

“Kallen. And CC,” Lelouch finished.

Suzaku smiled wistfully. “Man, the days of vaginas and soft curves.”

Lelouch thought. “Why don't we go... visit them?”

Suzaku thought about this for a moment, then broke into a smile. “That's a great idea.”

-xXx-

And so, when Lelouch and Suzaku showed up at the table, they found Shirley and CC kissing passionately against a wall, and Kallen and Euphy locked in a tight embrace right on top of said table.

For a moment, both of them just gaped.

Lelouch found his voice first. “Hey, girls. Girls.” He waved his hand. “Hey!”

Shirley noticed them then, turning her face away from where it had been busy suckling on CC's nipple. “Lelouch. What are you doing here? You're gay.”

“What?” Lelouch's face fell. “No. I'm not. I was clearly attracted to you. I liked kissing you, remember? I was going to date you. I am not --”

“It must be an illusion,” CC said, staring at them. “They appear to be back to normal.”

“Look, girls,” Suzaku said, trying to be diplomatic (also, trying very hard not to look at all the naked boobs in the room), “It's just a misunderstanding. Lelouch and I are friends. Friends.”

Shirley frowned, which in itself was an achievement since she currently had her face half-buried between CC's breasts. "Friendship doesn't exist. If you care about each other, then clearly you must want to have sex with each other."

"What?" Suzaku frowned. "No, look -- look, it's not like that. We just -- "

"Don't mind Shirley," CC said, panting. "It looks like she adopted fandom logic."

Lelouch and Suzaku shook their heads. Then looked at each other. Meaningfully.

If this were a yaoi fic, they would have started to kiss passionately at this point.

Since this isn't, Suzaku shook his head, and said, “Let's go grab a beer, man.”

“Yes,” Lelouch said, looking pale. “That is an... excellent idea indeed. Though let's make it beer for you and wine for me."

Suzaku nodded. "Lots of it."

"Yes," Lelouch agreed with another look just as Shirley screamed in orgasm, "lots and looots of it."

[Fanfic] What Friends Are For -- extended safe sex version [ Code Geass,very much M ]

2011-01-20T20:41:22Z

Fandom: Code Geass
Title: What Friends Are For
Pairings: Suzaku/Lelouch/Shirley. And I mean that. Has pretty explicit content for all three pairings: Lelouch/Shirley, Suzaku/Shirley, and Suzaku/Lelouch.
Word Count: nearly 11,000 words. Of porn. I didn't call this 'The Porn Fic That Never Ended' in my mind for nothing. XD;
Rating: Very much M for awkward, awwwkward 'huh lol what are we doing' first-time sex. Both straight and gay, obviously. But most of the actual sex is pretty vanilla and 'innocent' - no double penetration or anything.
Summary: Lelouch and Shirley are ready to take their relationship to the next level, but being the inexperienced, blushing virgins they both are, Suzaku has to help...

Background/Notes: This was originally written for cgkinkmeme here over a year and a half ago, and I originally did not plan on posting this on my main journal. But, a few days ago, wabisuke told me she very much wanted to see this posted in a more user-friendly place than the kinkmeme -- so I took the opportunity to re-write this. This version is different from the original on the kink meme.

What's different? There's a different ending, an entirely new sex scene, and the sex in this is now safe.

To Read: ( OH NO HE DIDN'T )

Links to ff.net because it was too long for LJ. Boo. XD

[Fanfic] In The Emperor's Study [ Code Geass, Lelouch/Suzaku, M ]

2011-01-18T10:37:45Z

/icon very relevant!

Fandom: Code Geass
Title: In The Emperor's Study
Pairing: Lelouch/Suzaku
Word Count: ~3,500
Rating: M for smut, smuttity smut, and a warning for whipping and toy play.
Summary: Lelouch/Suzaku. With a riding crop. In the study. Porn With (Some) Plot.

Notes: Beta'd by transient_words , who is totally my partner-in-crime for everything fanfic-related, and a wonderful friend besides. Originally requested on cgkinkmeme .

The door fell closed behind them with a soft click.

Lelouch didn't even look at Suzaku as he walked, wincing slightly at the pain in his tailbone. But he played down any signs of distress – forced his body to stalk over to the large window overseeing the courtyard with all his usual grace, and to free the heavy velvet curtains without a word or sound.

The curtains fell down, their shadow eating away at the pale circle of sunlight laminating the carpet.

He could hear Suzaku shift his weight behind him.

Lelouch didn’t turn around and look, not yet; he allowed himself a moment of weakness, right there, with his back turned to his knight – his features for once slipping out of their iron-mask hold, mouth turning downward, eyes narrowing in a miasma of complicated emotions – before he collected them all and tucked them back behind his mask, and turned around.

Suzaku was staring at the floor, stray locks of his hair falling into his face.

The tension in the room closed off all other sounds, holding them in a tightly-brimming vacuum.

Lelouch opened his mouth to say something, felt his throat constrict around the words, and tried again.

“I know you're sorry,” he said. I also know you didn't do it on purpose, you idiot, he thought, but kept it to himself. Out loud, he continued with, “So let's get this over with.” He averted his eyes, so he wouldn't have to see Suzaku worry his lower lip, wouldn't see the tangle of guilt in his eyes. “Take off your clothes.”

All he got as a reply reply was a weak, “Yes, your Majesty.”

He didn't look at Suzaku when he sauntered over to the voluminous desk standing in the middle of his study – didn't look even when he heard the rustle of clothes, heard it sliding down over skin, and the gentle thump when they fell against the floor. Keeping his eyes trained on the desk, he slid open the second drawer on the right.

Half of the riding crop was wrapped in shadows, the second half glinting like the back of a beetle beneath the rays of sun fg in through the part of the window he hadn't bothered to cover. He hesitated, for just a moment – but then decided that no, he could do this, and it wasn't like it was the first time they had done this, and he yanked the riding crop out of the drawer and pushed it shut with a sound that was way too loud.

When he returned his gaze to Suzaku, he was naked already, muscles taut and firm beneath his skin.

Face completely lax, Lelouch let his eyes linger. Let them trail down from his shoulders to the sharp collar bones, then down over his pectorals and the plane of his stomach. He had lost weight, Lelouch noticed – the ridge of his pelvic bones a bowl over his crotch, the bottom of his sternum standing up. Not an ounce of spare fat on his body. Or the front of it, in any case.

Pale fingertips running over the smooth length of the crop, Lelouch said, “Come over here.”

Suzaku nodded, still not looking at him – and shuffled over to him, coming closer until Lelouch could feel the heat of his body, until he could smell him.

Back in Ashford, Suzaku had always smelled of motor oil. Now he smelled of the shampoo that swept away the oil and left him smelling as clean and fresh as was befitting of the Emperor's knight, with the spices of his sweat just underneath.

“Put your hands on the desk. And lean over,” he ordered, slathering the neutral tone over the emotion brimming in his voice, over the crack that was just waiting to show. “Now.”

Suzaku followed his orders. Immediately, just as he always did when he was in this mood of his. A far cry from before, from just an hour ago , when Lelouch had seen anger spark in his eyes, the kindling set and ready for the ember to strike, and –

Lelouch's tailbone throbbed at the memory, and it cost him all his will power not to grimace.

He gripped the riding crop a little tighter, and rounded Suzaku, positioning himself right behind him.

A straight spine that was taut with tension, the muscles in his arms straining against the skin as he supported part of his weight on the desk. Lelouch lowered his eyes –

And thought once again that it was interesting to observe that that part of his body was the only one in which he had still retained some body fat, the only place on his skinny body where he was still as full and taut as ever – and currently spread open just slightly and pointing right at him, round and inviting.

Lelouch let out an internal sigh, and went on with the spiel. He pressed the tip of the riding crop into Suzaku's spine, then let it drop down along the bowed curve. “Do you know what I'm punishing you for today?” he asked, willing his voice to be calm, conversational. Detached.

“For hurting you, your Majesty,” Suzaku said, voice coming out strained as if it was choking him. “I hurt you and I should be punished.”

“Yes,” Lelouch said, and the riding crop slid down lower, smooth and gentle. “You were angry, and you pushed me, and I fell. You didn't mean to, but you underestimated your own strength.”

He paused the crop right above the cleft of his ass, and said, “Didn't you, Suzaku?”

“I was wrong,” Suzaku said. “Forgive me, your Majesty.”

It's not me who needs to forgive you, Lelouch thought. Out loud, he said nothing.

He only raised the riding crop above his head, and let it fall.

The slap echoed loudly through the study, followed on its heels by Suzaku's long, broken gasp.

“Did it hurt?” Lelouch asked blandly. He could see Suzaku's blood welling up red beneath his skin in a rapid bruise.

“Y-Yes,” Suzaku said.

“It hasn't hurt nearly enough yet, has it?” Lelouch asked, and really, really wished Suzaku would tell him to stop.

“It hasn't, your Majesty,” Suzaku said.

Lelouch's heart sank just a little. “Very well.”

He raised the riding crop again, and flicked his wrist – watched as it connected with the flesh, watched as it rippled in aftershock. He didn't even give Suzaku (or himself) another chance to say anything before he hit him again, harder this time – so hard it made Suzaku yelp in pain and – something else, now.

Lelouch placed the riding crop on the desk, cupping the rounded flesh in his hands, watching how the skin welled up around the dig of his fingers.

“Do you like this?” he asked.

“Yes, your Majesty. I mean, no, your Majesty, it's my punishment,” Suzaku said, and Lelouch didn't need to turn him around to know what he looked like right now – there would be a veil over his eyes, a blush pulsing beneath his cheeks and the flanges of his nose, the few pale freckles scattered on his face standing out bright. Maybe his mouth would already be hanging open, lips wet and shining, and –

The first time it had ever happened, the first time Lelouch had whipped him and the groans of pain had softened and eventually morphed into cries of pleasure, the first time Suzaku had gotten hard before him, he had been nothing short of terrified.

Now, he expected it. Knew when it would happen, even – around the second or third or fourth slap, right when the first bright-red streaks began to well up and his skin burned beneath his touch, that was usually when the atmosphere changed completely.

The first time, Suzaku had been embarrassed, so very flustered – the apologies stumbling out of his mouth, his eyes wide and panicked, as if he had committed a mortal sin, and --

And as uncomfortable as seeing Suzaku like this used to make him – as it still made him, really – Lelouch much preferred it to seeing him in pain.

“I have something for you,” Lelouch said, and let go of him rather unceremoniously.

Suzaku made a surprised 'huh' sound, but Lelouch ignored him, shuffling through his drawer. Old documents, tissues (well, he could use those later), a well-read book – there.

He wrapped his hand around the small, pale blue vibrator and took it out, shutting the drawer with a thrust of his hip (and a scissor of pain tearing through him from his bruised tailbone), and walked back over to the heaving, naked, and, as Lelouch could now see clearly, very aroused man leaning over his desk.

He positioned himself back behind Suzaku, and pushed the tip of the vibrator into him without a word, watching how the ring of muscles stretched to accommodate the object, then tightened around it in reflex, squeezing down --

A surprised choke -- and now Suzaku whipped his head around, sending him a quizzical look out of widened eyes.

Lelouch really didn’t want to see his eyes right now. His fingers found the switch, and he flipped it on, the vibrator buzzing to life.

And what came from Suzaku's throat this time, this long, drawn-out sound, that was definitely a moan full of pleasure.

Those moans, those damn moans. Feeling like the ground was giving way beneath him, he found himself stumbling through the thick haze of reluctant arousal. He bit down on his lower lip to keep himself from echoing the sounds, the room spinning out of focus, and then he thought, the crop, the crop, he had to hold onto it, hold onto himself, anything.

He snatched it from the desk (it felt good in his hands, so good, right and like it belonged there, like he needed it to control himself) and slapped it against Suzaku, fast.

So fast that not even Suzaku had expected it – he let out a surprised sound (lower, huskier now than the ones before), and edged a little closer to the desk.

Lelouch's left hand reached out to grab Suzaku's hip, trying to hold him in place, digging into the bone, before he let it slide lower.

He pushed the vibrator in deeper at the same moment his right hand fell to whip him again.

What followed was nothing so much as an invasion of impressions: there were the sounds, the vibrator was buzzing, the sound getting louder and quieter each time he withdrew it and pushed it back in, like the volume of a TV set being switched up and down in at regular intervals.

And there were the visuals: a sweat drop running down his spine, leaving a glistening trail in its wake; and there was the way his body quivered at every slash of his wrist, and every impact rippling through the rounded flesh. But that wasn't even the worst of all this.

Worst of it was that he, Lelouch, was so very painfully, embarrasingly hard throughout all of this.

Lelouch's breath was getting harsher, faster – but he had an excuse for it, he did, after all, it was hard to whip someone and his shoulder was starting to protest, slow agony worming its way into his muscles. When he raised his arm the next time (the tenth, the one hundreth; he didn't know), it happened: the breath he released carried a low sigh, an almost-moan, and he bit down on his lower lip so hard that he almost broke through skin.

He responded by pushing the vibrator in deeper and whipping him harder, and then Suzaku's sounds greq into such an overwhelming cacophony, the parts (the emotions, the feelings) of which Lelouch didn't even bother to dissect, that he stopped knowing whether he made any sound or not at all.

He realized Suzaku was close now, so close – could see it in the way his body was tensing, the muscles in his back straining, the sounds escaping his throat getting way too loud and distracting, and then Lelouch plucked the vibrator out of him, flicked it to the floor without a word, and spun him around.

Suzaku was so dazed he almost lost his footing, but caught himself just in time. He looked at Lelouch out of wide eyes – eyes so devoid of any rational thought that they were as much the eyes of the clinically insane as the ones of the painfully aroused – and his mouth was hanging open just a little, wet and –

(inviting)

- and Lelouch, yes, Lelouch –

Lelouch lowered the riding crop and let it run along Suzaku's cock, flicking it lightly against it, making his way from the base all the way to the tip.

And it was just that little extra bit that Suzaku had needed to come.

He stiffened and clenched his eyes shut – Suzaku always did that when he came – and his entire body jerked forward, and moments later, Lelouch could feel his warm release splattering all over his clothes.

Lelouch said nothing. Did nothing. Nothing but continued to cling onto the riding crop like it meant something, like it was important, the rope to sanity in this whole mess.

But Suzaku didn't give him much time to compose his own thoughts.

“Your Majesty,” Suzaku said, and gods, he was still so very naked, so very drenched with sweat, so very at his disposal, and Lelouch thought again (for the tenth time? The one hundredth?) that this was wrong, so wrong, all of it wrong in that gut-clenchingly instinctual sense of the word.

But Suzaku didn't give him much time to think.

One second, he'd been standing there, spent and locked in post-coital haze; the next, he was pressing up against him, and Lelouch could feel him, the heat of his body drenching his clothes, the swell of his chest, his lips somewhere above his ear –

And Suzaku was pushing him back, and Lelouch was tumbling, straining to keep on to his feet. Then he felt his back slapping hard against the wall, felt himself get flattened against it by Suzaku’s weight.

Lelouch stilled. Held his breath.

Suzaku's breath broke against his lips, hot and ragged.

There were within kissing distance, Suzaku’s eyes large and wide and horrible right in front of him, his smell in his skin and his chest pressed to his. It would take nothing but a small bow of his head to close the distance.

When Lelouch exhaled, their breaths mingled. A soft butterfly touch as one of Suzaku’s lips brushed against his. An almost-kiss, a kiss that could have been, so very, very easily.

Suzaku never did kiss him.

Instead, he rubbed his hand against his crotch.

“Let me please you, your Majesty,” Suzaku said; it should have been meek and submissive, but when Suzaku got to this point, his voice always grew demanding, almost desperate. “Let me please you.”

The first time Suzaku had ever done this, it had left Lelouch's mind spinning so hard he had feared for a moment that he had lost it entirely.

Maybe he had.

Suzaku was stroking him through his clothes, soft but determined; and then there was the sound of a zipper springing open, and then that of clothes rustling, and then he was exposed down there, and Suzaku's hands were on him and his breath was on the nape of his neck, making him shiver as it sped across the sweat there, and then he was going lower, and then his mouth was down there.

(mmh)

Suzaku never went at it with any kind of restraint. He didn't tease him with kisses; he just took him into his mouth right away, the whole length of it, as if he didn't have a gag reflex, or just didn't care. He did it with an urgency as if he could win a prize for making Lelouch come as fast as he could.

Lelouch slumped against the wall, glancing down through the dark bangs falling into his face.

He always felt a twinge of shame at seeing Suzaku do this to him. Felt his insides knot a little when he watched him pop his cock in and out of his mouth, or saw him lick across the tip, or witness himself disappear back between those lips –

(nng)

-and, and Suzaku’s eyes – still glazed over, still delirious, high blush burning beneath his skin as if he was lit up from within, sweat-drenched hair matted against his temples, lips rapidly bruising and reddening --

Probably right along with Lelouch's own face.

Lelouch covered his mouth with the back of his hand, one knuckle between his lips. He bit down to keep himself from moaning, and then tore his eyes away from Suzaku, spinning them around the room, looking for something, anything, else to look at.

But he was close already, so close. He bit back the sounds (the 'ooh' and the 'ahhh' and the 'nng'), but Suzaku was only sucking him harder, demanding him to come into his mouth, and it was only a matter of time until he would, just a little bit and he'd be there, just a bit –

And then he bit down on his knuckles so hard he could taste the blood, and then (just a bit more, just a bit – ) he was there.

The world blurred, narrowed, then crashed down upon him. He was moving his hips now, thrusting forward, and then he was at the back of Suzaku's throat (he always took him in all the way to let him ride out his orgasm), and he was shaking, and (maybe) whimpering and (possibly) moaning Suzaku's name.

And then the tight lock the pleasure had on his brain drew back and a complicated tangle of emotions spilled forth, and he thrusted a few more times, riding out the sensation for as long as he could, a little shiver here, a broken move of his hips there, until they ebbed out and he stood still. And held his breath.

Suzaku didn't say anything. He removed his mouth, some clarity returning to his eyes. He looked away as soon as his eyes met Lelouch’s, glancing down and away from him, until he seemed to notice something, eyes widening slightly as realization dawned on him and Lelouch knew he was looking at his now messed-up clothes.

“The maid's going to clean this,” Lelouch said, his voice tight.

The, “Don't you dare apologize again,” remained unspoken but implicit.

Suzaku didn't apologize. Instead, he hugged him.

And somewhere in his chest, Lelouch could feel his heart expand.

They'd hugged before, but never like this. They had hugged, but they had done it daintily, like two long-lost relatives re-uniting and deciding they didn't like each other much, but protocol dictated a handshake was too formal. But this time –

It ended way too soon.

Suzaku let go of him, looking almost embarrassed for what he had done.

Lelouch bit down on his lower lip. Expecting the blow. Just knowing he would lower his head and mumble, “I apologize, I was out of line,” and say that damn, “Your Majesty,” that both turned Lelouch on so bad and disgusted him like nothing else.

But he didn't. Not this time. It looked like he was about to say it, but then he stopped himself, re-considered – and only said, “I'll take my leave then.”

“Yes,” Lelouch said, and he was hoping and hoping there wasn't as much emotion in it as he felt. “You shall.”

Suzaku got up, still naked, then walked over to the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, and slid back into them.

Lelouch kept his eyes trained on the chandelier dangling from the ceiling.

People were talking, Lelouch knew very well. He'd caught them a few times – the scathing words of his maids (“sadist,” “punishment,” “noises”) teetering and scattering into embarrassed silence as soon as he emerged from a corner. He only ever gave them a small smile – the kind that chilled – and waltzed away without a second glance.

They didn't understand, and they never would. But all things considered, it wasn't so bad if people thought he was whipping his knight in his study for pleasure, if they thought he was cruel and sadistic and would cut off their tongue and display them along the walls of his study like morbid war trophies. Not so bad if they feared him, if a ball of terror lodged in their throats when they saw him. Not so bad, no.

Nobody would ever know how he really felt about it. Least of all Suzaku, to whom punishment was kinder than any caress.

But –

“Suzaku,” he said. Lowly, quietly.

Suzaku stopped rustling.

He could feel his eyes on his face. Lelouch cleared his throat.

And then in lieu of all the other things he'd much rather say he said, “My tailbone. It no longer hurts. It's fine.”

A pause, and he laid the tone over his affection like a coat of paint over bricks, with the bumps and cracks in between still showing. “I'm okay. I really am.”

------------------------------------------------

Author’s Notes: Sorry if that was kind of sad/depressing/angsty. To lighten the mood, have a discussion between me and transient_words:

Me: Can you think of a better title?
Beta:: Behind Closed Doors
Me: Riding Adventures. Lelouch's Pony Adventure. /shot
Beta: 8D. How Suzaku Learnt To Behave *shot*
Me: The Emperor's new Cum-stained clothes
Beta: *dies* SUZAKU AND THE RIDING CROP
Me: BRILLIANT.
Beta:: RED RIDING CROP Y/Y?
Me: Red Riding Crop and the Blue Vibrator
Beta: Suzaku's shapely butt and the buzzing vibrator
Me: this is so going into the ANs, you know that?
Beta: You just have to tell the whole world I'm insane, yes?
Me: Is that a question? For serious?
Beta: Guess you’re really putting it up, then.
Me: Yup.

I am so sorry. XDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

On another note: if you have time, I suggest you visit the cgkinkmeme , and maybe fill something. We've had surprising activity and lots of good requests and fills lately. Not everything filled there is posted in the comms by the author!anons, so... worth a visit, whether you're a writer or reader.

Thanks for reading everyone! <3

[Fanfic] You're a Woman [ Kuroshitsuji, CRACK]

2011-01-05T22:28:52Z

Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Title:You're a Woman
Characters: Sebastian, Ciel, servant trio, Yana Toboso (yes, as a character)
Word Count: 3,454
Rating: T for CRACK, language, um, Sebastian with boobs?
Summary: So, what's the likelihood of spontaneous gender realignment, anyway?

Note: For all of my other Kuroshitsuji stories, I'd often get comments that they were amusing/cracky, entirely without me intending for them to be so. So, what's the most mature reaction I could think of?

Write crack and show my readers what it looks like when I actually try to be cracky. :D

The day on which Sebastian woke up as a girl was in many ways a day like any other. The sun was shining, the winds were blowing, and as far as Sebastian was aware, there hadn't been any murders, kidnappings, and thinly-veiled deus ex machina chapter endings scheduled for the entire week.

So when Sebastian opened his eyes, staggered to the mirror to practice his perfect smile lest he had forgotten it during his 3 hour nightmare he was mildly surprised to see that, while Ciel hadn't been successful in signing him up as a dog trainer at the circus like he'd dreamed, the dream had somehow managed to endow him with C-cup breasts.

At first, Sebastian just stared. Raised his hands to his chest and tried touching them - squeeze squeeze - and yup, they felt real all right.

He considered this for a one long stretch of moment. Time stopped ticking, the sound blurring into the back grounds, the seconds squeezing by, wheezing through the tightening loop of time, and -

Then he dropped his arms, thought, "Weirder things have happened," and went to work.

Just because there weren't any kidnappings planned for today didn't mean he was an idle man, see. Or woman, as the case may be.

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"Sebastian's a woman," Finny informed Bard during gulps of breath. "He's a fucking - he's a woman."

Bard regarded his co-worker with mild interest. "He's a what now?"

"A woman," Finny confirmed, trying to steady himself on the wall after his sprint from the front porch of the mansion. "I saw him - or, or I guess her - walk out of the mansion and HE WAS A SHE."

Bard blanched. "You don't tell me the young master finally talked him into bottoming?"

Finny shook his head, blond strand of hair whipping his face. "No, no, not like that - he's really a woman."

Bard perked up. "What, did Toboso-san change the script again like she did with Grell?"

Finnian groaned. "No. Guh. He is really, physically female."

Bard willed himself not to roll his eyes. Hey, he could deal with this. "Look, Finny, I know you're still trying to come to terms with your sexuality. I know how this - I mean. Of course I don't know first-hand, but I know about how it works, with the wish projections, and all that, and -"

"You don't understand," Finny said, windmilling his hands. "He's a woman. WITH BOOBS. He has BOOBS."

Bard took a long look at Finny. "Goodness, Finny," he said, stomping out his cigarette beneath his foot, "I thought we talked about not sniffing the flowers you bought from the Rastafarian and sold off to Sebastian as an exotic stage setting."

Finny blinked. "I'm not high."

"We got a warning last week because a viewer recognized the flowers. Remember we have to keep this R-rated? It's back to Ikea plants for the next fucking season."

"I told you." Finny's voice rose a few octaves. "I'm not high. Sebastian - or, or whoever or whatever he is. She is. Whatever. Has boobs."

Bard rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'll humor you for a bit. Can you tell me why in the world Sebastian would suddenly be a woman? People don't just randomly change their sex. Hey, I did graduate high school and they said that sex was determined at birth by those. Those. X thingies." He coughed.

Finny frowned. "I think you mean chromosomes."

"Anyway. It's still a physical impossibility for anyone to randomly change their sex and grow - OH MY GOD YOU HAVE BOOBS."

Finny blinked, and swirled around.

And then the world ended.

That, or that was just a twitch in Sebastian's eyebrows. Which was not as much comfort as it should be, because 'end of the world' and 'twitch in Sebastian's eyebrows' were closely correlated, but at the very least, the Hellmouth hadn't yet opened up beneath them.

"Good morning, Finnian. Good morning, Bard," he greeted pleasantly enough. "Glad to see you're keeping up this house's standards of gossip."

Finny coughed.

Bard's jaw dropped.

Finny reached over and pushed it shut with an audible 'click'.

"Now," Sebastian said, giving them both the look of a middle-aged school teacher with a kind demeanour but a penchant for handing out F's, "to go over your schedule." He turned to Finnian. "I feel some of the flowers in the backyard need to be trimmed more properly. You should see to it." And then, to Bard, "And as for you, I believe the young master has mentioned something about having a craving for dumplings."

"Dude," Bard said, gaping.

"Yeeeeeeah," Finny said sympathetically.

Bard cleared his throat. "Mr. Sebastian... or. Um. Lady - um." Then in a rush, "Are you aware you are a woman?"

Again, that twitch between Sebastian's (Sebastiana? Sebastina? Seba-chan?) eyebrows. "Yes," he (she?) said coolly. "I am quite aware that I have turned into a female."

"Oh," Bard said.

Sebastian gave him a mild smile. "Yes. Now, if you don't mind."

And with that, he turned and left, leaving two very confused males behind.

After a long stretch of silence, Bard announced, "Give me some of those flowers."

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"Sebastian's a woman," they told Maylene some undetermined (and suspiciously hazy) amount of time later.

She climbed down from her ladder, adjusted her glasses and said the most intelligent thing anyone could say in this situation. Which is, "What the fuck is wrong with you guys?"

"No. We're serious," Finny said. "He's a woman."

"Even a hot one," Bard added with horror. A hasty look was sent around, first to Maylene, ping-ponging off her horrified expression, and then over to Finnian. Then, "Okay, forget I said that."

"Pfft, you guys," Maylene huffed. "Why would he be a woman, when he's so," she took a deep breath, "manly and handsome and the perfect lead character for our show? You think he could have hidden this all along?"

"Well, he's a woman now," Finny said.

Bard drew in his breath expectantly.

"No, not a hot one," Finny groaned.

"Okay, okay," Maylene said, holding up her hands like a football coach pausing a game. "What do you mean, he's a woman?"

"That he's a woman," Finny said. "You know. With boobs."

"Big ones," Bard added.

"And hips and shapely legs, and. And." Finny trailed off.

"I think I know what a woman is," Maylene pointed out helpfully. "As for you guys, I'm not too sure."

Then a screech blasted through the mansion, followed by a gurgling sound, a plop, and the sound of glass breaking, and all three of them jerked in surprise, fell to the floor, shielded their heads, and waited for The World As They Knew It to come to a screeching, halting, (gravity-defying, Bard mentally added) End.

Until they could breathe again,and their brains kicked into motion with the oxygen, and Finny asked with heavy premonition, "Bard. What time is it?"

Bard's face fell. "8 AM." Then with the face of a prisoner walking up the gallows, "The time when Sebastian goes to wake up the young master."

Heavy silence reigned over the scene.

Then: "Run," Finny whispered.

Maylene, for her part, huffed, climbed back up her ladder, and mumbled, "Just so you guys know, I'm reporting those flowers."

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Ciel took it better than Sebastian had expected, to some degree.

For one thing, he didn't have a stroke - though he did choke on his tea, proceeded to spit the entire content of it all over his desk, and continuously attempted to gag out his own heart while trying to get the rest of it out of his wind pipe -- miraculously, all of this while simultaneously performing a peculiar mating dance with said desk's edge.
Sebastian watched patiently until his young master had regained his composure enough to wheeze, "What in the world?"

"Good morning, young master," Sebastian said. "Today's schedule is -"

"What," Ciel screeched, pointing accusingly at Sebastian's rather well-endowed chest, "in the world," his voice hit a high octave, broke midway through his outburst, and ended in a raspy, "happened to you?"

"It appears I have spontaneously changed sex, young master," Sebastian pointed out helpfully.

Ciel launched into another round of undignified screaming and flailing, an opportunity which Sebastian took to study his (her?) new hands. Mmh, longer fingernails now. Could come in handy, if he'd learned anything reading Clamp.

At last, the screams climbed down the ladder to slightly less hysterical altitudes, and Ciel said, "This. This is unacceptable. Go back to being a man. Now."

Sebas-chan (Sebastian decided at this point that a female name really was a lot more appropriate in this situation) smiled pleasantly. "Well, while I would love to fulfill my master's so very earnest request, I must admit I am - slightly out of my league, I should say."

Ciel's lips thinned into a line. "It's her," he said, voice dangerously low. "It's her again."

"It does appear so, young master."

"Didn't she learn her lesson when I made you bind my corset just out of spite?"

"It doesn't appear so." Sebas-chan poked her breasts with a small smile. "Guess she changed the script again. And I would advise against tearing out your hair, young master. We'd hear from the management again if the sales for Ciel wigs dropped."

Ciel, ignoring Sebas-chan's advise, screeched, "And did she not think the viewers would notice?"

"You mean, like they noticed that me not eating you didn't make the least bit of sense, young master?"

Ciel's eyebrows twitched. "Okay, that's it." He got up from his chair with a swift motion, and walked toward the wall to the garden's side of his room. "I'm having a word with her. Right. Now."

"It's her napping time -" Sebas-chan tried to protest, but - Ciel had already walked over to the wall, gave it a big push - and it crumbled in on itself, doing some nifty, splitzy time-and-space-continuum-raping special effects, and -

Revealed a room with purple pillows strewn around the floor and a single, low table in the middle. Sebas-chan saw several basket cases stuffed to the brim with crumpled pieces of paper lining up along the back wall of the room like toy soldiers.

"Yana," Ciel seethed. "You fucking come out of there right now or I swear I'll make orgasm faces at the camera all of next chapter."

"You mean - entirely unlike the orgasm-faces you normally make?" Sebas-chan asked.

"You stay out of this," Ciel snapped. Then, with a distasteful look down Sebas-chan's breasts, "And keep those balloons out of my face. God, I think I'm going to be sick."

"It was an inevitability," an ominous voice reached them from the mysterious room. The curtains may or may not have fluttered for dramatic effect. In fact, the chandeliers might have flickered as well.

There may also have been a Latin choir. Or a JPop song with nonsensical Engrish.

"You were disobedient," the voice continued.

Ciel rolled his eyes. "We're a creation of your mind. How can we be disobedient?"

A pause. "One of the greatest mysteries of inspiration indeed."

Ciel scoffed. "I you don't get out there right now, I swear I'll -"

"All right, all right. Pushy muse," the voice drawled. Then sniffed. And then there was the sound of tap tap, and a black cat wearing reading glasses emerged from behind one of the pillows, shaking its head like it was just waking up from a particularly nice nap.

The cat settled on its hind legs, adjusting its glasses with one rosy paw. "Happy now?"

A familiar haze settled over Sebas-chan's features. "Of course. Oh, Lady Toboso, how exquisitely fine you look today. Your black fur and elegant -"

"Sebastian. Or-or, whoever you are," Ciel cut her off. "Stop right now or I'll marry you off to one of those rabid fan girls. Or better yet, auction off a date with you for the next issue."

Even the usually so composed Sebastian (now Sebas-chan) blanched at the word 'fan girl,' and stopped in her tracks.

Ciel cleared his throat. "Now. Care to explain what in the world made you think that turning Sebastian into a fucking girl was a good idea?"

Yana sniffed, her whiskers quivering. "Oh yes, that minor... edit."

Sebas-chan cleared her throat. "Well, well now, Miss Toboso, whatever you might call this transformation, the loss of my penis is not... minor."

Ciel raised his eyebrow. "Well, it was not exactly major, either."

Yana sniffed again. "Will you spare me the details of your sex lives, please?"

"Gladly," Ciel said. "Now that you killed it."

Yana licked her belly, voice coming out muffled. "Look on the bright side, Ciel: at least Lizzie will not be your heterosexual encounter after all."

"...I still haven't forgiven you for that one, Yana. And I never will. Ever, ever, ever."

"There, there," Yana said soothingly, stopping her cleaning session and reaching for something behind her back. "Have a cookie."

All color drained from Ciel's face, and he was rapidly approaching the look of a mad axe-murdere on the loose. "You two. Both of you. I'll - I'll - aargh."

He took a second to compose himself, then tried again, in a voice that positively hummed with tightly-corded tension, "So, going to explain just why you relieved Sebastian of his penis?"

Yana sighed. It was a little strange to watch a cat sigh, all things considered, but probably not much stranger than seeing them draw and adjust their glasses. "The rating, you morons."

"Oh," Ciel said.

"Oh." Even Sebas-chan seemed surprised. So surprised, in fact, her boobs wiggled. Ciel tried, very hard, to ignore it.

"Honestly," Yana huffed. "You two have been getting ever more obvious about it. Didn't I tell you that our production studio made it very clear there was no butt sex to be had in our show?"

"Well," Ciel said, lower lip edging forward in defiance, "there's never any on the show."

"Not for a lack of the young master's trying," Sebas-chan supplied.

Ciel gave him a Death Glare (TM). "We've been discreet."

"About as discreet as a tree full of monkeys high on nitrous oxide," Yana sniffed. "And that's a maybe."

"We are not having this conversation right now," Ciel seethed.

"Well, we kind of are." Sebas-chan smiled. "And the young master started it."

"Go, go, team," Yana commented dryly.

Ciel pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose, mumbling obscenities under his breath. Then, to Sebas-chan, "The Chinese eat cats, right?"

"Oh, you are not selling me off to Lau," Yana said, the hair on the back of her spine standing up. "I created all of you."

"I figured that one wouldn't work, young master," Sebas-chan said. And her boobs wiggled. Ciel was starting to suspect they had a mind of their own. Would he have to name them? Something really girly and obnoxious like 'Savannah' and 'Maia', maybe. Wait, what was he thinking?

Tearing his eyes off of Sebas-chan's endowments, Ciel said snidely, "Yeah, well, ever heard of a coup d'état? Besides, it's not like you've been paying us that well."

Sebas-chan cleared her throat. And her boobs wiggled. They might also have winked.

Yana adjusted her glasses. "I think I could write more useless, amorous side characters into the story before you got to stage one." A pause. "More Claude, anyone?"

Ciel hiccuped.

Yana sighed as evilly as it was plausible for a cat to sigh evilly. "Didn't think so."

"Fine," Ciel pressed out. "Fine, let's discuss this - rationally. Yes."

Sebas-chan snorted.

"Rationally," Ciel repeated. "And you tell us what exactly we did wrong, because I don't think we ever -"

That's when Yana jumped into the air, did a back flip, and when she landed elegantly on all er feet, a pile of books splattered themselves all over the purple pillow-sea. "This," she said. "Can you explain these to me?"

Ciel raised his eyebrows, peering at the magazines like a dainty princess inspecting a pair of especially disgusting underwear. "What is this filth?"

"They call it 'doujinshi'," Yana said tonelessly, her whiskers wiggling as she spoke. "Perverse fan comics starring the two of you."

"My God," Ciel said, voice quivering in awe.

Sebas-chan bent down, and picked up the nearest magazine, flipping through it. Then she giggled. "Well, it's not 'God' you're screaming at the top of your lungs in this particular comic, young master."

Ciel snatched the doujinshi out of Sebas-chan's hands, blushing furiously. "These are completely slanderous and inaccurate."

He took a look down. "I do not wear cat costumes. Or blush and beg Sebastian to do bad things to me. Ever."

"What about maid costumes, young master?" Sebas-chan eyed another doujinshi on the ground.

Ciel turned to him -- wait, her. "Shut up, or I'm going to -" he trailed off. "I'm going to - well." A frown edged itself into his features.

"I think 'castrate you with a flame thrower' is no longer a suitable threat, young master."

Pausing, Ciel took a moment to face palm and mutter. Then, he flung the doujinshi he'd been holding to the ground and asked, "Okay, Yana. I get it, some crazy people have been getting the wrong ideas. Publisher not happy, blah blah. But the important thing is, how can we fix this?"

"Well," she said testily, "if you hate it that much, I could change him back. I mean, her back. Yeah."

Ciel eyed her suspiciously. "You're saying this now?"

Yana nodded. "Of course. Since you seem to be unable to live with the absence of Sebastian's penis-" her whiskers quivered dramatically "-then I'll just have to change him back, right?"

Out of narrowed eyes, Ciel asked, "That easily? Wait, you're not usually this kind. Or pass up any opportunity to torture me."

Yana purred, cocking her head to the side. "Slanderous. And yes, that easily. Now."

The cat hopped over to her table, took one of the pencils strewn around, grabbed a piece of paper, then - pink tongue caught between her lips, look of concentration on her face - she began to draw.

As she did, Sebas-chan's body began to change in front of Ciel's very eyes. His height shrank down, and so did Savannah and Maia, giving a pathetic little wheezing sound before they snuggled up tight against Sebas-chan's (now Sebastian's - or well, Sebas-chan-in-the-middle-of-transforming-into-Sebastian's) chest, then his trousers started to fill out again, the material stretching -

And then it was over, and before Ciel, stood Sebastian as he'd known him all along.

Sebastian looked down at his new/old body. "Huh."

Yana adjusted her glasses. "Now if you'll excuse me, I was in the middle of a nap."

Ciel blinked. Looked at Sebastian. Then back at Yana. Blinked again. "Thanks?"

"Don't thank me," the cat said. Then, with a tight smile, "Really. I just had an idea that worked better."

And with that, she jumped up, did another back flip, and the 4th wall materialized again, and all was well on this beautiful day in summer, with the birds chirping and the sun shining and Ciel and Sebastian eying each other. Slightly inappropriately.

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When Sebastian exited the room (looking suspiciously more red-faced than when he had entered, but this show is PG-rated, so let's not get any ideas), Bard, Finnian, and Maylene, all of whom had spent the past thirty minutes with their ears pressed against the door and elbows in each other's faces, backed off simultaneously, then collapsed onto themselves and landed as a Black-Widow resembling writhing mass of limbs on the floor.

"Mr. Sebastian," they squeaked in unison.

"You're..." Bard looked him up and down. "...not a woman anymore."

"Not at all a woman anymore," Finnian added, looking as amazed as a five-year old girl in a field full of dandelions. Which was interesting given that he had Bard's elbow in his face.

Sebastian, for his part, gave them a pinning look, then sighed. "I trust you three will go back to work soon."

The threesome watched his receding back in stunned silence.

"...It pains me to say it," Finnian said, breaking the silence, "but I do agree we should go back to Ikea plants."

Bard massaged his shoulder in silent comfort.

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And so all was as it should be, to the viewers and readers, the pervy and non-pervy alike. Unresolved shota tension continued to be had, nonsensical plot lines were invented and resolved, and life continued as usual for the inhabitants of the Phantomhive Mansion.

Until one fateful morning in early summer, when a long, drawn-out, "UWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH" could be heard from Ciel's bedroom, followed by the sound of china breaking, the table falling over, and the sound of several more horrified and entirely undignified screaming.

And somewhere, well hidden beyond the 4th wall, Yana Toboso cackled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Notes:

In b4, "Yina, you r crazy, get halp." :D

[Death Note Exchange Ficlets] Drabbles #1-3 [ Mello, Matt, Paris Hilton; L, Light, Misa; ]

2011-01-02T02:29:00Z

Background: Over at my favorite ff.net forum, I started a little low-pressure drabble exchange thread. Prompts are simple, drabbles (or ficlets, depending on if you're squeamish with the 100-word definition) are mostly unpolished, but I surprisingly ended liking them enough to want to post them here. You can join us at the exchange thread anytime if you have an ff.net account. It's fun. :D Each ficlet is between 300 and 600 words. All are SFW, save for some language.

Drabble #1:
Title: New Pet
Characters: Mello, Paris Hilton, Matt.
Summary: Paris Hilton comes to Wammy's.
Genre: Crack

It was an unlikely friendship, for sure.

The first time Paris Hilton had strode into the Whammy's House, terrified-looking chihuaha pressed against her breasts and holding on for dear life, she had shirlly announced, "I'ma decided to buy this house and do my charity work. Bob, get me my lipstick," Near had yawned and gone back to his toys, Matt had muttered, "Nice tits," and Mello had felt the uncontrollable urge to waltz over to her and snap her neck.

So it was with a certain kind of awe that people watched the two of them grow closer with time. A week passed, and Mello grew out his hair, a month passed and -- "Mello, are you wearing nail polish?" Two months passed and, "Mello, do not tell you are seriously wearing pink leopard-patterned jeans."

"Ohmygawd," Paris Hilton yapped on her phone while studying her nails. "Kim, I tell you, that Wumpat's House project was so totally a success - I found a new pet! And he is sooooo cute."

Nobody commented on the sudden disappearance of Tinkerbell, though Matt did think that on the day of disappearance, Xing Hua very suspiciously rubbed his belly.

"I want to buy him as my new pet," Paris informed Watari one morning, strolling into his office in a flurry of perfume that had landed 2.5 students in the hospital wing that morning (only 0.5 because Near having an asthma attack was hardly unusual), and slapped her manicured claws against the desk. "Will 50,000 do?"

Watari adjusted his glasses. "Ms. Hilton. Mello is a boy."

"Is totally what I'm saying," Paris went on. "100,000 then?"

Watari's eyes blinked.

And so Mello's fate was set.

Nowadays, Matt often spend his time alone, playing games and thinking back to how it used to be, when Mello was still home, and trying to push aside the images of Paris Hilton parading around in Hollywood. Until one day, the door flung open, and she was standing there, tall and imposing and manic grin on her face.

"Ms. Hilton?" Matt asked politely.

"No," she said. Her voice sounded rather terse. She threw a magazine on the bed, then sat down on Matt's bed with a pocket mirror,
commencing to apply eye liner.

Matt looked at the magazine. "Paris Hilton replaced 5th pet... replaced blond boy with - What." Dropping all pretense, he jumped to his feet, and seethed, "What the hell did you do to Mello?"

Ms. Hilton rolled her eyes. "Chillax, dude. You're not usually such a drama queen."

"That," Matt opened his moth to retort, realized how out-of-character that had sounded, and closed it with an audible 'plop'. "What?"

Paris (?) shrugged. "I killed her and dumped her in a lake," she said. He said.

Matt now noticed her shoulders were quite a bit wider than before.

Mello shrugged. "Thought having the entire Hilton enterprise at my disposal would do the investigation some good. And oh, Matty-honey, could you help fix my bra?"

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Drabble #2:
Title: Princess in Another Castle
Characters: Light, L, Misa
Summary: Misa insists on taking L and Light out on a 'date'.
Genre: Crack

It was hard to even count the number of ways in which going on a triple date with Misa sucked.

She wouldn't stop clinging to Light like she fancied herself a particularly fancy umbilical cord, he had much more real (and entirely steelier) umbilical cord adjoined to his wrist, people wouldn't stop staring at them like they were straight out the Rocky Horror Picture Show (which Light couldn't blame them for one bit; Misa was in full Lolita-mode and he and L were fucking chained together), and to make matters worse, she insisted on taking them to a chick flick, and then to a goddamn amusement park.

Light had always hated amusement parks since an attendant 10 years ago had mistaken him for a girl. Not that that problem hadn't been disposed of, bless the Death Note.

But amongst the pink-lace-poofy-black-skirt horror, sickly sweet ice dreams and eardrum-piercing screams of "Cuuuute", there was one thing good about the whole thing: the girl had the attention span of a baked goldfish watching a soap opera.

Light breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he watched Misa skip over to the nearest moron dressed in an oversized animal suit and mumbled to L, "It's our chance. Run."

No reply from L.

Light turned around to look at him, seeing him fumble with a craw plush toy vending machine, then humming triumphantly under his breath, and pulling a prize out of the machine.

Light looked at him like he'd just gone mad. "For the love of my sanity, do not tell me you just won Misa a stuffed animal."

L blinked at him, large obsidian eyes shimmering. "For the love of your what now, Light-kun?"

"Fine," Light amended. "For the love of the last-shreds-of-my-sanity-I'm-clinging-to-like-a-troubled-teen-hesitating-in-front-of-a-gun-shop. Do. NOT. Tell me you just won Misa a stuffed animal."

"Light-kun," L said amiably, and there just that tiniest hint of amusement in his voice. "Two out of those three assumptions are false. It's not a stuffed animal, and it's not for Misa."

Light frowned, then looked down at the stuffed monstrosity clutched in L's hands.

Light's eyebrow twitched. "I'm not even dignifying this with a response, L," he seethed below his breath, then turned away from L as far as the (goddamn fucking) chain allowed, and proceeded to drill holes into the nearest carousels with his eyes. The surface may or may not have cracked.

L shrugged. "I just saw some similarity," and threw the Princess Peach doll into the nearest waste paper basket with an easy, practiced shrug.

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Drabble #3:
Title: New Game Save
Characters: Matt, Near
Summary: How do confess your love when you're Near and have about the social finesse of a 10-year old? You borrow his Nintendo DS.
Genre: Romance
Note: Plot was shamelessly 'borrowed' from an internet comic. :D

"Thank you for lending me your DS," Near said in his usual bleak tone, face lax and unreadable.

"Oh yeah?" Matt answered, looking up from his PSP. Through the hazy whirl of the smoke, he saw Near standing next to his bed, black DS hanging loosely to his side. "How did you like it?"

Near considered this for a moment. "It was fun, I guess," he said, seeming to choose his words carefully, timbre voice and thoughtful look and all. "Though all the Freudian metaphors in this Mario game did not escape me."

Matt snickered, stretched, then reached over to the ashtray on his bedside table, flicking off blazes of amber. "Trust you to find metaphors in everything."

Near said nothing. He stretched out his hand, put down the DS on Matt's beside table, then - hesitated.

Frowned just slightly. Bit down on his lower lip. Shuffled.

Matt cocked his head. "What?"

One pink lip released beneath the pressure of his teeth, bobbing back out. "...I saved over your last file," he said. "There were only three saves available, and -"

Matt snapped like a pocket knife, eyes widening, voice screeching. "You what?"

"I apologize profu -"

Matt couldn't believe this. His file - he - he had invested over 50 hours into playing the game in every difficulty mode, doing 'no-death' re-runs, speed re-runs, even fucking 'no-damage' re-runs and Near was just - "You just fucking ruined my Super Mario savegame?" in the voice one would use to say, "You just slept with my mother, sister and girlfriend, at the same time?"

A flinch. A step back. "Matt, I'm -"

"Out," Matt interrupted, voice like a knife. "Out of my room, that's what you are. And don't you ever think you can borrow any of my games, ever again."

And then something - moved on Near's face, like a tiny tidal wave, tugging and releasing along his facial features until they settled into the smooth pane of his usual mask, and he said, low and sober, "As you wish."

Near turned to leave, and Matt watched as he saw his feather-white hair bob down along with his steps, then disappear beyond his room's mahogany door. Matt waited - a second, two - then slumped back into his pillow with a defeated sigh, the sheets sighing beneath his weight.

And to think he had trusted Near enough to lend him his DS when he had asked with a slightly creaky note to his voice, and eyes suspiciously cast down. So, the little fucker had been trying to ruin his life from the very beginning. Well, that would teach him to associate with him ever again; Mello had been right, he really was a no-good little creep who probably masturbated on his toys at night, plotting their demise with a demonic smile on his little face.

Matt snorted, and snatched the DS off his night stand, switching it on. Well, at least he would see where the hell the little fuck had stopped playing the game, probably dying uselessly to the very first of Bowser's fire breaths. Tch, even an infant could beat Mario. He should tell the whole orphanage that --

Matt stopped. Stared at the screen.

The screen stared back, hollering:

Save#1: I

Save#2: Like you

Save#3: Matt

It felt like all the breath he'd ever drawn in his life left his lungs in one single, hideous punch to his gut.

[Fanfic] Of Her Pink Ruffliness and Co-Conspirators [ Code Geass, Suzaku/Lelouch, NC-17 ]

2010-12-16T11:09:03Z

Fandom: Code Geass
Title:Of Her Pink Ruffliness and Co-Conspirators
Pairing: Suzaku/Lelouch
Word Count: 4,200
Rating: NC-17 for boy hubba hubba.

Summary: As a general rule, Lelouch always gets what he wants, even if that something includes making Suzaku wear ruffles and glitter. He just tends to forget the amemdment that says, "Except for when Suzaku gets there first - possibly armed with thongs and changing room shenanigans."

Part humor, part PWP, part melancholic what-if.

Dedication/Note: I wrote this about a year ago in a chat with savvylovesyaoi - so I guess this is yet another fic dedicated to her.

~~Also, I vehemently deny that Go Shopping by Bran Van 3000 was in any way listened to during the writing of this. Nuh-uh. >_<~~

A widening of eyes, a blink, followed by an empathetic, "You want me to wear what?"

Lelouch turns around, the bundle of clothes daintily held out in front out him. "What," he asks, expression wavering somewhere between amusement and honest-to-god surprise. "You don't like this?"

"Lelouch," Suzaku tries, and by God he was trying to keep calm about the whole thing. "It has... well, it has. Ruffles. It has ruffles."

Lelouch lets out a tortured sigh. "Your point?"

"Also," Suzaku adds slowly, testing Lelouch's reaction, "It's pink."

A snort, and Lelouch haughtily throws his face to the side; his hair rises and falls in an ebbing wave beneath the white glare of the light bulbs screwed to the roof of the Lotte department store. He fixes Suzaku with a look. "It's fashionable."

Okay, this is really starting to get ridiculous. Suzaku throws a scanning look around the men's clothing section - skipping hastily over the other customers scattered about the store and half-listening to the snatches of conversation he can catch, played over by the sweet and fake drone of the female staff praising overpriced items like an orchestral conductor. A couple sauntering around the aisles there, a mother with her bouncing daughter over there, but not anyone from work to be seen.

Safe, Suzaku thinks, relaxing.

Because, see.

Suzaku didn't particularly have a burning itch to find out just how much Sergeant Weiss's eye would twitch at the sight of him having to feign interest in pink and ruffled shirts (and mink coats and skin-tight shirts, and oh, please Lelouch, don't start with the glitter tops - ), given how said items were all sort of -

Well.

He places his hand on his friend's elbow to nudge him to the side. The blue veins in Lelouch's arm swell when Suzaku digs his fingers into his pale arm; Suzaku keeps his eyes trained on them when he says quietly. "Well, fashionable though they may be, they are kind of -"

Lelouch clears his throat.

What Suzaku wants to say is, "those clothes would make Mike Tyson look like a butt pirate," but what he ends up saying is, "They're kind of - eccentric." He gives Lelouch a look he hopes is suitably apologetic. "Yeah."

Not a single muscle on Lelouch's face moves for a good, long moment. Then, an interrogatory lifting of his upper lip, his voice rising in mild fulmination, and - "And, you would argue that your bug sunglasses are not eccentric?"

If, "Lelouch always gets what he wants," isn't a universal truth, Suzaku thinks, it certainly should be.

"Look," Suzaku says, flicking his tongue over his lips and sending another quick look over to the other customers. "It's just not - my style." He loosens his grip around Lelouch's arm; his eyes search for Lelouch's. "All right?"

The talons of Lelouch's much too purple, much too deep, much too glistening eyes yank at his for a moment before he lowers his arm, the pink ruffled monstrosity hanging limply to his side like a flag of surrender. "As you wish," he says. Then his voice tightens, accusation perched atop. "Though may I remind you it was you who asked me to go shopping with you?"

Oh, the guilt button. So not fair.

"Just," Suzaku begins, licks his lips, gives a small smile, tries again, "pick something a bit more - befitting of a soldier, maybe?"

Something flashes behind Lelouch's eyes, and the fuzziness to his gaze is gone, intense enough now to probably add a few crack to the walls in this godforsaken department store. Hopefully burn a few holes through all the pink and ruffles and - holy, is that glitter?

Lelouch's voice snaps him out of his inner, suspiciously pink and ruffly and glittery musings.

"Well, in that case, how about those leggings over there?"

Suzaku can feel the beginning of a headache building in his temples. "Lelouch..."

Lelouch shrugs - a casual movement that starts in his arms and migrates to his shoulders. "Wouldn't be any tighter than that flight suit of yours."

"Leave my flight suit out of this." The hint of pleading in that sentence - not good. "It's not like I wear it as a fashion statement."

Another elaborate shrug, but at least now Lelouch takes pity and him and stashes the pink ruffles back into the racks. "Apparently, however," Lelouch says easily, eyes trained on the clothes, "It appears to be wildly considered to be befitting of a soldier."

Okay, seriously? Where can Suzaku get this rule registered, now?

Suzaku holds up both palms in the universal act of defeat. "Fine." He reaches for the piece of clothing Lelouch has just stashed away in the rack and repeats, "Fine. If you want me to wear this, really want me to, then, y'know what? I will. Fine."

An idea sparks in his brain, pulling itself across his face in the form of a smile. He looks up at Lelouch in mid-stretch, shaking a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. "Will you wear something I pick out in exchange, then?" he asks, low and sweet, cheerful tone slathered atop to masquerade the playful suggestiveness.

A look of dismay settles in Lelouch's features; he draws in his lower lip and nibbles on it before letting it slide back out, the glare of the light bulbs catching in the wetness. "What?"

"Well," Suzaku says, wrapping his hand around the aforementioned fluffy pink monstrosity and pulling it out of the racks, "it would be only fair. Wouldn't you agree?"

"As I said." Lelouch crosses his arms over is chest, the material of his navy school uniform crinkling around his elbows. "It was you who asked me to help pick you out clothes."

"Lelouch," Suzaku says, allowing his features to broaden with the smile. "Please?"

Suzaku can almost literally see it, the way the resistance chips away bit by bit beneath the beam of his smile like the bits of a statue against the blaze of a bomb. Sees it, in the way Lelouch's eyebrow first jerks in irritation, jaw tight and fists tighter, and then - the switch is pulled and his eyebrows smooth out and Suzaku knows yes, yes, he got him again.

Because, well. If Suzaku could add another clause to the newly established rule -

"Gods," Lelouch says, and the uniform pulls across his biceps when he tightens his posture, "Fine. All right."

- it would be that the new rule said, 'Lelouch always gets what he wants -'

' - Except for when Suzaku gets there first.'

Suzaku knows his smile is positively glowing by now. "Great."

- xXx -

To Lelouch's credit, he puts enough stock in his own promises not to outright say, "NO WAY," when Suzaku presents him with his chosen article of clothing.

He does, however, eye it as if it's a possibly radioactive T45 Bomber and says, in the sort of voice you usually reserve for asking someone if they've taken their meds, "That's what you want me to wear?"

Since Suzaku doesn't see anything wrong with it, really, and, from what he can see, it's not drastically different from the underwear he knows (all too well) Lelouch likes to wear, he just asks, "What?" He pulls the elastic band, enjoying the moment. "It's just underwear."

"It's half an underwear," Lelouch says acidly. "Also, leopard-patterned."

Well, isn't that just his chance to turn the tables? "I believe," Suzaku says with the most brightest, most rigid smile he can muster, "that the young people call it a thong nowadays."

Stretch, stretch.

Lelouch just looks at him. Then, with the sigh of the utterly defeated and a quick snatch of his hand that whisks the undergarment out of Suzaku's hands, "...Why do I do these things."

Suzaku has the sense not to answer with the obvious - "Because you are completely and irrevocably in love with me" - but only just barely.

Instead, he says, "So - off to the changing rooms, then?"

Lelouch just looks at him like he'd much rather give a rhinoceros a colon cleaning.

He does have the decency to answer not in words but in actions, though, and he wordlessly storms off into the vague direction of the changing rooms, with Suzaku strolling behind him and having to try very hard not to push his hands into his pocket and whistle a Boy Scout's song.

- xXx -

It takes quite a bit less of sweetly-manipulative prodding to get Lelouch to disappear into the changing room than he expected, in the end. Just a slow nod - the sign of a death row candidate finally bowing his head to his fate, or something a bit less dramatic - and then Lelouch disappears behind the red curtains, making a point to turn around and stare at Suzaku before he closes them with a resolute yank.

"Don't look," he says from inside.

"Sure. Only when you're dressed. No snacking before dinner time, as the saying goes."

"I believe there is no saying like that," Lelouch says caustically from inside the dressing room.

"Really?" Suzaku asks, rolling his eyes upward in thought for a second before sliding them back to Lelouch. "Maybe there should, then."

Lelouch gives a quiet, skeptical 'tsssk' noise in the back of his throat - one that actually sounds so hard that Suzaku half-wonders if he hasn't just hurt his throat there - and then he hears the shuffling of clothes, then the characteristic sound of an elastic band snapping around taut hips, and then, "There, Suzaku. I'm wearing a leopard-patterned thong."

Suzaku smiles to himself. "Never thought I'd ever hear you say that."

"Don't make me say it again or I make you wear a - a tutu. I swear."

"You know," Suzaku says slowly, mulling it over in his head, "I think I could get around that. You think I'd look good in one? As long as I only have to wear it in private, I mean."

Silence from the inside of the changing room.

"Lelouch?"

"Excuse me while I try - very hard - to pretend that that particular image never flashed across my inner cornea."

"Speaking off," Suzaku says, throwing looks left and right. "I'll only give you one second of warning, so prepare."

Stubborn silence from the inside of the room.

"One," Suzaku pronounces. "I'm coming in." And with that, he steps forward (not without checking one last time that no one was watching), parts the curtains and slips inside, all in one fluid motion, and once he's inside, he sees Lelouch standing there with his back turned to him. Fidgeting on the spot, his long, pale back perfectly straightened, his toes curling against the floor, and, as Suzaku is pretty sure though he can't actually see, a blush ripe as an apple standing high on his cheeks.

Distant amusement tickles his nerves. "You know," he says, dropping his voice to a whisper, "I know you do this because you're embarrassed, and it would work for any other clothing, but with a thong, standing there turned away from me is kind of -" He pauses. "Nevermind." Can't complain.

"I know that," Lelouch hisses - or as quietly as you can say something while sufficiently infusing it with venom while simultaneously trying not to get caught for sneaking your boyfriend into your changing room with you. Quietly, "I just." Fidget. "Okay, so have you looked enough so we can get out of here, and - s-stop it -"

Lelouch's back is warm when he hugs him, even through Suzaku's t-shirt. "Shhh," Suzaku says, lowly, making sure to say it so close to Lelouch's ear that he can see Lelouch's hair moving in the breeze of his words, the strand of black bobbing up to catch a gleam of purple from the lights above before ebbing down again. Suzaku lowers his head, nuzzles it in the crook of Lelouch's neck, breathes in deeply - Lelouch smells of shampoo and beneath that, the unique and undeniable smell of him - and says, "Let's keep quiet."

"We're not doing anything," Lelouch says, struggling a little against Suzaku's hug. "I, on the other hand, plan on getting some respectable underwear to wear as soon as you let me go." There's no edge to his voice, and Suzaku knows that even Lelouch is aware of it. Which has never stopped him from not putting on a show anyway.

Lelouch has always had a penchant for the dramatic like that.

Suzaku smiles against Lelouch's neck - a soft, secret smile pressed tight against the pale skin and the pulse beating just beneath - before he presses a soft kiss against it, right where he feels his heart most insistently.

And Lelouch against him - freezes.

Suzaku keeps kissing. Softly, up along Lelouch's neck, just using lips for now, letting them move over his skin like silk, and then he steps forward a little, presses himself against Lelouch's back until they're completely touching back to chest, and crotch to leopard-printed thong, respectively.

He still can't really decide if he thinks it's all very, very funny or really, really hot. Probably both.

Lelouch's breath gasps in his throat. Recoils. Then comes up again, spilling it out as a quiet, urgent, "Not in here."

"Why not?" Suzaku murmurs, pressing a bit harder - both with his lips and his crotch, hard enough so he knows Lelouch can feel it - and then a bit harder still until he can hear the satisfying sound of Lelouch's breath catching in his throat, and then releasing in just the tiniest, quietest, most intimate sigh.

Lelouch regains control of his voice soon enough. "Because this is a dressing room in a department store."

Suzaku starts nibbling on Lelouch's neck and feels how that zips right through him and makes him shudder, then stops just long enough to say, "It's late morning. Not many people here."

And it's not so much that Lelouch doesn't want to, Suzaku knows. Is not so much that he doesn't ever desire to experiment, do things they'd never done before - but rather that throughout all the months they've been together, Lelouch still can't ever bring himself to tear the clinging skin of shame off his face long enough to admit it. That has always been the hardest part with Lelouch - to maneuver through the holes in his armor, to seep through them and soften him like water, until he gives in.

Always with more fervor than expected. Suzaku has gotten rather adept at the spiel.

He can feel the resistance chipping away right now - a little more with every butterfly kiss against his neck, and even more when he moves up his lips to start licking his ear, and even more when he presses his tongue into Lelouch's ear shell and feels him shudder so hard it's like he's coming already - and then, then when he starts to let his hands travel down along Lelouch's collar bones down to his nipples and pinches them, that's when Lelouch finally breaks through the now wide-open plain of haze long enough to say, "But quick."

Suzaku lets go off Lelouch's nipples, puts both hands on his shoulders and then spins him around - so fast that Lelouch loses balance for a second, but Suzaku catches him until he steadies. Lelouch looks down, the his hair falling into his face in that deliberate way that alerts Suzaku to the fact that he's probably blushing hot and furious beneath those bangs, so Suzaku whispers, "Don't worry, I won't look," and closes his eyes before reaching under Lelouch's chin and lifting it enough for them to meet in a kiss.

Lelouch stiffens against him. Hands flying up to tangle in his shirt, body straight and taut. His mouth, though, is pliant enough, smooth enough: it drops open when Suzaku presses against it, allowing him entry, and Suzaku can't help but let out one long, deep, masculine groan at the feel of their tongues meeting. Slowly first - then he feels Lelouch taking a step forward, pressing his mouth against his harder until their tongue are stroking each other, and their lower bodies follow the movement.

Lelouch has always had an impatient streak. The thing is, it could be kind of hard to make him want something - make him really want something, make him want something so hard his heart almost creaks with it - but once he does, he wants it now.

Their lips part just long enough for Lelouch to gasp out one word, "Quick -nng," then again, one slight parting of searching and turning and another quick, sloppy kiss later, "Q-Quick." Then Suzaku feels Lelouch's hands on his torso, clawing their way down to the front of his pants, where they begin tugging, but Suzaku's hand vacate their spot on Lelouch's waist long enough to stop them.

Lelouch breaks the kiss in surprise.

"You said 'quick'," Suzaku says, voice low and maybe just the slightest bit teasing. "What you're thinking of takes time."

And a mild frown settles over Lelouch's features, and Suzaku knows he's just about to unleash an annoyed, just barely restrained whisper-bark probably saying something along the lines of, "Then how?" when Suzaku answers the question by pressing up closer, closer, until Lelouch's back collides with the wall in a dull slap, and their crotches are pressed flush together so hard that they both shudder.

"Dry humping?" Lelouch asks, voice pitching in surprise.

Suzaku leans just forward quickly to silence him with a kiss - only, that Lelouch protests, trying to speak against Suzaku's moving mouth and tongue, making strained little nnngh noises. Suzaku withdraws so Lelouch can talk.

It all comes out in a rush, "I need to take off the underwear, it will get soiled."

Suzaku smiles. "Forget about it," he whispers, and tries to lean in to kiss him again, but Lelouch pushes him back with surprising force.

"No," he says, voice like a rock even while his cheeks are flushed and his eyes adorably unfocused. "I want skin on skin."

Suzaku really, really likes it when Lelouch is like that, and gods, does it turn him on. He leans in to kiss Lelouch again, muffling him, feeling him squirm against him, and he pushes his tongue into Lelouch's mouth at the same time his hands push into his underwear, teasing Lelouch with just the back of his hand brushing against where Lelouch really wants the attention before pulling down the underwear until gravity takes over and it tumbles to the floor. "Now do me," he presses, getting impatient himself now, guiding Lelouch's hand to the front of his pants and waiting for him to open the buttons and push them down.

When their cocks finally touch, the quiet, delicious little mewl that escapes Lelouch's throat is almost enough to make him come on the spot.

He restrains himself, but just barely. Retreats a little (Lelouch's impatient little groan notwithstanding). Takes a second to collect himself, to spit into his hand and take a moment to slicken them both, watch Lelouch's pupils dilate for the moment Suzaku squeezes him, and then, without much of a warning, he leans forward, practically slumping against Lelouch.

It won't take long, Suzaku knows. Will be quick, just like Lelouch wants it. Because this, this is the easiest, most primitive, perhaps dirtiest way to get each other off - writhing against each other, bucking their hips in search for more friction, harder, harder, until some part of Suzaku realizes (what part is still conscious, he's not sure) that they're making a damn lot of noise against the wall, and he grabs Lelouch's hips and pushes them forward a little until they're both standing up, or just barely, Suzaku with his arms wrapped around Lelouch and pressing him close, and Lelouch hanging on, trying to be quiet. Their kisses are messy, messy and wet, and soon they can hear nothing but the smacking of their lips and their urgent breathing, and the quietest of muffled groans they allow themselves to make ("nng..") and see nothing but flashes of sparkling eyes and hands pulling at hair, and slick bodies being pressed together -- and then, somehow, through the quick haze of the kissing and the spiked heat, Suzaku manages to realize Lelouch is about to come.

He knows the signs well: sees his neck strain, his fingers digging into his shoulders so hard it hurts him, feels his body stiffen - and then he can feel it: the little shock that tugs and tears through Lelouch's body and makes him shudder, the roll of his sparkling, delirious eyes, the way his fingers twitch and dig into Suzaku's shoulders hard in that one perfect, weightless moment. The only moment during which Lelouch doesn't care about anything, not about anything but this, and Suzaku pushes himself harder, thrusts again, once, twice, until he pushes himself over the edge following right on Lelouch's heels.

Once it's over, once the shudders have passed through them both, they're just standing there, clinging to each other - both sweaty now, Lelouch even downright exhausted, almost wheezing in Suzaku's arms and trying to catch his breath.

Suzaku runs his fingers through Lelouch's sweat-matted hair and says, half-teasingly, "Well, that was. Quick."

And then Lelouch disentangles himself from Suzaku's embrace. Takes a step back. Doesn't look up and him as he bends down to pick up the leopard-printed thong that had started it all. Suzaku is half-considering to buy the terrible thing just as a souvenir or something.

"Well," Lelouch says, voice back to being just a hint reserved. "Get out of here quick, then. If some shop assistant hasn't noticed already." A beat. "Or the entire mall, more likely."

Suzaku shrugs, picks up his discarded pants, fastens them around his hips, and leaves the room in quick succession.

There's no shop assistant in sight, nor any other customers, and Suzaku breathes a small sigh of relief. "No one's here," he announces. "You can come out."

"Wait," Lelouch presses.

"What?"

"Just wait a second."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" Lelouch, and his voice is just this little bit south of a groan. "My hair's a mess."

Suzaku chuckles to himself, the re-enters the room with a swift motion. Lelouch is standing there before him - indeed with rather tangled, sweaty hair, falling this way and that.

Lelouch studies him. "Why are you smiling?"

Since he knows that telling Lelouch the truth ('because you're about as cute as two kittens sitting in a tea cup right now') wouldn't do much to elevate his mood, he says nothing, just stepping forward with a small smile and running his fingers through Lelouch's hair, putting bangs back into place, combing it with his fingers, and feeling the soft strands slide through his fingers. Throughout all of this, Lelouch just looks at him, with that shimmering, swiveling expression that Lelouch so dislikes to express, and once Suzaku's finished tending to Lelouch's hair, he just bends down, pressing a simple kiss against Lelouch's forehead.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "I love you, too."

Lelouch holds his breath at that. Holds still. For a second, then two.

He always does when Suzaku says the L-word, always freezes up for a second as if his body was guarding itself while trying to buy time to decide if his words were a pathogen or a promise. Then there comes that moment, the one where Lelouch just sort of melts in his arms, the barriers crumbled and forgotten and they closer to each other than ever, but then -

"Don't think I'll let you wriggle out of your promise."

There comes the moment when the barriers rebuild, and the moment shatters.

Suzaku gives him a crooked smile. "It's a bit early to get married," he teases shamelessly.

Lelouch grumbles in dismay.

But hey, Suzaku figures, it's good this way. He wouldn't want it any other way.

Thinks that, even as his heart sinks just a little.

"Sure," Suzaku says, dropping the teasing for now. "I'll wear the damn ruffle thing." Then he remembers how ugly it really is (he's half-convinced that, while 'pink' and 'ruffles' are bad enough on their own,together they have the potency to bring about The End, capitalized) , and his expression falls slightly. "For about two seconds."

"You'll wear it for as long as I wore the damn thong," Lelouch says, in a voice that brooks no argument.

Suzaku sighs. "Fine."

"Fine."

It's certainly an unwritten rule that Lelouch always gets his way, except for when Suzaku gets there first. He sometimes thinks about them reaching the equilibrium of oneness that allows them to change that to them both always get what they want. But that's just not how it is.

But it's all right that way, because all of this - the buzz of the tension between, the interplay, the back-and-forth and the maybes and the whatnots, and the surges of pride and shame and selfishness that are nonetheless pillared by deep understanding, the rugs and the fissures of this bond, this stupid connection - it's really more than either of them could have hoped for.

And then, when Lelouch drags him off and reacquaintances Suzaku with Her Pink Ruffliness - and has the nerve to gloat about it, too, as obviously as Lelouch ever allows himself to gloat, that is - and Suzaku rolls his eyes and feels annoyed, that's of course when he thinks, "Was I fucking nuts for having thought that stuff earlier?"

But only for a moment or two.

Never quite perfect. But more than enough.

--------------------------

Author's Notes: My sweet, undying OTP! HOW I'VE MISSED YOU! /sobs. I've been away from these two for so long I'm not even sure I can still write them. >_< But nng, I love my boys so much. CG fandom, I missed you. ;__; This is actually the first time I've written the two boys in an established relationship, and I think I like what I did there, though I dunno if anyone else will agree. I just tend to think intense-but-not-quite-perfect romances are a bit more interesting than the typical fair, and I like to play with that...

But to quote Suzaku's thoughts, it's not like Lelouch isn't 'completely and irrevocably in love'. ;-)

Cheers! Feels good to be back.

- Till next time~

Edit: Oh, and you're wondering how they got cleaned up after the changing room stint?

It's magic!

[Fanfic] Entropy [ Sebastian/Ciel, R ]

2010-09-03T14:25:18Z

Fandom: Kuroshitsuji
Title: Entropy
Pairing: Sebastian/Ciel
Word Count: 3,200
Rating: R for ~~Sebastian being a creep~~ disturbing themes. Very disturbing. O.o This is my first fic that I'd classify as 'horror'. Or, you might think it's just hilarious.

Summary: Ciel wonders what Sebastian does at night while he's asleep. One night, he decided to go and find out.

Dedication/Note: For unsolvable , who requested this back in... April on my open fic request meme. I ended up writing it, even if it is way late. My muse has once again waited for me in an alley, beaten me up and stolen my wallet. Story of her life. Beta'd by Hedo-chan, who I'll love well into your time as conspiratory buds writing gay sex while frying in the deepest bowels of hell. <3

It probably started with the curry.

It wasn't that he'd never wondered before - he had, while nibbling joylessly on his cookies or cakes or whatever other delicacy Sebastian could scourge from the edges of the world - but it had always been a flitting thought, one that got filed away quickly under the list of things that Ciel didn't know about Sebastian and never would, with the bottom item of said list already heaving and wheezing beneath the crushing weight of the others standing atop of it like the poor souls forming the base of a human pyramid.

He'd wondered - for a second, a moment - but it had never gone beyond that.

Until he saw Sebastian eat the damn curry, that was. Saw him lick it off the spoon - the light casting a brilliant sheen on the wet surface of what little tongue he saw - then watched it disappear into Sebastian's mouth, and his throat constricting and his Adam's apple popping as if to make a damn point.

Which in a way, Ciel was pretty sure Sebastian was.

"So you do eat," he drawled later, while inspecting a cookie as if he were spinning a newly-made coin from some exotic country in his fingers.

Sebastian just looked up with his brand of mild disinterest mixed with that seething condescendence. "Would I ever have claimed otherwise?"

"I never saw you eat before," Ciel said, in a way he knew sounded like, 'so why didn't you ever tell me this actually rather insignificant detail about your dietary habits?'. He swallowed, and narrowed his eyes. "You said you didn't."

"But young master," Sebastian said, and by God, there was fake-appallment on his face. "I would never lie to you."

Ciel huffed, giving his best version of an 'oh, please' glare - yes, glare, not look - and waited.

Then he watched the smile Sebastian had been holding there uncurl on his lips, slow and heavy like the white fluid dripping down his chin most mornings, and he said, "I said that I didn't - not that I couldn't. A fine difference, as the young master would be well advised to learn."

The cookie in his hand cracked.

Ciel was watching Sebastian.

Studying him, rather, as if trying to memorize every detail; looking at the way his head bobbed up and down while he was sucking Ciel's cock, how the dreary evening sun dappled on the crown of his head in sparks of silver, only dimly aware of how he himself was squirming awkwardly on the edge of his bed like someone fumbling to keep an umbrella above someone's head. Watched how Sebastian stole glances upward, pursed his lips, took him in deeper, watched until he came, hard, and couldn't watch anymore before he could again, and Sebastian was standing, licking his lips and cleaning his fingers with the elgant handkerchief he kept in his pocket. Sebastian was probably distantly amused by the fact that said handkerchief was used for little other than wiping up his cum, and that thought made Ciel's hands curl into the sheets and a deep frown to settle over his face.

But he kept watching.

How Sebastian said, "It's time for bed now, young master," how Sebastian went over to the window to close the curtains, fine silken hair ebbing and falling just slightly with the movement over his long, straight, altogether way too perfect back. And then how Sebastian made his final bows before he left, so deep the bangs on either side of his face slid forward along his high cheekbones and his deep, twining, horrible eyes closed for once - and Ciel still kept watching.

But he didn't ask. Bit his tongue, sat back defiantly in his bed (at least Sebastian didn't tuck him in anymore), crossed his arms over his chest, and didn't ask. Just watched.

Then listened.

To Sebastian's receding footsteps, sound muffled as he waltzed up along the blood-red carpets outside that ran through the mansion like veils about to start pulsing. Then listened to the faint echo from when they'd disappeared down the corridor, then scattered and slipped down beneath the edge of Ciel's hearing.

Ciel waited a few more moments. Heard his own heart and the steady tick-tick whirr-whirr of his blood pumping through his own (real) veins, and then he finally got up.

He didn't really know why he had to know so badly exactly, why he had to know with such fiery intensity rather than the mild curiosity such a detail should be befitting of. Didn't know, but suspected that perhaps it was just unfair that Sebastian knew everything about him. Completely unfair how Sebastian had forced Ciel's life into a piece of parchment over which he'd printed the ROUTINE in bold, gothic letters. Yes - perhaps Ciel just wanted to know this because he wanted to find out something about him, even if it only was whether the damn demon ever slept or not.

Or maybe, maybe, what he really wanted to know was just how human Sebastian really was - or the opposite. How not.

He was careful not to make any noise when he tiptoed across the carpet and to the door, held his breath (bu-pump bu-pump sang his ears), before he opened the door just a slit. A cone of light fell onto him and the room beyond from the row of shimmering chandeliers ahead. And Ciel stood like this, for just a second - hesitating, maybe - before releasing his breath and slipping down the hallway.

Sebastian did have a room of his own, of course.

It was a matter of convenience, really: Ciel had assigned him a room down the hallway soon after Sebastian had stepped into his life, all dark and poisonous heat that made Ciel's nostrils raise. Ciel had found it amusing, at first - shown the room to Sebastian with a haughty tone and daring him, just daring him with his eyes to comment on its size and unfurnished state, with old dolls and stuff from his childhood stacked up in the corners like remnants of a fortress of an innocence long gone. It had been amusing, for all its few seconds of bravado, amusing to demean a demon like that. But Sebastian had only smiled, bowed, and acted like Ciel had offered him the crown room in the King's palace, and Ciel had curled his hands into fists and stormed out of the room. Never, he had vowed, to return again.

The door still looked like it had the day Ciel had discarded the room all those years ago. Nestled inbetween two larger rooms he'd used as a child, it lay quiet, unassuming, and half-forgotten amidst the fading hands of memory. Ciel stopped in his tracks before the room, regarding it like a vile insect creeping up the wall of his bedroom.

He forced his heart to calm down, forced himself to listen. Was Sebastian still in there? Was he up? He reached out his hands, putting them against the mahogany, then leaned forward, pressing his ear against the door, and listened. Tried to tame down the race of his heart enough to pick up something on the other side of the door, edged forward in anticipation and childish impatience, crowding in closer to the door, until -

It opened with just the tiniest creak in the world - so tiny that Ciel was sure that his own muffled gasp had to have been louder, before he managed to bite it off - and then the door was open, open just a creak and Ciel thought, he'll know I'm here now, he must have heard, he must - only to have all his thoughts driven into a wall and scatter as he heard Sebastian's voice drift to his ears.

"Young master," it said. Quiet, soft. A cat's paw, with the promise of the claws snapping out just beneath.

Ciel froze. Could feel the taste of his own heart at the back of his throat. Could visualize it: Sebastian coming to the door and opening it with his usual mask of mock-subservitute, with the amusement pulsing behind his eyes and condescension sharp on his lip. Could see it so clearly that when he blinked and tried to steady his gaze, he could see him standing there, see them standing face-to-chest, and it was only when Sebastian spoke again that Ciel was snapped out of the fatal descent of his own imagination and realized, He's not talking to me.

Realized it, because he heard Sebastian continue, in a mock-high voice, "Shut up, Sebastian. You're such a bore."

Ciel took in his breath. Held it. Thought, "What the -?" and then had the front row of his thoughts tumbled over by a bigger one pressing in from behind that simply screamed, "GET OUT OF HERE."

His feet remained where they were. He kept holding his breath until he trusted himself to start breathing again, as quietly as he could, in, out, in, out.

What?

What?

"But young master," Sebastian said from the other side of the door, in his normal voice, and yet not. Higher, somehow. Crueler. More mock-surprised that it would have been any other time during the thousands of times they'd rehearsed this exact same conversation. "As much as I regret you find my presence a bore, I must insist you finish your lecture."

Nervousness slid into Ciel's stomach and tangled it into a thousand tight knots. He shuffled closer to the door then - quiet, careful not to make any sound - brought his face to the slit in the door, daring himself to look into the face of whatever this was, closer, closer -

Then he saw. And the impact, for a moment, made him feel like his stomach had been punched out of him.

Sebastian was there. On the bed. With his back turned to him, leaning forward as if cradling something in his arms. And he had something in his hands, held out on either side like a victory Goddess her two torches. Ciel first had trouble placing the objects, blinking to bring the image into sharp focus, then blinked again to make sure he wasn't hallucinating, and when he was sure he was seeing right, let himself think, "My God," so loud it almost slipped past the barrier of his lips.

The things in Sebastian's hands were Ciel's toys. His old toys. He remembered one, the one Sebastian was clutching in his right hand - a stuffed animal, a black bear he had gotten for Christmas years ago, wrapped up in a big love-red parcel he remembered having just ripped apart the day he had received it.

And the other one -

"I haven't been happy with your services lately," Sebastian said, lifting the toy in his left hand up and down like a puppeteer. His voice was high-pitched, annoying, scratchy, desperate.

And what Ciel should probably have been thinking was, "That porcelain doll looks nothing like me - she's Martha, the doll my mother hand-made," but somehow, all he could, with the lance of embarrassment skewering through his chest, hot and hard, was, "Do I really sound like that?"

Sebastian continued, oblivious to the boy peeking through the door. "I apologize pro-fusely," Sebastian said, while lifting his right hand. It sounded wrong, so wrong, too high-pitched and mocking, a mere parody of Sebastian, like a, like a, like - like the whores Ciel had seen lurking outside at night with their cheap perfumes and the cheaper lives, and - Sebastian was wriggling his hand again, the bear popping up and down before its head fell forward, drooping against its chest in mock-defeat. "I shall strive to satisfy the young master to my utmost competency - after all, I know why he's doing these things better than he does."

Ciel couldn't believe if he'd ever seen something so wrong in his life - wrong in the most original meaning of the word; wrong in such a deep, gut-clenchingly instinctual way that it made him physically recoil and lift his upper lip in a sneer of disgust, until -

"You don't know anything about me," Sebastian said in the role of the fake-Ciel, and unleashed a shower of embarrassment tearing through the real Ciel.

"Ahhhh," Sebastian went on, the bear popping up and down thoughtfully. "But I do. And that's the problem."

And then, right along with Ciel thinking the same thing, Sebastian said, voice right back to the high-pitched, mock-pubescent wail, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

And then, the mood changed.

Sebastian sat up straighter, smoothing out all the wrinkles on the back of his uniform. Held both toys a little higher, and when he spoke again, it was low, sensual, dangerous. "Ah, I do wonder," he said, the bear in his hand moving along wistfully, "where the young master's mind wanders when the nights are long and his thoughts astray. Sneaking into places they shouldn't." He paused. "Or should they?"

Ciel waited, thought --

"What in the world?" Sebastian sighed, low and mock-scandalized, and so close to Ciel's own voice that a moment that he found himself flounder in the grip of panic, thoughts sent astray as he tried to convince himself he hadn't just said that aloud, but then Sebastian waltzed all over the dizzying hive of his mind.

"I do wonder," he said, in his 'Sebastian' voice this time, and while Ciel couldn't see the smile on his lips, he could hear it, "if the young master ever wonders what it would be like."

And then, Sebastian giggled. It was not a giggle Ciel had ever heard before - raw and off-pitch, a little crazy and like the wail of a violin, erupting sharply and then dropping, and Ciel was just trying to wrap his mind around it when he saw the bear advancing on the porcelain doll, and he held the door a little tighter, clinging to it for lack of anything else to steady him, and Sebastian said, "I'd love to know if he ever wonders what it would be like to touch me." Lower, "If I can feel pleasure." Lower still, a whisper that that slid right into Ciel's stomach, "And if I'd look like him - stupid and drooling and at mercy, the way he's too stubborn to admit he enjoys. Maybe even... 'will he ever kiss me'?"

Lightning stitched the sky into the earth of Ciel's mental landscape, successfully splitting it in two and leaving him floundering.

Sebastian continued his thoughts for him, lifting the porcelain doll and saying, "I never think of such things. Why would I ever?"

"Indeed, why would you ever?" Sebastian went on, voice now perfectly conversational. "Why would you ever, indeed? That, as we both know, would be out of line. Because we both know one thing with absolute clarity, don't we?"

Ciel waited for the hammer to strike.

"That you're mine," Sebastian said, and suddenly his voice teetered off-key, sounding manical, and then, louder, pointed, "Don't you, young master?"

And that's what did it: that's what twisted down the final knife of terror into the rest of the nauseous mass of his emotions, and it was too much, too much, too MUCH, TOO MUCH.

Ciel turned and ran, ran down down the corridor and didn't stop panting until he was inside his room, the familiar scent of the furniture rushing into his nose and the feeling of safety re-descending, and he almost tore his clothes off of him before jumping into bed and throwing the sheets over him and falling into a hectic sleep plagued by one of the worst nightmares he'd ever had.

As always, it was Sebastian's voice that woke him.

"Good morning, young master. It is time to get up."

Ciel opened his eyes, threads of a confused dream still clinging onto him like water weed after a swim in the pond. Blinked them, tried to re-orientate himself, then let them fall onto Sebastian standing in front of him.

Who was looking at him with the most confident, most ridigly unwavering smile of duty on his lips.

Ciel blinked groggily.

"Are you still sleepy?" Sebastian asked. "It is already eight AM, however, very much your usual time to get up. Would you like me to tell you today's schedule?"

And Ciel just - looked at Sebastian. "No, that'll be fine," he said testily, like a person trying out his voice after a long period of not using it. Threw his forehead into a row of frowns. Looked.

Perhaps for just a second too long.

Sebastian cocked his head to the side. "Is something the matter, young master?" No condescension dripping beneath just then, sounding genuinely surprised; or as genuinely anything as Sebastian ever got. "Would you like me to service -"

"That'll be fine." He nearly dripped over his own words in his rush. Then, forcing haughtiness into his voice, "Go make some tea."

"Certainly," Sebastian said with a mild smile. "Today's tea is - "

"Whatever, Sebastian."

And while Sebastian walked over to the coffee table to prepare his tea, all Ciel could think, thoughts hot and desperate, that it must have all been a dream after all. It had to have been a dream, right?

Sebastian bent over to pick up the tea can and Ciel watched the way his uniform creased, then smoothened. The hair trickled down along his cheeks like it always did, and his eyes were trained on his task with a mild mask of pleasantries plastered across his face again, just like they were always were.

No gloating, no manical laughters, no talk of touches (kisses), no nothing.

Just Sebastian, as he could have been any other morning. Just Sebastian, pouring his tea and sucking his cock when he wanted him to and saving his life on the side. A dream, it had to have been a dream. Had to. Had to. had to have just been a fever-induced dream (did he have a fever? Did he want to have a fever?), had to have been, because whatever else -

Whatever else it could have been, he knew he could not face. Or he would lose his mind over. Would not, could not accept.

And then, once Sebastian had finished pouring the tea and had turned around to face him, Ciel didn't see it. Willed himself not to see the canniness that flooded his face for maybe just a second, didn't see what lurked there. Fought off the tendrils of fear until they whisked away and this was just another day, one of many, just another day that loosened yet another knot on the noose.

And so, when Sebastian started, "About last night -"

- Ciel cut him off.

"Just give me the tea," he said. More firmly, "Just give me the damn tea, Sebastian."

The smile on Sebastian's face said so much, and yet so little. "Certainly, young master. Certainly."