Lena's Ill Fame

[One-shot] Seeking Balance , Sukisho!

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 05:04:22 GMT

Title: Seeking Balance
Author/Artist: lenainverse
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Implied sex
Prompt: Sukisyo - SoraSunao - hurt/comfort - he had begun to remember, bit by bit
Word count: 546
A/N: Written for springkink.

For Sunao, the worst part of sharing his body with Ran was the moment just after he regained himself. He could still feel Ran sinking away, reluctant yet playful, and Sunao just knew what he would find.

Hashiba’s arm was thrown over Sunao’s body, casual as can be. Sunao scowled and turned, mindful of the single sheet that covered them and how it offered no amount of modesty at all. One gold, lidded eye watched him, and Sunao sighed. It was always difficult for him to react too much to Yoru, not with Ran’s memories so fresh. Yoru had taken to staying a moment extra, of late. The reason, if there was one, was a total mystery, but Sunao had his theories.

I wouldn’t want to miss a moment.

Yoru had said that, Sunao remembered. His voice was soft, his lips moving against Ran’s ear – their ear – and his hands –

I want to remember each piece of you. Every inch.

Sunao swallowed as Yoru shifted Hashiba’s arm, teasing fingers flirting above the thin cloth of the sheet. In less than a moment, he would be gone, and then Sunao could punch Hashiba’s lights out. Like always.

There were many horrible, intolerable things about Hashiba, but none quite so much as the look he’d get when Yoru surrendered his body back to him. Sunao’s eyes narrowed as he anticipated the change, how Hashiba’s features would widen in shock and disgust at finding them in this position.

Not that Sunao felt any better about it, mind. But at least he had enough dignity to control himself a bit better.

Yoru’s eyelids fluttered, the gentle amber giving way to Hashiba’s usual blue. For a moment Hashiba’s expression sagged, and then slowly, Hashiba’s eyes made a jagged path upward. Their eyes locked, Sunao already gathering himself to demand to know when, exactly, Hashiba planned to let him up.

Sunao stifled a gasp as Hashiba’s eyes widened, not with his usual shock but with a jarring near-hysteria. His gaze was heavy with worry, which for some reason wasn’t irksome to Sunao, and then, before he could stop himself, he spoke in a low whisper.

“Kuu-chan?”

No. Impossible. Hashiba couldn’t remember any of that. Sunao blinked hard, telling himself that when he looked again, it would be gone. Then he could just tell Hashiba to get lost, like always.

He was fully prepared to do just that when he saw Hashiba’s eyes soften, a sad almost-smile forming on his lips. Sunao’s surprise made his reaction a split second later then it would have been, and before he could get his words out Hashiba’s eyes went dull and slipped shut.

’Are you asleep, idiot? Wake up, and let me go!’ Sunao should have said that. It was one thing to put up with Yoru and Ran’s escapades, but Hashiba’s arm was still draped over him, and this wouldn’t do at all. Not even if those eyes were, perhaps, the eyes that Sunao remembered from so long ago.

For a long moment, the only movement in the room was the soft, even sound of Hashiba breathing. Finally, Sunao settled into the pillow, closing his eyes. It was late, and he would be sure to give Hashiba a piece of his mind in the morning.

[One shot] Idle, Blood+

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 03:33:42 GMT

Title: Idle
Author/Artist: lenainverse
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Prompt: Blood +, Saya/Haji+Kai: voyeurism, seeing something one shouldn't see – Kai knew that Haji could do so much more for Saya than he ever could
Word count: 595
A/N: Written for springkink.

The hotel in Russia is larger than Kai had thought, the wide floor and French doors leaving him plenty of space and moonlight to navigate. His Old Man used to call this “pacing,” but that is entirely too anxious-sounding a habit for Kai to abide in himself. Rather, he is observing, and guarding. It’s necessary, no matter how David insists that it isn’t. When it comes to his family there is no being too careful.

The stillness is broken by a flicker at the corner of Kai’s vision. He turns, heart racing, a thousand horrifying images springing to mind – and then sighs when it turns out to be only someone’s bedroom light spilling into the corridor.

Kai’s slippers shuffle against the carpet, muffling his steps as he moves toward the light at the end of the hall. It’s Saya’s room, and he should go check, just for a second, to make sure everything is all right.

The door is only cracked, barely open, but it’s enough to let Kai can see everything. He forgets to breathe for a moment, his hand still curled around the knob in preparation to ask what she was doing up so late, or if she was hungry, or whatever forgotten purpose had brought him so close. Frozen, he can only watch as Saya breathes against Haji’s neck, his arm – his Chiropteran arm – curling around her waist.

They’re only among Saya’s allies, and still Haji is protective.

Neither of them is speaking, nor do they seem to need to. Whatever is between them has had a long time to settle, more lifetimes than Kai can fathom. It’s unfair of him to mind that.

The movement is slow, Kai mistakes it for a trick of the light at first, but Haji’s hands are moving against Saya’s back. Kai remembers another life when he and Saya used to ride together by the beach, Saya watching the water and her tiny hands resting on his waist, always ginger unless he hit a turn too hard.

Even then, she was afraid to touch him.

Haji’s eyes are lidded, and Kai wonders if he ever closes them. Likely not; Saya is there, she needs him, and he couldn’t risk something so irresponsible, so human, as sleep.

Saya’s trembling, Kai can see that from the doorway, her blouse rippling over her back and her breathing ragged as if she has too much air or two little. Saya never shows herself like this, not to Kai or anyone. Haji’s other arm folds around her slim shoulders and she stills, just like that.

Duty is the most important thing. That’s what Kai told himself after he lost their father. What Haji does now, from his slow, calming breaths to the soothing movements of his hands, is something else. Haji has his duty, but that’s not why he follows Saya. It doesn’t begin to explain why he’s pulling Saya against him, or how her face turns upward and moves toward his.

Kai blinks and jerks away from the door. This isn’t for him to see.

A moment later and his back is pressed against the closed bathroom door, his face burning and his chest heaving. Kai can still see them, their movements so natural, almost as if routine...

Swallowing hard, Kai opens the door and moves back into the hallway, resuming his patrol. He wishes that his arms were around her, but that’s not his place. His place is here, in the corridor, keeping his vigil, alone. Even if it’s a useless role, he’ll do it. For her.

[One Shot] Still Frame, KKM

Fri, 05 Jun 2009 00:46:14 GMT

Title: Still Frame
Author/Artist: lenainverse
Rating: PG
Warnings: Kiss, implied brother complex
Prompt: Conrart/Shouri; desperation; "I've always known you're you"
Word count: 759
A/N: Thanks to parsnip_chan for her lovely beta, and the title. <3 Written for springkink.

Conrart's knock is distinctive, a gentlemanly, tentative sound that makes Shouri cringe. Conrart enters without a response, and Shouri locks his eyes with his computer screen and denies Conrart whatever reaction he must be seeking.

Conrart is nosey, at night especially, with the rest of the house abed and his duties delayed until sunrise. Conrart’s visits became more frequent as Yuuri entered high school, giving him less time for travel. Their mother wouldn’t hear of putting the one who named her precious youngest in a hotel, and so the spare futon arranged in the living room has become Conrart’s second home – just a few pieces of wood and plaster between him and Shouri’s family. He tends to pace at night, rarely sleeping, his footsteps sending little creaks along the floorboards when the house is quiet enough.

He always wants to know more, as if getting to know Shouri will somehow bring him closer to Yuuri. For his part, Shouri knows that getting to know Conrart would surely bring him closer to Yuuri, and that is why he allows Conrart inside at all. Looking up from his computer screen is optional. There’s no need, because he already knows, too well, the way Conrart is looking at him.

Shouri knew it the moment he first met Conrart by the way his eyes moved. Always calculating. They looked at him in that familiar way, cataloging the differences between him and Yuuri. For that, Shouri hated him immediately. Worse, it wasn’t Shouri’s family name that made Conrart do that; he simply did it to everyone.

All others in the world were, for him, a living comparison to Yuuri.

Still, they shared a goal. Conrart never lets Shouri forget it, his blatant words and burning looks driving the point straight into Shouri’s chest, as if there were a chance of him ever forgetting. Yuuri’s safety is everything, and if Shouri can imagine nothing else to agree on, that is enough.

It isn’t unusual for Conrart to stand behind him, comfortable in the silence, bathing in the glow of Shouri’s computer screen. There is only so much light Shouri allows while working, or playing, on his computer, and Conrart seems to find this intriguing. He’d commented on it more than once.

When, eventually, Shouri turns, he intends either to command Conrart to leave or to demand to know how Yuuri was faring. That is their system, played out and then reset until the next night.

Tonight, though, he does neither. Conrart is wearing Shouri’s shirt again, and it is as if the act of turning and seeing that white shirt against the backdrop of darkness is enough to make everything he’d built come loose at once.

“Why did you come here?” Shouri demands. “Yuuri is what he is, and I’m not him. I don’t need your protection.”

Conrart doesn’t budge. “I know.” His eyes are shadowed, but Shouri can feel them staring.

Turning away, Shouri spins in his chair, the feeling almost like vertigo. “Then why?”

“Because,” Conrart says, his voice full of maddening calm, “you’re not Yuuri.” And then he is directly behind Shouri, spinning the chair slowly, as if his words are explanation and permission at once.

It isn’t the words that make Shouri rise from his chair, it’s the idea that he has to prove it. Conrart’s arms fit around him (they would be far too long for Yuuri’s slim frame) and his mouth is perfect sliding over his, hard and almost frenzied, with none of the careful control that defines Conrart's usual bearing. This is something Conrart hasn’t shared with Yuuri, Shouri knows, because neither of them would dare. It’s a thought that nags at him, unwanted but persisting until he starts to wonder if, maybe…

No. Shouri moves with the thought rather than speaks it, pushing Conrart away. It’s him who stumbles though, and Conrart just stands there with his infuriating poise. Shouri scowls because it will have to be him who speaks.

“I’m not him.”

“You already said that.”

So he did. But it’s still as true as it was then, even more so. What has changed is the look in Conrart’s eyes, gone from gentle to thoughtful, from accepting to…less so.

“Then leave.” Shouri turns, his throat aching from the thought of what he’s done.

There’s a moment where nothing moves, not even the air because Shouri’s holding his breath. And then the floorboards creak and the door closes and Shouri knows that he’s gotten just what he asked for.

[One Shot] Wash Away, Darker than BLACK

Fri, 05 Jun 2009 00:22:29 GMT

Title: Wash Away
Author/Artist: lenainverse
Rating: R
Warnings: Masturbation
Prompt: Hei/Yin; shower sex - "It's like she's touching him with the water."
Word count: 820
A/N: Thanks to parsnip_chan for her lovely beta. *snuggles* Written for springkink.

Hei is used to blood. It’s almost heady, the smell of it, reminding him who he has become. The black of his clothing and hair almost hides the color, but there’s one streak, surprisingly red against his cheek.

He always cleans his knife first, unwilling to sacrifice its care for his own. Habit makes him wipe it clean, but all Hei can think of is the sullied cloth.

It’s not that this blood is different than usual. It’s not even Contractor’s blood, which tends, somehow, to feel different. And yet this does. Either the adrenaline from the fight or the source is making Hei think overly about it.

With his knife securely placed on the rim of the sink, Hei turns on the shower, setting the spray all the way hot. He can still reach the knife from the shower, but it’s only barely on his mind such that he almost forgets to check. He kicks off his boots, gazing down at a trail of smeared, bloody treads that he’s left on the tile.

He’s never showered with his clothes on before; he tries not to think about how everything is sticking to him, turning the bottom of the tub red. Everything should be washed away eventually. Everything.

The spray hits his face, the shower head forcing it out almost painfully. The water becomes streams, mockingly gentle, that cascade down his body.

It’s not so much a feeling, physically, as a sense Hei has. He raises his head, instincts at capacity, searching for any noise, ready to leap. But then he feels something, a slight touch lingering along his back in the stream of water. He knows, instantly, that it’s her.

Yin knowing about his apartment, kept secret for matters the Syndicate shouldn’t care for, is almost a betrayal, but not a shock and not one that he minds. He cares more about his state, as if she can see what he’s thinking, because the way the water moves over him makes him think that she were comforting him.

Nothing she can do now will make him comfortable, but even so he doesn’t wish it to stop. Hei turns his face into the spray, eyes sliding shut, feeling every rivulet of water that’s dragging the stain of blood down his body. It reminds him of Pai, when he would clean her face of blood after a kill while she slept. He had always been the one to protect her, always vigilant and always watching.

That hasn’t changed, but Hei’s heart is racing and something -- something has. He looks down, his black clothes clinging to him and showing no trace of blood, and yet the water at his feet won’t run clear. It’s never going to. It remains with him, always, and soon he’ll be half mad, consumed.

Yin’s water doesn’t mind and keeps on flowing, probably just the way it always has but something, the heat to it or the way it moves like a thing alive, makes it so different. Nothing is the same about tonight, not the spray that seems to whisper over him or the blood that it’s rinsing away.

He often wondered how much Yin could see through the water, whether it was like literal vision or more of a sense. Now he knows; he can feel her water exploring him like fingertips, revealing all his secrets, leaving him no choice but to lay them bare.

Yin is more alive than most credited her for, Hei knows that. But when he looked in her eyes, they were a doll’s. It’s only now that he can tell, for the first time, how deeply she feels. He tells himself that it’s her choice and not just for his sake, but he knows he’ll never believe it.

Hei almost doesn’t notice at first, the way his body is acting on its own, one of the rare moments it behaves without his consent. Yin can feel it too, no point in hiding, and so he slides one hand down to open his pants, refusing to consider what he’s about to do. He touches himself gently at first, for her sake, and then with urgency, because there is no other way to get the stink of blood away from him.

It must have been a long time since Hei’s come into the shower, because his skin feels tight, his fingertips pruning. He closes his eyes and Yin is all around him, everywhere, flowing over his closed eyelids and his clothed chest and his moving hand. He moves faster, almost apologetically, because he can imagine her blank eyes and he doesn’t want her to share this any longer than necessary.

His finish is hard, longer than he would have liked, washing down the drain with the last pink streaks of blood.

Yin rinses it all away.

Hei is still for just another moment, then tenses when the water turns suddenly cold.

[One-shot] At the Foot of the Lighthouse, Murata/Yuuri

Mon, 01 Jun 2009 02:06:03 GMT

Something I drummed up for Round 038 at kkm_challenge.

Title: At the Foot of the Lighthouse
Author/Artist: lenainverse
Characters/Pairings: Murata/Yuuri
Word Count: ~400
Rating: PG-ish
Theme/Prompt being used: Murata

Night was Murata’s best time, but not his favorite. Shadows, deep enough to swallow the dying light of the last lantern, inked the walls and swirled, playful, in the curtains over the Maou’s bed. From here Yuuri’s face was visible, drawing a lone moonbeam through thick curtains.

Murata hadn’t been invited, but he wouldn’t need to be. They had been here, together, in the afternoons with the sun still bright enough to make it innocent. But Yuuri wouldn’t have objected, had Murata asked. He would have flushed, perhaps, and stuttered at the forwardness, but he would have agreed. Though there was a boundary there, it weakened by the day, enough that Murata didn’t consider tonight’s presence a violation. Would that his motives tonight were different, Murata could be beside Yuuri, his fingers sliding beneath soft linens and over skin-warm pajamas rather than the stiff armrest of the corner chair.

With neither alternative entirely pure, Murata had opted for the less undisciplined.

Yuuri’s smile grew and then softened, never fading, even in sleep. As always he was only Yuuri, no different now then at daybreak or high noon. His place was everywhere, and Murata’s place was in his shadow. The dark was only so shrouded because it followed the brilliance of day.

And follow he had, accepting his place. For a while it was enough. Then he noticed how easy it was, with a few well placed jokes or an offhand reminiscence of home, to turn Yuuri’s smile toward him. Soon enough Murata found himself soliciting a touch, a blush, a kiss, because he craved it. Because he could.

Stirring, Yuuri kicked at the sheets, his lips now moving with the last snatches of a dream. Murata smiled, and relaxed as Yuuri’s eyes fluttered open and found him, as if he’d known all along where to look.

“Murata?” His voice was rough from sleep, but didn’t sound surprised. “That chair can’t be comfortable.” His arms stretched over his head and even in the dark, Murata could see Yuuri’s flush. “Wanna… lie down?”

There was a boundary there, until now, and Murata isn’t sure if it’s his smile or something else that made it fall. He’d have to consider it later, because all he could do now was rise to his feet and take the five long strides to Yuuri’s side.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

[Request Drabbles] 1 of ?

Tue, 12 May 2009 02:55:43 GMT

I did a meme over at lenainverse (under duress, I might add :P) and wrote a few drabble-type things in response. There are still more that remain incomplete so more to follow.

Title: Come True
Fandom: Code Geass
Pairing/Characters: Lelouch, Suzaku/Euphemia
Rating: PG
Word Count: 100
Warnings: Angst and despair? :P
Notes: requested by poisonangel7

In utter defiance of everything he had worked for, Lelouch couldn’t stop himself from believing in fairy tales. Not for himself of course – happily ever after had never been his fate – but if there was any hope of the world he wanted, the world he planned for Nunnally, then it must exist. Somehow.

Euphemia stood on stage, holding the pin that would decree her Knight. Suzaku approached, his pace measured and formal.

If anyone deserved a happy ending...

Lelouch turned away from the screen, features twisting. Later, he would remember this moment, and know that his curse befell their tragedy.

Title: Treasured
Fandom: Slayers
Pairing/Characters: Xellos/Lina
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 100
Warnings: Dark themes
Notes: requested by neocloud9

She was a rare specimen, Lina Inverse. Brilliant as the gemstones she stole and potent as the esoteric powers she claimed as her own. Chaotic as the spells she casually tossed about and fearful as the destruction they left in their wake.

Xellos enjoyed watching her.

In reality, he wouldn’t have to do much. From the shadows, he watched as Lina set one foot into the darkness, her movements tentative and unsure, but undeniable. Her other half remained, for now, bathed in light. Her stubborn was legion, but not inviolate.

She would be the prize of his collection. One day.

Title: Exception
Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou
Pairing/Characters: Gwendal, Greta
Rating: G
Word Count: 150-ish
Warnings: None
Notes: requested by sagemuraken

The world is a big place, more than any of the charts and maps that cluttered Gwendal’s desk could convey. His days are consumed with its affairs, matters great and small, diplomacy and war.

When dealing with something so vast, it was impossible to achieve the desired goals. Too many variables beget chaos, nothing short of it.

Outside his office door, footsteps rush about and voices carry on, oblivious to the world Gwendal manages from behind his desk. Then a knock, and his reluctant behest for entrance. He barely notices the small, tentative steps in favor of his work.

“Gwendal?” He looks up, leaving his signature half complete, his eyes meeting Greta’s.

Against his will, a smile threatens. “Yes?”

“Yuuri and Wolfram promised to take me on a picnic. And I thought, if you weren’t too busy…”

Within the microcosm of the Castle, exceptions could be made.

[Ficlet] KKM, Conrad/Alford

Sat, 09 May 2009 14:27:26 GMT

A silly little something I wrote at 2:00 AM. I'm trying to be better about not editting stuff to death before posting, so here it is: unpolished and unrevised. You have been warned.

There were lines that Conrad couldn’t cross. The word couldn’t was literally true; not that he refused to do so, but rather that he believed it beyond his capabilities. He would have told himself – and did, time and again – that even if it were possible, he wouldn’t have.

He would have been wrong.

It was Alford’s eyes that first struck him. Not the color, particularly, though it was attractive, perhaps not in a way Conrad could ever before recall seeing. They caught the light, and he noticed that too, but no. It was the way the light shone outward, untouched by the shadows that haunted those who had seen enough years to earn them. Alford’s smile began there, with a flicker that spread over his features, naïve enough to still be pure.

There, in those blue eyes, Conrad could let himself seek that light. He could feel the warmth that he must, otherwise, deny himself. And when Alford would catch him looking he would smile, genuine and open and reminding Conrad, more than he wished, of his weakness.

It was when Alford’s eyes would squeeze shut, his neck arching from Conrad’s touch, that Conrad relished most. These eyes, locked closed by the most unchaste of acts, Conrad would never see on Yuuri’s face. And in those moments he could pretend, almost, that one and the other were distinct as sunrise and dusk, and that his honor remained unsullied. That he was still the man Yuuri thought he was.

Conrad would have been that man, if he could have. He should have told the truth to both of them. But instead he wore his smile and let them believe it. That was one thing, maybe the only one, that he could do.
***

And now I'm gonna go pretend I never posted this. *whistles*

[Microfics] Murata/Yuuri and Hei/Conrart

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 11:08:13 GMT

Because I lose things on my personal journal, planting some microfics here. The original meme was: Write 10 genres/types of fic in 10 words or less.

AU (Murata Ken, P.I.! Something I've had cooking forever. XD)

Crushed fedora, lousy coffee...Murata's "girl" Friday: butterfingered, but cute.

First Time

They're both nervous, but it's Murata who's shaking the most.

UST

Yuuri's celebratory hug was hours ago. Murata still feels warm.

Crackfic

Devil-Murata and Angel-Murata sat on Yuuri's shoulders. Which was which?

Angst!

Murata walks only behind Yuuri to keep his light pure.

Hurt/Comfort

"I trust you."

He shouldn't. Murata accepts Yuuri's embrace regardless.

PWP

Yuuri keeps giggling, so Murata starts sucking. Works every time.

Badfic

Yuuri never liked girls, anyway, but Murata blushing is cute.

Kidfic

From the doorway, Yuuri smiles. Greta loves Murata's bedtime stories.

Established Relationship

Their excuse is "studying," and there's some truth to that.

AU

When home, Conrart behaves as an intruder. Only Hei notices.

First Time

Conrart's skin buzzed where his sleeve touched. Intriguing, this stranger.

UST

He aims, as Hei demonstrated. The gun is still warm.

Crackfic

"Must I?"

Hei adjusts Conrart's skirt, smirking. "It suits you."

Angst!

Conrart can't think about Hei next door; Yuuri is waiting.

Hurt/Comfort

Hei eyes Conrart's post-kill whiskey. He orders water, but sits.

PWP

Hei's knife parts cloth, and almost skin. Almost isn't enough.

Badfic

"You're really going?"

Conrart brushed Hei's tears away. "I'm sorry."

Kidfic

Yin smiles when Hei brings chocolate. Tomorrow is Conrart's turn.

Established Relationship (sort of...)

The stars in Shin Makoku look different, and never fall.

[One-shot] Excursion

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 01:41:57 GMT

So, this fic was intended to be something quite different. But Murata does what he wants, and makes no apologies. And just what he was doing with the syntax, I haven't the foggiest. >.>

Title: Excursion
Pairing: Murata + Yuuri (could be pairing hints, possibly)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 500
Warnings: None
Notes: Thanks to parsnip_chan for piecing it together with me. &hearts

The morning air was thick, mist hovering and dew clinging to blades of grass and sneakers alike. Murata stepped around another of the thick pines – it was light enough to see them, barely – and aimed for the nearest open area of manicured grass, his hand swinging with the weight of his well-wrapped bento.

A huff from behind him, purposefully loud.

“You can stop pouting any time.”

Yuuri’s response was nigh-unintelligible, but Murata had no intention of paying it any mind regardless. He was well practiced by now at ignoring Yuuri’s grumbling about damp feet (first from the fish market, now the dew-covered Imperial Palace gardens) and early morning train rides. Yuuri’s irritation would be easily appeased by a full stomach.

The air was cool, but the blanket Murata spread would keep the wetness away. Kneeling and leaning back on his heels, Murata worked at the knot and smiled as Yuuri flounced down beside.

It was nostalgia that made Murata decide to use this first day of summer break to visit the Tsukiji Fish Market, and simple amusement that made him invite Yuuri along. His first attempt to win Yuuri over this morning, an enthusiastic point about tourist attractions and the skewed perspective of their native country, had earned him a glare before Yuuri yanked the covers back over his head. Murata had laughed and yanked back and tried again, abandoning the abstract and appealing more to Yuuri’s nature. A bit of negotiation and an offer of otoro had vanished the distaste from Yuuri’s face and the bleariness from his eyes, his unintended smile so entertaining that Murata had let him doze inside the swaying subway car just to wake him and see it again.

Most of Yuuri’s complaints came between the train rides, Yuuri two steps behind murmuring vaguely fond accusations - What kind of old geezer wakes up at 5:00 AM for fish! - and again in the market while pretending to look uninterested at the tentacled-scaled-slimy merchandise. This newest bout was the result of the last piece of unagi, claimed by Murata’s paper defeating Yuuri’s rock in the final round.

“You pick the weirdest places for a picnic, Murata. You remembered the soy sauce, right?” Yuuri asked, separating his chopsticks and grabbing for the otoro without his answer.

White watchtowers stood over the top of the trees, the moat beneath flowed lazily. It was a reservoir of peace in the center of bustling Tokyo, the soft light of daybreak dulling the harshness of traffic signals a block away. Murata picked up a piece of sushi, the type neither noticed nor important.

Yuuri reached across Murata for the pickled ginger, his apology murmured through a mouthful. Murata smiled. The constant motion in this stillness was not out of place only because it was Yuuri. For the same reason, a moment later when Yuuri snagged the last unagi with a coy smile, Murata didn’t say a word. The sun was rising, and he didn’t want to miss it.

***

Comments are love!

[One-shot] Exhale

Tue, 06 Jan 2009 10:58:02 GMT

For glitteringloke, in return for some icons she made me forever ago. &hearts

Title: Exhale
Pairing: Gwendal/Günter
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 554
Warnings: Implied rough sex, a twist on hurt/comfort, dark themes
Notes: prompt by glitteringloke: something darker, serious gungun. as long as it's serious, it doesn't have to be smut or even heavily rated. (leaving out yuuri is good for making him non-flailable) Prompt: Orange

“Orange” was a difficult prompt for something dark, so it’s a rather minor point in the story. I hope that’s okay?

If we take care of the moments, the years will take care of themselves. – Maria Edgeworth

***

The end of the war was two days old when Gwendal had enough standing on ceremony, and claimed he was taking back his life. Others filled taverns in droves or took to their rooms behind the safety of a locked door, but Gwendal took his duties as he always had, an air of disgruntled obligation expressing the most of himself he would allow.

As was his place, Günter watched over Gwendal. Day by day, they were together in Gwendal’s office with newly stacked parchments towering before them and paying far too much attention to matters of standard correspondence. The unfailing return to normalcy was sickening when one wasn’t distracted enough to ignore it.

Günter did his part to fill Gwendal’s days, standing or sitting beside his desk as the circumstance dictated, the only sound between them the shuffling of papers and Gwendal’s occasional disapproving, or begrudgingly accepting, grunt. Günter’s mind refused to be still but his body acted the part well enough, embracing the comfortable shroud of routine that he found no good enough reason to shed.

He had tried, only once, to ask Gwendal of his time at the front. The look in his eyes had reminded Günter of standing on his balcony as the midnight horizon burned with red-orange flames.

They never spoke about it again. The war: declared over by Celi’s scrawling signature across parchment too crisp for its purpose and still heavy in gazes that looked everywhere but your eyes, drawn unerringly to bandage and scar alike. Even within the walls of the wing that had been designated as temporary quarters for the infirmed no one spoke as if it were real.

Today, as yesterday, Günter stood by, not knowing what he was waiting for. He took another parchment from Gwendal’s outstretched hand and skimmed over the words in search of errors that they both knew weren’t there.

The worst part of the silence was trying to figure something to say. Before, Günter would have filled the moments with activities and words alike. It felt a disrespect to do so now, with Conrart still bedridden by mandate and secluded by choice. The rest of the castle followed his example, as if it weren’t too late to beg forgiveness and time would simply march past without a glance at the disfigured child it left behind.

Days and weeks had abated Günter’s urgency to ask, but still he couldn’t help but think that someday, maybe. For now Günter would find what he could in the knowledge that almost everyone important to him was home.

Glancing down for another parchment, Günter instead received the full force of Gwendal’s stare and he started, embarrassed to be caught thinking as he was. He could have moved but he didn’t, he let Gwendal grab him and hold him, his attention equally on the edge of the desk against the small of his back and on the papers that splashed to the floor all around. Günter braced himself as soldier’s hands yanked at clothing and hair alike, Gwendal’s bowed head shadowing eyes that Günter knew would hold just a flicker of apology – unnecessary, but offered, and accepted.

Günter didn’t stop him. After, Gwendal would still and let Günter’s arms fold around him in his own manner of apology, and for one moment Günter could be useful again.

[One-shot] Weigh Me Down (Gift fic #2/29)

Sun, 28 Dec 2008 17:36:46 GMT

This is for allira_dream, happy holidays~! This has been finished forEVER and I finally decided to stop tinkering with it. I warn you that I'm still not sure I like this flow but Lavi is so damn stubborn.

Title: Weigh Me Down
Fandom: D. Gray-Man
Pairing/Characters: slight Allen/Lavi implications, mentions of others
Rating: PG-ish
Prompt: Allen/Lavi stuff. It doesn't have to be completely shippy, just something possibly set in the future, maybe?
Summary: When his Innocence stops working, Lavi decides to leave the Order.

It wasn’t the sharp sting of Lavi’s knuckles that he noticed, but the dull thud that was the wall’s only protest. Pulling his hand away, Lavi rubbed at his fist absently as bits of drywall fell to the floor. The wall, already abused by years of fights both practice and genuine, didn’t crumble but chipped, a testament to its stubbornness. The wall had outlasted even Komui’s prouder moments of innovation. The building that was home to the Order would either watch as its former dwellers turned to dust or, exhausted and spent, bring them all down beneath it.

He fingered his hammer, hanging useless in its holster these three weeks. He’d long given up searching for reasons to still carry it; it made him mad, and that had been enough.

Lavi turned to his duffel, already open and waiting, two-thirds full. It wasn’t all going to fit, he had long decided. This room, that had become his the very day he had taken the name Lavi, had been bare of everything but a few spare shirts for the first months. Now, picking up the pack of cards on the windowsill, there was a bare spot in the dust to mark its place. Lavi tossed it in with the rest.

Life here had grown by the day, but slowly, sneaking by unnoticed. Staring at the walls of this room, his room, Lavi couldn’t focus on anything but how familiar it was. There was nothing in his life that he couldn’t recall by sight, but somehow this was special. And that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

Lavi had looked through the eyes of his 49th persona for quite a long time. It wasn’t as if he planned this. It was necessary, and so allowed. Simple, like the rules he’d followed all his life: watch and remember and record history, and don’t let yourself be dragged down by it.

A knock at the door was almost a relief. Lavi shoved his reddening hand in his pocket and yanked the door open as the Order’s walls creaked in complaint.

“You’re done training?” Allen, for once, wasn’t smiling. His voice was mocking, accusing, but always in a congenial way that was impossible to be mad about.

Lavi turned back into his soon-to-be former room, sending the door swinging. “Yep. That’s that.”

It had been easy enough, at first: being here, the lines so clearly drawn and his hypervigilence at full attention. If forced to explain – and he was – the closest Lavi would come was to say that he got “tired”. A poor excuse for one’s Innocence failing to work, but what else was there?

Of course, Lenalee had been supportive, Yu disgusted, Miranda and Crowley worried. Bookman’s eyes would have showed nothing but indifference, had Lavi cared to look, but he knew everything, and they both knew it. Lavi had been fairly warned.

But Allen, he had tried to help. Endless offers of training and mostly sarcastic challenges that both tweaked Lavi’s ego and somehow soothed it.

Allen’s world was too simple, temptingly simple. Lavi had told himself it was distant amusement and well defined duty that had kept him focused on Allen. Then it became camaraderie, the kind that comes from near-death warfare and then bandaging each other’s wounds, laughing, voices tinged with something close to madness. And now that Lavi was ready to receive his 50th name, he couldn’t think of anything but how Panda had been dead right all along.

Allen had already entered, made himself at home standing in his usual spot at the foot of the bed. “Your arm?” Why Allen liked to come to Lavi’s room after his trainings was something best not considered. It happened every day, more reliable than the tide. Lavi never dared to start expecting it.

The banter exchanged back and forth varied day to day, always casual, never once veering toward anything resembling serious. But today the open duffel was in the middle of the room and there was no way he didn’t see it.

Lavi shook out his left arm, working the developing bruise on his shoulder. “Oh, this? Not even worth mentioning. Just a bump.” A bit too much torque made him almost wince and brand himself a liar.

Allen only smiled, his way of saying that he wasn’t buying Lavi’s bullshit any more than he had yesterday, thanks.

“Hey, I held my own just fine.” Lavi laughed, his forced inflection only making the air seem more flat. “Yu shows no mercy when you pull his hair, but who can resist?”

Eyes darkening with his sudden change of countenance, Allen put on his own special poker face that was anything but neutral. “He landed a hit, so you still lose the bet.”

The first bet had been that Lavi could get his hammer working. It had been days since Allen stopped proposing those particular stakes.

Lavi heaved a trod-upon sigh. “Come to collect already? That’s nothing but cruel!”

“No use complaining now.” Allen’s eyes wavered toward the duffel, then the spot on the sill where the cards had left a void in the dust. “But in an act of sheer mercy I’d be willing to take a double or nothing on tomorrow.”

Everything about Allen Walker was dangerous. He was impulsive, had perfected the art of defying the odds, and, above all, he knew how to suck someone in. Like quicksand, the benign surface lures you in and by the time you realize it you’re snared.

“Oh, how merciful. You already have all my money, bean sprout.”

“I’m willing to let you owe me, this once. See, merciful!”

“Yeah, yeah. Remember, you have to pay my funeral expenses if Yu kills me.”

“The Order takes care of all that for its members.” The morbidity of the joke wasn’t important because it was a ‘member’ Allen called him, no longer an Exorcist. “You’ll be honored as a hero!”

Lavi’s smile turned sickly sweet. “Fine. Then you have to break the news to Lenalee that I got killed over a bet with you.”

The vaguely flummoxed look on Allen’s face made Lavi laugh out loud. He was always useless when it came to women in distress.

“I’m gonna finish up here before catching some dinner.” Lavi walked past Allen and palmed his doorknob, already fearing what Allen would say.

Behind Lavi, Allen’s voice was full of a smirk. “Shouldn’t I make sure you get there okay?” Allen’s challenges had ceased to offend when Lavi couldn’t answer.

“Nah. Yu’s terrible at sneaking up on people when he’s pissed, panting like a rampaging bull.”

The skin around Alen’s eyes crinkled as he laughed, brushed past Lavi to stand in the doorway. “He’s more like a rabid dog, really, what with his constant frothing at the mouth.” Allen imitated with a low snarl, his face contorting for a brief second before he laughed at his own joke. “And I’m starving, now that you mention it.

“So, tomorrow?” Allen didn’t look back, and Lavi was, for once, grateful for the accommodating side of him. He left without hearing the answer, pulling the door closed behind.

Lavi looked at the cards, still lying in the duffel. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

***

Hope you enjoyed it!

[One-shot] Inevitable (Gift fic #1/29)

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 01:40:05 GMT

For parsnip_chan. Happy Holidays! *loves*

Title: Inevitable
Fandom: KureNai
Pairing/Characters: Ryuuji/Murasaki, Shinkurou + Murasaki
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest (the disturbing kind), child abuse, misogyny, dark themes
Prompt: Murasaki/Ryuuji future!fic with Murasaki/Shinkuro/Ryuuji undertones a bonus but not required (NC17 max rating, PG13-R preferred).

To Murasaki, the Inner Circle was a living being, growing and evolving with each season. Walking through its halls the feeling was never the same twice; as a child her terror within the looming paper walls, then after Shinkurou it was the scene of her triumph. Now she, too, had come full circle.

Her life wasn’t as she had planned so long ago, an ideal that her six year old self had somehow never questioned. It was different as a thirteen year old, a woman as she had been ordained, the anointed one to provide the next generation. The fear was different now but no less, a thick dread that would dissolve her from the inside if she allowed it. For a while, Shinkurou’s visits had kept it at bay, but it had been at least three seasons since she had denied herself that comfort.

Murasaki’s tutors, excellent in their credentials and otherwise lifeless, had taught her about the cycle of life, as it suited her family, the grand sweeping paintings across rice paper walls depicting something great, something too important for a child to comprehend or even question. It was a plan that she was a part of, and she need consider only how fortunate she was to be so.

Only now could Murasaki consider herself a part of that cycle. Before Shinkurou she kept her despair at a distance, and he had taken away the despair for a time only for it to return closer and just as real. She knew, as if somehow her place in the Inner Circle commanded it, that there was nothing left for her here but acceptance.

Murasaki had once heard one of the servants uttering how she wished to be a “kept woman.” Murasaki couldn’t help but wonder if the servant knew what she asked for.

Along this stretch of screen, a tiger’s claw swiped at an unseen threat, his eyes lit from candlelight that shone through the rice paper. Murasaki remembered the fairy tales she had regurgitated over the years: circling hyenas that would threaten intrusion, seeking the tiger’s grace and power. The tiger’s justice was swift, merciless, and absolute.

Shinkurou visited last month, and the month before that, and before that. Every month he would appear. It had been ten new moons since Murasaki had seen his face, since then she had only listened behind the sliding door, slipping on the protective sheath of her Kuhouin’s face when he would lose his fights with the guards that told him her orders. She would huddle on the tatami, her sleeves wrinkling between crossed arms, hearing his demands: “Let me though! She wouldn’t refuse to see me…let her tell me herself!”

Murasaki wanted Shinkurou to remember her as she was.

His words haunted her. She was nothing like the proud child she once was: comforted in her naïveté, striving for a life beyond what she knew. Ideals such as those were sought by the likeness of hyenas, and the journey seeking them equally futile.

As the one decreed to bear Ryuuji’s heirs, Murasaki’s quarters were spacious, placed in a position of honor beside the ones her official ‘mother’ had once occupied. The room was barren, exactly as it had been for its previous occupant. Her futon, laid out already by maids, was more than large enough for two.

Murasaki dared not remove her furisode. Her hand smoothed the material as she knelt, waiting.

The first time Ryuuji had touched her, she was young enough to have forgotten. And for a while she had, for a short, wonderful time, but now it was again as clear as the sky after a rainstorm. Her exact age was a detail lost, but the smooth skin of his fingers she carried every day. His voice was quiet and kind, in his way, but she had known even then that she was nothing more than a skittish animal that he aimed to calm and mold. She knew her duty.

But still, in her memory, his touch was something like love. She hated that the most.

It had long been that every step she took was either one toward her future or one taken in vain. Duty, she had learned, was as much a living being as she was. It breathed and it grew, solidifying and coming alive, inevitably. A child’s fantasies had let her think that she could grow faster.

Shinkurou had changed that for a while, and she was grateful. Murasaki vowed to never forget what she had been, still might be, in his eyes.

After her time with Shinkurou was over, Ryuuji ignored her for a time. That had suited Murasaki just fine; she had hated him. She would never serve him. The Inner Circle was his life but not hers. Happily, she had trotted among the long halls of tatami, her tabi sliding with her hopping walk, the entire world ahead of her.

On her third day back, Ryuuji had been standing alongside the wall with the golden phoenix, his voice lowered as he issued a servant their orders, half smiling, voice filled with calm strength. Murasaki hadn’t seen him since Shinkurou had left and she had told herself that she wouldn’t slow. He had spared only a glance as she skidded past. To this day she still dreamed of his eyes.

Even then, she had known.

In the years since, Ryuuji’s eyes had never changed. When she thought about it, Murasaki was sure that they had been different before Shinkurou.

Plucking her hairbrush from the only table in her quarters, Murasaki groomed herself with slow, careful strokes. She was calm, her breaths even and measured, just as she had been taught.

Ryuuji was standing outside her quarters, his silhouette unmistakeable, the light of his lantern casting a long shadow across her futon. Murasaki sat upright, seeing no need to feign sleep; she had stated her intention three weeks ago, and their father had accepted it, and if need be she would scream from the hilltops that she would never become part of the Inner Circle. She glared at the door, preparing herself for his eyes of glass.

He had slid the door open, his smile soft and sad. “Murasaki.” His whisper carried across the room. The lantern settled on the table as he moved toward her, and she saw no tension in his frame. Her lips, still parted with words that she knew, now, would never come, closed.

She said nothing but watched closely, hoping that he would see her determination and leave. She would pass this test, she told herself, and all others.

Ryuuji sat beside the futon, stroked her hair with a tenderness she remembered from before.

“I promised I would never hurt you.”

But you have, she wanted to scream, your words kill me, your soft voice and your silent stares. Every breath we share in this house kills me.

He noticed something, his quiet laughter said. “Never fear, my precious Murasaki. I will uphold my promise.” And then he rose and was gone, the smell of him clinging to her hair.

No visit before or since had struck her as that one. He came more often as the weeks and months went by, the time between shrinking to almost nothing. None were distinct in her mind anymore, but her body remembered his touch well enough.

When Ryuuji left it was easy to feel angry. While he was there it was impossible.

Murasaki slid the brush through her hair, the bristles tickling her neck. She wasn’t allowed to do even this alone, normally – servants came every morning to wash and brush her hair before she bathed. She was never permitted to run and play or for the wind to touch her flesh so her hair never needed untangling, but she kept her brush by her bedside by insisting that she couldn’t tolerate flyaway strands. It was the one remnant of before that she was allowed.

When Ryuuji finally entered he reminded her of a cloud; neither black nor white but could revert to either in a moment. Murasaki had quickly learned that her own reactions determined whether he would drench her in the storm or merely block out the sun.

“Good evening.” Ryuuji was always polite, always smiling, as was only proper of someone of his upbringing.

Murasaki placed her brush on the table quickly, dropping it with a clatter.

Ryuuji’s smile widened. “Allow me.”

He knelt behind her, his movements rustling the air and her skin feeling too tight as she waited. Murasaki half expected him to use his fingers, her hope refusing to let her believe that she had given in so completely. But her body knew its place, and was still.

The soft click of wood as Ryuuji lifted her brush yielded no reaction. She felt the bristles rub her scalp and strangely, it felt good.

This was her world now. Rice paper halls and perfect tatami and the finest silk kimonos selected by those above her or those who served her. The only pleasure she was allowed would come from her Master, the true heir to the Kuhouin family. Murasaki couldn’t dredge up any anger at her brother’s touch, no matter how she tried. She could blame it on the empty corridors or on the stale air or on fairy tales that swept across the rice paper screens, but in the end it was she that had accepted it all.

Ryuuji’s hand was on her shoulder; she hadn’t even noticed him lay it there. Murasaki leaned her head back to keep the brush off her neck. She could feel the pads of his fingers through the thick fabric of her furisode.

Her obi dissolved beneath her brother’s knowing touch; most men would tug and flounder, but not Ryuuji. His every movement was certain, almost delicate as he undid tens of knots and ties one by one, the brush never stilling. Murasaki dared not move as her furisode slid open at the front. He paid it no mind, his fingers weaving through her hair to brush the back of her neck.

Ryuuji never turned her, sliding the fabric from her shoulders and pulling her back against his chest. His hakama – he would only wear traditional clothing tonight – were rustled and Murasaki could feel the heat of his skin where his yukata wasn’t covering. He unwrapped her with the care of a child holding a precious artifact that he had been warned not to break.

The move to the futon was mutual, her wanting not to stain the tatami, him wanting to adhere to the tradition he’d whispered to her all these nights. She pushed her face against the pillow, hoping it would hide the little whimpers that came from her throat. She could no longer tell whether they were pleasure or pain, and she doubted that Ryuuji would wonder.

He was still mostly clothed as he took her, his hakama falling in waves over her skin. It was too much to hope that the fabric or the dim light hid anything from his eyes. Whether out of kindness or selfishness, he never made her see his face.

“Sweet Murasaki.” His voice was low, quiet, as when they were children and she thought he was sharing a great secret. “I love you.”

She knew it was true. She never doubted it. And though she once, not long ago, resented that, now she only felt gratitude. It was the one spark of life in this house, and it was only hers.

[Preview] In the Shadows

Tue, 25 Nov 2008 11:23:03 GMT

There's been a distinct lack of activity here lately, but I suspect that in the next couple of months there'll be a flood of posts! ^_^

In the meantime parsnip_chan and I have been working a ton on our crossover WIP lately (which is now up to over 61,000 words!). I posted some snippets from some scenes over on my LJ so I'm tossing it here because I lose writing over there, and because hey, pimping is good! And yes, the fic is looking to be finished some time in this life, which is a miracle!

We threw together a montage of some pieces of scenes from our Hei/Conrart fic, In the Shadows. With the disclaimer that absolutely none of this has had more editing than a spellcheck since we're trying to get finished before we edit for once in our lives.

Enjoy!

Title: In the Shadows (preview)
Fandom: KKM/Darker than BLACK crossover
Authors: parsnip_chan and lenainverse
Genre: Action, Drama
Pairing: Hei/Conrart (in no particular order)
Rating: Let's call it PG-13 for violence
Word Count: ~2,100
Summary: When events lead Yuuri to believe that there is danger on Earth, he sends Conrart to protect his family. To accomplish his task, Conrart finds himself drawn into an underground war between the Mazoku and a new entity called Contractors - a war that may well push him beyond his limits.
Notes: No knowledge of Darker than BLACK is necessarily needed to read the fic, though it might make more sense once it's whole.

Subtly shifting from side to side as he walked down the sidewalk, Conrart effectively avoided bumping into his fellow pedestrians, training instinctively taking over as he continued to survey and catalog. Every man and woman who passed him were assessed for danger and while few were completely harmless, most did not appear to be trained in anything more than day to day living, however tough it may be. They were still a threat, but a calculable threat. It wasn't until a lanky man dressed in a blue buttoned down shirt and jeans walked out of a food kiosk that Conrart felt his senses slam into sharp focus.

He wasn't sure what it was that attracted his attention since the man seemed unremarkable. He carried no weapons that Conrart could see and seemed clumsy as he walked, unable to keep a straight line. As Conrart steadily drew nearer to this enigma, he flipped up the lid covering his sword. Every nerve was tingling with battle-honed instinct; it had never led him wrong. For a moment, their eyes met and something flickered as a connection was made and broken. Time slowed until their bodies touched with the barest rubbing of their sleeves, and then time resumed it's measured pace and a murmured 'sorry' was uttered as the man continued on his way.

For long moments, Conrart strained to listen to the footsteps behind him, wondering if this strange man would come after him or leave him be. There had been calculation in those eyes and speculation in his voice, a mirror image of Conrart's own. As the long minutes passed and Conrart's feet carried him further away from that chance encounter, he finally loosened his grip on his sword although his muscles were still tightly wound. He would not be able to let his guard down until he reached his destination. He was sure of that. There was still potential for an ambush, but faintly, in the back of his thoughts, Conrart knew he was not that man's prey tonight. If he had been, he was sure it would have felt more than a brush against his arm.

Because whoever this stranger was, he had not once run into another pedestrian.

***

Conrart gripped his sword container tightly. Probable or not, be didn't believe for a moment that all the people around here by happenstance. The feeling of being watched was too strong, too focused, to be the curiosity of passersby.

As he turned a corner, Conrart saw it - a flash of black, behind him, the top of the shoulder-high wall, too well-concealed to be coincidence. He was being followed.

Conrart increased the length of his stride, covering more ground without increasing his pace, and flipped his sword container open beneath his lapel. The sidestreet was less crowded, and there was an alley on the right fifty paces ahead. Another movement behind him, just at the corner, lower this time. If he could make it to the alley, he could avoid involving innocent people.

Thirty paces to go. He could have his sword drawn and ready within one second once he was out of sight. Would the attack come from above, or below? He would have to guess, and rely on reflex to correct him. Twenty paces now, and a slight noise behind him -- a booted footstep? Difficult to tell, muffled as it was, but it told Conrart that whoever it was was good at concealing his presence; Conrart's boots slapped along the pavement, loud enough to nearly echo across the buildings on either side of him.

Fifteen paces. Conrart breathed long and slow, keeping his pace even and measured. Ten paces. Five. Behind him, only silence. High or low?

He turned the corner into the alley, not chancing a glance over his shoulder. As soon as he was behind the wall, Conrart spun, drawing his sword and swinging low. He stopped at the sound of crumpling papers - before the point of his sword stood a black cat with a red collar, frozen in place. A moment passed, the cat staring with wide eyes up the length of Conrart's blade. He blinked, finally, and the cat sprung away, oddly silent.

The cat leapt away, and Conrart lost sight of it as he sighed in at his hypersensitivity. When he had walked the streets last he had sensed the danger, and now he sensed it everywhere.

He’d better get the groceries and return, or Jennifer would –

The attack was utterly silent, Conrart saved himself only because the air behind him moved. He ducked, rolling away as a blade flashed where his neck had been. A flutter of black was all he saw of his attacker as he spun, balancing on one knee and the ball of his foot, sword held before him.

Nothing was there.

***

Conrart stumbled towards the door and tripped over the futon he had laid out in preparation for bed. He had his shirt half off when the knock came and the unexpected sound at a little past 3am knocked him for a loop. Taking a calming breath and smoothing his shirt back into place, Conrart opened his apartment door.

He stared at the person in front of him before instinct took over and Conrart shifted backwards, his bare feet sliding against the wood flooring as he balanced himself on the balls of his feet. He mentally cursed himself for being so jolted out of routine that he hadn't thought to check the eye hole in the door.

"What can I do for you?" Conrart asked after the man in the door continued to stand on the apartment landing, looking at him.

The man blinked in almost disappointment and thrust a measuring cup at Conrart. "I'm Li, your neighbor," he said softly, pointing to the left down the landing. "A cat somehow got inside my room and decided he liked my rice. I was hoping you'd have some to spare until the market opens tomorrow?"

Conrart hesitated before accepting the cup. Why was he here, at his door and his neighbor as well? He didn't want to turn his back on his evening visitor, but he couldn't stand there forever either. Slowly, Conrart reached forward and grasped the cup in one hand, brushing up against Li's lean fingers. In that brief contact, Conrart could feel the strength in Li's callused hand.

He shivered with anticipation and a small measure of fear. Conrart felt exhilarated; he hadn't felt this alive since that night nearly a week ago when he first arrived on Earth from Shin Makoku and the same man managed to do it twice.

Conrart looked up, locking his gaze with Li's. He felt trapped in the black abyss of an eye that showed no pupil, they were so dark. They yielded nothing, revealed nothing. Their coldness made him yearn to draw closer.

Ice burned just as hot as fire though the heat built up slowly, gradually, overtaking the body in long tedious minutes.

***

He turned toward Li who stood in front of him, stance casual yet precise, wearing the same black that Conrart remembered from their second meeting on the street. There was no mask this time, only an impassive stare and features set in perfect ambivalence.

It was the same face that, last night, had presented a guileless smile and a seemingly innocent request for help from a neighbor, but this person was not Li.

“Did you survive until the market opened,” Conrart began, then added, “Hei?”

The corner of Hei’s mouth twisted into an amused smirk, but then snapped back into place like a bit of rubber set on its natural shape. Hei played Li so well – and Li played Hei just as well. It was impossible to tell which was real and which the disguise. Only his eyes gave any clue, and only when the light shifted just so.

***

Hei’s gaze was invasive, but his eyes were lidded and his stance impassive. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. “I believe a pistol will suit you well.”

Conrart had seen pistols before; Bob’s associates used them. They looked cold and callous, difficult to control. He remembered Yuuri’s whispered warning that guns were something to be wary of.

What criteria Hei had used to attribute this manner of combat to Conrart, he couldn’t guess. Perhaps once he knew more of the weapon.

Hei reached into the folds of his lapel, emerging with a small, black gun cradled against his palm. He flicked his wrist, flipping the weapon around and then tossing it end over end to Conrart.

Conrart released his sword and caught it carefully. Conrart gingerly held the gun, pointing it purposefully toward the ground. It was cold, metal, but lighter than it looked. The grip was rougher than his sword hilt, and flatter. The elongated tip gleamed in the fading sunlight.

This is what he would use to protect Yuuri’s family. It felt wrong to use such a thing, something so violent and impersonal.

***

Conrart smiled bitterly for a brief second before smoothing his face into its placid lines. It was time to test the boundaries of his cage. Conrart stepped into the courtyard of the apartment complex, certain, at least for the moment, that he'd escape unscathed. It was what happened after he left the complex that would determine how much the Syndicate trusted him.

He boldly stepped out and turned the corner, heading for the train station. He was going to have a drink and no one would stop him. He had more than a few hours to waste before six in the morning arrived. He aimed to drink through every one of those hours. It was what he and Yozak had done after battle ended. It was what had gotten them through the long hours until morning when they were still working through the duty roster writing notes of the deceased to their nearest next of kin.

Assuming there was any kin to inform.

After tomorrow, Conrart would have to let Gai know that Ren was no longer among the living. The manner of informing still eluded him. He couldn't risk divulging his ties with the Syndicate. That was a sure way to find himself killed; they knew how he fought now and he wasn't quite good enough to hold his own, yet.

Conrart grimaced at the weight of the gun beneath his arm.

Hei had taught him to never walk around unprotected. It was a folly as sure as suicide. Conrart shoved aside the thought of Hei in his kitchen, only a table between him and a knife as they circled. It was one lesson among many. The tests and training never ended.

Conrart's senses tingled as he walked by one alley out of many. Would Hei jump out of that one? He kept walking, his eyes darting ahead to the next, his periphery vision straining to tell if Hei was tracking him from the rooftops.

He was out here somewhere…

***

Someone slipped into the alley behind as Conrart had turned, he was certain of it. Was it Hei, or Hwang? There wasn’t much water around, by design, and the figure was too large to be Mao.

Whoever it was, Conrart found himself irritated. He would return when he chose, and not before. He had blindly cooperated with everything the Syndicate had asked of him until now, and now he had done something that was no less than a betrayal of his promise to Yuuri.

Conrart was taken aback at his next thought: he had thought better of Hei.

He wasn’t sure why he thought that. He hadn’t known anything of the man who suddenly drew his attention on the street, nor of the masked assassin who struck with deadly speed and deadlier skill. He still knew nothing of Hei, he reminded himself. Hei was a Contractor, a liar. Hei was nothing but a code name, a skin he wore to accomplish his mission, whatever that was.

Hei owed Conrart nothing. The incident with Ren was a cruel reminder of that.

Still, there was no denying that Conrart had sensed, or had wanted to sense, an implicit honor in Hei. Having not come across someone who was his equal in combat, let alone his better, for so many decades had, perhaps, created an ideal in his mind, something akin to the near-worship he felt for his father. For anyone who could beat him would, surely, be an honorable man.

Conrart grunted and shoved his hands into his pockets as he resumed walking, gripping his Balisong blade in his pocket. That image should be gone now. Hei had proved his true intentions.

***

Comments are absolute love and will only encourage us!

PS: If you like te pairing and my fabulous icon up there, hop on over to lenainverse and check out my layout! ^^

[One-shot] Full of Grace

Sat, 20 Sep 2008 03:16:05 GMT

With apologies to all Catholics. Not only did I dirty up your Holy Traditions a whole damn lot, I'm sure I messed them up in some way, too. You should forgive me because I'm a Jew and I don't know any better. XD

Title: Full of Grace
Fandom: Trinity Blood
Characters/Pairing: Brother Petro Orcini/Pope Alessandro XVIII
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sacrilege of various Catholic traditions (Communion Rites, crucifix, chrism, various prayers [and prayer in general], the altar at St. John Lateran), religion!kink, mild blasphemy, rather dark implications, seriously heavy on the metaphors
Word Count: approximately 4,000
Notes: Prompt by neocloud9: needy Alessandro, conflicted Petro; guilt; protector/protected dynamic; accidental seduction; Petro kissing Alec's freckles (<--demanding! :P)

Vocabulary lesson:
Cathedra: the Papal throne
Confessio: area near the altar where relics are displayed
Archibasilica Sanctissimi Salvatoris: Official name for St. John Lateran ("Archbasilica of the Most Holy Saviour")
Façade: Outer entrance to the basilica
Nave: Main corridor leading to the altar
Consecrated host: the wafers and wine that represent the body and blood of Christ in the Communion Rite
Chrism: Myrrh, or consecrated oil. Kept in a container called the chrismatory
Pyx: a container that holds communion wafers. (Usually kept in a tabernacle cabinet but for ease of access I'm not messing with that. ^^)
Hoc est enim Corpus meum, quod pro vobis tradetur from a Latin Eucharistic Prayer, meaning "this is my body which will be given up for you."

***

“The Divine is a wine that would intoxicate you. The nectar that the Name of the Lord is saturated in produces it. Taste it and you forget everything else; you are transformed.” -- Atharva Veda

***

Long before he was given his title, prayers were like breathing to Alessandro; habitual and vital, done without thought but necessary to continue living. He prayed at sunup, over meals and lessons, when he was frightened, or nervous, or when Francesco yelled at him, before he slept. He prayed for peace and for the lives of the Vatican's trusted men, he prayed for his family and the worshipers he passed in St. Peter's Square. Every hour there was some confession or humble request or thanks to offer.

But unless he was in services, Alessandro spoke to God with his heart alone. His father had said that prayers spoken aloud should be offered at times when they were most needed - and he was queasy at the idea of others hearing his private fears. Either was enough to keep Alessandro's personal worship silent.

Alessandro much preferred to listen to others' offerings, and nowhere was prayer more vocal than in St. John Lateran's Basilica. Listening to his father's Mass and the congregation's voices raised in echoing praise, Alessandro's fears were unable to withstand what the sacred invocations lit within him. Here prayer was music: pure, enlivening, touching the heart as words alone could not. In the House of God, his father once said, everyone speaks with the voice of an angel.

The Archbasilica that belonged to the Papacy had fallen silent in recent times. At Alessandro's brother's insistence the former Mother Church was for matters of State only, so the reasons to seek refuge other than St. Peter's became few. And yet each day at dusk, long after he had descended the cathedra, Alessandro watched as Brother Petro walked into the Basilica of St. John Lateran alone, his head bowed with matters weightier than business of the Inquisition.

Alessandro would watch, the sun sinking below the skyline of Rome, speaking to himself of curiosity as if enough words could bury the truth. It was something else that brought him here: memories of strong arms and kind eyes. The man who had taken lives for him, and spared one. The man who saved him, and who he wanted to save.

So many evenings he wished to follow. If Brother Petro's solitude was a penance then Alessandro wished to ease his burden. Even he could make music here - he had no voice on the cathedra, but at the altar he found a little. It had been months since he had given Mass, the duties and threats of wartime taking precedence over luxuries, and any solace once found in giving the word of the Father had long been a fading whisper. But Alessandro remembered strength, now. Since those arms had carried him, secure and gentle, he found himself longing for it.

It was seeking strength rather than for the presence of it that Alessandro was finally able to enter the Basilica. He shriveled beneath the knowing eyes of marble sculptures that stood proud and tall atop the façade.

The east end of the nave was shadowed as he entered, and Alessandro swallowed though his mouth was dry. He stepped lightly, slippers gliding along the marble floor as he focused on the swirl and diamond patterns there that had entranced him when his father used to preach from the High Altar.

A low murmuring rose from the darkness and a shock of cold air jumped up Alessandro's spine, freezing him halfway to the confessio. He waited two breaths, three, his eyes falling shut as he prayed for the will to proceed. The sound of Brother Petro's low voice rumbled across the nave and Alessandro opened his eyes and moved, the darkness parting as he approached the High Altar.

Brother Petro knelt before it, hands clasped. His Screamer rested beyond the confessio in a world separated from the altar by more than an expanse of floor.

"...blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God -"

What cause Brother Petro could have for saying the Hail Mary was a thought left unformed when Brother Petro paused, turning, enough for a wave of light to flash across his hair but not to reveal his face. Alessandro clutched the folds of his robes and forced his legs to move. His fears would not rest, but as Brother Petro spoke again, somehow, they calmed.

"Pray for us sinners," Alessandro heard above his pounding heart, "now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

It was frightening to approach someone in this way, but less so because Brother Petro's words were soft and peaceful, flowing like ripples in a pond over Alessandro's throat, his chest, his knees. He moved only by his want to give whatever forgiveness Petro sought all these nights.

Alessandro came to stand behind Petro, and once he felt safe enough - a moment and a deep breath later - beside him.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," Brother Petro began.

Alessandro jolted, but the prayer floated over him and his lips began to move with it, his silent cadence slowing to match Petro's. "The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners -"

Something in Petro's voice twinged and then his words were lost.

After a long moment, Alessandro continued, his voice shrinking with each syllable, "...now and at the hour of our death. Amen," the final word no more than a whispered breath. He looked to Petro who bowed over his hands, his hair a thick curtain around his face.

Without thinking Alessandro looked to the crucifix and made the sign of the cross as he named the Holy Trinity, his eyes focusing on the Lord's image atop the altar and away from the cathedra in the shadows behind. Beside the crucifix, the silver-gilt chrismatory gleamed in what scant light filtered through high windows, just the same as the day his father had anointed his palms and ordained him as one of God's messengers. Opposite it sat a pyx of equal majesty, golden guilding commissioned by Pope Gregory XIX as the most proper vessel, given earthly restraints, to hold the consecrated host.

Petro was still, silent, waiting. This altar, Alessandro's home and that of so many Servants of God before him, would not let him see another in pain.

In a rush, Alessandro spoke again, not aware of what he would say. "M-my First Communion was at this altar," he said, lips moving faster than his mind could follow. "My father...he refused to perform rites anywhere but here. Only in the Archibasilica Sanctissimi Salvatoris." The official name rolled of Alessandro's tongue without stumbling, but a rush of warmth rose on his cheeks as he realized how intimate the words sounded as they echoed off the vaulted ceiling and rolled out into the night.

His eyes slid to where Brother Petro knelt. "I - I wish..." Alessandro began, his words tumbling forth. "I haven't - Communion Rites are given by Cardinals now...I miss it."

Alessandro's eyes snapped to the pyx that held the consecrated host. Then, before he could think: "Would you like to take Communion tonight, Brother Petro?"

Petro's hair tumbled over his shoulders as his chin jerked up. Alessandro waited, his heart in his throat and his fingers entwined in a fumbling dance. He had overstepped his bounds, perhaps. Brother Petro was entitled to be alone with his prayer, whatever his reason, if that was his wish.

The silence stretched on, falling around them but unable to fill the space between. Alessandro turned away, his eyes and cheeks burning with his failure as he took his first step back down the nave.

"Please," Petro said, his voice cutting through the darkness and straight through Alessandro. "Your Holiness, I...am honored."

Alessandro's face heated further. He would never be accustomed to such references, and yet they were constantly on the tongues of all who addressed him. To have Petro say such things, to give praise that should have been his own...

Still, Petro was willing. Despite Alessandro's unforgivable forwardness - pride is the ugliest of sins, his father said - Petro would grant him this favor.

Turning toward the shadows to hide his flush, Alessandro stepped across the confessio to the High Altar where the sacraments sat waiting. Petro's gaze was on his back, unbearably hot, but Alessando forced his shaking fingers to open the pyx. He began the Lord's Prayer and let the words shroud him like a thick blanket. He was most of the way through before he realized it, the prayer streaming past his lips without thought.

Alessandro pinched one thin wafer between two fingers and spoke, his voice rumbling through the nave, "as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not to temptation, but deliver us from evil."

"Amen," said Petro, directly behind.

The wafer slid into Alessandro's palm. Petro's voice was so strong, just as he remembered. How he wished to hear it again. Here in the Archbasilica, in the dark, he could hear it properly.

He turned to find Petro standing before him, impossibly closer now, two steps below Alessandro but still towering over him and the altar and everything.

"D-deliver us, Lord, from every evil, and grant us peace in our day," Alessandro said, barely hearing himself. Even without his armor, Petro was just as imposing, just as solid.

Petro's sleeves rustled as his hands clasped low on his belly. "For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours," he shifted again, his weight seeming unable to find proper balance, "now and forever."

The wafer was skin-warm now, on the verge of dissolving. Alessandro raised it between them, distantly aware of his abbreviation of the Rite. Petro did not raise his head, made no movement at all but for the flickering of light in his hair, the crucifix pendant at his throat.

Alessandro swallowed his rising worry. Petro wanted to receive Communion, he had said. To stop now...

The answer was chosen before Alessandro could think it, his free hand rising beneath Petro's chin, new courage filling him. His calling was to serve those in pain. Brother Petro had saved him, and he could do no less. His hand cupped Petro's chin and guided him to face the light.

Petro's eyes followed by increments far smaller, lingering just a bit longer in the darkness. His mouth parted, so Alessandro slid the wafer past Petro's lips to place it on his tongue.

There was a flash, barely there before it was gone, and Alessandro's eyes snapped up. He couldn't held back his gasp as dark eyes settled directly on his and his finger was enclosed between soft lips.

The hand beneath Petro's chin dropped as if burned - perhaps it was - and his other...

Finish it. He had to finish it.

"This is the Lamb of God," Alessandro said, his voice a ghost in the swirling darkness of the nave and of Petro's eyes, "who takes away the sin of the world." He pulled his shaking fingers away even as the tip of Petro's tongue grazed them. He slowly pulled them free, his skin and Petro's separating with a tiny wet sound. The warmth and the sound spread across his skin, cajoling his mind into a pleasant lull.

Petro rose a step, blocking what light there was. "I am not worthy to receive you," - he took another step up, disappearing the distance between them - "but only say the word," - and another, and the cool air turned stifling - "and I shall be healed."

The altar at his back kept him upright, but it was Petro's eyes that kept Alessandro still. Petro moved again, so close and impossibly huge, his breath heavy on Alessandro's face. Petro stopped mere inches away, his eyes never faltering.

Finish it. He didn't know how, but Alessandro would not allow the ritual to be left incomplete. His face prickled under the scrutiny and he barely moved, needing to be released but held in place by pillars before him and behind. Petro's skin was white where the light touched it and black where the shadows pooled, but neither would relinquish his eyes to the other. Alessandro brought his lips to Petro's cheek, his own shadow joining with the rest as he brushed his lips against warm skin in a sad imitation of his father's grace.

When he pulled back, Alessandro found himself even closer to Petro; the space between them insignificant within the endless space of the nave. Petro's lips parted and he released a breath that seemed to pain him. There was tension in Petro's shoulders, Alessandro could see it and feel it all around him.

"May the Lord be with you," Alessandro whispered, the words automatic yet foreign.

Petro's breath hitched around his words: "and also with you." He leaned forward to brush their lips together, his next breath held until they could share it, and released accompanying a noise that Alessandro felt more than he heard.

It was the noise more than the act that made Alessandro react, his lips parting around it, accepting it, welcoming it. Whatever Petro wished to share with him, he would receive. Petro didn't move, his lips and breath quivering against Alessandro, his big hands at his sides. Alessandro's head swam with Petro's warmth and the size of him and the musty smell of him and before he could fall he reached out, steadying himself on Petro's shoulders and half-falling anyway.

Another noise rose, louder this time, from Petro's throat but Alessandro barely had time to notice and to wonder before Petro's arms reached around him and pulled him close, Petro's lips parting and moving fast and hard over his. Pressed against Petro's body and lips, not daring to breathe, Alessandro was strangely thankful for the spark that shot through him. It was a prayer in movement rather than words, but magic all the same.

It seemed to be ending just as it was beginning as Petro hesitated, tensed, pulled back. Alessandro was already mourning the loss but then Petro moved, his hands clenching in Alessandro's robes and again pulling him close, his movements feverish and almost oppressive in their intensity. Alessandro shook with the burden of it, only able to hold back his fears when Petro's arms held him gently, reminding him why he need fear nothing when they were together, and maybe ever again. Then Petro's mouth was moving, pushing, igniting a disgraceful heat between them. Alessandro was forced back as Petro moved forward, and when they moved just right Alessandro could feel Petro pressed against him. His body was rife with their sin, and Alessandro should have been sickened.

Petro's tongue swiped over Alessandro's lip and dipped into his mouth, a tinge from the consecrated host still lingering. The sacrilege felt less so because Petro's tongue slid along his and he was so strong and so gentle, always. Alessandro made a little sound, the beginning of a prayer that was born before it was whole, and Petro's lips only curled around it, accepting Alessandro's heart even before he realized he had offered it.

The rounded rim of the altar on Alessandro's spine made him stop moving, but then he was lifted by strong arms and for a second he hovered in the air, Heaven above him and Hell below, closer to either than he had ever been. The next moment and there was solidness beneath him, the altar cold against his thighs, and then warmth was all around as Petro loomed over him, face against Alessandro's neck, each breath humid and sticky on his skin. Petro's hands were soft on his knees, but Alessandro felt commanded, compelled, to do as they wished. He parted his knees and then Petro was against him, frantic whispers for forgiveness a constant stream from his lips.

One of them was shaking, it was impossible to tell who; Petro's heart pounded against Alessandro's chest and his fingers rustled Alessandro's robes, pulling the hem upwards in a slow, tickling dance of cloth and fingers. Alessandro's skin tingled just before Petro touched it, and just after.

Petro's hand moved, barely able to fit in the small space between them to tug open Alessandro's robes, his movements harried. Alessandro's face burned with his flush and he could only bury his nose in Petro's hair and tell him how shameful it was.

Petro didn't answer, Alessandro knew he couldn't, but his movements slowed, fingers and lips painting patterns of warmth on skin he had laid bare to the cold darkness around them. Teetering on the edge of a precipice, Alessandro could feel the disapproval of Saints and Apostles staring from stained glass with eyes that always looked so real, of his father's soul that had lied in state before this very altar, and even their harsh, freezing judgment couldn't pull him back. Against Alessandro's chest, Petro's lips moved and he could feel the words - please, please - and then Alessandro couldn't think of his shame, only of his sinful need.

Petro lowered his head, his tongue laving across Alessandro's stomach. "Hoc est enim Corpus meum," his voice was a fading whisper in the air, "quod pro vobis tradetur." Alessandro shuddered. Petro's breath washed over his body, using sacred words to offer himself in the most unholy of ways.

Petro's lips never stopped as one hand fumbled with the chrismatory, the other wrapping Alessandro's waist to keep him steady. There was a clatter as the chrismatory overturned; Alessandro didn't even flinch. His painful flush spread down his body and he planted his palm against the cool marble of the altar; his fingers brushed the smooth wood of the crucifix, as if unerringly drawn to it. His hand closed around it, the corners crisp and hard against his palm, a bit of solidness among drifting thoughts that couldn't focus.

The scent of the oil clinged to the air and Alessandro couldn't help but inhale it in great gulping breaths until his chest was bursting. Little sounds came from Petro's throat and his arm tightened around Alessandro's waist, pulling him to the edge of the altar and enveloping Alessandro in the heat of his mouth at the same instant his finger - cool, slick - pressed inside him. The chrism was chilled from the air but it burned from the inside, stronger even than when it sanctified Alessandro's hands and forehead another lifetime ago.

Alessandro pitched backward, one hand wrapping itself in Petro's robes as his back laid against the altar. It felt dirty and he said so, but his words were buried beneath a flood of sounds, bold and desperate and wanting, that he did not make by choice. Petro's tongue curled and stroked and his finger moved with it and Alessandro's back arched in shameless depravity.

There was nothing he could do anymore, nothing he wanted to do as Petro released him and then loomed over him, kissed his open mouth in near-reverence. Petro's finger slipped away and Alessandro could feel himself, left empty and longing, seeking it. Petro groaned into Alessandro's mouth, nearly pained, and then his finger was replaced and he was pushing forward, his hands gripping Alessandro's hips with sticky palms - hard but not painful, never that.

Petro was steady, always, and focused even now, moving gently even as Alessandro cried out, cupping Alessandro's cheek as he tossed his head. He didn't stop, though, he whispered that he couldn't and please, to forgive him - please. Forgiveness was given even before Petro asked but Alessandro pulled him closer, the soft velour of Petro's robes brushing Alessandro's naked chest. Petro's lips found Alessandro's neck and nestled there, his body stilling for one beat before moving again, faster and smoother.

One moment Alessandro was shattering and the next he was whole again; each time Petro moved he could feel something pull. Heat thrummed all over his body but then gathered, concentrating in a single spot that coiled tighter each time they came together.

Alessandro squeezed the crucifix and the bunched folds of Petro's robe. It all converged at once - one bright, dizzying, wonderful second. Petro sobbed into his neck and it sounded - dear God, it sounded like music - something warm and radiant and Divine washed over his body as he was pulled asunder.

It was gone as quickly as it had come and Alessandro felt his soul falling, falling, unable to hold on. A cry forced its way out his raw throat as the flaring heat in his body turned cold. Then, there was only silence.

Alessandro's cheeks were damp, tears dripping from his chin and into Petro's hair, reflections on the tiny droplets now only light in the near-perfect darkness. Petro stirred, lifted his head, and Alessandro could feel every movement. Petro's eyes shone too, for one moment, but then they fell shut. He leaned forward to press his lips against Alessandro's cheeks in turn, a spot of warmth in the cooling tracks of his tears - evidence of their sin, all of it, but Alessandro couldn't remember, or couldn't bring himself, to pray for forgiveness.

Petro's forehead came to rest against Alessandro's, Petro's still-closed eyes twitching as he trembled against him. Alessandro could feel the warmth falling away, ephemeral wisps that would slip through his fingers if he tried to hold them.

"Bless me, Father," Petro said, his strong voice now a whisper, "for I have sinned." Petro paused, his panting breaths slowing, and said the same again. And again.

On the fifth recitation Alessandro joined him, their confession echoing into the nave and coming back to them as the murmured wish of a hundred souls speaking in turns. They spoke the incomplete Rite again and again, until the words were a drone without meaning, until the hum of it pretended to fill Alessandro's hollow husk of a body. His fist curled open, releasing the crucifix. It bounced, just twice, before clattering to rest; the sound was barely heard over Petro's heavy breaths and Alessandro's pounding heart.

Within this nave, as with the space inside him that had once been filled with the blessed presence of God, Alessandro could no longer feel anything.

What a cruel judgment it was to allow the merest glimpse, a tantalizing taste of what he could never have again. Sadder still, now knowing the truth of what he had forsaken and left with nothing but his weakness, all Alessandro could do was pray.

***

I'm not thrilled with the prose but I do like all the blasphemy! I hope you like it, dear. ^^

[One-shot] Lure

Sun, 03 Aug 2008 12:29:21 GMT

I managed to get all three of my OTPs in here in one way or another, with dark smut to boot. Boo-yah! It’s been awhile since I did a quote, too, so here ya go. ^.^

You know I had fun writing it when the warnings are a full paragraph long. *g*

Title: Lure
Fandom: Slayers
Characters/Pairing: Xellos/Zelgadis, heavily implied Xellos/Lina (consent dubious or nonexistent), heavily implied Zelgadis/Lina (at least one-sided/fantasy, level of consent up for interpretation)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dark themes, sexual acts, sadism on both parts, nonconsensual sex and sex of dubious consent (implied and explicit), masochism, control and power kink, implied violence and minor bloodplay, manipulation/threat kink, sensory deprivation (via Zelgadis’s condition but played way up), significant amount of swearing, voyeurism via fantasy (?), Zelgadis getting off on Xellos’s white gloves (is there a name for this?)
Word Count: ~800
Notes: Concrit is most appreciated and welcome.

The air was cold around him, or at least Zelgadis imagined it so; in the years, nearly a decade, it had been since he felt the chill as he used to his mind began to fill in the blanks. His palms scraped against the rough bark of the tree to his back, stone and wood scratching in his ears. He should just leave.

Xellos sat in front of him on a fallen tree trunk conspicuously laid just out of arm’s reach, his legs crossed primly and one gloved finger perched on his chin. He smiled, slow and satisfied and damn frightening.

Walk away. Xellos wouldn’t stop him, or so he claimed. Not that Zelgadis trusted the bastard.

It was the smile that was worst, cool and amused and the same whether tearing a gash in Zelgadis’s chest – he took his gloves off for that part, vain bastard - or on his knees in the dirt, sucking Zelgadis off. Zelgadis glared at the ground, because only a freak would get off on both.

Xellos’s head tilted, the blunt fringe of his hair falling against his jaw. “Impatient, are we?”

Fuck you, Zelgadis thought, and of course that only made Xellos’s grin wider. He cracked his eyes, giving Zelgadis that look that made him so worthy of being choked to death for being so smug and for making Zelgadis harder than he’d been in his life.

Always, when Zelgadis was maybe able to stop looking over his shoulder, just when he let himself think it, Xellos would come. His wagging finger and smirk were fitting for any merchant sleaze ball and he butted in everywhere he didn’t belong, his gloved fingers trailing along Lina’s shoulder as he met Zelgadis’s glare over the crown of her head.

It would have been so sweet to march over there and punch Xellos right in that smarmy fucking face. But instead he waited until everyone was long asleep and came out here, far enough from camp to not be heard if - when -

“It would be so easy,” Xellos said, his finger unfurling and slinking up his jaw.

Zelgadis snarled at the implication. As if he would ever consent to whatever twisted whim Xellos was hinting at. He wouldn’t.

But he couldn’t seem to move, either. Because it was Xellos, fucking Xellos, who could make him feel anything, with those blinding white gloves and his inhuman gaze and, sometimes, without even touching him.

Xellos pinched the hem of his glove on the inside of his wrist and pulled as his fingers curled and flexed. One day Zelgadis would rip those gloves apart, stitch by slow fucking stitch.

Xellos rose and took half a shuffling step forward, fingers curling around his staff and his Mazoku eyes now half-open, and even that was almost enough. Zelgadis arched and grit his teeth - no, not this time - he sagged with relief even as his cock pressed against his trousers. He almost wished he had let go.

Closer, damn it, just enough for one good punch. He’d long since given up on focusing for a spell. Hitting him would be so much more satisfying.

Xellos paused, his head falling back. “Ah, exquisite.” He righted himself, but not enough to not look down his nose at Zelgadis, never that much.

“Such sounds,” he said. “Almost as sweet as hers.”

Zelgadis choked on his breath, his nails biting through his gloves and into his palms. “Liar.”

He didn’t even need to see Xellos’s calm smile to know that he wasn’t lying. Still, Xellos reached into a pocket, his fingers emerging with a bit of cloth hanging from them; a rumpled handkerchief, smeared with red.

Zelgadis’s cock twitched at the smell of her blood, the thought of white-gloved fingers through the waves of long red hair. Bruises in the shape of Xellos’s hands or his teeth that she must have healed herself.

“She almost cried your name once.” Xellos folded the handkerchief and tucked it away, then reached out with fingers that smelled like her. “At least, I think it was. Coherency had long failed by then, I’m afraid.”

Xellos’ hand moved in a blur and then he was gripping Zelgadis’s jaw, thumb pushing almost hard enough to break his teeth. Zelgadis opened his jaw just enough and then bit down, fangs sinking into the tip, hoping to ruin those pristine fucking gloves. Xellos didn’t bleed though, or react but to open his eyes and then Zelgadis could taste her, musk and salt on the back of his tongue. Xellos didn’t let him look away and in the end he came to slit pupils and lips pulled tight over sharp teeth.

Zeldagis’s chin was released and he pitched forward, the instinct to puke outmatched only by the thought that if he did, his breathless threat to slice Xellos open and feed him his own entrails would be far less convincing.

Shit. Never again. He would never fucking let this happen again.

Xellos straightened his glove and turned away. “So easy.”

***

“It is a man's own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways.” ~Budda

[One-shot] Downfallen (Birthday gift)

Wed, 30 Jul 2008 11:45:13 GMT

Happy Birthday parsnip_chan! I wrote an AU of a scene from our crossover AU just because some Hei/Conrart smut needs to be finished, damn it! There's also stir-fry, pre-coital this time. ~_^ ~~And yes, I must entitle all Hei/Conrart with Howling lyrics. It's the law!~~ And okay, I have a bit of a complex about Conrart in black. Sue me. :P

This is totally NOT a pimp for my ultimate crossover OTP, I don't know what you're talking about. >.>

Title: Downfallen
Fandom: KKM/Darker than BLACK crossover
Characters/Pairing: Hei/Conrart; read into each canon as you will
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexual acts, mild violence, mild knifeplay and bloodplay, warped intimacy, dancing around a Master/Slave kink
Word Count: ~2,200
Notes: For anyone not familiar with DtB: 'Li' is Hei's alias, and Hei is able to jolt people with electricity.

Hei trading his black trench coat for a loose white shirt, half-buttoned, and his holstered weapon for a hidden one does nothing to hide his nature. Li, Hei calls himself when he's like this, when his steps ring out and his gaze is flat, but he is still Hei to Conrart. After training together, he will never be anything else.

Conrart will miss Li, but it is Hei who makes him feel this alive.

Water rushes out the kitchen faucet and streams over Hei's hands and the frail sponge he uses to wipe the wok that cooked supper. Conrart ate a bit and gave Hei the rest, even so Conrart feels heavy and off-balance. Hei holds the wok toward Conrart without looking, Conrart takes it and towels it dry without looking away.

The world is slow and mundane during times of training, except when he is being tested or his abilities stretched. But when Conrart stood opposite his father he was fighting for honor and courage rather than subsistence; such 'old ways' of swordplay are stupidly brave here, they too seem slow and mundane, so Conrart was forced to learn a new skill. Shooting was raw and fitful at first; the pistol only settled into Conrart's hand when Hei's soft words had reminded him, in a strange way, of his father's elegance with the blade. Now, he can think of little else. Every second he is away from training Conrart can feel his skills dulling. Like back then, he aches when not at work to perfect them.

Training is never fully over, despite the gentle way Hei's fingers cradle a glass beneath the facuet for rinsing. Conrart has already evaluated their surroundings, classified everything as weapon or cover. Hei's world is monochrome, and mostly black, Conrart finds himself fitting too-well within it. Thank Shinou that Yuuri is back home where his light won't draw unwanted interest.

Conrart's time in Yuuri's service made him comfortable and complacent, he is more vigilant when nothing is as it seems.

Relaxing is impossible even if he wished it, the knot in Conrart's shoulders and Hei's slow movements occupying equal parts of his attention. He accepts the glass from Hei and wipes rivulets of water away. He shifts to accommodate the unfamiliar weight of the gun on his thigh and thinks how quickly he could draw; his movements are slightly restricted by his jeans but his black t-shirt is obliging enough.

Something cold pings on his toe and Conrart glances down, droplets from the glass now sodden spots on his sock and the tile underfoot. He sets the glass aside as Hei's next freshly washed dish appears, a blurry splotch at the edge of his vision. His fingers register the hard wooden handle, but it's not until he brings the towel to it that Conrart recognizes the butcher knife. Rushing water echoes in his ears and he turns - Hei is gone.

Conrart pivots, stocking feet on tile nearly upsetting his balance, the knife clattering to the counter top and the towel fluttering to the floor as he reaches down and grips his gun. White flits on the edge of his vision as he pulls the pistol free, sets a quick stance. He doesn't rush, his eyes locked down the barrel as he scans the room. He turns fifteen degrees, twenty, to the nearest entrance where Hei must have vanished. He sets his hip against the counter, a bruise from this afternoon making itself known. No, wait - to the left, the sitting room around the corner - Conrart spins, his head rushing ahead of his aim and he realizes just in time to curse his error.

A flash, movement in the air, and Hei's knife whips toward him. Conrart's arms snap into place, but the wire wraps his gun and then Hei, unseen, yanks. Conrart tries to bend his elbows to recover but he remembers crackling bolts of energy arching off Hei's skin and lets go. Hei's knife disappears around the corner taking the pistol with it, then barely a second later flies out again. Conrart jumps back and sideways, the counter digging into his back and Hei's knife leaving a shallow slice through his shirt and across his chest. Conrart regains himself as Hei's attack ceases, for now.

Cover - the table? It's central, Hei will see him, but it's wooden and so an advantage. Conrart ducks behind it, bracing his back against a leg and peeking above the tabletop. Hei is nowhere in sight, and Conrart hears nothing but running water. Clever: left blind and deaf, he might have no choice but to let Hei have his way.

Something comes to him, and Conrart reaches onto the tabletop without looking, his sightless groping soon yielding a bowl from supper. He tosses it above him, toward the hanging light fixture, covering his head before a crash signals his success and plunges him into near-darkness.

The knife - on the counter, less than three paces away. Seven more still in the block if he can get ten paces.

Nothing for it, outmatched and weaponless, but to act. Conrart jumps to his feet, staying low but not enough to hinder him, reaching for where the knife must be. Behind him, movement, faint crunching of glass shards. His hand sweeps the counter top, fingers brushing wet wood and curling around it.

He spins and Hei is there, knife now sheathed and holstered, Conrart's pistol in his hand. Conrart's anger flashes and he moves into Hei's attack, catching him before he can reach full momentum. They crash into each other, Conrart's chest stinging as the fabric of Hei's shirt slides against him. Conrart staggers, his back colliding with the rim of the counter, and he is forced to the floor by Hei's weight on his legs.

Conrart grips the knife as he hits the floor, his back slamming against the lower cabinets. He thrusts it into Hei's stomach, stopping a hair shy of cutting, at the same moment that Hei jabs the barrel of Conrart's pistol against his temple. Without hesitation, he squeezes the trigger.

Conrart smirks as the gun clicks harmlessly, and pokes Hei lightly with the tip of the knife. "'Never chamber the first round,'" he quotes.

"Good." Hei lowers the gun but does not rise from his position, his knees on the floor on either side of Conrart's hips. Conrart's chest heaves, and his wound is beginning to drip. Orange-red light streams in through the blinds but Conrart can decipher nothing of Hei's expression. Hei stares for a moment, not rocking back on his heels as he had earlier today. The gun is still in Hei's hand, and Conrart wonders if the heat from his own hand lingers there.

After a moment, Hei's eyes change. His hand moves, covering Conrart's loose fist around the knife handle. Hei's fingers, still wet, slide between Conrart's as he repositions the knife so that the full length of the blade rests against his stomach. "Slicing runs less risk of losing control."

Control is everything, Conrart knew that before he ever held a gun or fought with a switchblade, when all he had was his sword. Control, a mostly-comfortable buffer around him, kept him sane. But now Hei looms over him and his hand is so steady, his eyes so sure, and all Conrart can do is watch.

Hei lowers the knife, pushing Conrart's fist practically into his groin. Conrart inhales, forcing himself to breathe slowly and fearing that Hei sees through him, sees everything.

"Aim below the edge of a vest," Hei says. His eyes dip, then snap forward.

Conrart tightens his grip, tries to smile. "You're not wearing one." He reaches up with his free hand, brushing a fingertip along the hem of Hei's shirt, smeared with Conrart's blood, where it hangs open to reveal his bare chest. It was meant as a joke, but Hei's lips part around a heavy breath and his fingers twitch between Conrart's.

Hei reaches out, pressing two fingers into the gash he left in Conrart's shirt. They emerge with red tips, near-black in the dim light, and under Hei's stern scrutiny. "Confidence and overconfidence are thinly separated," he says, examining his wet fingers.

Conrart pulls his hand free and lowers the knife, he dares neither let go nor hold it against Hei another moment. "Practice and experience can thicken that line." His wrist brushes Hei's knee on the way to the floor. Conrart shifts, now sure that Hei can feel him, his skin burning and his muscles coiled tight and his helpless wanting. His control is somewhere between exquisite and desperate as he waits.

Hei's eyes flicker in what might be a smile, might be a scowl, but he is still. Conrart tenses, his offer clear and his willpower waning, watching as Hei watches him.

Finally, Hei clicks the gun's safety into place and reaches behind him, and Conrart thinks of the cool barrel against Hei's spine, sliding into place between belt and skin. Hei's stomach pulls taut to accommodate it, his hips rock and for half an instant he and Conrart are nearly touching. Conrart's head falls back against the cabinet and he imagines how warm the gun will be when he holds it next.

Hei reaches out with the same two bloodied fingers, finding Conrart's wound again and pushing across the length of it. Conrart's hiss covers his moan, but not well enough - Hei presses down; the spike of pain, or the touch itself, makes Conrart's back arch. The metallic sound of Hei drawing his blade with his other hand snaps Conrart to attention, there is a trickle of fear and he clenches a fist around the knife, presses his other palm flat against the cold floor. He can't breathe as the tip of Hei's split blade settles on his torn shirt.

"Practice, is it?" Hei says, and starts to cut.

The ripping fabric is impossibly loud against the backdrop of rushing water. Conrart's skin is left untouched as Hei holds the fabric taut and cuts through in short, angled slices with jerky stops. Each cut makes Conrart's pulse throb throughout his body and by the last, he is so wanting for anything that he wishes for the cool touch of Hei's blade.

Hei lifts his knife, but only just. He looks again at his free hand, blood now smudged on his fingertips and trickling down his palm, and then touches his fingers to his tongue. Being faintly repulsed does nothing to ease the ache in Conrart's groin.

Conrart holds his breath as Hei finds the button on his jeans, sullying the fabric with blood and saliva. Hei slides the button loose, every movement deliberate and precise, his impassivity both frustrating Conrart and enticing him. Conrart's eyes flick to Hei's crotch - he is halfway through reprimanding his shamelessness when he sees that Hei's perfect composure is not synonymous with disinterest.

Hei lowers the zipper, pauses, one finger maddening on the hem of Conrart's boxers. "Stop me," he says, and then slips his hand inside.

The words barely register beneath the sensation of Hei's sticky palm sliding against him, hot and slow and perfect. Conrart tenses as Hei withdrawals, pulling his thumb up the underside of Conrart's cock. Hei grips him and strokes once, long and slow, repeats: "stop me."

Training is never over. Conrart hovers between compliance and begging, little sounds escaping from his throat. Hei's hand works its way down, just tight enough, and Conrart is so weak that he doesn't want to move but he has to, he needs to. His arms twitch with urgency and his hips rock up into Hei's hand, he needs to come and he needs to fight and please, please...

Conrart groans, half by instinct and half design, Hei grasps him harder and he nearly can't follow through. The knife feels like lead in his hand but it moves, and so he concentrates on Hei's throat and strikes: sudden, fierce, unable to think beyond that.

Hei moves, his hand a blur as he catches Conrart's knife between the blades of his own, twists, holds it fast. The knives fly at Conrart's face and he squeezes his eyes shut, feels a jolt and then he is spilling into Hei's hand.

Conrart gasps for breath, opening his eyes as Hei pulls his knife from where it cleaved through the cabinet door, next to Conrart's ear. He has lost, Conrart realizes as the butcher knife clatters to the floor. His already painful skin heats with shame.

Hei's mouth twitches - almost a smirk this time - and he stands and spins his blade into the holstered sheath. Conrart is unable to look away from the bulging front of his jeans.

Hei still has Conrart's gun stuffed down the back of his pants as he soaps his hands and then resumes his dishwashing, and Conrart understands: Take it back.

***

I hope you liked it, darling~! Happy Birthday, and I hope this is an okay substitute for your real gift, for now! &hearts

[Ficlets] KKM, Darker than BLACK, Chrno Crusade, Full Metal Panic, Yami no Matsuei

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 02:00:38 GMT

Some snippets I did as requests back in January, lost in the depths of my (regular) LJ, and just now found again. I'm terrible with losing fics. >_<

bodyline’s request,
KKM, Murata/Wolfram (and Murata/Yuuri), prompt: the other side of sorrow, PG

There was only ever one thing that Murata wanted for himself, across all his lifetimes and experiences. When he finally got it, he could only think that his request should have been a bit more specific.

Murata could never help but stare when Wolfram tossed his head just so. He lagged back a measured distance so Wolfram wouldn’t hear his soft chuckling; not that Wolfram could hear much over his increasingly vehement protests. Wolfram was, in some ways, exactly true to the adjectives Murata could rattle off – proud, stubborn, passionate – but the differences were…notable. Wolfram snarled at Yuuri again, and Murata couldn’t help his wry smile. ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ indeed.

Yuuri laid a tentative hand on Wolfram’s shoulder; the bite of Wolfram’s tone long ago ceased to rattle him. Then Yuuri was smiling, apologizing and forgiving at once, and Murata remembered that for every wish never granted, there is a gift more perfect than one could ever imagine dreaming of.

~*~*~*~*~*~

sp_kathrine’s request,
Chrno Crusade, Aion/Joshua, prompt: Angst, Delusions, Sexual Innuendo/Not-So-Innuendo, Aion's "care" for Joshua during the years he waits for Rosette, R, Warning: religious overtones, bloodplay, and allusions to incest.

It was usually dawn when he thought of her. It was amusing; Joshua’s sister reminded Aion of midnight. No matter how golden her hair, how holy she proclaimed her calling, in the end Rosette Christopher would kneel before only him.

In his sister, Joshua would never find what he sought. It was his skin that glowed as morning’s first light glinted off the crucifix he wore, his near-silent groan that broke the stillness of night, lips rosy and wet around the tip of Aion’s finger as he imagined that it belonged to her. It was he who was the dawn.

~*~*~*~*~*~

parsnip_chan’s request,
Full Metal Panic, Sousuke/Chidori, prompt: When all is said and done, life still goes on, PG-13

Through the windows of Kaname’s apartment, lights were always blazing. Going back to just living had been harder than Kaname expected. Curtains still fluttered just on the edge of her vision and voices still murmured around her; neither was easily pushed aside as mere post-traumatic paranoia. Her eyes would sweep the room, considering whether she could sense an unwelcome set of eyes – and then a sigh and a shake of her head as she spied no welcome ones, either. She stepped deliberately regardless, grabbing a clean towel and heading into the shower, hair swaying around her hips. Kaname peeled one strap of her chemise down a tanned shoulder before she shut the door behind her.

Soon, the bathroom door opened and Kaname stepped out, towel wrapped too-securely around her, steam billowing past her and into the cold air of her living room. She glanced toward the balcony, eyes narrowed in forced anger, before shaking her head and murmuring a reminder to herself that there was no way that he would still be around every corner.

Crouched in the shadows on the balcony, Kurtz muffled his laughter with a cupped hand. Sousuke had no idea what he was missing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

honeycorrupts’s request:
Darker than BLACK/KKM, Hei/Conrart, prompt: scratching in public, PG-13

Conrart wove through the crowd, the dim light giving him a bit of trouble following the head of black hair a few paces ahead. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing only more strangers before quickly turned to the front again. Leaving their backs exposed was necessary, or Hei would never have chanced it. Zhijun Wei wouldn’t murder a room full of people to get the two of them – for concealment purposes rather than moral ones, but nonetheless.

In a blur of movement, Hei turned and stopped. Conrart jerked to a halt centimeters from Hei, raising his eyebrows in a questioning look. Hei’s mouth twisted into a smirk as he pushed Conrart’s sleeves up his forearms, ignoring the sea of faces and bodies and movement around them.

Conrart choked down a gasp as Hei’s blunt nails dug into his arms, and then shuddered as they racked down his arms, thick blood welling from the wounds.

“We’ll beat him,” Hei said, “at his own game.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

lunesque’s request, Yami no Matsuei, Tatsumi/Tsuzuki, prompt: intentions, PG (at most)
Yami no Matsuei, Tatsumi/Tsuzuki, prompt: intentions, PG (at most)

The click of Tatsumi’s heels echoed through the dark, empty offices, rhythmic and steady. The hour had grown late; not more than intended, but enough to ensure that he was the last to depart. He shrugged on his jacket as he strode toward the exit, mind brimming with a lists tomorrow’s tasks.

Turning the corner, Tatsumi paused as light from one of the back offices flared in the corner of his vision. He turned, shaking his head at the detour but glad of catching a careless error. A list of the usual culprits flashed in his mind as he stood in the doorway and reached for the light switch, then paused as soft breathing broke the silence.

Tzusuki’s head lay cradled in his arms as he slept, half a crepe beside him on the desk in a blatant disregard for 300 wasted yen. He shivered a bit in his sleep, wrinkles forming between his eyes in a way that reminded Tatsumi, just a little…

Tsuzuki stirred again, much more content with some minimal cover from the cool of night. Tatsumi quickly left the room, flipping off the light as he passed. There was a chill in the hallway now that he was without his jacket, but not so much that he would have needed it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

[Ficlet] NeverEnding Story, Atreyu/Childlike Empress

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 11:08:51 GMT

Sorry my first fic-thing in so long is short and random, but I'm trying to dust off the cobwebs of three weeks' vacation (and zero writing).

Fandom: NeverEnding Story (movieverse)
Characters/Pairing: Atreyu/Childlike Empress
Rating: PG at most
Warnings: philosophical meandering, could be somewhat dark I guess
Word Count: 320
Notes: Prompt by bodyline: someday in the rain. Sorry I butchered your prompt. T_T

Atreyu pressed his ear to the soft silk of the Empress' dress, her fingers stroking his hair as he rested his head in her lap. His muscles quivered with the need to move away and offer proper reverence, but he could feel her warm golden eyes on his face and he knew she would be displeased.

His mind buzzed faintly, and he remembered her open arms calling him, pulling him to her. He remembered not being able to resist. He remembered not wanting to.

Outside, the storm came ever closer. Thunder, but never rain. The Nothing gave no life, only took it.

In the Plains, they revered the storm. Its water brought the harvest, its fire cleansed the land. But the Nothing made even the strongest warrior tremble.

The Empress' fingers brushed the shell of his ear, the curve of his neck. Her touch carried a spark that he'd lost when Artex sank before his eyes.

Atreyu had thought that he would never give up.

"Will it come soon?" he asked. His voice held steady, and he was thankful.

"Yes," she said. He heard her sad smile and it brought an odd comfort.

"I'm sorry," Atreyu offered, uselessly, "I should have protected you."

Her hand rested against his shoulder, slid down his arm. "You have."

Lightning flashed, Atreyu felt it more than he saw it. It was coming.

"What will become of you?" He knew the answer even has his body demanded that he ask. Thunder echoed, so close.

She sighed, but there was no regret. "We," she began, "will meet again." Her voice was clear against the roar of the storm, and it reminded him of the wind over the tall grass as he hunted, the feather of his arrow on his cheek.

He opened his eyes to wetness on his face, the Plains around him and the gray clouds above, and the smell of fresh falling rain.

Adult filters vs. Friends Lock

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 21:08:51 GMT

Greetings, all! I have decided, on the basis of LJ seeming to have decided to calm down on the Fanfiction Banhammer thing, to unlock the adult entries on this journal and instead utilize the adult flagging system. For anyone not aware, this will mean that anyone who is logged in to LJ and is 18 years old or over will be able to view the entries without being friended. It will make entries easier to get to and link to, and will avoid me having to handle friend requests, which are very flattering but I'm just not at my computer often enough.

I was going to do this a bit ago but I finally have abundant time on my hands (read: I'm sick as Hell) and so now's the time.

If anyone has a problem with this for any reason, now is the time to say something. Otherwise, I'll be editting all the entries and the index post tonight and tomorrow. I won't be defriending anyone just as a matter of course, but it won't really matter anyway. ^_^

Cheers!

[One-shot] Automaton

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 02:41:35 GMT

This is for sp_kathrine who is having a hard time lately. I hope meaningless porn from your favorite Trinity Blood characters makes it better? *hugs*

For all three of you who know this fandom...Because if writing an emotional recluse screwing a cyborg isn't mandatory, it damn well should be!

Title: Automaton
Fandom: Trinity Blood
Characters/Pairing: Tres/Hugue
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Smut (or, masturbation with a very elaborate toy), slight religious innuendo
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Tres followed instructions easily enough, but wasn't much on foreplay.

There was no light on inside the window; there never was. The entire Vatican, aside from that room's occupant, was either long asleep or pretending to be. Whoever else was on watch could carry on alone for five minutes while Hugue took his pleasure.

Hugue leapt up, his blade at the ready more out of habit than necessity. He pushed the window open before his boots landed on the sill. When they did, the barrel of a gun was pressed to his cheek.

"Gunslinger," Hugue acknowledged.

Tres pulled the gun back, finger still on the trigger. "Sword Dancer." The pistol spun in his hand and vanished within his robes. "Status report."

Attributing emotion to Tres's flat voice was something that Hugue failed to understand, and yet made no effort to cease. But there was nothing behind that question, so it went unanswered as Hugue stepped down, set his weapon within reach.

Tres learned by pattern recognition. He knew why Hugue was here.

This room never changed. Tres had no need for a bed, or a dresser, or a bath; he had them because Caterina wanted him to have them. Only the pill jar on the night table showed that Tres lived here. It also showed his imperfection, but he had no shame to concern him.

That was the reason Hugue was here.

The only light in the room were flecks within Tres's unmoving eyes as he turned, and a wan light from the window beside him. "Set mission parameters."

Tres followed instructions easily enough, but wasn't much on foreplay. That was fine. It was better. "Undress." Hugue shed his cloak, his shirt. He watched as Tres disrobed.

Tres's skin was white and flawless in the pale moonlight. The first time Hugue touched it it was surprising in its softness, like his own hands at first. Neither were natural, but they were real enough - Tres's skin was a show, a fraud, but it made him just human enough to fuck. Hugue removed his boots and trousers, his cock already hardening. It had been a long time since he was in Rome.

Hugue's finger brushed down the length of Tres's naked cock and Tres was hard and ready in an instant. That was what Hugue wanted, hard and fast and mindless. When mood or circumstances commanded, he would seek out a warmer woman's touch by whatever commodities availed themselves, then pass along the expenses to the Vatican. The Papal accounts paid them, though whether without complaint he wouldn't know.

He never jerked off because inevitably, he thought of her. Tres was a convenient substitute; presence enough to ward off thoughts of others and yet never requiring an explanation. There was no need for reasons, or apologies.

Tres stood motionless as Hugue pulled a bottle from his cloak and coated his hand. Tres's eyes watched the window as Hugue slicked his erection for him, but then snapped to attention as Hugue reached behind himself and groaned at the intrusion of his own slippery finger.

Hugue's cock twitched, and Tres's emulated. That was another way he had learned - after several attempts at explanation proved fruitless, Hugue's demonstration was the best instruction Tres could receive. Humanity by imitation, fuck by numbers.

Hugue pushed Tres onto the bed and knelt to sit astride him, the position that had finally succeeded and the only one since.

"Negative," Tres said flatly. "Efficiency compromised."

Hugue blinked - Tres never talked while Hugue was screwing himself - and then Tres pushed him off, moved behind him. Another blink and Hugue's face was pushed into the crisp bedspread, his wrists crossed and held at the small of his back, ass in the air.

"Commencing operation." Tres pushed in as Hugue stretched around him. Where the fuck had he learned this?

The first movement burned, arched through him like electricity. His jaw clenched as he waited, muscles straining, the throbbing in his ass radiating outward in a dull ache. Tres set his pace and Hugue cursed the Lord's name against the bed.

Tres's body ran hot, Hugue discovered that anew each time. His slamming heart sent scorching blood straight into his cock where it coiled, tightening with each thrust. Tres worked silently, his pace steady and maddening.

Hugue dipped his hips, struggling for friction against the mattress that was so close to the tip of his cock. His hands twitched, but Tres's grip never faltered. "Touch me," he said, whining, close to begging.

Tres paused, and Hugue wanted to fucking kill him. "Interrogative: delineate."

How the Hell does one explain a handjob to a robot? It wasn't worth the effort, a few more thrusts and he'd be done. Hugue ground his hips backward and Tres moved again. "Fuck...Tres."

"Invalid directive."

Hugue growled into the bedspread. Tres struck him almost right and he cried out, panting and desperate. "Harder," he tried. He moved his hips as much as possible, mere inches and not enough.

Tres's hand twisted in his hair, pulled his head back until his back bowed. His breath stirred against Hugue's ear. "Positive," Tres said, and it was over, Hugue squeezing his eyes shut as he ruined the pristine bedspread.

"Mission: complete," Tres said, going limp and pulling out, dropping Hugue onto the mattress.

Hugue pushed himself up, his chest peeling away from the duvet. Before his face, a white cloth hung from Tres's fingers.

"Cleansing required, Father Hugue."

Hugue took the washcloth, and watched Tres don his robes with cold efficiency and resume his post at the window. The night was still and dark, and nothing had changed.

Series of snippets/proto-fics

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 18:37:22 GMT

Sorry to subject you all to these, but I keep posting WIP-type things on my LJ and then losing them, which is frustrating. Posting here means I can find stuff, which is always nice. And I had to put the fruits of two hour's searching toward something.

All are untitled, because they were quick experiments.

Fandom: Scooby Doo (I know, I know...)
Characters or Pairing: Velma/Daphne heavily implied
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Corruption of childhood?
Word Count: ~350
Notes: Requested by honeycorrupts as a joke. Moral: Don't attempt to mess with me unless you mean it!

Daphne hunched her head down as far as she could, her fingertips resting on the small of Velma's back as she tried not to misstep and separate them. She could only rely on Themla's navigation and that barest, constant, reassuring touch to get them through the endless black of the cave.

Their single lantern had begun as barely enough to keep the bats at bay, but as the oil dried up and the flame shrank they were growing more bold. She hunched a bit lower; the one thing that could make this night worse, Daphne thought, were bats in her hair.

Only Freddie and Shaggy could have a bloodhound with them and still manage to get lost in a God-forsaken place like this. When she found them she was going to...well, she would decide later, after the terror and the flying animals were over with.

Something moved, shadow on shadow flickering to their left.

Daphne muffled her scream against Themla's shoulder.

"Jinkies!" Velma's head snapped around, her hair flaring around her head. "What was that?"

Daphne kept her face buried in Velma's sweater. "I don't know!" she wailed. "If we get out of here alive, I'll worry about it."

Gentle fingers stroked Daphne's hair. "Don't worry, we'll get them for this." There was a smile in Velma's voice, and Daphne wondered how she could always be so strong.

Daphne's fingers clenched Velma's sweater a bit tighter even as she lifted her head. "Thanks."

Velma's chuckle, soft and intimate, sounded right next to Daphne's ear. Then Velma leaned up, her skirt brushing Daphne's thighs as she flexed her foot, arching onto her tiptoes and bringing her lips closer...

"There you are!" a voice shouted.

Daphne jerked away and looked over her shoulder at the silhouette of Freddie that appeared in one of the archways that she hadn't known was there.

"We've been looking all over for you!" Shaggy's voice echoed down the cavern.

Velma smiled wryly. "Figures."

"Yeah," Daphne said, tossing her hair over a shoulder. "Meddling kids."

Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou
Characters or Pairing: Murata/Yozak
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark theme, post-season 2 spoilers (sort of)
Word Count: ~200
Notes: Requested by allira_dream long ago - prompt: the one where evil!Shinou wins

The mattress dipped beneath Yozak as the form beside him shifted and sat up. Yozak watched in the near twilight, silently wondering where else His Highness could possibly have to be. He had only just stopped wondering why he was even here in the first place; nostalgia had always seemed much father away for the former Great Sage than a lover of less than a year.

"Leaving so soon?"

Murata's silhouette tensed. "You'd rather I stayed?" he asked as he stepped into his pants, his hushed tone sounding flat and cold.

There was more than one question there, and Yozak didn't much care to answer any of them, particularly not when he was addressing Murata's back. "And what about the Kiddo?"

Murata paused and crumpled his shirt in his fist, the first true emotion he'd shown since arriving here tonight. He turned his head so that Yozak could see his profile, but his gaze never lifted from the floor. "I wish him only good things."

That moment was the first time that Yozak made a distinction between a traitor and an enemy.

Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou/Slayers crossover
Characters or Pairing: Zelgadis, Wolfram, Yuuri, Amelia
Rating: G
Warnings: Yuuri and Amelia ganging up for the sake of Justice and Love!
Word Count: ~150
Notes: Requested by allira_dream long ago.

"You know," Wolfram groaned, his head in his hands as he seethed in humiliation and disbelief, "I could put up with the Justice thing, honestly. But must those two idiots always stand on top of something when they get started up about it?"

Zelgadis sipped at his coffee and nodded, trying to ignore the way Amelia and Yuuri were carrying on and Gunter was trying, tearfully and loudly, to coerce his King down from the flagpole. "I hate to say this, but it could be worse."

"Oh, really?" Wolfram demanded. "My hopeless wimp of a fiance is calling attention to himself in the most appalling manner, not to mention denigrating our national flag for the sake of the 'Save the Omen Birds' campaign. How, exactly, could things possibly be any worse?"

Zelgadis cleared his throat uneasily. "You've not yet met her sister."

Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou
Characters or Pairing: Conrart/Yozak
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark themes: war, implied sex
Word Count: ~150
Notes: A failed (?) attempt at first person POV.

The encampment is quieter than most, even for a squadron only a few dozen strong. I weave through the lean-tos belonging to the men under my command; they sit around the campfires on tree limbs serving as makeshift benches, a strain in their voices that their words aim to hide. Home is a few yards of cloth and four stakes pounded into the frozen ground, and yet the talk is only of warm beds and cold drinks and foolish dreams of returning to a hero's welcome.

I keep my eyes straight ahead even as they pause, nodding to acknowledge me as I pass. Tomorrow, I will lead these men to die.

The flap to my own tent does nothing to keep out the chill, but I am surprised to find the other occupant feigning sleep beneath the blanket. Napping in preparation for first watch was Yozak's excuse, but I was careful to ensure that there's not enough whiskey in our supply for him to be asleep.

When his head lifts his face is shadowed, but I know he is smiling. He moves the blanket to cover me as I lie down, the stale musk of decades' storage overwhelming the smoke of the fires.

His hands are sliding down my chest, his leg slips over mine. He hadn't been smiling, after all.

"Aren't you gonna say anything?"

I probably should. But we both know this is one time that neither Yozak nor gallantry will convince me. It’s the least I can do for them; the ones outside and the one beside me.

Yozak's breath is humid and sticky on my neck and then hot against my ear, and soon it's all I can hear anymore.

Fandom: Myself;Yourself
Characters or Pairing: Shuusuke/Shuri
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex, incest between twins, spoilers for the second to last episode.
Word Count: ~350
Notes: This is what happens when I get bored...be afraid.

Shuu stared at the harsh white ceiling, the mattress dipping beneath him and his body straining against the will to move. Nimble fingers worked at the opening of his jeans, and he bit the inside of his cheek as he tried not to think about the taste of Shuri’s lips and the smell of her hair and the fact that he had failed her.

His eyes moved before he realized and then he could see her; kneeling beside him on the bed, blouse hanging open and skirt askant, bent over him and each breath heavy on his naked skin. His fist was gripping the comforter; a dull, sickening yellow pattern that had seemed much brighter when he’d sat Shuri down and promised that he’d make sure no one ever laid a hand on her again. That was six days ago; his word had only been good for three.

Shuu gasped as his cock was enveloped in wet heat, and he forced his eyes shut. It didn’t feel real, and yet it was the most honest thing he’d felt in so long. She was his, now; his alone.

“Shuusuke?” He lifted his head and cracked an eye, opening them fully only when he saw the fear in Shuri’s eyes, masked beneath her gratitude. That would have disgusted him, if only he could concentrate on anything other than how her lips were wet and her slim fingers were wrapped around the base of his cock.

“Yes?’

Shuri bit her lower lip. “Who are you…thinking about?”

Shuu tried to control his breathing. She was so beautiful, her shirt carelessly undone and her eyes shining with...he couldn’t think of that, shouldn’t wonder about who those eyes were meant for.

His head flopped back onto the pillow. “Sana,” he said.

Shuri giggled. “Silly.”

Her hand moved, and he thrust against her palm, the fringe of her bracelet brushing his thigh. She leaned down again and laved her tongue across the head of his cock and he was lost, falling to pieces like some fucking virgin kid into his sister’s mouth.

She took it all, and god, he had never hated himself more.

*ahem* Sorry 'bout this. But if you actually read any of this and are of the mind, crit is more than welcome!

[One-shot] Which Reason Cannot Know

Thu, 08 May 2008 02:31:50 GMT

Because nothing is better than some OT3 lovin'.

Title: Which Reason Cannot Know
Author: lenainverse
Pairing: Conrart/Wolfram/Yuuri
Rating: A nice big NC-17
Warnings: Incest, smut
Word Count: ~675
Genre: PWP-ish
Summary: Though it might be called crazy and it felt a little bit that way too, loving them both was anything but.

Thanks to tiam_atardecer for the prompt and motivation (although I turned her cracky cuteness into utterly dirty smut…) and to parsnip_chan for the quick and excellent beta.

There was a buzzing in his mind, and Yuuri thought that he must be going mad. The room spun in a blur of light and shadow and he should be spinning too; the only thing keeping him steady was the solid warmth all around. The bed creaked beneath him, the sound sobered him for an instant, just long enough to emphasize his predicament.

Gunter was going to kill them.

Yuuri couldn’t think, didn’t want to think, but he needed no convincing of that truth. The only thing truer in that moment was Conrad’s heartbeat against his back and Conrad’s hands gripping Yuuri’s hips, and Wolfram’s hand, absurdly small next to his brother’s, kneading Yuuri's thigh as his mouth worked a determined but sloppy path across Yuuri's chest.

Somewhere between dragging Conrad onto the dance floor and laughing himself sick at what he could only remember to be an off-key, slurred karaoke performance starring Wolfram, Yuuri had vowed never to drink again. Then Conrad, his smile slipping and his eyes gleaming as Wolfram fell into his arms, had suggested that they stay the night, and only one vow meant anything anymore.

Yuuri’s hesitation had lasted a second longer than Wolfram’s, and was undone at the sight of Wolfram pulling his brother into a fierce kiss.

They were going to die, oh yes. Yuuri could blame Josak for recommending the place, or the drink for going down like candy, but it was he who had pulled Conrad’s shirt over his head and then raised his hips for Wolfram to tug his trousers free. There was, it seemed, more than enough blame to go around.

The cold night air bit at Yuuri’s skin where Conrad wasn’t touching, where Wolfram hadn’t kissed yet. This was madness, or it would be if he was sober, but now it was just Wolfram and Conrad and their good hands and their eyes, glazed from the drink or something else.

Against his hip, Wolfram’s tongue flicked between Conrad’s fingers, and Yuuri arched his back and wanted - wanted. He may have cried out but that sound might have been Conrad’s breath rushing in his ear; with his body as fogged as his mind, it didn’t matter. The need to move burned through him, but Conrad held him, his cock hard and sliding against his ass, and Wolfram crouched over him, demanding, coaxing.

Madness; it made his skin feel too tight, coiled a slow heat low in his belly, but it let him ache with need for both of them.

Wolfram’s nose bumped against his cock and Conrad’s finger snaked across his hip to brush against the base. Yuuri turned, burying his face against Conrad’s neck, his breath pouring out in humid, sticky pants. A low chuckle vibrated down Yuuri’s spine and then Wolfram’s lips wrapped around his cock and so did Conrad’s hand and they were moving; together, slow and then speeding.

Conrad’s other hand released his hip to weave into Wolfram’s hair. Yuuri could move, and thrust forward into Wolfram’s mouth and against Conrad’s tight grip. His hips rocked back and forth into the heat of Wolfram’s mouth as Conrad’s cock slid between his ass, slick and hard and perfect. Wolfram was there to catch him and Conrad was there to steady him, and Yuuri could only gasp and moan as they loved him, together.

Yuuri’s head fell back, somehow limp atop the tense arch of his shoulders. Conrad held him and tucked Yuuri’s forehead under his chin, Wolfram moved with him, every caress pulling him closer, so close to where he needed to go. Wolfram’s hand wound around Yuuri to rest against Conrad’s hip, twitching as it sought to squeeze between them, and his mouth moved ever faster, hot saliva dripping down onto Conrad’s fingers.

Slick fingers gripped him hard and Yuuri came undone, spilling into Wolfram’s mouth and grabbing a fistful of blond hair.

Wolfram’s chin was over his shoulder when he opened his eyes, and he watched as Conrad licked Wolfram’s chin clean. They kissed again, Wolfram’s chest bumping Yuuri’s and Conrad against his back, their heat all around him, and Yuuri thought that nothing in his life had ever seemed more reasonable. It was love, this madness. It was beautiful.

And come morning, he would decide how much that would help their case with Gunter.

Note: Title adapted from a quote from Blaise Pascal

Of Age status update, for those who've asked

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 11:12:44 GMT

I've had quite a few people ask me about the status of Of Age lately, so I figured I'd make a post about it to make things easier for those with questions. I'm not one to give status updates when there's nothing huge to announce but I'm truly flattered that people remember my little story after so long and I want to give you some information.

No, the story is not done, and I'm not going to begin posting it again until it is. I made people wait months in between chapters before and...yeah, that was not nice. So no postings 'till I can guarantee that there'll be an update in a reasonable amount of time - which I can only do if it's completed. I can tell you that I am actively working on it! I'm rewriting the thing from the beginning and totally overhauling it with the help of some lovely and much appreciated friends who are offering me constructive criticism.

As for a projected date? I'm hesitant to give one, but deadlines do motivate me... without promising anything, I'll say that I hope -- HOPE -- to begin posting in October. *crosses fingers*

I hope that answers some of your questions! (And also, if you've noticed I haven't been posting much fic lately...now you know why!) ^_^

[Double Drabble] Separation

Fri, 11 Apr 2008 04:03:15 GMT

A-heh. So there was this prompt at kkm_challenge a LONG time ago that I wanted to write. (There are a lot, actually, but my Muse doesn't play well with timelines.) The prompt was to write a fic where every paragraph ended in the same word. I'm becoming very aware of my use of words, so I wanted to try it. Given that I met my wordcount goal on my longfic for the night, I figured I'd try it. So here is the fruit of 10 minutes of my time. ^^ I'm certainly not going to post something done so quickly in a respectable challenge comm, but at least I can ~~torture~~ share with you all. :P

Title: Separation
Author: lenainverse
Characters/Pairings: Shouri and Yuuri
Rating: G
Any Warnings: None
Word count: ~250
Theme/Prompt being used: Every paragraph ending in the same word.
Note: Inspired by an OLD prompt at kkm_challenge. I tried to pick a word that had a lot of strong connotations…Concrit is more than welcome.

Shouri looked into the hallway through his cracked bedroom door as Yuuri walked into the bath, towel hanging over one shoulder and his lips stretched into a thin line. It seemed that whatever serious things were going on in Shin Makoku, Yuuri was determined to see to them. Over the last months, he had truly come into his own.

Of course, it had been long ago that Yuuri began to assert that he could handle himself, that he no longer needed the protection of his older brother. Shouri would never forget the day when he first learned that Yuuri had legs, and a voice, and a heart of his own.

“I can walk on my own.”

That was the moment that Shouri began to have faith in his little brother. Over time, that faith progressed into respect, but that didn’t make Yuuri any less precious, any less Shouri’s own.

As Yuuri closed the door behind him, Shouri turned back to the textbook that lay open on his desk. After reading the same paragraph thrice and being unable to remember it, Shouri traded his economics text for his computer screen and his email. He typed Bob’s address and a salutation before closing the window. He shouldn’t interfere; Yuuri’s dealings in the other world were his to own.

Shouri plucked his glasses from his face and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He was beginning to wonder whether it was for Yuuri’s sake that he worried, or his own.

[One-shot] War Wounds

Mon, 07 Apr 2008 02:01:57 GMT

Written for the prompt “Anger” at kkm_challenge but I think I’ll leave my fail over here in private. I blame tiam_atardecer for this.

Title: War Wounds
Name of Author: lenainverse
Pairings/Characters: Conrart + Wolfram
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~400
Summary: Pre-series (immediately following Rutenburg).
Author's Note: As a pre-series fic, I tried to make it as plausible as possible, but a few liberties were taken.

Thanks to parsnip_chan for the quick read over!

Conrart doesn’t remember the last time the halls of Covenant Castle were so quiet. He’s used to noise: the cries of battle or the sneering gossip of noblemen. He has never known life without it, since his father died. He never wished to again.

His footfalls echo down the corridor, not quite managing to conceal the whispers of the maids and staff as he passes. Conrart is a reminder to them, now, of everything that was lost. Good wishes or ill, they all sound the same to him. He would have served them better as a whispered prayer at his mother’s table; that is his failure.

A second set of footsteps makes him reach for the hilt of his sword before Conrart can remind himself where he is. He stops and waits as Wolfram reels around the corner.

Wolfram stammers to a halt as his eyes widen and then jerk away. The blue of his uniform is striking; the neutral color that signifies Conrart’s new rank is still foreign on his shoulders.

“Where have you been?” Wolfram demands. “Brother sent me to find you a quarter of an hour ago, Weller.”

Wolfram is never one to wait for an answer. “He’s looking for you. You can’t shirk your duties forever.” His arms fold across his chest and his toe taps a light cadence.

Watching Wolfram’s anger is draining, but Conrart only nods. If it is his fate to live, he should at least make his apologies for it.

Wolfram turns on his heel and stands with his back perfectly straight. “Congratulations. On your promotion.”

Conrart isn’t sure whether to thank him, but he does anyway.

“It’s a shame” Wolfram says, so low that Conrart nearly misses it, “about Julia.”

The corridor is silent again, and Conrart forces his breath from his chest. Certainly, by now his family must have heard about Shinou’s intentions for Julia’s soul.

“But I think she’d be happy that it’s you.” And then Wolfram whips around the corner and is gone, his steps light and rapid and disappearing before Conrart is ready.

“Thank you,” he says, feeling only momentarily bad for interrupting the silence. He begins to walk again, finding a small comfort in knowing his destination. He may be weak, but as long as there is a need for strength, he will pretend.

~End~

Note: I guess it turned out confusing, as said in the comments. Any thoughts on improvement are more than welcome!

Comments are love, crit is love with cookie crumbles! &hearts