Mistr3ss Quickly's Bunny Farm

Original, "On the Cliff by the Sea," Ezzelin/Quincy, PG

2009-09-27T22:28:37Z

My half of the free writtens exchange on deviantART, this one with Seppy, who wanted Quezzelin. Hope you like it, dear!

On the Cliff by the Sea

by mistr3ss Quickly

In the dream, he's walking to the kitchen, thirsty and dizzy and disoriented, the light too bright for his eyes even though it's dark and he knows he's not turned on any lights. His head throbs when he enters the kitchen, the floortiles cold under his bare feet, but he's too warm, sweating under the silk pajamas Quincy gave him for his last birthday, tailor-made to fit his short stature, to accommodate his wings.

He reaches for the handle of the refrigerator, pulls hard enough to strain the muscles he pulled earlier that afternoon, carrying a stack of books to his study. Light floods the room, but it's not painful like the darkness, he can see well enough to open his eyes, and when he does, he sees—

~*~*~*~
Ezzelin wakes in a cold sweat, chest heaving and eyes wide in the familiar darkness of the bedroom, his lover snoring softly beside him, their beloved pet snoring more loudly at the foot of the bed. It takes him a moment to separate his dream from reality, a moment more for him to catch his breath and wipe his brow. His heart is pounding still, aching in his chest, so he slips from the bed and makes his way down the hall, doesn't bother with the lights once he's in his study, his hands finding his beloved bottle of bourbon and an empty glass with no trouble.

It's undoubtedly the fault of the movie he watched with his son before bedtime, he thinks, sipping viciously at his drink. Some nonsensical children's film about a fish growing limbs and a five-year-old proving himself to be more mature than the grand majority of the adults in his village. Nothing else could possibly cause such ridiculous dreams, he's certain, a nightmare so vivid and real that he shivers, just thinking about it, downs the last swallow of bourbon in his glass with the sincere hope that the alcohol will numb the aftertaste of worry he feels that he might finally be going mad.

He's as quiet as he can possibly manage to be, returning to the bedroom, tip-toes out of his study and down the hall, careful to avoid the floor-boards that squeak right outside his son's bedroom, the stack of books he knows he left just inside the bedroom door. He's successful, for the most part, but it is dark and he's not expecting Bourbon to be asleep in the floor when he clearly remembers seeing the creature asleep on the bed, before, isn't expecting him to be sprawled out as big as he can stretch himself, thoroughly blocking the walk-way instead of curled up in a ridiculous ball, and where Quincy's never been the deepest sleeper in the world, Nikolai tends to sleep through most everything and still the awful noise Bourbon made when trod upon wakes him, his eyes wide when he shows up shaking in his parents' doorway, wanting to know if there's a ghost in the house.

Ezzelin blames the movie for that, too.

"It is not a ghost, Nikolai," he says, ignoring Quincy's yawning yeah, what was that? "It's just Bourbon being—" He looks at Bourbon. Bourbon looks at him reproachfully and buries his nose in Quincy's armpit. "—well anyway, you hear Bourbon, that's all. Nothing to be frightened of. Come on, it's past your bedtime. I'll tuck you in."

"Can't I sleep in here with you and Daddy?" Nikolai wants to know, his voice trembling.

It takes almost more energy than Ezzelin has to stand his ground, but he manages.

"I'll tell you a story," he offers by way of compromise, one of Quincy's tricks he's picked up on over the years. "Come on."

Nikolai cooperates reluctantly, turning and trudging back to his bedroom with his head hanging, shoulders slumped. He cheers up just a bit when Bourbon comes along, tongue lolling and ears perked forward as if it were someone else who'd roused the entire household with his pathetic yelping, but Ezzelin holds his complaints against the fuzzy little creature when it prances up to Nikolai's pillow and settles like a green storm-cloud, soft and inviting enough that Nikolai curls up in bed immediately, giggling a little when Bourbon snuffles and cleans him.

"Story?" he says, once Ezzelin's got him tucked in.

"Story-story-story," says Bourbon, chewing absently on Nikolai's hair.

Ezzelin sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. Wishes he'd brought his drink along, even though he finished off the bourbon he'd poured for himself before Bourbon saw fit to wake his son, washed his glass afterwards to discourage himself from drinking more than that first serving.

"I'll tell you the dream I had before I woke," he says, after a moment. "It was more of a nightmare, for me, but you might like it."

Nikolai frowns. "Is it scary?" he says.

Ezzelin shakes his head. "Far from it," he says.

~*~*~*~
In the dream, I'm walking to the kitchen, thirsty and dizzy and disoriented, the light too bright for my eyes even though it's dark and I know I've not turned on any lights. My head throbs when I go into the kitchen, the floortiles cold under my bare feet, but I'm too warm, sweating under my pajamas.

I reach for the handle of the refrigerator, pull hard enough to open it all the way. Light floods the room, but it's not painful like the darkness, I can see well enough to open my eyes, and when I do, I see—

~*~*~*~
"Why would Daddy be in the refrigerator?" Nikolai wants to know, wrinkling his nose. "And how did he fit? He's bigger than the refrigerator."

Ezzelin nods, a soft laugh bubbling up his throat. It's the bourbon, he's sure, but he doesn't care, not one bit. "That is precisely why it was so strange," he says. "But he was there, curled up on the top shelf. Doing his best to eat the last pudding cup even though he didn't have a spoon."

Nikolai's eyes go wide. "But that's my pudding cup!" he says.

"Yes and it's still there," Ezzelin promises. "Your father was asleep when I woke, hadn't moved an inch since we went to bed." He smoothes the blanket, brushes his son's hair back where Bourbon has knocked it into his eyes, kicking in his sleep. "Your pudding cup will be there when you wake up in the morning. I promise."

"Can I have it after lunch tomorrow?" Nikolai wants to know.

Ezzelin sighs. "I suppose," he says. "But only if you go to sleep. It's late."

He bends down and kisses Nikolai on the forehead, gives Bourbon a gentle pat on the snout in apology for stepping on him. Waits in the doorway until Nikolai's breathing has slowed and evened out, his hands no longer clutching at the blankets.

"Hiding in the refrigerator eating my child's pudding cup, hmm?" Quincy says by way of greeting when he returns to the bedroom and crawls under the blankets. "My, my, Ezzelin, what kinky things you've been dreaming."

Ezzelin glares at the wall. "It's the fault of that ridiculous film you brought home and made me watch," he says. "There's nothing ... kinky about it."

"Oh you're just repressed," Quincy says.

"I'm not," Ezzelin says.

"You're sure?"

He rolls onto his back. "You were wearing a horrid striped jacket to keep out the chill of the refrigerator," he tells his lover. "A garish garment even you wouldn't wear, I promise you that."

Quincy sighs. "It only counts if I was wearing eye-makeup too," he says. "And those earrings. I kind of liked those, actually, they went with the gold clasps on his cloak—which wasn't so bad, really, it covered his jacket and—"

He quiets when Ezzelin presses a hand over his mouth. Chuckles and escapes the hand long enough to give Ezzelin a kiss, snuggling close when Ezzelin grumps at him and turns away.

"Fine, so it's a movie's fault," he says. "It made a good bedtime story, though, so I want some credit for that, or at least less of the blame."

It's the bourbon's fault that Ezzelin chuckles at that, probably the bourbon's fault that he doesn't resist the urge to twist around and kiss Quincy's pouting lips, to roll over and take the kiss deeper when Quincy makes a happy little sound in the back of his throat.

"Very well," he says. "You are forgiven. But only on the condition that I don't have a nightmare about our son running around in a red dress, next."

"Oh heavens," says Quincy, laughing between kisses. "Agreed."

~*~
Note:
In case it seems from this story that I've lost my mind ... well I probably have, but anyway. I was trying desperately to write Quezzelin for Sep about a year ago and ended up—in a totally serious, kind of depressing story, mind you—putting Quincy into the refrigerator. It was ludicrous and awful and killed that story dead, but it's been a running joke between myself and Sep ever since. So ha, I finally shoved Quincy into the damn refrigerator, now everyone can go home happy.

Oh, and if the movie references don't make any sense, do a google search for Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea. Ponyo's father is so utterly Quincy in that movie it hurts. ~~But it doesn't hurt as much as the rest of the movie, my god what a disappointing Miyazaki film!~~

Original, "Illusions," Mik/Nadya, PG

2009-09-21T23:52:59Z

My half of a sketch/fic trade with pockygirl. She wanted her original character Mik, and (unwisely) gave me the freedom to do to him whatever I wanted.

This is what I wanted. Hope you like it, dear!

Illusions

by mistr3ss Quickly

She's watching him, he knows because he asked her to come and watch him, worked up all his courage to give her the small bouquet of flowers he'd picked from the field while practicing the words he'd use to invite her to come and see him. To watch him perform.

He takes a shallow breath, careful always not to breathe in the ash and dust he's kicking up as he moves his feet, moves backwards away from the light, draws it with him, to him. Over and around him, the illusion his audience sees pulling the fire under him like water.

She's watching, he knows. Seeing him command the fire. Watching it flow at his command. Illuminating him.

For her.

~*~*~*~
As a young boy, too short still to reach the jar of cookies on the shelf, Mik asks his grandfather about fire. About the beautiful light twisting atop the candles at dinner, the crackling warmth writhing above the fire in the hearth. The bolts that splits the sky during October storms, reducing trees to ash, fields to scorched earth.

"What is it made of?" he says, watching his grandfather light a match and dip it into his pipe, fragrant smoke coming out where fire had been, before.

"Combustibles," his grandfather answers, breathing smoke like the dragons in the stories he tells when it's well past Mik's bedtime.

"What's combustibles?"

His grandfather laughs. "Anything and everything the fire can grab and change, Mikhail," he says. "Fire is change. Not a constant thing."

~*~*~*~
He doesn't know what she's wearing but he can imagine: the soft yellow dress she wore that afternoon, the skirt flowing around her legs, clinging to her curves. Yellow brought out vibrant when he moves closer to her -- not too close, not where she might be in danger -- close enough for her to feel the warmth, to appreciate the way it chases back the night's chill against her skin.

He moves his fingers and the crowd gasps. Opens his eyes and gives them a smile, teeth bared. Closes his hands and crosses his arms, spreads his arms and fingers wide, the awe on the faces before him lit brightly as he frees a pfenix to fly over them, fire swooping into the air for just a breath before disappearing, leaving nothing but smoke and footsteps, his boots quiet in the dirt, the simple fire crackling a few feet away, waiting for him to return and command it.

She's wearing a shawl over that yellow dress. The shoulder has slipped; she hasn't yet noticed.

Mik swallows a giddy laugh and calls the fire forth once again.

~*~*~*~
English is more difficult for him than his native Russian; he trips over the words and the grammar and the stupid way they fit together -- or should, and would if he could ever get them to cooperate. But he's persistent and stubborn when he needs to be, prides himself on both, so the shop-keeper's annoyance doesn't dissuade him one bit, doesn't chase him away from what might be his last option.

"I am wanting the stone," he tries again, "which is to be struck against the metal and making spark."

His accent is heavy, he's been told. Too heavy for a simple merchant, one who is too busy eyeing the coming rain to be bothered sorting out the request of a ragged foreigner.

"Don't know what you're talking about," he says.

Mik draws himself up to full height. "Then you are being fool," he says. "It is stone for fire. Like this."

He gestures, motions. Does his best not to wilt with happiness when the shopkeeper's eyes light with understanding, an ohh preceding the shuffle-rustle-clunk of a quick search through a box marked ODDS AND ENDS.

"Flint," the shopkeeper says, holding up a decent-sized black stone. "You're wanting flint."

"Yes I am wanting it," Mik says, digging out his coinpurse. "Nice of you to be noticing it."

~*~*~*~
This is the best part, the part he's daydreamed of showing her. Fire arcs up over him, twists around him. He catches it -- an illusion, one he's perfected to the point that it has made the faint-of-heart swoon, before -- and throws it, catches each drop of flame on each finger, balances them like crystal, flicks his wrist to put them out. Then again: a higher arc this time, larger flames on his fingers. His feet move, turning him, showing the illusion to the entire audience, convincing them -- all of them -- that it is real, that he is truly touching the flames.

That they are real, that they are solid. That they are his to control.

The beat of the drums swells and the audience responds, calling and cheering and clapping. They love it, more than any audience before. They love it and it's his and she's there, she's watching, he can feel it. She's seeing him, strong and capable and magical and --

-- he turns and nearly steps on her. Nearly catches her beautiful hair on fire, barely catches the flame before it lights on her flowing yellow dress.

~*~*~*~
"Your fire is beautiful," he hears her say, his beloved Russian heavily accented on her tongue.

She dips and twirls, bends and flows. Dances with him, with his flames. Curves around them, close enough that he worries that she'll catch and burn just a heartbeat before she squirms out of danger, catches herself in a beautiful, perfect pose.

She smiles at him. Winks at him.

"Dance with me?" she says.

~*~*~*~
Fire arcs from the logs he's arranged, curves into the dark night air like a brush-stroke. He pulls it, twists it. Watches it illuminate her beautiful yellow dress, her tightly braided hair. Catches it in his fingers, turns in time with the silent touch of her toes, showing the audience the illusion.

She watches him. Moves with him. Laughs when his nerves begin to fall away and excitement takes over, the thrill and rush emboldening him.

A bigger arc this time. Bright lights on his finger-tips. Dust where she twirls under it, bending close enough that he feels her finger-tips brush his jacket.

"One more!" she cries, laughing. Watching him, his fire reflected in her beautiful eyes.

So he gives her one more, the biggest yet. Grabs the flames and stretches them, throws them. Pulls and twists and lights up the sky so that everyone can see her dancing, her shadows dancing under her toes, darkening the tips of his boots. The flames come down and he catches them, holds them out for the audience to see, and when she twirls close between his outstretched arms, Mikhail the Illusionist does what he has never done before.

He forgets what he's doing.

~*~*~*~
She's watching him, he knows because he can hear her, hear the whisper of her dress when she shifts, and he can feel her, one hand squeezing his arm.

He opens his eyes, sees the dark weave of the cloth she's placed over them, cool and wet. Reaches up and touches the cloth, hisses when his fingers touch the cotton, his burns still fresh and vicious.

"Not yet," she says, carefully guiding his hand back down. "Let them bandage you first."

She's patting him when the old woman with the strong-smelling antiseptic cream comes in, soothing him as though his singed fingers are the worst of his injuries.

The old woman laughs and tells her to relax. Tells him he had it coming, playing with fire and a pretty girl both at the same time.

"Ah but you're young enough that you probably don't care," the old woman says. "Give him something to bite down on now, love. This is probably going to hurt quite a lot."

It does hurt. A lot. More than any other burn he's ever managed to give himself.

He tells her so when she asks, hurting too much to lie or act brave or do much beyond curling in on himself, his head resting on her lap when it's over and he's whimpering like some pathetic kitten.

"It's my fault," she says, softly. "I distracted you. I'm sorry."

~*~*~*~
He can't feel her cheek under the bandages wound around his fingers. He can't ignore the way she flinches away from the pungent smell of the ointment.

"It was not your fault," he tells her in Russian. Then, when she frowns at him: "It is being my fault, I am showing off too much."

She laughs and brushes his hair back from his eyes. "What a pair we make, then," she says.

"We do," he says, an idea beginning to form as he speaks. "We do."

~*~*~*~
Years later, she will watch him across the table, smiling her little smile as she tells their story. She will gesture, making the candles flicker. The children will laugh -- at the story, then at their father -- and climb out of their chairs, crowding around to see the scars left behind on Mik's hands. She will wink at him, watching him sigh and endure the teasing.

"But you know, it was a worthy sacrifice," she'll say, finishing the story at bedtime, their children tucked in and squirming.

"So you are saying," he will say, once he has her alone.

"Do you regret it?" she'll say, watching him, smiling because she knows he doesn't.

~*~*~*~
Years later, he will shake his head and gather her in his arms. He'll kiss her on the lips and rest his cheek against her hair, close his eyes and listen to her breathe.

"I am not regretting it," he will say. "Then or now."

Or ever.

Hetalia, "Multicultural," France/England, PG

2009-09-13T13:18:18Z

One free written for Explosive Toaster on deviantART. In exchange, she's drawing Jasen for me. I'm psyched! :D

She wanted something Hetalia, FrUK, involving books. I kinda sideways-accomplished the prompt (except not really). It was fun, though, so I hope you like it, dear!

Multicultural

by mistr3ss Quickly

The old friends—lovers; enemies—sit together in the evening, sipping wine neither will admit isn't nearly what it was before the Blight, their knees touching, eyes glued to the television—telly)—in an unspoken, mutually staunch denial that either is aware of the other's touch. War could be had over the suggestion that either likes the closeness of the other, that either enjoys the warmth hintingly similar to the old days, different enough to cause an ache in the chest that neither will admit to feeling.

So they sit and sip their wine, the old friends—lovers; enemies. Sometimes in the house of one bastard son; other times in the house of the other bastard son. They speak on vague terms, laying claim only where dispute won't be had, shucking responsibility wherever responsibility would make everyone downright uncomfortable.

Except tonight. This night.

"Well you can't really claim her," England says, swirling what's left of his wine around in his glass before taking a sip. "We have sons, you and I. Not daughters. And not … that."

France sighs through his nose. "What claim do you have on her, then?" he says. "She is certainly a beautiful English woman, if you know what I mean, but she is no more English than the dear fruits whose fermentation we savor this evening."

England looks at him sidelong. "This wine comes from upstate New York, ninny," he says. "No more French than she is."

"Ah, but her love, dear Arthur," France says, pressing his leg a bit more firmly against England's. "She is as passionate as a daughter of France, non?"

"We've had some passionate women in my house before," England counters.

"Yes but they were all French."

"They were not."

"Mmm." France shifts, places his hand carelessly above the spot where his knee is pressing. "You wouldn't've enjoyed a woman in your house anyway," he says.

England flushes. "You are so foul," he says.

"Mmm."

They turn their attention momentarily to the flickering screen of the television, watch the woman in question work, her hands steady and strong, her voice lyrical over the sound of stirring and chopping.

"You know she'll never bring the art of my cuisine to your son's house," France says, fingers finding their way to England's thigh, massaging the stiffly ironed tweed of the other nation's trousers, easing the tense muscle underneath. "How she's managed to escape his—and your—love of truly devastating acts of barely palatable slop is beyond me."

"America's lack of taste is none of my business and get your hand off of me," England says, waving vaguely at France's hand. "And she's managed to develop her tastes after years spent in your house, but that does not make her French." He turns, treating France to one of his most imperial glares. "Besides, America had her family investigated. They've passed as bona fide Americans."

A moment passes between them. Then laughter, both shaking with mirth.

"Oh the poor couple," France gasps, wiping tears from his eyes. "To live in my house so long and still be identifiable as American."

"Well one can tell from her accent," says England. "It's atrocious, even I can tell that."

France winces. "Well there is that," he says. "But her tongue has found what's truly French, so her accent is forgivable."

"You've never been so gracious," says England, dryly.

France looks at him, one eyebrow lifted. "Oh?"

"Yes and don't look at me like that, it's—aah! Francis, what—"

Wine spills on the carpet (no great tragedy to either nation, the wine and the carpet both of non-French and non-English origin) and the sofa creaks, the friends—lovers; enemies—putting aside their differences in the usual temporary truce. Undeterred, the woman on the screen creates a masterpiece of culinary delight, giving the world (and the friends—lovers; enemies) a smile laced with just a bit too much knowing as she bids her watchers good evening, and bon apetit!

Note:
In case you've not figured it out, they're watching one of Julia Child's famous cooking shows. Originally from Pasadena CA, Child lived in France from 1948 to 1960 (so far as I can tell; Wikipedia wasn't very specific), and in 1961 published her famous work, the Art of French Cooking. If you haven't seen the recent movie about her, Julie & Julia, you really should give it a try: you'll fall in love with Julia Child and Meryl Streep by the fifteen minute mark, I guarantee. ♥

Hajime no Ippo, "Happily Ever Accident," Kimura/Miyata, NC-17

2009-04-13T12:05:48Z

Why is this story 5,000+ words long? Seriously. Sat down to write it with no idea where it was going, spent three freakin' weeks churning out maybe 500 words of it, then in a day and a half, boom, 4.5k like it's nothing. Go figure.

If you've read Telling Tales, you know that Kimura makes reference to the story of how he and Miyata got together. Got a few people asking me what that story was (like I had any idea) and then Daevakun drew me a totally adorable picture of Kimura and Miyata snuggling and I promised her fiction, here it is at last.

Oh, and in case there are any canon-savvy fans reading this: this is the bastard child born of canon and my own take on canon. Miyata should've been deafened in his match with the Thai boxer, in my opinion, and Kimura's not cut out to be a pro boxer, so I went with that direction. Also, it's been a few years since I watched the series/OAV, so if I'm a little off on the details, you can correct me or you can just ignore it. Either way is fine with me. ^^

Read and enjoy, per favore!

Happily Ever Accident

by mistr3ss Quickly

Ichiro Miyata, genius boy of the boxing ring, son of a well-known boxer, pretty boy heart-throb boxing idol.

That's what everyone knows about him. Ichiro Miyata, who waltzed into the pro boxing world and made it weak at the knees, got the shit beat out of him by a guy ugly enough to curdle milk with nothing more than a glance, built himself back up afterwards and came back shining like the gold emblem of the National Champion belt.

Ask anybody who follows boxing, that's what they'll tell you about Ichiro Miyata. Even the fans who don't so much like him, they'll at least admit that he's damned good, that he's as close to genius as you get outside fiction.

And sure, that's what he is, to the public: genius, phoenix, golden boy, pretty boy, whatever.

There's more, though. Is with any celebrity, I guess, it just seems ... I dunno, weirder to me, 'cause I know this celebrity. Know a lot about him, more than I'd ever thought I would, more than I'd thought I'd want to know, back when he was Miyata the Genius, some kid younger than me who out-boxed my skills before he was even old enough to go pro.

Feels like that was forever ago, sometimes.

Anyway. Ichiro was an accident, back before he was a boxer, a genius, a champion. He was a "blessing birth," according to his parents, before the divorce. But that sounds real pretty and it's not pretty, it was the result of too many drinks and no protection, maybe his mom lying about being on the pill, maybe his dad not caring back then, no way to know and really, who'd care anyway? Not like it matters.

Except to Ichiro. It matters, to him.

Not like he admits that, though. He shrugs it off, doesn't even mention it, most of the time. His mom and dad aren't together anymore anyway, so it's not like someone could do the math and figure that he's been around longer than his parents have been married, or were married, or whatever. Not like anyone would've done that, anyway, not like they would've cared. Not even someone like Takamura, that big oaf has a big mouth and no tact, but he loves Ichiro like a little brother and would crush anyone he caught making Ichiro feel bad.

I would, too. But Takamura'd be better at it. No shame in admitting that.

So Ichiro was an accident, is an accident, the result of a swimsuit model celebrating a boxer's victory in some love hotel, back when they were young enough to think shit like that wouldn't have consequences. I've been there, know how that feels. Always had condoms in my bag, though, always knew to use 'em, so I didn't go the route Ichiro's dad went, thank God. Could've, though. A man comes out of a fight feeling like the most invincible being on earth, wakes up the next morning with a hangover and comes home the following month to a sobbing phone-call from a girl he maybe doesn't remember so well, finds out that in a couple of months he's going to be a dad.

I can't imagine how that must feel. Ichiro can, though, even though he's never slept with a girl. You can tell, just from the way he looks when he talks about it. Looks like he'll be sick, just thinking about it.

Makes sense, I guess. It is his dad we're talking about here, his dad making a mistake, something Ichiro has trouble accepting, not 'cause he's the mistake, but because it's his dad, and his dad doesn't make mistakes. Not in Ichiro's view, anyway.

So he was the little accident that got his dad and a swimsuit model to go to church long enough to say I do, but by that point she had stretch-marks and bags under her eyes from becoming a mom, and you can decide for yourself if it was the strain of motherhood on her beauty that made Ichiro's dad lose interest in her, or if it was Ichiro's dad losing his match and leaving the ring for good that made her lose interest in him, but something happened and boom, suddenly Ichiro's twelve years old and his dad's coming to the school to apologize to the principal because Ichiro's beat up some kid for calling him a bastard.

Not Ichiro's fault he grew up with someone teaching him how to punch. Not his fault either that his mom and dad split, leaving him open to folks calling him names.

Lots of stuff isn't Ichiro's fault. Most of the stuff he's suffered for wasn't his fault.

Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, though.

Anyway, so now that you know all that, shouldn't be too hard to see why he didn't want to be all out 'n proud about being into guys when he realized a couple'a years later that he was gay, y'know? I mean, he was already fighting with kids 'cause his parents split up, training himself to the point of breaking 'cause the boxing world was calling his dad—his hero—a failure and shit, and then one day he realized that maybe it meant something that he liked to get himself off while looking at the pictures in his dad's boxing magazines and if you think he didn't bolt into the back of the closet just as fast as those amazing feet of his could carry him, then you're dumber than a bag of rocks.

Into the closet he went. That's where he was when I met him for the first time. Quiet and sullen and crazy-serious about his training, didn't want to be friends with anyone, tolerated Takamura 'cause Takamura's big and loud and wouldn't go away even if God himself told him to fuck off. Not like I really wanted to be Ichiro's friend or anything, back then, though. Never really wanted to be his friend ever, still don't care about that shit. Don't think we'd really count as friends now.

Doesn't matter now, certainly didn't matter then. Didn't really matter 'til Ippo came into the picture, all beat up and crying 'cause guys at school were picking on him.

Yeah, Ippo.

Grin-and-bow Ippo.

Totally-fucking-affectionate-with-everyone Ippo.

Idiot Ippo.

Now you gotta understand, back then we were all pretty sure that Ippo was gay. I mean, the guy's hung like a horse, fell all over himself around the male boxers he admired, had "issues" with showering together with the lot of us, and the girl he decided to fall for? Looked like he was doing his absolute best to go after a girl he'd never have a chance of dating successfully.

Looked like a cover.

So he came into our lives, all smiles and blushes and Miyata-kun! and somehow managed to draw Ichiro out of his shell. Got Ichiro curious about him, got Ichiro to make the stupid mistake of asking about him every so often after he'd finished training for the day, which convinced Ippo that they were like best buddies or whatever, and that convinced all of us—all of us—that there was more than just friendship or whatever between them. Convinced us. Made us all pretty happy, even though it looked for the longest time like it was going to just be a one-sided thing.

I mean, it's Ippo. If ever somebody was perfect for loving Ichiro and treating him right, it's Ippo Makunouchi, you know? Kid's got a heart of gold, don't care how vicious he is when he boxes.

Where was I going with this? Oh right. Ichiro. Accidents.

It makes sense, I swear.

So Ippo befriended Ichiro, got him out of his shell a little. Lost some time while Ichiro was abroad, fighting, but when he came home, deaf in one ear and determined to prove himself in Japan, Ippo went after him harder than ever, wanted to hear his stories and share some stories of his own, and Ichiro responded to him because he really needed someone like that, back then. They kind of bonded or something, I guess. Maybe you could say they actually became friends, then, 'cause I know Ichiro didn't count any of us as friends before that Thai bastard destroyed his ear, started shrugging it off whenever we called Ippo his best friend, afterwards.

Another accident. I don't think Ippo had—or ever has had, really—any idea just how much good he was doing for Ichiro. He was just being friendly and happened to be exactly what Ichiro needed, exactly when Ichiro needed him.

Taught Ichiro something real important, taught him how much good a friendly hand on the shoulder could do for a guy really down on his luck.

Which turned out to be me, not too long after.

I'd gotten to know Ichiro a little better, back when I was getting ready to get my ass beat by Mashiba, not friends with him but friendly acquaintances, maybe, friendly enough that he came by to check on me after Mashiba turned me into hamburger. Friendly enough that he didn't make fun of me when I decided my big "comeback" was more of a big mistake and gave up boxing for good. He came by with a six-pack of beer when word got around that the girl I'd been kinda-sorta dating dumped me 'cause I'd given up boxing and wasn't cool enough to date anymore, stood there in my bedroom doorway and said he'd stolen the beer from Takamura. Said he figured I didn't need that loudmouth around so he'd stolen the beer and come by himself. Probably not true, but it made me laugh, 'cause really, who'd expect a joke out of quiet, serious Ichiro Miyata?

So I offered him a seat at the foot of my bed, nowhere else to sit, really, up in my room, cracked a beer for myself and gave him one, didn't have to push very hard for him to give in and drink it. Drank another one after that, then another, told him about my girl, drank some more and told him about how much I hated the idea of being a fuckin' florist for the rest of my life, told him lots of shit that he probably didn't care about, probably didn't want to know. He didn't act like he didn't care, though, didn't treat me like I was disgusting or pathetic or anything like that. He'd been around Ippo, he knew how to listen, knew how to do it without giving me that cold stare he used to give everybody, back in the day. Made me feel like he kind of maybe cared, and maybe he did, I dunno. I was pretty drunk by that point. Drunk enough that I don't trust now half the memories I have of that day, don't want to trust the half I do have, anyway.

I remember crying my eyes out, at one point. Remember Ichiro getting up, getting me a tissue from the box in my window sill. Remember him putting a hand on my shoulder when he sat back down, leaving it there while I blew my nose. Sitting close to me, dressed in his nice slacks and his nice button-down shirt. Looking at me like he felt bad for me.

Looking good enough to eat.

So I touched him, touched him by accident. My hand on his leg, up way too high for decency, but I swear it was an accident. Just trying to get my balance, meant to put my hand on his knee, just to let him know I was glad he was there, grateful to him for listening and shit. But he didn't push my hand away or tense up or anything, and I was so drunk, it gave me ideas, made me think maybe it'd be okay to kiss him, or something. Maybe 'cause he was the only person I'd seen since I gave up boxing once and for all who didn't look at me with pity or disgust or disappointment, I don't know.

I do know that I kissed him. Did it kind of sloppy 'cause I was drunk, maybe so I could claim it was an accident, if he wasn't okay with it. Honestly couldn't tell you which, maybe it was a little of both. 'Sides, I didn't know he swung that way, back then. Didn't know was interested. Had been, for months.

So yeah, I kissed him, and he let me do it, he kissed me back and pushed me back, and it was an accident that my hands got tangled up in the front of his shirt and managed to get the buttons out of the button-holes while he kissed me back. Didn't mind that accident so much. Falling in the floor—and taking Ichiro with me—wasn't such a good accident, it hurt and it made my mom worry, made her come upstairs to see if I was okay. Meant Ichiro was on the other side of the room and not kissing me anymore when my mom got up to my room and came in without knocking, and that sucked 'cause she started apologizing for me and Ichiro took that as a hint that he should leave, left me there in the floor, horny and drunk and feeling just about as rotten as a guy can feel.

Only he came back a day later. Said he'd lost his wallet somewhere, thought maybe he'd left it at my place. Said it was an accident that it was sitting right next to my fish tank, right where he'd been when my mom came into the room.

He's not a very good liar.

I kissed him again, that day. Not right away, of course. Got some beer from the kitchen and asked about Ippo—a good topic for him, he's always got news about Ippo—and from there it was a few beers each and Ichiro showing me his best estimation of how his new opponent punched and somehow we ended up kissing, no sloppy accident that time. Kissing like we were starved for it, Ichiro pulling 'til I was on top of him, right between his thighs and everything. Kicked over my beer in the process, by accident, but by god I didn't care, not at that point. Stain's still there on the rug, but there was no way I was stopping, not even for a second.

Means I didn't stop when Ichiro told me to. Not immediately. Not very willingly. But he's a strong guy, got a mean grip and muscle to back it up, got me hauled up off of him and glared at me like he does when he means business, startled me into backing off, getting my damn hormones under control.

"Not here," is what he said to me.

"Where?" I'm pretty sure I said. Maybe after a few choice curses, I dunno. Don't remember. Too busy thinking about the cock I could feel, hard against my belly, too busy wanting to kiss some more, feel Ichiro let go and kiss like he meant it.

Guess Ichiro wanted that, too, 'cause he stopped holding me back so hard and when I kissed him he kissed me back, just like I wanted, and when he said hotel, rubbing on me like he needed me to get him out of his pants pretty soon it was just about the hottest thing I'd ever felt, and if I came in my pants right then and there just because of that one stupid word, it was an accident, didn't have anything to do with the mental image I got of fucking him in a love hotel, didn't mean I wasn't expecting him to want to go that far that fast in anything but my fantasies. Just meant it'd been awhile since I'd gotten off and Ichiro was squirming under me and stuff, it could've happened to anyone.

Got to see him laugh, because of it. Made it better, getting to see that. A smile on his face that didn't come from a sick determination to beat another man unconscious. Joy he'd gotten from something other than pushing himself 'til he bled.

He laughed when I got up off of him and said I'd go change my trousers. Laughed some more when I told him that yes, we did need to go to the hotel, still. Laughed like he'd thought I wouldn't want to go with him, since I'd just come. Like I'd let a chance like that slip past me.

No way. No way in hell.

So I changed my underwear and trousers, dragged Ichiro out of the house before my mom could come up and spook him again. Didn't say much to him on the way to the bus stop, didn't say much on the bus ride to the other side of town. Didn't have to, I mean he was all closed off again by that point. Gets like that whenever we're out together, even now. Got me thinking, that day, about what we were doing. I mean, I wasn't that drunk that day, nothing like I was the first time I kissed him, so I was thinking a little clearer, helped that we were out in public, not touching. Got me thinking about how this was the Ichiro Miyata, and how I was about to go to a hotel and sleep with him, maybe. How that might not be the best idea.

Shut up, that's what I was thinking. Hindsight's 20/20 and Ichiro's fucking gorgeous, but at the time ... I dunno. I had some second thoughts. Worried about shit.

Made it kind of awkward when we got to the hotel, got into the room together. Should've been more awkward, being in my room with the door unlocked and my parents running the shop right downstairs, but it wasn't. Guess I'd sobered up a little or something and it didn't help that Ichiro was still acting kind of cold towards me 'cause we'd been out in public together, and yeah okay I made the first move—somebody had to do something—and kissed him, got a pretty damn good kiss out of him, but it wasn't enough to get me, y'know, interested by the time he'd gotten interested and put his hand on my belt, shoved his other hand down my pants.

I was coming off a buzz and worried about doing something I'd regret and scared the guy I wanted to kiss would see that I was having second thoughts. Not the best circumstances to get a guy all nice 'n firm, even when he's kissing a guy like Ichiro Miyata.

Ichiro kind of froze, there with his hand in my underwear, his face close enough that I could feel his breath coming fast against my chin. He said you're soft like it was the most unbelievable thing he'd ever encountered. Like you'd expect someone to say Takamura's being really nice or something.

And I was. Oh god, I was. Completely soft, right there in Ichiro Miyata's strong calloused hand.

I'd never been so horrified in my life.

Neither had Ichiro.

So I wrestled him away from the door—bastard was going to leave, can you believe it—and got him to sit down on the stupid heart-shaped bed with me, didn't kiss him because he kept rubbing his fingers together like he wanted to get the memory of my stupid soft cock off his skin, I figured the less I touched him, the better. I told him I was sorry, and bless him he said I told you so, totally thought I was soft 'cause I'd just come on him, and maybe that was it, but I don't think so. Didn't think so then, don't think so now. But he thought it, so that was okay.

Didn't have any idea I'd been having second thoughts about messing around with him. God, I can't even believe now that I ever did.

He scrubbed his hand over his face, a couple of minutes later. Said he didn't even know what he was doing there in the first place. I told him he didn't have to do anything if he didn't want to. Thought I was being nice. He didn't take it that way, though. He got mad and punched me in the face—in the face—and told me to stop treating him like a virgin.

I didn't know he was a virgin. Who'd've thought he was a virgin? Guy's gorgeous.

He was, though. When I'd kissed him the day before, drunk off my ass and drowning in self-pity, I'd taken his first kiss. Didn't know that, either.

So we sat there on the bed and didn't talk about much, 'cept for Ichiro asking if my face hurt a lot, sounding like he maybe kind of felt bad for hitting me. When the hour I'd paid for was up we hadn't touched each other once, not since Ichiro's hand on my cock and fist in my face, left together and yeah I was upset about it, embarrassed and pissed and embarrassed, god how could I not be? So maybe because of that I grabbed Ichiro's arm and dragged him to another hotel, a decent hotel, maybe I got us a room and went up to it, and maybe he came up with me and said that I was an idiot for wasting my money on a room instead of spending it on beer.

I went out and bought us beer. Bought a box of condoms and some lube, too, just in case. Can't blame a guy for hoping, right?

Ichiro can. Does, to this day. But he laughs about it, so it's okay.

Not like anything happened, anyway. Not really. We drank the beer and talked about dumb stuff, the guys at the gym and the guys they'd been beating lately. Talked about Ippo's miserable love-life and Ichiro's dad acting funny around the older female fans who'd taken to sending love-letters to Ichiro. Talked about the future and what retired boxers do, talked about Date and his wife and kid and how Ippo followed them around like a homeless puppy wanting to get adopted. Drank some more beer and lay down on the bed and talked about how mad Ichiro's dad would be that Ichiro was drinking instead of training, how dumb it was to waste money on a hotel room there in the city we both lived in.

Ichiro said: "Thought guys fucked when they went to a hotel together like this."

I'd never fucked in a hotel before. I told him that. He looked at me. Asked if I'd ever fucked a guy before.

I said: "You've gotta be kidding me."

He wasn't.

So I got to wrestle him away from the door, second time that night, told him he could cut it out with the fuck-you-I'm-leaving act. Told him yeah I'd fucked a guy before, told him I thought it was pretty obvious that me and Masaru were more than just best buddies, back in the day. Took him a minute to figure out what that meant, and when he did his eyes went all huge and that's when it occurred to me that maybe he'd thought I was a virgin with guys, like he was.

Hindsight's 20/20, I'm telling you.

Had to go out for some more beer, then, brought it back and we talked about guys and sex and when Masaru and I started messing around and (more importantly) when we'd stopped, talked about how many girls I'd fucked since then and shit like that. Not like Ichiro was trying to find out if I was clean, that's what I thought he was after at first. He just wanted to know, I think. Asked all these questions and got me talking and I don't shut up when I'm drunk so I told him everything he wanted to know and then some, told him shit that I'm pretty sure nobody would ever want to hear, and damned if it didn't get him horny enough to get right up on top of me, knock the beer I was drinking right out of my hand and shove me back on the bed. Got him to start rubbing on me like he wanted me to ruin a second pair of underwear in a single day, breathing like he'd run a mile.

"Show me," he said, all rough and out of breath and god so hot. "Show me what it's like to fuck a guy."

Now you'd think that, with that kind of order, I'd've fucked him. Flipped him over, ripped his pants off, shoved my fingers up his ass 'til he was just barely stretched enough, fucked him 'til we both came. Right? Or hell, you'd think I'd've at least gotten him up my ass, showed him how to fuck a guy, maybe climbed on top of him and given him a show.

But no, that isn't what happened. Not even close.

I did flip him over, kind of. Started to roll him a little, he took the hint and rolled over on his own, kissed me when I got on top of him. We got busy kissing, did that so-hot-but-so-frustrating fumble-with-each-other's-pants-until-it's-too-much thing, gave up and stripped ourselves. Bumped each other a few times in the process, just trying to get naked from the waist down, at very least. But then I had to get up to get the condoms and stuff out of my jacket pocket, stopped to take off my shirt before getting back into bed, and I don't know if Ichiro was just overwhelmed by the sight of a naked man, so close to him and so hard for him (what I'd like to think) or if he was trying to put on a show for me (more likely what was really going on) but when I turned around to look at him, he'd gotten ahold of his cock and started tugging on it, had his head tipped back and he was moaning, making noise like it was the best thing ever. And of course I stopped dead in my tracks, stood there and watched him, who'd miss out on a chance for a show like that? Encouraged him enough to get him to keep going, pulling at his cock and twisting his hand and damned if that wasn't enough to make him come, right there in his own strong fucking hand.

Now don't get me wrong, don't think for a second that it wasn't hot to watch him jack off and come all over himself. It's been years ago now and damn, I still get myself off thinking about it, sometimes, it was that hot. But still.

That night ...

There I am, standing not three feet from him, hard as a rock and dripping down myself, one sock on and butt-naked everywhere else, bottle of lube in one hand and a box of condoms in the other, and the guy I was really pretty hell-bent on fucking is lying there staring at me, come all over his shirt, all over his hand, dripping down those goddamn delicious abs of his into the curls around his not-so-hard-anymore cock.

This is where you stop laughing. Yeah it's funny now, but that night?

Not so funny.

I'll never forget the look on Ichiro's face. That look he gets when he's fighting and his opponent manages to get a good shot in, that look of completely horrified disbelief. Never forget how he gave me that look, then gave his cock that look, looked up at me like he thought I'd be mad.

Probably shouldn't've made me laugh, but it did. He says it was hysterical laughter, maybe it was, but I think it wasn't. It was funny, seeing him look at his cock like it had just out-boxed him or something, maybe kind of a relief to see him come too soon, since I'd just done it a few hours earlier.

I think I said oops, trying to cheer him up.

Know for sure he said shut up and stormed off to the bathroom to clean himself up.

He came out just as I was finishing myself off, back in my clothes and jerking off into a tissue, not something I'd really wanted him to see me doing but I was too close to coming to just stop. He waited 'til I was done, came over and sat down next to me. Wasn't wearing his shirt, it was drying in the bathroom where he'd washed his come out of it. Looked damn good, sitting there in just his pants, looking at me through his hair like he didn't quite know what to say.

Shy isn't something you see in Ichiro Miyata very often. Makes it just that much more adorable when it turns up.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to finish. Just thought I'd ... it was an accident."

I laughed. Too much beer, too many endorphins from getting off, maybe just nerves, who knows. "Neither did I, earlier," I told him. "Accidents happen."

He looked at the condoms on the bedside table. Went all red in the face, cutest thing I've ever seen.

"Can't use those, now that you've come too, can we," he said.

I told him we could. Didn't mean to lie to him, really. I thought we could.

We didn't, though. Had the last two beers in the six-pack I'd bought, lay back on the bed and talked about nothing, maybe kissed a little, stuff like that. Didn't mean to fall asleep, that was an accident, too, but when I woke up in the morning with Ichiro Miyata next to me, stretching like he does before doing his roadwork, I didn't really mind.

I got a good hold on him and kissed his shoulder, startled him enough that he jumped, all those hard muscles tensing under my arms.

"Not yet, Champion," he says I said, says I kissed him again when I said it.

Don't remember that, either. All I really remember is pulling him down, kissing him on the mouth. Remember keeping him down, keeping him there were I could touch him and kiss him and feel him getting hard against my leg.

Didn't take any condoms home with me, that afternoon. Didn't have any left.

That wasn't an accident at all.

~*~*~*~
I guess some people might count that as how me and Ichiro got together. I don't, though, and Ichiro doesn't, either. He got busy with fighting and I got busy with stuff, studying at night and working for my parents during the day. We'd see each other sometimes, have a beer every once in awhile, sometimes get a room and mess around, but not very often. Wasn't until I'd finished all my night classes and was talking about moving to a different part of Tokyo that we really hooked up, Ichiro asking me if I'd stay because of one person and me saying yes because fuck, yeah I'd stay for him, who wouldn't? Got all caught up in each other that night and accidentally made enough noise for my mom to come up and see if we were okay, and that's how she and my dad found out about me and Ichiro, how they decided maybe they should help me move out and get a place of my own.

Didn't need it. Ichiro had his own place by then. Said he'd be okay with me coming to live there. And that's how we got together. All embarrassed 'cause my mom walked in on us half-naked and groping each other. Shoving my stuff into boxes so I could move in with Ichiro Miyata, wonder boy of the boxing ring.

So that's my story, that's our story. Our little accidental fairytale that somehow has a happily ever after. Ichiro swears he'll find a way to kill me and make it look like it was an accident if I ever tell, so I keep it to myself. Won't tell a soul, ever.

Even by accident.

Hetalia, "The Pleasure of Three," Japan/Germany/Italy, NC-17

2009-04-09T15:06:14Z

Do you have any idea how good it feels to write fanfiction for the kink-meme and not feel guilty because I should be doing something else? It's ... it's truly wonderful.

I wrote this Wednesday morning while boiling some water to make breakfast. Ate my breakfast and gave this the once-over, then posted it and went to work. Got home and had comments on it ... and I didn't feel like a waste of space because I'd gone off and done my thing all day. Felt like I'd earned the fun I have writing fiction.

Pretty freakin' sweet.

Anyway, here's a fiction based around a truly awesome prompt that I kinda-sorta almost filled except I didn't but I like the fiction anyway so here it is. :D

Original prompt: China, Japan, Korea & Taiwan, tetraphobia: fear of the number 4, or just East Asian superstitions in general. Something scary/historical would be excellent. A crack fill is fine too.

The Pleasure of Three

by mistr3ss Quickly

Four has always meant misfortune, meant death.

Vier, in Ludwig's heavy, clipped language.

Quattro, in Feliciano's lilting, musical tongue.

Four.

Shi.

Death.

A number Honda Kiku has been taught to fear since his early days, when his days were occupied with nothing but the gentle breath of the rice growing, his little hands growing stronger as he drew Big Brother China's pictures in the sands of his lonely island.

Four is unlucky. Divisible. A sure sign of misfortune to anyone who happens to draw it.

He thinks of this, thinks of the four who oppose him and the nations he supports. Thinks of it and shivers despite the warmth of Ludwig's back, pressed sweaty against his chest and belly. He closes his eyes and pushes into the German's slick, gripping heat, warms himself in Ludwig's groan, Feliciano's answering trill of pleasure, their bodies moving in counterpoint, shaking the bed.

Three is a safe number. Tre. Drei. San. Three is strength barely restrained, three is power and desire. Three is the feel of Feliciano's feet pushing against the mattress, taking Ludwig deeper into himself and faster, Ludwig tightening as he answers with a thrust hard enough that Honda nearly slips out of him, all three moaning as Honda forcefully reasserts himself in the encounter.

It's a mess, Feliciano shuddering and twisting and calling out in his musical language, pulling Ludwig down for a sloppy, ridiculously arousing kiss as he comes, his own fingers tangled in his long curl of hair, tugging on it in rhythm with Ludwig's strong hand tugging at his cock. He shivers and writhes when Ludwig pulls out of him, doesn't move from his place on the mattress, sticky and messy and panting and watching, unashamed, as his companions continue without him, more desperate than before.

Two. Due. Zwei. Ni. No more kissing, no more touching. Nothing but thrusting and grunting and panting, Ludwig's tight heat pulling at Honda's restraint, Feliciano's semen smeared along Ludwig's length as he takes himself in hand.

"Nnh. Nnh."

Honda watches, waits. Thrusts hard and steady, the perfect even tempo that he knows will be his partner's undoing but can't help but fall into anyway, and Ludwig tries—struggles, as always—but succumbs, growling as his restraint crumbles and he comes, strong muscles shaking, his pale cheeks flushed crimson. Feliciano moves with him, adds as best he can to Ludwig's pleasure, murmuring sweetly in his own language as Ludwig pants and shudders and makes a mess of him, for once unobjecting to the little kisses Feliciano peppers across his cheeks and shoulders and chest.

"Hold me," Feliciano says, lying back and pulling Ludwig with him, leaving Honda to bring himself off. "Mmm, Germany~."

Honda doesn't mind. He's always close, always last, no matter what Feliciano and Ludwig may do to prolong their own involvement. Alone, uno, ein, ichi. He wraps his hand around himself and does what he needs to do, closes his eyes when Feliciano turns to nuzzle against the Iron Cross Ludwig wears even in bed. He comes when his body is ready, slips out of the bed to clean himself of his own semen, of his partners' sweat.

When he returns, the bed is empty, the shadows of the four standing beside it cast long in the evening light.

"Do you see, now?" they say.

He nods. He does see.

Four has always meant misfortune, meant death.

Even when hidden away in the pleasure of three.

I'm no history buff, but I did read up on things while writing this: Italy surrendered first, then attacked Germany, hence his coming first and "attacking" Germany after; Japan surrendered last, after Germany's surrender. And if you can't figure out who the four are at the end, then you suck even worse at history than I do, and that's saying something. :P

Hetalia, "Marks," Russia/Lithuania, PG-13

2009-04-09T14:46:18Z

So anyone remember when the Phoenix Wright kink-meme ate my soul? Well it's happened again, only this time with the Hetalia kink-meme. I'd been lurking the meme for some time, trading off between reading it and reading the actual Hetalia manga, but for some reason, this particular prompt woke me at 4:30 in the morning while I was in Bangkok and wouldn't let me be 'til I'd written it, so here it is. My history's not that great and I've never heard of Eastern Promises, but I looked up Lithuania and Russia on wikipedia, so hopefully this story won't embarrass me too much? idk.

Original prompt: "Russia/Lithuania, tattoo. Russia has prison/mafia tattoos like in Eastern Promises."

Marks

by mistr3ss Quickly

Lithuania has a habit in the evening, in the morning as well. Any time he bathes or undresses, really, any time there is a mirror nearby, a window reflecting his image back to him against the dark sky. It's a silly habit, one he's certain Russia has noticed, even though the larger man hasn't mentioned it to him. Silly and pointless and that's probably how he gets away with it, probably why Russia hasn't said anything about it, hasn't teased him or worse for his neuroses.

The reflections startle me, he's thought of saying, should he ever be in a situation where his actions are questioned. They make me feel like I'm not alone.

Though that would be a stupid thing to say, he thinks, drawing the curtains closed over the windows in the bedroom, fumbling a bit in the dark. Russia will smile and slip a ridiculously strong arm around him and purr in his ear, why would anything ever startle you in my house?, bating him, daring him to answer. And besides that, he isn't ever alone, Russia's pale gaze always following him, always watching him.

Lithuania shivers and lights the lantern he's brought with him, carries it into the bathroom. He sees his own reflection for the briefest moment before he's managed to cover the large free-standing mirror with a sheet, the shadows shifting eerily in the low light from the lantern. He doesn't mind much, though, not the shadows or the ghostly appearance of the sheet. It's better than the alternative, less unsettling to see the cloth dance and reach for him as he moves about, drawing his bath and undressing, than what he would see, were the cloth puddled in the floor, motionless.

He feels Russia's hands on him just as he's steadying himself on the edge of the tub, preparing to slip into the hot water. Startles a bit, his entire body running cold at the closeness of the other nation, sudden and unexpected.

"Ah, you are cold," Russia murmurs, stroking him a bit from hip to ribs and back again. "You are wanting companionship to warm you up, hmm?"

It's the sort of question that carries only one acceptable answer, so Lithuania opts to give no answer at all, moving carefully so as not to indicate any disrespect or annoyance towards Russia, lowering himself into the water.

His skin burns in places and aches in others. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, controls every whimper that would come out of his mouth when Russia has disrobed and slipped into the water behind him, the other man's larger form raising the level of the water almost to spilling.

"Ah, is nice," Russia comments.

Lithuania nods. It is nice, the warmth of the water chasing the chill in his bones, soothing the aches he endures during the day. Only it would be nicer if it were his, alone. Not something shared.

The water ripples and Russia extends his arm to the shelf where the lantern sits, his pale fingers bathed yellow in the light as he strengthens the flame, filling the room with light. He makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat and pulls his hand back, pausing just briefly before slipping his hand under the water once again, long enough to pull away the sheet Lithuania has so carefully arranged over the mirror.

"It is better now," his reflection announces, catching Lithuania's attention and holding it there, mesmerized like a bird before a cobra. "It is frightening before, hmm? Like the stories one should not tell to children, I am thinking."

Lithuania watches the movement of his own lips as he hollowly agrees, but his heart isn't in it. In the reflection he can see himself, pale and small compared to the man spooned behind him. He can see the evidence of their shared history, marring his back and shoulders, knows that it's no different than the markings he sees when he dresses himself in the morning, scars crisscrossing permanently over flesh he's ashamed to allow others to see. Ashamed to bear the evidence of abuse he's allowed over the years.

But he can see other things, as well. Other scars, other markings.

Not his own.

Russia smiles serenely, just as cold and terrifying as the deepest winters in his remotest lands, watching as Lithuania observes them in the mirror, his hand moving to rest on Lithuania's belly, stroking upwards to Lithuania's breastbone, strong fingers over soft skin.

"We all are carrying our histories, hmm?" he says, quiet breath warm against Lithuania's ear. "You are not thinking you are the only one, I am sure."

Lithuania swallows. "N-no," he says.

"Would you hear my stories?" Russia says.

Lithuania turns to look at him, to truly look at the man who daily terrifies him. Russia meets his gaze and holds it, unblinking, and somehow it isn't as frightening as Lithuania expects.

"Yes," he says. "I would."

~*~*~*~
After that evening, Lithuania continues to draw the curtains, to cover the mirror. He shrinks away from others' touches, keeps himself covered at all times, save when he is certain he is as alone as he will ever be. And when the time comes for him to leave Russia's house, to leave the thick-glass windows and tall, old mirrors, he finds that he carries with him still the memory of scar-twisted skin and fading blurred ink even when he closes his eyes, lying in another's arms to heal.

News! I got a job! Like ... a REAL job!

2009-02-05T06:04:34Z

It's 12:43 in the morning, I have a 9-hour drive tomorrow, and I can't sleep. Figured I should post here to give some details about the good news I got on Tuesday, since I'm otherwise just sitting here re-reading a very good Naruto fanfiction for the ... um. Probably sixth time? Maybe more.

... wow, that's embarrassing.

Anyway, here's my excellent news, and some details about what comes next.

Tuesday, 2/3: I woke up at 8:40 in the morning, heart pounding, and said to poor mr. Quickly, "Is this Tuesday? What'm I supposed to do today at 9:00? I know I'm forgetting something."

I got a yes it's Tuesday, an I don't know, and a back turned to me, combined with an unhappy growl.

Still, I was convinced something important was scheduled for 9am on Tuesday, and it was really upsetting me that I couldn't remember what it was I was supposed to do. No meeting with my advisor, no work with OPIE or ISFS, no plans to drive one of my parents around or go to the doctor/dentist/vet. Kept my adrenaline up enough that I could not go back to sleep, even though I'd been up 'til 4am the night (morning?) before.

At 9:07am, my phone rang. By 9:08, I had accepted the job offered me by Felician College in Lodi, New Jersey, which is located about 20 minutes west of New York City.

How weird is that?

The job's official title is "International Student Advising and Recruitment." My duties will include attending college fairs, contacting and maintaining relationships with schools abroad, visiting schools in other countries, bringing students to the campus and conducting orientations, and taking students on trips around the Lodi and New York City areas. I will also be responsible for advising students on their rights and responsibilities as immigrants to the United States, hopefully mostly F1 students because I'm super-shaky on the J regulations. (F1 students are students who immigrate to the U.S. for educational purposes and are usually in status only for the duration of their program of study.)

The college itself is small, around 3,000 students enrolled (if my memory serves, which it may not). It's a private Catholic school, founded by the Felician sisters, and oh my goodness they have nuns. That excites me far more than it should, but come ON, they're nuns! That's like, super-cool. *cough* The campus is divided between the Lodi and Rutherford campuses, which lie 3 miles apart and have a shuttle system running between them during the day and evening.

Let's see, what else. I'm going to NJ soon to take a look at some apartments and sign my contract. Rent is expensive over there, being as close to NYC as it is, but the properties so far look very nice, and thankfully there are pet-friendly places close to the college. Everyone wants to know what mr. Quickly is going to be doing; so far it looks like he's going to help me move, then decide if he wants to come with me or stay here after he's got a better handle on how his thesis is progressing, etc. I'm hoping Miss Jaspercats can come with me, keep me company while I'm adjusting to my new home, but I'm not sure if that's going to be possible, because ...

I'm apparently going to Thailand next month. And Taiwan. For a week. *dances* That email came through this evening after I'd gotten home from work, inviting me to go along with the women who conducted my interview, actually, to get some hands-on experience in recruitment (which I have seriously no experience in, but hey, this past September I knew nothing about immigration regulations, and now I can hold my own in a conversation on just about anything F1 visa-related, so I'm not terribly worried).

... that's a complete lie, I'm terrified. Who wouldn't be? But also very happy and feeling exceptionally blessed. This is exactly the kind of job I've been wanting, and it comes at a time when I'm ready to go. Thesis is written and ready to be submitted for signatures (pretty much), I am completely disillusioned with the work I've been doing for OPIE, ISFS doesn't need me (though I loved working with them this winter and am unspeakably grateful for their support and training and serious awesomeness, there's NO way I would have gotten this Felician job without them), and JCon ... well. I love my anime club, but they will be just as awesome without me as they are with me. Maybe even moreso, there's a lot of untapped awesome in that group. ♥

So! That's the story, as it stands now. Any questions about what I'm doing or when I lost my mind or grew another set of balls or both are more than welcome. I'm just plainly thrilled. Out of Ohio at last! :D

~mQ

Phoenix Wright, "For the Common Cold," Miles/Phoenix, NC-17

2009-01-14T19:52:37Z

Art-trade with PseudoNonchalance over at y!gallery, 'cept it's writing 'cause I still can't draw my way out of a paper bag. *laughs*

She wanted either her originals or Miles/Phoenix and, as no originals are talking to me these days, she gets the latter. I hope it's what you had in mind, dear!

For the Common Cold

by mistr3ss Quickly

They're not drunk, the first time, though Miles is groggy from the cough syrup Phoenix brought him after court and Phoenix is giddy with his first paying victory in nearly three months. One kiss of greeting/celebration turns into a grope in the hallway of Miles' flat, which turns quickly enough into a breathless stumble into Miles' bedroom and ends just as quickly in a coughing fit and Phoenix fetching a box of tissues, blushing when Miles glares blearily at the bulge of his erection, pressing at the front of his cheap polyester-blend trousers.

"If this is a hallucination brought on by that foul stuff you made me swallow, Wright," he says, after blowing his nose in what would be an undignified manner, were it anyone else doing it, "I'll have you killed."

"Right," says Phoenix, trying to subtlely adjust himself and failing to do anything more than attract Miles' attention to his crotch. "Have to get you well first, though. Lie down, I'll make soup."

The soup turns out badly enough that it's nearly a month before the second time, and then it's only because Maya begs that Miles goes to see Phoenix, stopping off along the way only long enough to buy the ingredients for a decent chicken-noodle soup and a box of tissues. He arrives to an unlocked apartment and an unconscious Phoenix, neither of which concern him terribly, so he busies himself instead with assembling the soup, jumping only a little when Phoenix appears behind him, fever-sweaty and heavy, leaning.

"If you've got some of that stuff I made you take, I'll take it," Phoenix mumbles pathetically, swaying dangerously when Miles turns to frown at him. "Don' care if it kills me, feel like death anyway."

"Hm, how pathetically poetic, Wright," Miles says. He ruffles the spikes drooping into Phoenix's eyes and inclines his head towards the table. "Over there. Don't overdose, you'll make a mess, and I won't be cleaning up after you."

The medicine does its work well, knocking Phoenix so far into a drug-induced dreamland that Miles ends up eating a bowl of soup alone and leaving the rest in the refrigerator. The soup is good, though, good enough that Phoenix shows up at Miles' office a week later with a grin on his face and two cups of coffee from the good coffee-house two blocks away.

"What's this, Wright?" Miles says, eyeing the cups suspiciously.

"Coffee," Phoenix says. "Well, tea, in your case. I promise I didn't make either of them."

Miles' gaze rises to rest on Phoenix's face. "Why?" he says.

Phoenix shrugs. "Third time's a charm?" he says.

Miles rolls his eyes and calls him an idiot.

He does take the cup of tea Phoenix offers him, though. Takes a sip, sets the cup down. Crosses his office in four long strides and closes the door, locks it with a snap of his wrist.

"Your taste in tea," he says, crossing back Phoenix, "and where to procure it is far superior to your taste in instant soup."

Phoenix doesn't answer. Doesn't set down his own cup, either, so the kiss Miles presses against his mouth is less passionate than it could be, less passionate than the kiss he answers with, after Miles takes his cup away and reaches for the knot in his tie.

"Didn't think you—mmm—did stuff like this at the office," he says, slipping his hands past the waistband of Miles' trousers to squeeze the man's ass.

"Shall I not, then?" Miles says, punctuating the question with a roll of his hips.

Phoenix groans and shakes his head, gives Miles' ass another squeeze as he's pushed back against the smooth edge of the desk. He groans again, this time in protest, when his hands are wrestled roughly from their place on Miles' ass. Starts to complain, the minute his mouth is no longer occupied with kissing, but Miles' glare silences him, Miles' hands busy with his belt and zipper bringing an appreciative hum from him instead.

"Oh god, Miles," he breathes, tipping his head back and shivering at the first touch of his lover's mouth to the head of his erection. "Aah ..."

Miles chuckles softly and draws him in, takes him deep. Swallows around him, hands on Phoenix's hips, holding the man steady as he starts building a rhythm, fast and irregular, swallowing just often enough to reduce Phoenix to a shivering mess within minutes.

"Ah, Miles, I'm close," Phoenix murmurs, just as Miles' jaw is beginning to ache. "I'm—I'm going to—ngh—!"

He comes, fingers tangled in Miles' hair, making a mess of it, cock shoved deep in Miles' mouth. Hums in acknowledgment when Miles leans back and chastises him softly for being too rough, his body slumped bonelessly against he desk.

"Your fault, that was amazing," he says.

Miles clears his throat. "I had gathered as much from your lack of stamina," he says.

Phoenix chuckles. "Yeah, yeah. Go sit in your chair, my turn to make you look bad."

Which he puts forth his best effort to do, licking and sucking and swallowing with all the enthusiasm he's famous for bringing to the courtroom. But it's not until Miles' patience wears thin, his chair shoved roughly backwards as he stands to fuck Phoenix's throat, that Phoenix's true skills surface, one of his fingers slipping back to tease where Miles is most sensitive, barely wiggling inside the prosecutor's body before Miles stiffens and comes, without a sound and without warning, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he empties himself into his lover's mouth.

"And you said I was too rough with you," Phoenix says, a bit hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Miles frowns. "You didn't seem to have any objection," he says.

"To that?" says Phoenix. "'Course I didn't, you're hot when you lose control."

"I did not—"

"I'll be getting some mileage out of that the next time you get sick and can't do more than tease me, I'll tell you that."

Miles rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Wright."

"Swear to God," says Phoenix.

He stands, brushes off the knees of his trousers. Kisses Miles on the lips once before he's pushed away, towards his cooling cup of coffee, Miles objecting softly to kissing something that's so recently been sucking him off.

"Yeah, well it's not the best flavor in the world," Phoenix says, sipping experimentally at his coffee before taking a long drink, "but it is better than that cough syrup I got you. Admit it."

Miles takes a drink of his tea and nods. "Better than your idea of chicken noodle soup, too," he says.

Phoenix laughs. "Probably," he says, mingling his coffee with his lover's tea, taking the man's mouth in a slow, gentle kiss. "Probably."

Original, "Reading," Quincy/Ezzelin, PG

2009-01-06T18:23:48Z

Exactly 999 words of a story that was supposed to be a quick 150-word drabble to go along with the drawing I did for Seppy. Who knew the muses were going to be talkative? *laughs*

Just so everyone's clear, Ezzelin and Quincy are © Seppy, and I'm pretty sure this story is hers, too, since they're her characters and it was written for her. Interesting, I wonder what the actual legality of that is. /geek

Anyway, enjoy! Story's worksafe, image isn't, just so you know. *nods*

Reading

by mistr3ss Quickly

Ezzelin receives a package in the mail, Monday morning while he's sitting at his desk, putting the last grades from Friday's exam into his gradebook. Ignores the package until after lunch, when he's in his office for advising sessions. Opens the package because it's too early in the term for the students he'll likely be failing to be overly anxious about their grades, too late in the term for the students he'll give passing marks to be lurking in his doorway, wanting to ask questions about the material but embarrassed to do so because they've been reading ahead in the textbook.

It's a book, once he's got the brown paper unwrapped from it. Heavy, hardcover. Bound in stiff blue fabric, the title Essays on Advancement: Demonology and its Socio-Anthropological Applications embossed in gold on the spine. Inside the front cover is a note, hand-written, the paper heavily scented with the acrid smell of newly published academics.

Mr. Follett, the note reads, I'm sure you don't remember me, but I was your student some years ago. Your encouragement put me on my current academic path, and for that I'm most grateful.

This is the first volume I've published. Please do not feel obligated to read it; however, I wanted you to have a copy. Thank you so much for the role you played in my education. I am very grateful.

Underneath, there is a signature, scrawling and fancy, with the date below that. Ezzelin frowns at it, then turns to the book's title page, his frown softening as he recognizes the name typed under the title.

Certain that I don't remember you, he thinks, reaching for the cup of coffee he poured for himself long ago enough that it's cooled to a drinkable temperature. What a suggestion. His lips curve, almost in a smile. At least I instilled in you some sense of humility.

He tucks the note in between pages 293 and 294, then sits back in his chair, opens to the first page of the introduction, and begins to read.

It's an hour later before Ezzelin tears himself from the words printed in the book, his mind jarring a bit as he realizes how close he's come to making himself late for his afternoon lecture. He marks his place with the note from the author, leaves the book on his desk. But the information from it stays with him, bothers him all through his lecture. He apologizes to one of his students when a question asked of him towards the end of the hour fails to stick in his mind, asks the student to repeat the question, then answers it as best he can. When there are no more questions, he dismisses class early, five minutes early but early still, gathers his books and papers and returns to his office, eager to collect his book and go home.

He's a few pages shy of one hundred pages past the point where he stopped in order to see to his lecture when Quincy comes home. Two pages past one hundred pages beyond the last stopping point, one hundred sixty-two pages from the start of the introduction, when Quincy's body brushes up against his shoulders, Quincy's hand dropping down into his field of vision, moving quickly enough that he's barely registered its presence before his book is snatched away, held dangling irreverently in the air.

"Quincy," he says, reaching for his book, "stop that, I'm trying to read."

"You're trying to turn into stone," Quincy answers, hoisting the book out of reach when Ezzelin makes a grab at it. "Come on, you didn't even notice when I came home, you're being antisocial."

"I did notice, I didn't care, please leave me alone, do not treat my things with such disrespect," Ezzelin says, flatly, reaching again for his book.

"Your things!" says Quincy, lifting the book once again out of reach. "You treat them better than you treat me, you grouchy old man."

The book's pages flutter when he yanks the book out of reach, once again, the spine creaking. Ezzelin swears and stands, twisting around to face his lover, hand outstretched when the note from the author, tucked between the book's pages, comes free, drifting gently to the floor at Quincy's feet.

Quincy surrenders the book, diving instead for the note. He plucks it up before Ezzelin has a chance to stop him, turns and holds it well out of reach, chuckling when Ezzelin gives up, clutching his book to his chest and pouting like a child.

"You're so neurotic," he says, clucking his tongue.

"You're such a child," Ezzelin grumbles in retort.

There's a moment. Silence. Quincy's eyes dart back and forth, his face falling as he reads the scrawling handwriting on the note.

"Oh," he says. "Oh."

He gives the note back without another word. Stands by, looking uncomfortable while Ezzelin takes his book and settles in his chair, once again.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally, after Ezzelin's found his page and begun to read. "I heard that you were distracted during class, and then you let your students go early. I thought something might be wrong, wanted to, uh. Distract you. Cheer you up, maybe."

Ezzelin sighs. Looks up from his book. Turns enough to level his lover with a frown.

"You're naked," he says.

Quincy chuckles softly. "You noticed?" he says.

Ezzelin's frown deepens. "Yes."

"Mmm."

Ezzelin clears his throat. "I'm nearly to the end of this chapter," he says.

Quincy's face spreads into a grin, showing teeth. "Well, then," he says. "I'll go wait in the bedroom, shall I?"

Ezzelin nods. "I won't be long."

"Oh good," says Quincy. He winks. "Don't rush on my account. There may be a quiz on what you've read, you never know."

Then he turns to go, Ezzelin's soft smile warming him as he climbs into bed and curls up, reaching for a book to keep him company until Ezzelin comes in to take its place.

Original, "Ezzelin's New Clothes," Ezzelin/Quincy, Nicholai, PG

2008-12-18T03:52:42Z

Promised ... oh goodness, when did I promise to start doing fairytales? Sometime early- or mid-Fall quarter, certainly. And oh, my first attempt at this story was a massive failure, I had, at one point, Quincy coming out of a refrigerator. Don't ask me, I don't know what I was thinking, all I know is that it happened, and then I was like "whut" and scrapped the fic.

So! Here's the better version. No one's in a refrigerator, and it's close enough to count as a fairytale abuse. Enjoy!

Also, please note that Ezzelin, Quincy, Nicholai, and Nicholai's pillow are all © Seppy, they're not mine, and I don't recommend writing them without permission, Julius will fricassee you if you try. *nods*

Ezzelin's New Clothes

by mistr3ss Quickly

Ezzelin suspects something's amiss when Nicholai doesn't resist going to bed, Wednesday night. Has a gut feeling that he's missing something when Quincy lingers in the doorway while Nicholai gets his goodnight hug, acting eager to put the boy to bed. Gets downright suspicious when, ten minutes after saying goodnight to Nicholai, he hears laughter coming from the boy's room.

He should know better than to allow curiosity to get the better of him. He knows that. Knows that, whatever's going on, it's probably nothing he wants any part of, probably something that will just add to the headache he's got budding between his eyes.

He goes to the door and listens anyway.

"Just like that," he hears Quincy saying, voice light with laughter. "And I said to him, 'Ezzelin, you can't go out there, you're not wearing anything!' But he was so drunk he didn't even—"

At which point, the headache swells to a full throb, the crack of the door hitting the wall as it's thrown open doing nothing at all to alleviate it.

"Quincy Richard Porcelain," Ezzelin says, "what in the name of—"

"Goodness, you're loud at bedtime," Quincy says. "And in answer to your question, the story about that New Year's when you didn't realize the punch was alcoholic, remember?"

He doesn't remember, not really. Nothing past the cup of punch that tingled delightfully as he swallowed it, nothing until the following morning, complete with too-bright sunlight and too-loud Quincy and a cup full of something that had once been a decent tomato juice and did not kick the headache-nausea-dizziness like Quincy had promised it would. But that's not something his son needs to know, so he grunts and nods and does his best to loom over his lover, which isn't terribly difficult, what with Quincy seated on the edge of Nicholai's bed.

"I hardly think this is an appropriate story for bedtime," Ezzelin says.

"It's not my bedtime story," Nicholai says.

"He's right, it's not," Quincy says.

"Then go to sleep, it's past your bedtime," Ezzelin says.

"Did you really go out naked and tell everyone that the party was over 'cause you were drunk?" Nicholai says.

"Hey now, that's not what I said happened," Quincy says.

He looks nervous. Like he knows just how much trouble he's in.

Ezzelin pulls up a chair. Sits down in it, regretting only a bit that he's left his drink in his study.

"We really should talk about this another time, you know," he says, crossing his legs. "But, with things like this, it seems that the longer a parent waits to discuss it, the worse the child's misconceptions are. Heaven only knows what misconceptions you've gotten already from your ... source."

"I only told him the truth!" Quincy splutters, indignant.

Ezzelin answers him with a glare. "What actually happened is this: a student—whom we caught and disciplined for his actions—added a large quantity of alcohol to the punch served at the school's New Year's party. Upon drinking a few cups of it, I became inebriated, then ill. I went to an empty classroom to lie down, and at some point the noise from the hall became too much for me to tolerate. I simply rose, went to the hall, spoke with the students about being quiet, then retired to my apartment for the evening."

Nicholai narrows his eyes. "Daddy said you were naked," he says.

"Yes," Ezzelin growls, giving his lover a sidelong glare. "He tells everyone that. But you must understand, Nicholai, that not everyone defines things in the way you define them, so when your father says 'naked,' he does not mean that I was wearing nothing. He simply means that—"

"Oh don't, you'll ruin the story," Quincy says, sulking.

Ezzelin resists the urge to smack him. "—that I was wearing my dress-shirt and slacks only, I'd shed my shoes and tie and vest in the interest of being comfortable while I lay down," he says. "Most of the students had never seen me ... relaxed and ill, before, so rumor spread eventually, to students who did not attend the event, that I was nude when I came out to see to the noise level in the room."

Nicholai blinks. "So you weren't actually naked," he says.

"Correct," says Ezzelin. "I was not actually naked."

He should suspect something's amiss when, instead of frowning at his father and accusing the man of lying to him, Nicholai's face lights up. Has a gut feeling he's missing something when Quincy's lips twist into what can only be described as a wicked smirk. Gets downright suspicious when Nicholai squirms in bed, toes and fingers and feelers all wriggling like he can barely contain himself.

"Daddy was right, then," Nicholai says. "He said only really smart people could see your clothes, like in the book. So you weren't really naked, you just looked that way to the students who were too stupid to shut up when you were working on a killer hangover!"

He beams at his fathers, one shaking with barely stifled laughter while the other stares at him, slack-jawed. Says right, Daddy? when Quincy's nearly got his breath back, then right, Dad? when Quincy breaks down into heaving guffaws, loud enough to earn a disgruntled trill from the lump of fluff curled on Nicholai's pillow.

"Not exactly," Ezzelin says. "But, as it's past your bedtime, I suppose we can sort out the details in the morning."

He leans down and kisses his son on the forehead. Gets ahold of Quincy's sleeve and tugs, gets the man to his feet and moving towards the door, at least. They pause in the doorway, long enough for Quincy to blow a goodnight kiss to Nicholai, then Ezzelin pushes, gets the still-giggling fop out into the hall without any more questions being asked.

"I can't believe you, sometimes," he says, brushing Quincy's hands away from his shoulders and ducking into his study, his head throbbing badly enough that his glass of bourbon seems a beacon of light in the darkness. "Telling him such a story ... and telling him such an outrageous version of it, no less."

Quincy sniffs. "Don't even want to hear my side of it, do you?"

Ezzelin doesn't. Shouldn't. Shrugs and settles down in his chair anyway, recognizing inevitability when he sees it.

"Nicky said he was tired of fairytales because they're not real," he said. "So I told him your version of his fairytale to prove that he can still like his books because they're rooted in reality, whether he's experienced such a reality firsthand or not."

It's a terrible excuse. Pathetic. Poorly thought-out.

Ezzelin pours his lover a drink.

"To childhood," he says, when Quincy says what's this for? "And to the endurance an adult must have in order to preserve it for his children."

Quincy smiles and clinks his glass against Ezzelin's. Drinks as if he's won some kind of competition.

Which is fine, Ezzelin thinks, drinking from his own glass. He'll stop smiling after he learns what kinds of stories his son will hear about his past fairytale transgressions, come the morning.

Original, "Triangle, Circle, Square," Quincy+Ezzelin+Nicholai, PG

2008-12-12T00:09:16Z

Ah, late-late-late-late-late! Goodness. This was supposed to be finished sometime back when pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns made sense, but I suck and had no inspiration and [insert other dull-witted excuses here] so here it is now. Consider this story my celebration that my research is DONE, now just to write the thesis and GRADUATE THE HELL OUT OF HERE.

/rant

Quincy, Ezzelin, Nicky, and even dear Bourbon are all © Seppy, but she was dear enough to let me play with them. Enjoy the story! ♥

Triangle, Circle, Square

by mistr3ss Quickly

It's early in the evening when Nicholai knocks on the door to his father's study, beaming with barely restrained excitement. Early enough that Ezzelin nods and takes his first glass of bourbon with him when his son answers what is it? with we're carving pumpkins will you help? Early enough that Nicholai is still full of energy, all but bouncing off the walls as he leads his father down the hall to the kitchen.

Triangle, circle, square.

There's paper spread out on the floor already, paper and a good sharp knife and a permanent marker, Quincy occupied over in the corner with the task of convincing Bourbon that raw pumpkin and raw pumpkin seeds are not tasty, his offering of steamed asparagus doing nothing to assuage the creature's opinion that he is wrong. Nicholai looks at them and looks at his father, grins toothily at the smile that warms on Ezzelin's lips at the sight of his partner's stupidity.

Triangle, circle, square.

"I made the design already," Nicholai says, eagerly offering Ezzelin a scrap of paper with an assembly of shapes on it. "It's kind of simple but I think it'll look good."

It is simple. Triangles. Circle. Square.

Basics he taught his son years ago, back in the days when Quincy's hair still only reached down to the birthmark on his chest, back in the days when Bourbon still ran in circles, babbling excitedly over any mention of seeds. Back in the days when Nicholai was fascinated by what he perceived to be his father's unlimited knowledge and brilliance. All because Ezzelin told him the names of his blocks.

Triangle, circle, square.

He sets the sketch aside and picks up the pumpkin, feels the weight of it. Not too heavy, but sturdy, Quincy's steady hands having carved the "guts," as Nicholai gleefully refers to them, without taking too much of the sturdy inner flesh. The color is good, rich and deep, the skin firm and smooth, clean. Clean enough that he suspects his lover has washed it off after hollowing it out, respectful of Ezzelin's disliking for sticky, messy work, despite the countless occasions on which he's teased Ezzelin about it.

Triangle, circle, square.

He considers the sketch one last time before uncapping his pen. Uses a strip of newspaper to measure an equal distance from the line in the pumpkin's flesh, holds the pumpkin low enough for Nicholai to see what he's doing, explains it as he goes. Spares Quincy only the briefest frown when the redhead snickers and calls him anal-retentive, the insult too loud for Nicholai to miss. He repeats it. Says okay, Dad, when Ezzelin tells him not to say such things.

"The English language is full of other, more useful and acceptable words," Ezzelin says. "Use those, instead."

Triangle, circle, square.

The face is simple: two eyes. A nose. A mouth, grinning widely enough to show teeth. Three teeth: two upper and one lower. Blush marks, even, which Nicholai excitedly explains will be different from the rest, so long as Ezzelin carves them out with a spoon, not cutting all the way through the flesh with the knife. An interesting strategy; Ezzelin gives his son a smile for it, compliments him on his creativity.

"It wasn't my idea," Nicholai says, cheeks flushed to match his drawing. "But thanks."

Triangle, circle, square.

Ezzelin cuts the eyes out first, sets the triangles on the paper-covered floor beside his chair. The nose, sawing carefully to keep the edges smooth. The mouth, even cuts made slowly enough that the teeth are even, the chunk of pumpkin falling away in three equal pieces.

"You're good at that, Dad," Nicholai says, when Ezzelin asks him for one of the grapefruit spoons from the silverware drawer. "I want to be good at it too."

Ezzelin frowns and digs into the place he's marked for the blushes, concentrating harder now, hyper-aware of his son's gaze following the motion of his hands. Pulls out a curl of flesh, sets it on the floor with the other pieces, orange marred black from the marker he's used.

Triangle, circle, square.

"I wanted to get to do the carving, you know," Quincy comments idly, pulling the last strings of pumpkin from Bourbon's teeth. "Nicky said no, though."

"'Course I did, I wanted you to do it," Nicholai tells his father. "'Cause you're better at stuff like this."

"Nevermind that I'm the artist," Quincy says.

Nicholai beams up at him, obviously pleased with his father's pseudo-sulk. "Dad's better," he says.

"Hmph," says Quincy. "Well. At least I can get started baking seeds, this way. Right Bourbon?"

Triangle, circle, square.

Bourbon leaps up, excitement replacing his earlier pouting as he dashes around in circles, chanting punkin punkin punkin! Seeeeeeeeeeeeds? while Quincy laughs, nudging him out of the way with his foot. Nicholai watches, laughing delightedly at the tangle of fluff in silk, Quincy's exasperated out of my way, mutt! tinged with laughter not so different from his son's.

Triangle, circle, square.

Ezzelin sets the jack-o-lantern on the table and reaches for a candle.

"Shall we turn out the lights?" he says, when his son's face breaks into a toothy grin, the floor shaking as the boy jumps up and down excitedly.

"Not 'til you've lit the candle," Quincy says, setting the seeds in the oven and coming over. "You'll set fire to yourself, otherwise."

Nicholai snorts. "No he won't!" he says.

Triangle, circle, square.

Ezzelin lights the candle. Quincy turns out the lights. Nicholai leans against Ezzelin's belly, watching the flame flicker.

"Mmm, it looks very good," Quincy says, slipping a hand around Ezzelin's waist. "Just as good as the sketch."

"Yeah," Nicholai says. "Thanks Dad."

His eyes are closed. Ezzelin pats him on the shoulder. Doesn't tell Quincy to stop it when the man rests his chin atop his head. Keeps still enough not to disturb Bourbon when the creature settles itself on his feet.

"You're welcome," he says, patting his son. "You're welcome."

Triangle, circle, square.

Original, "Drift," Quincy/Ezzelin, PG

2008-12-08T06:14:14Z

Fourth brain-exchange with Seppy, or second in the second pair. My prompt this time, and for some reason it was easier again. I think my brain is biased. *nods*

This follows the last one I posted, but it can kinda maybe stand alone? I don't know. It's like 1 A.M. here, I don't really know at all what's going on anymore.

I hope you like the story!

Drift

by mistr3ss Quickly

Prompt: Your lips were made for kissing mine.

He's had three glasses of bourbon when Quincy joins him in the bedroom. Two glasses before that. Not enough to get him drunk, not nearly enough to get him drunk, but enough that he's relaxed, head only mildly throbbing, his eyelids heavy enough that he doesn't bother rolling over when he hears his lover come in, doesn't answer with more than a grunt when Quincy asks if he's asleep.

"I'll take that as a no, then," Quincy says, amidst the rustle of silk and linen as he undresses for bed. "You snore at me when you're actually asleep."

Ezzelin grunts in answer to that, too.

He's had three glasses of bourbon and a hot shower after that, so he's not as awake as he could be when the bed dips under Quincy's weight, perhaps more asleep than he should be when Quincy's arm slips around his waist, Quincy's chin resting atop his head, both uncontested. His eyes are open but his gaze isn't as focused as it probably could be, the far bedroom wall fuzzy until he concentrates on it. Goes back to being fuzzy when Quincy kisses him on the ear, distracting him. Doesn't matter anymore when Quincy sighs and starts whispering against his ear, words he's certainly not drunk enough to ignore.

"... thought you were going to hit him, I've never been so scared, don't do that to me ever again ..."

He's had five glasses of bourbon and would easily swear that the alcohol in his system is all that keeps his temper from flaring at his lover, gives him the patience or saps him of the strength—can't quite be certain which—to roll over and say only Quincy, be quiet. To remind the man that he's never, ever, raised his hand against another individual.

"Even you," he says. "Even when you absolutely deserved it."

Which, inexplicably, earns him a kiss on the ear.

"Can't believe he's going to be a father," follows the kiss, sighed across the shell of Ezzelin's ear, warm and familiar like the bourbon he drank, like the shower that followed. "I mean, it's not even certain that she's pregnant, but to think that our little boy is old enough—was stupid enough—to be in this sort of situation just—"

"He's not stupid," Ezzelin tells the wall, even though it's gone fuzzy again. "He's impulsive. Like his father."

"You're not blaming this on me, I hope," Quincy says. "I'll have something to say about that, if you are."

Bourbon and exhaustion take the argument down to a simple shake of Ezzelin's head, stubble scrubbing against the pillowcase. He sighs and closes his eyes, lets the wall win, lets Quincy cuddle close, clinging like an oversized child.

"It may be my fault, you know," Quincy says, softly enough that Ezzelin thinks at first it might be his imagination at work, not his lover's actual words, slipping under his consciousness. "I ... when he told me, he said he trusted me to understand. He said he knew about how I was, back when I was your student. Said I was lucky that it was boys I flirted with, because boys can't—Jesus, Ezz, the way he talked about it, it just ..."

Ezzelin rolls onto his back. Focuses his gaze well enough to look his lover in the eye, to frown at the expression he sees on the man's face.

"Your past is a part of who you are, and therefore who your son is," he says, putting his hand against Quincy's cheek, a tender gesture that keeps Quincy from looking away, a nervous habit he's had since his days as Ezzelin's student. "It in no way explains or excuses his behavior. Do not allow him to relieve himself of his own issues by pushing them onto you or anyone else. It will only harm him in the long run."

Quincy closes his eyes. Puts a hand over them, his wrist brushing against the tips of Ezzelin's fingers. He's trembling. Ezzelin can feel it.

"I don't know what to do, Ezz," he says. "He says he trusts me to be understanding, and I do understand, kind of, but I'm so disappointed, I'm so scared, and I didn't know how you were going to react, but then what you said ... I couldn't tell him that I didn't agree with it, which made it look like we were ganging up on him."

A sigh. Quincy's hand drops to Ezzelin's chest, his eyes bright when he looks down at his lover.

"He said he felt completely alone," he says, "and I couldn't do or say anything to reassure him. I've never felt so impotent before in my entire life."

Ezzelin frowns. Doesn't tell his lover that he knows the feeling very well, himself. Doesn't need to. He pulls, gently. Draws Quincy down, close enough to kiss on the lips, the alcohol still in his system and the lingering warmth from his shower mellowing him enough that he feels none of the usual awkwardness he associates with showing such vulnerability, such tenderness towards anyone, even the man he loves more than he'll even grudgingly admit.

"You'll do none of us any good staying up all night worrying about it," he says. "Sleep. We can discuss the situation again with Nicholai in the morning."

Quincy nods, shaking the bed a bit as he settles in, curled up warm beside Ezzelin. His hair rests in a mess on the pillow, a few wayward strands tickling the shell of Ezzelin's ear, almost-but-not-quite enough for Ezzelin to do something about it. He breathes in, exhales on a sigh. Breathes in again, this time more slowly, exhales gently, his body relaxing before he draws breath again.

He draws a sharp breath in surprise when Ezzelin kisses him. Tenses, just long enough to kiss back. Laughs softly on what was that for?, even though he knows full-well he'll not receive an answer.

"Worry about it tomorrow," Ezzelin hears, in what sounds suspiciously like his own voice. "For tonight, your lips are for kissing mine. Nothing else matters."

The next kiss tastes like laughter, enough of Quincy's hair tickling that Ezzelin reaches up to push it away.

"You must have had quite a few more drinks after you left the study," Quincy says.

"Hush," Ezzelin says. "You're supposed to be going to sleep."

"Mmm. After my lips have done their duty."

It's a ridiculous comment and Ezzelin would tell Quincy as much, but he's had five glasses of bourbon and it's late, the relaxation of the hot shower and the stress of the day all conspiring against him. So instead, he closes his eyes and sighs and doesn't say anything at all, tells himself as he drifts off that it's nothing but his imagination that Quincy's laughing at him, that his lips are being kissed again, over and over, as soft as a prayer.

Original, "Accident," Ezzelin+Quincy, Nicholai, PG

2008-12-07T04:58:42Z

This is ... how to say it? It feels really weird, like it's the meat taken from a much longer story. But, as these characters are NOT mine, I figure I should probably leave the epic-long arc-writing to their actual writer, so here's what I've got.

That said, this story was a bitch to write. I hope the angst comes through well enough? Oh, and ask Seppy what's up with Ezz. She'll be able to tell you. Oh-oh and I cheated on the prompt, you get massive m3Qbrain points if you can figure out where the connection is, yeah.

Accident

by mistr3ss Quickly

Prompt: It's not the size that counts ...

He's the last to know, as always. The last in the household, small though it may be, to find out, and even at that it's an accident that he finds out at all, if the looks he receives from his partner and his son are any indication. Which bothers him, but he knows better than to let it show, knows better than to say anything about it to the pair sitting in the study as he crosses the room, pours himself a glass of bourbon.

His son's eyes fill with tears. Quincy's brows furrow in a warning glare.

"I'm so sorry, Dad," his son says.

"At least he's being honest," Quincy says.

Ezzelin doesn't say anything. He takes his drink and sits down, sits where he can see his lover and his son, both. Sips his drink, rolls the liquor over his tongue before swallowing. Gives himself a chance to think.

"Start from the beginning," he says.

There's hesitation, just a moment of it before his lover nods and his son speaks, voice quavering as he explains the situation. It doesn't take him long. Doesn't take Ezzelin by surprise, either. Not really. He's a grown man—an old man, some might say—but he's spent the majority of his adult life interacting with teenagers, and was, before that, a teenager himself. This isn't the first he's heard of such things. Isn't unusual, isn't rare.

Still.

"You're too bright to believe me if I tell you I'm not disappointed," he tells his son, "so I'll be respectful enough of your intelligence and spare you that. You're also bright enough to know that I'm grateful for your honesty and for the respect you've demonstrated towards your father and myself by being honest with us."

Quincy rolls his eyes. "Quit being such a teacher," he says. "He's your son. He's scared. Be a father for once."

Ezzelin looks at him. Guesses, from Quincy's reaction, that the look on his face is doing justice to the emotions tumbling over themselves in his chest, the curses and frustrations and epithets he's not voicing, despite their heaviness on his tongue.

"I am," he hears himself say, "the best that I can."

Nicholai sniffles. Says he's sorry. Says it like he's trying to convince himself that he means it.

"Save your apologies for your son," Ezzelin says. "Or daughter. Or at least for the poor woman you've saddled with such responsibility. Don't waste your breath on us."

He sips his drink to the sound of Quincy's objections, Nicholai's terrified we don't know for sure yet! Waves both away and stands, finishes the last of his drink in one gulp, the liquor burning all the way down.

"Nicholai," he says. "We raised you to know that the implications of something as small, as simple, and as admittedly natural as sexual intercourse are very large, very serious, and very permanent. I understand that mistakes happen. I understand that very well."

He shudders. Lifts his glass to his lips before he remembers that it's empty. Crosses the room to refill it, his son's tearful gaze following his every motion.

"It was an accident," Nicholai says, his voice small and quiet, almost obscured by the clink of the bottle, the rush of bourbon splashing into his glass. "We didn't mean to."

Ezzelin doesn't slam the bottle of bourbon down onto his desk. Doesn't throw his glass. Doesn't even give voice to the thoughts that bombard him, at his son's statements, though it takes the most effort to hold his tongue. He sets the bottle down quietly and takes a sip of his drink. Turns to face his son, the boy's face streaked with tears.

"What you've done is no accident, Nicholai," he says, as calmly as he can manage. "A mistake, yes. A demonstration of incredibly poor judgment, certainly. But not an accident. Do not ever call it that in my presence again, do I make myself clear?"

He's yelling, shaking. Bourbon drips down his hand where it's slopped.

His son is crying. Quincy's saying something. Loudly.

Ezzelin doesn't care.

He sets his glass down on the desk, hard enough that more bourbon splashes out, onto his hand, onto the cuff of his shirt. He shoves Quincy aside when the man reaches for him, anger giving him more strength than he really means to use, but he doesn't care, doesn't even glance to see what's fallen when Quincy's body hits the bookshelf on the wall.

Nicholai does. He's watching with wide eyes, recoils when Ezzelin comes close enough to touch him. Shrinks back into the plush of the chair he's sitting in like he's expecting to be struck, even though neither Ezzelin nor Quincy has ever raised a hand against him, never even in jest. He's stiff as a board when Ezzelin kneels before him, puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Your father," Ezzelin tells him, "spent weeks planning you. Hours creating you. You were intentional and wanted and planned. I would be very disappointed indeed if you do not have the gratitude, knowing that about your own conception, to understand how badly—how badly, Nicholai—you will be hurting your child, your own child if you persist in covering your own shame for your own mistake by insisting that he, or she, is an accident."

"T-that's not what I meant," Nicholai says.

"Of all the things for you to be anal about, Jesus Ezzelin," Quincy says.

Ezzelin stands. "Have more faith in yourself," he says. "You'll be a fine father." He looks up at Quincy, at the nasty frown on the man's face, then back down at his son. "You've had a good role model."

Original, "At Bedtime," Quincy, Ezzelin, Nicholai, PG

2008-11-30T04:12:07Z

Second Brain Exchange with Seppy, my prompt this time. I thought this was going to turn out very sad (her half of the exchange was horrifically depressing, though lovely) but then it went and fluffed out, so things are all right with the world. XD

Nicholai is around 8 or 10 years old here, I think. Not sure where things are in canon at that point in his life, but this is the feel I get from Sep's other material on Nicky. Bourbon's there, he's curled up at the foot of the bed, but I didn't write him because there was no space for it. *cough*

Oh, and just in case there's any confusion, the characters are all © Seprenillo, not me. I have my own nest of muses to deal with.

Enjoy! ♥

At Bedtime

by mistr3ss Quickly

Prompt: "I'll love you 'til the ocean takes us all."

"Daddy says you're going to die," Nicholai tells me at bedtime, lying on his back with a matter-of-fact expression on his round little face, a careful expression that he probably thinks hides what he's feeling. Fear, mostly. Some anger.

Unsurprising. Anyone would be angry, hearing such an insensitive, thoughtless thing from his own parent.

So I sit by my son's side, put my hand on the rise where his belly is, full still from dinner and the sweets he was allowed afterwards. He puts his hand on top of mine, curls his fingers around mine, his hand still smaller than my own but not by much, despite his age, still so young. Young and still so much a child in the way I'm told children should be: quick to laugh, quick to cry, quick to anger. Quick to feel fear, to seek his parents' comforts when he's frightened.

I'll have to speak with that idiot father of his about scaring him unnecessarily.

Later.

This matter more, now.

"Are you going to die?" Nicholai says, his voice wavering just enough.

I curl my hand around his.

"Someday," I tell him. "But not for a very long time."

"Daddy says you're going to die before he does," Nicholai says. "Before I do."

He looks at me unblinking. Trying so hard to be brave.

Telling him that I'll outlive his father because I'm going to go murder the man will do no good to comfort him, I have to remind myself of this several times before I speak. Which in itself is impressive, perhaps a bit disturbing that even after all these years, Quincy can still anger me so quickly, so easily. Impressive that it's taken this long to teach myself not to let my annoyance with him show. Not in front of our son, anyway.

I buy myself some time by leaning down to kiss him on the forehead, an awkward gesture for me, perhaps, but one I've seen his father do so many times, and it's worth the discomfort to see him smiling when I sit back, his hand still holding so tightly to my own.

"Everyone dies when it's time, Nicholai," I tell him. "It's not something you need to worry about tonight, though."

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, chews on it some. Clearly going to continue worrying, despite my reassurances.

I squeeze his hand. "I'm nowhere near the end of my life," I tell him. "Nor are you. We'll both live for many, many more years."

"Daddy said that, too," he says. "But then he said you were going to die."

Which is not the sort of thing any man wants to hear about his lover. "Why did he say that?" I say, curiosity winning over the desire for my son to hush and go to sleep. "Give me context."

"What's context?"

Good heavens.

"Context is information surrounding a situation," I tell him. "What were you and he discussing when my death came up?"

"Oh," he says. Wrinkles his nose, thinking. "Daddy was saying that he's a good daddy. Then he said he'll live longer. He said he'd be alive after you stopped being alive, and so that made him a good daddy."

It takes perhaps ten seconds for that to process. Two seconds more for me to swallow once again the urge welling up inside me to leave my son's bedside and go choke Quincy to death with my bare hands.

"I see," I say, as calmly as possible. "Nicholai, please trust me. You do not need to worry about my death. You do not need to worry about your father's death. You do not need to worry about your own death. All right?"

"But Daddy said—"

"Your father," I say, as patiently as I can manage, "is an immature moron when it comes to some things, and he has misled you."

"Huh?"

"Your father," I say, "was simply using the differences between us to illustrate his own believed superiority as your father. Because of his disease, yes he will age more slowly than I do, though because of my heritage I do not age very quickly. He will not show his age as I do, though as you've surely noticed, his immaturity will show because of it."

Nicholai blinks. "What?"

I sigh. Won't do to confuse the boy, especially not so close to his bedtime.

"Your father and I both love you very, very much," I tell him. "And we will be on this earth for many years so we can be with you and watch you grow up. What your father said to you earlier ... he didn't mean it, not seriously. He would take it back if he knew how badly he'd worried you. Ask him tomorrow, he'll tell you."

"Really?" he says.

I nod. "Really."

He frowns, thinking. "Then ... I'm going to live a long time too, right?"

"You will," I tell him.

And at that, his frown disappears, replaced by the radiant sort of smile only children have. He puts his other hand over mine, squeezes it like a hug. Turns onto his side and rubs his cheek against his pillow a bit.

"Thanks, Dad," he says. "Love you."

My chest aches. I lean down and kiss Nicholai on the temple.

"I love you too," I tell him. "Sleep well."

"'kay," he says.

I stand in the doorway of his bedroom, watch him drift to sleep. It doesn't take long, his hand going limp where it was clutching his blankets, his lips parting a little as he begins to snore. Sleeping deeply enough that thankfully he doesn't wake when Quincy sneaks up behind me and startles me, his hands slipping around my shoulders, holding me tightly enough to keep me from punching him in the face.

"Thank you," he says, ignoring my demand that he let me go. "For explaining to him what I meant. I had no idea he'd take me so seriously."

"He's a child," I tell him, annoyance welling up in me once again. "Of course he'll believe what his father tells him."

"Thankfully," he says.

He bends to press a kiss to my ear before I figure out what he means. It's sentimental and ridiculous, an obvious ploy to get me to forgive him for frightening Nicholai so badly, but he kisses my mouth before I have the chance to properly scold him, uses his superior height and weight to his advantage, pressing me against the doorframe before I have a chance to shove him away.

Which is mildly irritating until our son speaks, watching from his bed as I'm kissed and groped unceremoniously by his father, at which point the situation is just plain horrible, and Quincy laughing as I try to push him off of me doesn't make it at all better.

"Are you and Dad fighting?" he says, when Quincy tells him to go back to sleep.

"No, no, quite the opposite," Quincy says, laughing.

"Did you mean it when you said Dad was going to die, Daddy?"

Quincy stops laughing. Stops groping and pushing, too, which is a blessing, leaving me to stand in the doorway and watch as he strides across the room and sits at Nicholai's bedside.

"I didn't," he says. "I'm sorry I scared you."

Nicholai sits up and hugs him. Reaches for me and holds my hand when I come to him, standing beside my idiot lover only because my son needs me.

"I love you and your father very much, Nicky," Quincy says, into Nicholai's hair. "Love you both forever and ever and ever."

"Even after you die?" Nicholai wants to know.

Quincy sighs, the soft sort of sigh he makes only when he's smiling. "Even after that," he says. "Love you 'til the ocean takes us all. I promise."

"'kay," Nicholai says.

"So go to sleep before your dad blames me for you being up past bedtime."

Which makes Nicholai laugh and Quincy smile, the two of them sharing a hug before Quincy stands, making enough room for Nicholai to insist on another hug from me before he'll lie down and close his eyes. I bid him goodnight and herd his father out of the room, pull the door shut behind myself. Quincy reaches for me immediately, but I'm not one to fall for the same trick twice, so I slap his hands away, make my way down the hall to my study.

"Grumpy little thing, aren't you?" he says. "Goodness."

I give him a look before pouring myself a drink, my attention diverted away from him just long enough for him to get his hands on me, his chin resting atop my head.

"I meant what I told Nicky, you know," he says. "This time, anyway. I do love you."

I take a sip of my drink. The taste is off, somehow, so I set the glass down and turn, look up at the man who infuriates me more often than any other living being on the earth ever has, or ever will.

"I know," I tell him. Kiss him, once, when he leans down. "And I, you."

Another kiss. Then:

"And I will outlive you. See if I don't."

Quincy's laughter is loud enough that it's a wonder Nicholai doesn't wake. I shush him, quiet him with a kiss. Tell him just how much of a moron he truly is, just to be certain he has no doubts about it.

"You love me anyway," he says, grinning happily.

I do. But there's no point in telling him that, so I turn and retrieve my drink, leaving my lover to pout at me until bedtime, when the discussion matters very little to either of us anymore.

Original, "Beneath," Donovan/Quincy, R

2008-11-28T23:56:03Z

First in a series of art/fic trades with Seppy. We need a name for this, maybe prompt-exchange? Secret Santa? I don't want to know about Santa's secrets. Don't like the idea of war, either, there's too much of that in this world.

So maybe we'll call it the Brain Exchange? I like that, gives me a nice gross mental image and everything.

This is written for her prompt: "Clean gloves hide dirty hands." I, as usual, took horrid liberties with the prompt, but it's the character she wanted so I hope it's okay.

Beneath

by mistr3ss Quickly

Prompt: Clean gloves hide dirty hands

Light and noise and color and laughter mix with music and dancing and the sweet chill of the evening air coming in through an open window, and Donovan watches his prey. Sweet and young and handsome and so false, smiling and gesturing and laughing at words that don't hold his interest, kisses the hands of women who no more strike his fancy than the slender glass of champagne he holds in his long, delicate fingers. Tall and refined and intelligent and bored, his ruffled jabot fluttering as he sighs, freed momentarily from idle chatter to glance around the room, over the sea of guests, his gaze resting a bit too long on the ornate clock at the far end of the hall.

There.

He's engaged with another woman, this one older, when Donovan moves. Eyes closed as he laughs, lashes as deep red as his hair resting on his pale cheeks. Donovan watches him, appreciates him. Bides his time, uncaring of the movement of the brass hands to his back. Waits and watches.

Slips into action the moment he's welcomed.

It's a thing of beauty, watching the young man change. Polite, guarded conversation at the start, curiosity and coy hesitation after only a moment's time. Genuine surprise when he's invited to step out into the gardens, out into the darkness, the damp chill of the night. Away from the other guests, away from the safety of what's expected of him, away from the pressure to be what he's been shaped and molded and instructed to be.

He's young. Curious.

Neither naïve nor innocent, however. His hands, delicate though they seemed under the light of the chandeliers in the hall, grip with the strength of a man who's known desire and met rejection, before. His smile, not quite crooked and not quite wide enough to show teeth speaks of an understanding, an anticipation of what he thinks is yet to come.

So impatient. So wrong.

He's still as he's taken, as he dies. Doesn't move, doesn't scream, doesn't even resist. He simply dies, bleeds away slowly, deliciously. Clings weakly to Donovan's fine suit, nothing at all the suave gentleman flirting his way from conversation to conversation, nothing at all the eager young man who was just a breath before trying to tempt a kiss from the older man's lips.

Interesting.

It's on a whim that Donovan speaks to the young man, the weight going slowly cold in his arms. On a whim that he leans close and taunts softly, breath warm over the shell of the young man's ear. On a whim that he says the things he says, smiles more widely than most have seen when the young man's chin dips in the faintest nod.

"Then you must drink."

No hesitation. No gentleness. No manners, no flirting, no impatience, nothing but desperation and hunger and power, enough to make Donovan's head swim, his eyes closing as his newest prey drinks. Nothing at all what he had expected, watching his prey across the room.

And nothing better, he thinks, than a surprise, wrapped in silk under the light of the stars.

Katekyo Hitman Reborn, "Ridiculous," Gokudera/Yamamoto, PG

2008-11-06T00:20:45Z

Quick 500-word thing written for my lady-love who was challenged to write a story for a fic exchange, even though she's not a fan of the pairing. Now you must understand: I'm notorious for cheating at prompts.

The prompt here was: "Gokudera professes his twu wuv for Tsuna."

This is what I did with it. Rape may or may not have been involved; I think the fic liked it. And we all know it's not rape if it likes it. Right? *cough*

Ridiculous

by mistr3ss Quickly

Okay, so he said it in anger. Didn't mean it. Didn't take it back either, though, because the Tenth's right-hand man can't go around taking back his word just because some idiot kid—who just happens to be his age, but only biologically—wants him to. That's ridiculous. Unheard of.

Embarrassing.

So he said it, sure, but whatever, that stupid Yamamoto was the one to retort so stupidly, so that means Gokudera isn't stupid at all, he was just cornered and tricked—by one of his Brothers, no less—which, to Gokudera, is just ridiculous. Unheard of.

Frustrating.

So what if Yamamoto said yes when asked if he loved everything. Didn't matter. Baseball, playing—playing!—with little Lambo, cutting fish for sushi, sleeping, showering, drinking the sports drinks that tasted like chilled 150-yen semen. Ridiculous. Unheard of.

Confusing.

Didn't matter that he'd included Gokudera on that list of things he loved—and didn't specify the flavor of his sports drink of choice—because Gokudera didn't care, doesn't care, it doesn't matter because of Yamamoto's accusation, which is both ridiculous and ...

Well.

So now Gokudera's standing in front of the mirror, trying not to glare at it hard enough to make it shatter—he would, but it belongs to the Tenth, can't destroy the Tenth's property—and saying the words—ridiculous though they may be—to prove that he can because ...

No. Not because. He just is.

He's intimidating, surely. Tall and lanky and strong and deadly. Never really considered himself in the mirror before, but now that he's got the opportunity he's putting it to good use. Studying himself, watching his lips move as he forms the words, feeling ridiculous.

I love you.

Nothing to it, really. Lips parted. Tongue-tip touching his front teeth. Teeth touching his lower lip. Lips pursed. Pursed. Like whomever decided how to say it wanted him to be vulnerable or unconsciously suggestive of things he most certainly doesn't want to do with that ridiculous—

"I love you."

"Aw, I love you too, Gokudera. Hey, where's Yamato? He said he'd bring sushi later."

—baseball freak.

Shit.

Gokudera turns, giving the Tenth his best solemn gaze. Which must be more threatening than solemn because Tsuna takes a step back and giggles nervously.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to, um. Interrupt you."

Gokudera shakes his head. "You didn't," he says. "I'll go and find that b—ah. Yamamoto. Please relax here, I'll be back soon."

"Oh. Okay, if you want to. You don't have to go if you don't want."

But Gokudera does want. Eagerly. He bows to the Tenth and ducks out of the bedroom, goes down to the entryway and puts on his shoes. Leaves for Yamamoto's family restaurant at a decent pace, his mind racing. Now that he's said the words, there are many others, ready on his tongue. He's certainly looking forward to saying every last one to that damn baseball freak.

Ridiculous though they may be, he'll see to it that every last one is heard.

ANIME CHARACTERS FOR PRESIDENT

2008-11-04T23:23:00Z

In honor of today's election festivities, Bunny and I present:

ANIME CHARACTERS FOR PRESIDENT

Who Will You Choose For Our Future?

• The Alchemist Party (Fullmetal Alchemist)

~ President: Roy Mustang
~ Vice President: Riza Hawkeye

• The Asshole Party (Neon Genesis Evangelion)

~ President: Gendou Ikari
~ Vice President: Rei Ayanami

• The Bitch Party (Gurren Lagann)

~ President: Adienne ~
~ Vice President: Viral ~

• The Defend or Die Party (Bleach)

~ President: Zaraki Kenpachi
~ Vice President: Yachiru Kusajishi

• The Guardian Party (Guardian of the Sacred Spirit)

~ President: Balsa
~ Vice President: Tanda

• The Nice Guy Party (Naruto)

~ President: Gai Maito
~ Vice President: Kakashi Hatake

• The Who In The Hell Do You Think We Are Party (Gurren Lagann)

~ President: Yoko
~ Vice President: ~~Kamina~~ ~~Nia~~ ~~Kittan~~ LEERON

Cast your vote now!

PW, "Honor," Phoenix/Miles, NC-17

2008-10-30T23:23:45Z

Ah, here we have a fiction I've meant to write since ... shoot, this summer? Fail. Anyway. It's based off a doujinshi by steampilot where Phoenix and Apollo are mafia bosses and ... mmph. It's incredibly dark and sad and well-written, really punches one in the gut.

THAT SAID. If you're one of those who read me and like fluff? THIS AIN'T IT. Don't read if you're looking for something fun, 'cause you'll be disappointed.

I'd originally had a goal to do 500 words of this, because I was struggling with it so much. Then I had a shitty day at work, spent most of the day fantasizing about strangling one of my co-workers with her own intestines (couldn't 'cause there are only latex gloves in the supply cupboard and I'm allergic to latex; that, and I'm good friends with the custodian and wouldn't want to saddle her with the mess) and so this story more than doubled that goal and here it is in all its m3Q-was-in-a-rotten-mood-when-she-wrote-this glory.

Yup. *cough*

Honor

by mistr3ss Quickly

There is no honor among thieves.

No honor, no glory. No respect outside the realm of familiars, of those too weak to stand alone, to stand up for what is right, what is just. No justice, fairness. No retribution, divine or otherwise. Nothing but power and weakness, the pull and push of authority.

The thick, plus carpet digs against the flesh of Miles' knees, rich though it may be, fine as his trousers are, the material normally soft, smooth. Elegant. He can smell leather over the musk of Phoenix's body, knows from the scent that it's good leather, butter-soft and expensive. The sort of thing only a man like Phoenix could afford and would want to own. Would want to have in a private suite such as the one Miles came to that evening, knowing full-well what would be expected of him.

No honor in this act, nothing but submission and humiliation, a debt paid with the price of his own dignity, his own sense of self. No glory, no pride in the way Phoenix's thighs tremble when Miles takes him deep, the noises Phoenix makes in the back of his throat, little murmurs and groans that tell Miles he's doing well, doing what he's been compelled to do with the same perfection he's famous in other aspects of his life.

"That's good," Phoenix says, threading his fingers through Miles' hair. "God you're good at this."

It's payment, paid with something other than material wealth. That, Miles knows, holds little value to men like Phoenix, men who recognize that money is of little consequence to a man like himself. Payment—not gratitude—for services rendered. Momentary obedience in exchange for a lifetime of freedom, one blemish of servitude staining a life of independence.

You would have suffered far worse than an evening spent with me, had you gone to prison, Phoenix had said over the phone, believing that Miles would resist him, would turn down his invitation, would stand firm in the face of his thinly veiled threats. Far worse and far more often. I'm familiar with the sort of men you would be forced to associate with, you see. I know what you were facing.

He was right, is right. Miles knows that, doesn't doubt it. Rationally, a evening spent drinking wine with a man who could be considered one of the most powerful in the city is far, far preferable to half a lifetime spent in prison with the lowest of the low, the criminals foolish enough to be caught and convicted for their crimes. Logically, a night spent pleasuring a man he's known since childhood and owes, on some level, a favor in exchange for his freedom, is no true hardship. Nothing compared to the horrors he refused to consider in detail, yet could never quite dismiss from his thoughts, all the long nights he spent engaged more personally with the United States justice system than he'd ever dared to fear he could become.

His heart offers dissent. Miles dismisses it; reacting to emotional impulse is foolish and dangerous. Pulling off, quitting before the fulfillment of his obligation, would be worse even than half a lifetime spent among criminals. An insult aimed at a man who takes insults far more seriously than the majority of the law-abiding citizenry Miles is aware of in his daily life. A statement of rejection, one which Miles knows will carry with it a price higher than he's willing to pay.

A price higher than that he's paying already.

So he closes his eyes and focuses on the task at hand, focuses his personal and academic knowledge of male anatomy on the movement of his tongue, the suction of his lips. He tightens his hands on his childhood friend's hips and relaxes his throat and takes the cock of the man for whom he no longer holds even a shred of respect deep into himself, swallows and sucks and lets his teeth graze just hard enough over the flared ridge of the head that Phoenix gasps and stiffens and comes for him. Fills his mouth with semen, bitter and foul and warm and bitter.

Miles swallows and sits back. Pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and uses it to wipe his mouth, saliva and sweat making his lips feel distantly cool through the numbness that always follows such an act. He can feel Phoenix watching him, looks up to meet the man's eyes. To show not defiance, but neither to show submission. To see what he can, what Phoenix will allow him to see.

Phoenix meets his gaze with a smile. Pushes himself up to sitting, one hand extended to help Miles to his feet.

"Didn't think you'd be that good at ... that," he says, smoothly. "Would you like a drink? I wasn't expecting that you'd swallow, I know it's not the best taste in the world."

Miles shakes his head. "I should go," he says.

Should have gone an hour ago, he doesn't add. I shouldn't be here.

Phoenix chuckles. "As you wish," he says.

He shows Miles to the door, hands him his coat. Lounges against the entryway with a lazy sort of grace that doesn't suit him, makes Miles' skin crawl. Reaches for Miles, hands gentle as he pulls Miles' collar up, buttons it at the throat.

"Cold out there," he says, even though it isn't and they both know it. "Wouldn't want you to catch anything."

Miles nods, doesn't trust himself to speak, or to speak civilly, at least. He puts his hand on the door-handle, gets it twisted halfway before he feels Phoenix's hand on his backside, the feeling muted through his clothing, through his coat.

"Maybe we'll have that drink next time, hmm?" Phoenix says, softly.

Miles opens the door and steps into the hall. Turns and meets Phoenix's gaze, his temper beginning to truly flair.

"Perhaps," he manages. "Goodnight."

Phoenix smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "Goodnight, Miles," he says. "Sleep well."

Miles dips his head in a nod, walks away. Swallows around the revulsion rising like bile in his throat, the aftertaste of semen and fury mixing into the beginning of a piercing headache.

Next time, he thinks, clenching his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. As if there will be a next time.

As if you're in a position to refuse a next time, Phoenix's voice murmurs, smooth and dark in the back of his mind. Real enough that Miles startles, glances behind to see if the man is there, following him.

He isn't. There's nothing but the corridor, empty and tastefully decorated. Nothing but his own footsteps, echoing when he turns and continues out, out to the freedom he just earned on his knees.

Next time, he thinks, brokenly.

There's no honor in this freedom he's found. No honor in it at all.

Samurai Seven, "The Wolf," Kanbei/Shichiroji, PG

2008-10-27T17:19:35Z

A gift for my dear friend Zel. I hope the sun comes out from behind the clouds soon, dear, and that the wolf disappears completely.

The Wolf

by mistr3ss Quickly

As a boy—a child, really—training a lifetime ago, Kanbei was warned that doubt, like a wolf, would lurk in the shadows behind him always, waiting in the darker parts of his heart, of his mind, ready to attack, to tear him apart. To strip him of his composure, his dignity. His calm. His strength. Kanbei was warned that he would fall victim to doubt if ever he failed to maintain vigilance against it. If ever he faltered in his knowledge of self. Of his abilities. His limitations.

Kanbei the pupil listened, wide-eyed and frightened.

Kanbei the warrior heeded, strong and steady.

Kanbei the hero believed, worn and weary.

But Kanbei the man, meditating in the cold wash of moonlight filtering through the rice-paper screen, doubts. Doubts the validity of his teacher's wisdom. Doubts the truth he's obeyed, over the long years passed.

Doubt is not the feared wolf, lurking in the shadows.

What lurks for Kanbei is far worse.

It's heavy and dark and wet and cold, like the fabric of his cloak when he goes out in the winter sleet to double-check the storm-shutters, to greet guests late-arriving to the Firefly. It's thick and stifling, like the smoke in the city. Bitter and rank, like the murk in the fields.

It's weakness he cannot train into strength. A burden he cannot stalwartly bear.

It weighs on his muscles, slows his movement as he stretches and shifts, practicing not with a blade but with the memory of one. Lines his face, emphasizing the light long gone out from his eyes, the silver starting to show in his hair, his beard. Distracts his mind, draws his thoughts away from the still nothingness he seeks as he meditates, back to the worries he cannot—will not—put into words.

He keeps it hidden. Covers it with self-assurance he no longer feels. Brushes it away with a stern glare, whenever it rises too close to the surface of his thoughts.

His lover notices, of course. Kanbei is far too old and far too experienced to expect that the man wouldn't notice. He shows his concern in the furrowing of his brows, the touch of his hand against Kanbei's elbow when they pass one another in the corridor during the day. Shows it in his chatter over their evening meal, his respectful quiet after their bath, while Kanbei sits and meditates. He's lying in bed when Kanbei rises and joins him, his hair loose and eyes bright in the darkness of the room. He's warm, wrapping his arms around Kanbei's body. Comforting.

"Long day, hmm?" his lover says, curling close, his body and the heavy blanket warding off the bitter chill of the room.

"Mmm," Kanbei answers.

His meditation was a waste of time, his mind just as cluttered as he lies beside his lover as it was when he settled by the paper screen. Cluttered with fragments of thought, worries of time and life and love and happiness and worst of all death, always death. Memories and nightmares, blurring together always after long hours spent in solitude, working in silence.

Shichiroji kisses him on the cheek, drawing him finally from his thoughts. Kisses him on the lips when Kanbei turns to look at the other man, to see the familiar just as lined as his own, eyes bright and lips curved in a comforting smile.

"It's good, you know," he says. "To have a long day like this, a bit of chill after the sun goes down. Preparation for a night of being warm in bed together." He winks once, smiles broadly enough to show a hint of teeth. "The older I grow, the more I believe that all pains in life are like that, just a promise of something better."

Kanbei hums quietly. Slips his arm from the warmth of the blankets, just long enough to reach up, to cup his lover's cheek, to thread his fingers through the soft blonde hair tumbling down in the dark.

"Yes," he says, pulling until his lover's relaxed enough to be kissed, to lie down beside him. "I believe that, too."

PW, "Variations," Miles/Phoenix, R

2008-10-24T15:09:26Z

Inspired by the horrifically wonderful comic by Taco on y!gallery, this story just kind of ... happened? I don't really know. But I enjoyed it, almost as much as I've enjoyed that comic all the thirty-some times I've clicked on it.

Randomly, I seem to be experimenting with different fiction "styles" these days. It's fun, probably more fun than it should be. I wonder if I could make a whole novel like this; pick twenty different styles of fiction—from my own fanfiction—and do a story in each style for one character or one pairing or one set of characters, whatever. Then stick them together and convince someone that it's a book.

That'd work, wouldn't it?

Variations

by mistr3ss Quickly

How many times have I told him to shave before he comes to see me? Twenty? Thirty? No more than thirty; I've only been in the States now for a handful of weeks (two weeks and five days, or will be five days at seven-twenty, the time of arrival for my flight two weeks and four days ago). Only came to visit a few times before that. Fewer, early on. When I offered my help and was rejected, firmly enough to—

Well. Franziska insists that I was "pouting" about it, but she's incorrect in that assessment. I am a professional and I had other things to do besides waiting around for one man to rise above the pain of one failure. One little stumbling block in his path, honestly. And then for him to adopt a child, to take her in during a time in his life when he's even less capable, financially, of supporting himself than he was even during the years he struggled as a lawyer to make ends meet, that just—

I wasn't pouting. Miles Gregory Edgeworth does not pout. Hasn't since—

I've told him to shave. Asked. Entreated. Encouraged, demanded, insisted, threatened, put whatever words you'd like onto it, I've made it clear that I do not like the way he looks when he's got two days' worth of stubble growing on that face of his, not to mention the feel of it when he gets in my personal space. It's unattractive, it's sloppy. And it just emphasizes the weight he's put on since he stopped riding that ridiculous bicycle to work every day, not that I mind him being a bit softer of course, not around the middle, but to be so tempting there and so scratchy elsewhere is—

He laughed, when I tried the tactic of explaining things to him in such a manner. He called me "adorable" and kissed me, nearly chafed my lips off when the kiss took longer than it should have. Shouldn't've told him that I don't mind the paunch, because now he won't keep his hands off of it, trying to get my hands onto it, which is base and crude and with Trucy around—

I've asked him to shave. Not because of his growing gut. Not because I'm "anal retentive," as he's so fond of saying. To my face. I've asked him many times, twice the second time I came to see him, out of what Franziska inappropriately labeled "desperation." Once, the first time I encouraged him to come clean, to admit what he was guilty of and serve punishment so that he could move on with his life. Once a day, after my next return, when he'd begun to see things my way. Once or twice a week, after that, but that was only because he did shave, prior to his court appearances, and I'd thought that surely seeing the improvement in himself—clean shaven, dressed in a decent (if thrifty) suit—would convince him that it's far better for him to—

Twelve times. Fifteen since my return. I mentioned it this evening when he arrived on my doorstep and I'll mention it to him again in a bit, so that will be twenty-nine times. Twenty-nine requests, and the man's barely heeded them. Maybe not heeded them at all, one could make a decent argument that it was only at the urging of his lawyer that he shaved for his court appearances. Feisty young man, I wouldn't put it past him to know a way to talk Wright into doing things, even if Wright's stubbornly opposed to doing them. Perhaps he and his sister worked together, that never worked with Von Karma, but Franziska and I hold a very different dynamic than Justice and young Trucy, different but no less—

He refuses to shave. Stubbornly. And it has nothing to do with me, despite his insistences. Perhaps it was the wine we'd drunk with dinner or perhaps it was just a moment of temporary insanity, it matters very little because it was just one time and I had friction-burns all over my thighs as a result of it, unpleasant enough to out-weigh whatever pleasure I allegedly expressed at the feel of his stubble touching me while he—

It's fortunate that my collars cover the back of my neck. Fortunate for him, as I'd be forced to abstain from our baser relations, otherwise. Bad enough that there are always bite-marks there, peppered along my shoulder and neck. He adds the rub of that confounded stubble and it leaves me a mess. I've never liked messes. He knows that. He said he knows that, in fact. Said it was ironic because he's always been the only mess I've ever tolerated in my life, and where he's not utterly incorrect in his statements, it's still very annoying to hear him voicing them, laughing like he does. Kissing me while he laughs, even though he's not shaved and the stubble hurts, rubs where I'm already—

I told him, tonight. Request number twenty-eight. I told him I'd not kiss him until he shaved, that I did not care what kind of expressions he put on that face of his—big sad eyes, sweet smile, wicked grin—because of the stubble there and the annoyance it causes me. He disappeared into the bathroom and hasn't come out yet. That's been nearly half an hour ago, and when I knocked on the door, he said go get into bed, Miles. I'll be with you in a minute. But it's been ten minutes since then, and it's not that I'm worried that I've upset him, I'm simply—

Simple indeed. Just asking him to shave, for my comfort. Surely that can't've—

Oh. Oh.

"It was Apollo's suggestion, and it may take a few weeks to really look like anything, but I thought it'd be a good compromise. I won't hurt you when we kiss, this way, but I won't have to be totally clean-shaven, you know. Like I was back then. Things are different how they were, so I kind of—"

This is okay. This will do. This is good. And he may be right, maybe he will look good with a goatee, the scrub of it against my chin, but I can kiss him and it doesn't hurt, doesn't—

"Mmm. Should've done this forever ago, if I'd known you'd—"

I'll have to ask him to shut up. Tell him to shut up. Make him shut up. Because honestly, it's not the goatee, it's not anything to do with his face, it's just him and—

Getting him to shut up is easier than it was, getting him to shave. One kiss—not even a request—and he's done it. Better than twenty-nine—excuse me, twenty-eight—variations on the same request. Better than—

Than anything. This was probably—maybe; definitely—worth the trouble.

Somehow, he always is.

Hajime no Ippo, "Telling Tales," Miyata/Kimura, et.al., R?

2008-10-24T00:38:30Z

THIS STORY TOTALLY BREAKS MY SHOW-IT-DON'T-TELL-IT RULE AND I DON'T CARE. It'd be an epic arc of a story otherwise and I don't really want to write an epic arc but the idea was TOO EPIC and wouldn't leave me alone so I'm writing it in the quickest way I know and that way happens to go against my very soul and I DON'T CARE.

/total bullshit

I hope someone likes this. I like it. It makes me lol. If I could write a comic strip, or rather draw one, I'd do this in that style instead of how it is here but I CAN'T DRAW so this is what you get. The end.

Oh, and it's all sailormac's fault. Double-date and all that. Go blame her, lemme alone. >:[

Telling Tales

by mistr3ss Quickly

Miyata carries the secret with him until the night of his thirtieth birthday, and on that night, he tells only because Ippo laughs and tells him that it's all right, that he doesn't mind others knowing. Hugs him as he says it, pats him on the back in a gentler version of Takamura's usual "manly" embrace. Thanks him for keeping it a secret as long as he has.

Miyata hugs his friend back, that night. Doesn't say that he would've taken the secret to his grave, even though it's the truth. He would have. Without regret.

But with his friend's permission to tell he can no longer honestly refuse to share the secret with his lover and his lover knows that, the glee of knowledge written clear on the man's face after the last of the guests leave their flat, the last calls of happy birthday replaced with the quiet hum of the overhead light, the shh of Miyata's feet as he moves about, clearing away empty plates and cups and wrapping paper from the sitting room floor. He frowns when his lover mentions it the first time. Sighs a bit more loudly than is perhaps necessary when the man nudges him and mentions it again, kissing him before going in to take his bath. Relents finally when he's lying in bed, his lover's arm draped across his belly, the request whispered warm against his ear.

"It's not even a very good story," he says.

"I'll judge that. Come on, tell me."

So Ichiro Miyata, thirty years old, draws a deep breath and begins his story. Tells the secret he's carried nearly ten years, his voice soft in the dark of the bedroom, his lover lying warm beside him, awake and practically trembling with excitement.

"All right," he says. "You know Ippo and Kumi tried to date several times, back when he was first starting to make a name for himself."

"Of course. Made for good gossip at the gym."

Miyata rolls his eyes. "I can only imagine. Why Ippo went to Takamura for advice when he first discovered who Kumi was related to is beyond me, but he did, at least, learn his lesson after that. Went to someone far more mature, the next time he had questions. Which didn't do him any good, but it at least kept you monkeys from picking on him."

"Hey! I'm not a monkey, that's Aoki, and what do you mean he went to someone more mature, he never came to me for advice."

"No, I wouldn't say he went to someone mature if he'd gone to you, you're no better than Takamura, and you're a romantic sap on top of that."

His lover growls and smacks him on the stomach, hard enough that Miyata flinches, gets kissed for it. Laughs and rubs the spot he smacked, kisses Miyata again, a longer kiss that ends only when his curiosity catches back up to him.

"So. Who'd he go to, then?"

Miyata sighs. "Eiji Date," he says. "Successful boxer, happily married, good father ... not a bad choice, I think, for a young man in need of dating advice. From what he told me, he actually grew enough of a spine to contact Date himself, didn't want to get anyone else involved, after what happened with Takamura. They set up a double-date, kind of. Date and his wife, Ippo and Kumi. Went out to some restaurant or something, I don't really know."

"Ippo double-dated with the guy who tried to stop his heart in the ring," his lover interrupts. "That's kind of funny, if you think about it."

"Accurate, too," Miyata says. "Unfortunately. From what Ippo told me, they finished the meal and parted ways, only for Kumi to start crying because Date and his wife seemed so happy, which she attributed to Date's retirement. She told him to choose between his boxing career and his relationship with her, and damned if Ippo didn't stand there stuttering long enough for her to realize he was going to choose boxing."

His lover snorts. "Well of course he chose boxing," he says. "The Geezer'd have his head if he'd quit just for some girl."

Miyata lifts an eyebrow, glances at his lover, the man's face just visible in the glow from the street-lamp outside coming through the curtains. "He didn't have your head when you quit at my urging, Tatsuya," he says.

His lover shrugs. "Different, I didn't have it in me to go for the world belt." He kisses Miyata on the jaw, slides his arm around the younger man's body, holding him closer. "Besides, you were worth it."

"And you're a romantic sap," Miyata says. "Anyway. That's just what Ippo told me, I wasn't there. I was out doing roadwork. Which is how I found him, he was sitting by the river, all hunched in on himself, trying to act like he wasn't crying. Probably the most pathetic thing I've ever seen, he was so crushed. Really liked her, even back then."

"And you call me a sap."

"You are a sap. I'm just stating fact. Anyway."

"Indeed. Continue."

Miyata clears his throat. Shifts a little, one leg bent, his toes wiggling softly against the cotton cover of the futon.

"I went over to see what had him so upset, ended up holding him while he cried," he says. "You know how Ippo is, doesn't know the meaning of 'personal space.' Not that I really cared, but we were on the route Takamura used for his roadwork, and I knew that would just make things worse for Ippo, so I suggested we go somewhere, get Ippo a beer or something to help calm him down. Would've been okay with anywhere other than the river-side there, but he liked the idea of getting a drink, so we ended up in a bar."

"Don't tell me you got him drunk, Ichi. Do not tell me you got him drunk, you know as well as I do that Ippo can't hold his drink, gets drunk like a skinny woman after a beer or two."

Miyata squirms. "I didn't know that back then, actually," he says.

His lover's horror is nearly palpable in the darkness. "Oh god."

Miyata glares at the ceiling. "He made it through three beers before it became obvious that he wasn't fit to be in public anymore. He wasn't loud or rude or anything, just ... not very steady. And very wet, he kept crying on me. So I paid for our drinks and took him home, couldn't very well trust that he wouldn't get lost if I sent him home alone. Got him inside the front door and almost had his shoes off when we heard ... noises."

"Noises?"

"Yeah. Noises. Like someone moaning in pain."

"At Ippo's place."

Miyata nods. "Scared him pretty bad. His mom had just gotten out of hospital for exhaustion a year or so before, you remember when that happened. Couldn't walk on his own very well, though, so I went with him, got back to his mom's room and helped him open the door, figured I could call an ambulance for them if need be, you know."

"Uh-huh. Get the feeling you didn't need to."

"No. We didn't."

A moment. His lover moves, props himself up on his side, and stares down at him. "What?" he says. "Come on, finish the story."

Miyata glares at him. "It was ... Ippo's mom thought he'd be out later. Going out with Date and all, then he was supposed to go to the gym afterwards, I guess. And I was living on my own back then, so it wasn't like I knew where my dad was or anything, so—"

"What's your dad got to do with it?"

Miyata looks away. Glares at the far wall of the bedroom. "He was there," he says. "With Ippo's mom."

"Yeah? So? What, were they—oh. Oh." A bark of laughter. "Oh you've gotta be kidding."

Miyata shakes his head, glancing at his lover before closing his eyes. "No," he says. "Unfortunately. They were together, Ippo's mom ... well we got an eyeful of her, before we realized what was going on and closed the door. She was up ... you know. On top. Of my dad."

He shudders. Shoves his lover away when the man tries to kiss him.

"Not now, Tatsuya."

His lover laughs. "You're thirty years old and it still bugs you that you saw your best friend's mom riding your dad like a pony," he says. "That's sad, Ichiro."

"It—shut up."

"Aw, sorry." A kiss, pressed to the shell of his ear. "I can see how that would be awkward, yes."

"It was awful," Miyata says. "And poor Ippo, he was so drunk, he decided that everyone in the world but him was having sex with girls, started saying so over and over, very loudly. Didn't shut up 'til I had him back in his shoes and out the door, and then he only shut up because I told him that no girl would sleep with a guy who got jealous over his mother's ... sex life."

"With your dad. God, that's weird."

"Very weird," Miyata says, nodding.

"So that's the 'big secret' you've been keeping all these years?" his lover says. Hesitates. Grins. "It's not, is it. There's more."

Miyata closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Opens his eyes and fixes his lover with a steady gaze. "Do you remember, when we first ... well, after the first time. You wanted to know when I knew I was ... interested. In men. Remember?"

"'Course," his lover says. "You said it didn't matter." A chuckle. "And then you fucked me within an inch of consciousness, just to keep me from pestering you about it. My ass hurt for a week after that."

"It didn't, you were fine the next day," Miyata says, coloring up.

His lover laughs. "Not after the way you fucked me, the next day," he says. "Nevermind. I'm guessing Ippo had something to do with the answer to my question, then? No wonder you didn't want to tell me, I wouldn't've wanted to tell me, either. You sleep with him or something? Prove to him he wasn't incapable of getting laid?"

Miyata stiffens. "Go sleep on the balcony," he says, coldly. "Get out of my bed, go sleep on the balcony."

He struggles when his lover kisses him, puts up enough of a fight that the kisses dissolve into laughter, breathed warm against his mouth and chin and throat. Stops struggling after his lover's apologized but doesn't stop sulking, his lips sealed in a thin line when the older man tries once again to kiss him.

"Fine, you didn't sleep with him then," his lover says. "What, then? Had to be something, if you—"

"I took him home to my apartment, we fell asleep because we'd been drinking already, and because it was cold, Ippo ended up cuddling up next to me—you know how he is, doesn't care at all about personal space—and so when my dad came snooping around to make sure I was okay, that's what he walked in on. Me and Ippo. In bed together. Cuddling."

"Lord. That why you're so uptight about locking the door the minute you get home?"

Miyata shakes his head. "No, that's habit from Takamura crashing in when I was younger. He wanted to take me out drinking when I was still in middle school, big oaf. Worried my dad, so we started locking up all the time."

"How'd your dad get in, then?"

"Had a spare key to my place."

"Oh. That sucks."

"Mmm."

"So ... how'd that make you gay?"

Miyata rolls his eyes. "It didn't make me gay, Tatsu," he says. "My dad thought it did. He went back and told Ippo's mom that walking in on them ... doing stuff had turned us both gay. That was a fun mess to unravel, especially when I came out about us, you and me. Ippo's mom was just waiting for Ippo to do the same, after my dad told her that I really am gay. She was so surprised when Ippo and Kumi announced their engagement. Don't think she ever saw that coming, all because we fell asleep together once."

"Uh-huh. You're dodging my question."

A sigh. "I'd never ... that was the first time I'd ever felt another man in my bed. Another anyone in my bed. It was weird because it was Ippo, but it cleared up some things for me. I knew I wanted to feel that again, and then when you ... well. I didn't resist when you happened."

"Happened? You make me sound like a natural disaster."

"Mmm-hmm. Anyway. That's the secret, the big story."

"Not much of a secret. We all knew years ago that your dad and Ippo's mom were together. He's the one who got her to go to Ippo's matches, held her hand all through it. They didn't try to keep it very secret."

"No, but the ... poor Ippo, he was so embarrassed that he'd seen his mom having sex. That, and the whole getting drunk thing, ending up sleeping with a gay man. Sleeping in bed with a gay man, we didn't—"

"I knew what you meant."

"Yeah. Well. That's the secret part. Don't know why Ippo decided I could tell, tonight, unless he's told Kumi and felt bad because he didn't keep his word and I did, didn't tell you."

"Which you shouldn't've. Meanie."

"Mmm. I promised."

"Yeah, yeah. It's not that bad of a story, anyway. Not as bad as our story, you ever tell Ippo-po about us?"

"No, and if you ever do, if you ever tell him or anyone else, I'll kill you and dump your body in the ocean."

His lover laughs. Rolls atop him and kisses him, one hand gently cupping Miyata's cheek, the pad of his thumb rasping over the rough hint of stubble growing along Miyata's jawline.

"You'd miss me, if you did," he says.

"I wouldn't bank on that saving you, Tatsuya," Miyata says. "Besides, that's our story, not theirs. We'd never hear the end of it from That Oaf if he found out, and I don't want him doing that to something like that. Not to us."

His lover smiles, bending to kiss him once again, a gentle press of lips against lips. "And you call me the romantic," he says.

"Mmm," Miyata sighs. "I've been around you long enough, it was bound to rub off on me eventually."

"I could rub something else off on you, if you'd like," his lover says with a suggestive rock of his hips. Grins and rocks his hips again when Miyata groans, hands going down to grip the older man's hips, tight enough to leave marks. "Is that a yes, Birthday Boy?"

Miyata nods. "Yeah," he says. "As long as you don't mention Ippo while we do it."

"Promise," his lover says, pulling at the waistband of Miyata's pants. "Won't think of anything but you. Never do anyway."

"Sap," Miyata says.

His lover kisses him. "Love you, too," he says.

But he keeps his word, doesn't tell anyone the details surrounding the beginning of his relationship with Ichiro Miyata. Comes to treasure the secret, as the years go by, grinning rather broadly when, during his lover's fortieth birthday party, Ippo asks to hear the story and is dismissed with it's not interesting, nothing to tell, really.

Some secrets, after all, are well-worth keeping.

PW, "What Will Be," Apollo/Klavier, NC-17

2008-10-22T18:55:10Z

Who in their goddamn right mind writes a story in future tense? I mean really. ~~Probably the same person who's writing three novels in second person, why do I even bother to ask anymore.~~ Anyway, hope OP likes!

This story goes along with this beauty by Nyarlathotep23 and I was supposed to have it done like fifty years ago but them I was made of fail and headcold and emo, so it's late. Sorry about that, dear! 'orz

What Will Be

by mistr3ss Quickly

Apollo will claim, after the first time, that it was the wine he had with dinner, the stress of the case he'd just narrowly won, fighting against a prosecutor with moral standards far below Klavier's. He'll apologize and draw Klavier a bath and sit on the edge of the tub, squawking when Klavier's had enough of his worrying and drags him into the warm water, clothes and all.

After the second time, Apollo will stutter and blush and touch tenderly where his lover is sensitive and slick, insisting that he doesn't know what came over him, that he'll never do it again. He'll clean lube and semen from his lover's thighs and chest and belly and tuck the man into bed, kissing him so softly on the shoulder and neck and cheek that Klavier will accuse him of tickling.

There will be a text-message waiting for Klavier, the following day. From Apollo, containing yet another apology and a promise that "it'll never happen again, I swear." Klavier will read it and roll his eyes and text back that he finds Apollo adorable when the younger man is flustered and embarrassed, a reassurance that he's unharmed and very happy with the situation, included as a footnote.

That weekend, there will be a note waiting on Apollo's desk at the Wright Talent Agency, pale purple piece of paper with Klavier's scrawling handwriting on the inside, inviting Apollo to join him for dinner. There will be twenty minutes' hesitation before Apollo opens his phone and calls Klavier, accepting his invitation and asking where the singer would like to go. There will be laughter and a short, frustratingly flirtatious conversation before Klavier finally names a restaurant and a time, laughter tinting his tone.

Dinner will be a blur: good food and good wine, a table private enough that Apollo won't shy away from Klavier's touch when the older man reaches across the table to lace their fingers together, won't mind so much when they order dessert and Klavier insists on feeding him bites of chocolate cake, then chasing each with a kiss. Apollo will insist on splitting the bill and Klavier won't argue, holding him close as they wait for a cab in the rain.

There will be kisses, shared in the relative privacy of the backseat of the cab, Klavier's hand on Apollo's chest and Apollo's hand on Klavier's thigh. There will be a blush on Apollo's cheeks as he pays the cab driver, a leer on Klavier's face as the younger man leads him upstairs to his flat. There will be a long moment of fumbling with keys, longer as Apollo fumbles with the lock on his door, Klavier's hand on Apollo's backside, squeezing in encouragement.

And with that—perhaps because of that—Apollo will snap.

Hard.

He'll unlock his apartment and step inside and grab Klavier by the front of the singer's expensive dress-shirt, kick the door shut and shove Klavier against the wall with more strength than most would dare guess he has. He'll shove one leg between his lover's spread thighs, keeping the man upright even as he yanks him down, low enough to be kissed. He'll rub himself against Klavier's thigh, erection stiff and hot through his briefs and trousers, the push and thrust of his body demanding, rough. An unspoken promise of what will come.

Klavier will make a gasping sort of noise just as he's dragged down to be kissed, a hard kiss, rough and biting, Apollo's teeth clicking against his own as he closes his eyes and moans around the younger man's tongue. He'll squirm a little, moan more loudly when Apollo reaches between them and squeezes, almost hard enough to hurt where he's fully erect and trapped in his underwear. He'll break the kiss and whimper, breathing hard as Apollo squeezes him again, moves his hand just enough to feel like stroking. Rough enough to feel like fucking.

They'll both freeze in surprise when Klavier shouts and stiffens and shudders and comes in his pants. Both stare at each other for a moment before Klavier laughs weakly, apologizing when Apollo leans in to kiss him.

"It's fine," Apollo will tell him.

"I am never this fast," Klavier will say.

Apollo will go very red, nearly the shade of his suit. He'll kiss his lover on the lips, get a good grip on the fabric of the man's dress-coat.

"Yes you are," he'll say, pulling and twisting and shoving, fast and hard enough that Klavier will tumble to the ground, the floorboards creaking under the weight of his body. "For me, you always are."

He'll climb atop his lover and kiss the man's objections into silence. He'll pull at buttons and zippers until Klavier is no longer resisting, helping instead to strip off heavy jewelry, to wiggle free of the semen-soaked underwear. He'll bite at Klavier's throat and chest and navel, dig his fingers into the soft flesh of Klavier's ass, leaving marks as he rubs himself against the older man's softened cock, smearing semen across his own trousers. He'll growl in frustration when it's not enough friction. Nearly lose his balance, climbing off of Klavier long enough for the older man to roll over, prone and spread and inviting.

"I have supplies in the pocket of my trousers, baby," Klavier will murmur against the cool floorboards.

Which will make Apollo blush and smooth his palms over Klavier's backside, his usual shyness creeping back into his tone as he explains that he doesn't need the lubricant and condoms Klavier's brought along for the evening. Explain that he has his own. That he'd rather use more lubricant than Klavier's travel-packs contain, that he'd rather use a ribbed condom, "because I thought you might like how it, um, feels."

Shivering, Klavier won't answer him. Won't do more than moan.

He'll bite his lip when Apollo fingers him, two fingers messy with lubricant, no slow, easy preparation. He'll spread his legs when Apollo finds his prostate and rubs it hard, over and over. He'll rock his hips in time with Apollo's hand when the younger man begins ruthlessly finger-fucking him, three fingers moving in and out not quite fast enough, almost too hard for him to endure.

When Apollo pulls out, leaving him bereft, he'll steal a glance over his shoulder.

"Close your eyes," Apollo will tell him.

Which he'll do. And he'll be rewarded for doing, Apollo's cock pressing at his ass the very moment the world's gone dark around him. Pushing into him, opening him, the ribbing on the condom tickling and burning as it rubs against him, seemingly teasing every sensitive nerve-ending as he's filled.

"Ah, Gott," he'll breathe.

"Yeah," Apollo will answer, pausing just long enough to breathe once he's all the way inside. "You feel good."

"So do y—aah!"

Klavier won't finish the compliment. Won't say much of anything, after that. He'll scrabble for purchase on the smooth wooden floor, enamel chipping off of his perfectly manicured fingernails while Apollo's blunt nails claw at him, holding his ass aloft and open as he's fucked. He'll moan as the friction and heat and sound and feel of Apollo taking him and clawing him and using him brings his softened cock twitching back to hardness, the scrub of the younger man's erection over his prostate making his entire body sing with desire. He'll buck and shudder and cry out when he's bitten for it, as a punishment or a reward, he won't know or care.

He'll be aching and sore and breathless and dizzy and begging by the time Apollo moves, mounting him, fucking him deep enough to hurt. He'll be fully erect and throbbing and cursing in jumble of English and German by the time Apollo's breath hitches, the younger man going completely still as his cock pulses, filling the condom buried deep inside Klavier's body.

"Ah, baby," he'll say. "That was—aah!"

He won't finish his sentence. Won't remember that he was interrupted, not when Apollo rolls him over and swallows his erection in one go, pinning him to the floor, his legs forced apart, held spread open wide as he's sucked and swallowed. He'll lie there, nude on his lover's cold hard floor, and moan helplessly. He'll try to rock his hips and receive a stinging slap on the belly for it, and the low growl in his lover's throat, vibrating around his cock, will be enough to make him come, his balls pulled up, tight and aching as Apollo swallows around him.

Then he'll watch, panting, as Apollo leans back, still dressed but for his pants and briefs pushed down to his knees, and swallows, eyes closed and Adam's apple bobbing.

"Oh Apollo," he'll say, reaching for his lover.

Apollo will look at him, a blush working its way across his cheeks. He'll allow himself to be pulled down, to be kissed and held and murmured to. Then he'll pull away, going redder as he pulls his pants and underwear up and slinks off to the bathroom to draw a bath, mumbling apologies when Klavier joins him, only a moment later.

"I was rough with you again," he'll say, undressing while the older man steps into the tub, slipping under the warm water with a grateful sigh. "I'm really sorry. I don't know what came over me."

And Klavier will laugh, spreading his legs to make room for his lover to settle between them, once the younger man is nude, his semen- and lube-messy suit left in a heap on the floor. He'll kiss Apollo's hair and tell him not to worry.

"I do not mind, you know," he'll say. "It is surprisingly pleasant, to be ... hmm, how would you say it? Your bitch, perhaps?"

Which will make Apollo splutter and flail and insist, loudly, that he's never thought of Klavier in such a way, his eyes huge and round and so full of worry that Klavier will kiss him and hold him and laugh at him until Apollo has grown annoyed enough with it to no longer care if the singer wants to think of himself as a bitch, his face bright red as he insists that he'll never again argue with the use of such a term.

And he won't. Nor will he ever hesitate to prove the validity of Klavier's self-evaluation, roughly dominating the man whenever the spirit moves him to do so, which will be quite often, perhaps more often than either he or his lover ever could have suspected.

But for now, there's just Apollo and a cup of coffee and Klavier murmuring softly to him across their table at the small café near the courthouse that you know I'll be gentle with you, baby. I'd never hurt you.

Apollo smiles and blushes and stirs his coffee, a nervous habit. "I know," he says, reaching across the table to brush fingertips over the back of Klavier's hand. "It isn't you I worry about."

Earns him a smile—a real smile, beautiful and honest and warm—from the singer, a kiss on the cheek he doesn't shy away from when the older man leans across the table.

"Then we have no worries at all, ja?" Klavier says.

Apollo doesn't say anything. Lifts his cup to his lips and takes a drink of coffee, lowers his gaze when he notices his lover staring at him. "We'll see," he says, softly, his cheeks warming. "We'll see."

Oh! And it's posted on the kink-meme here, since that's where N found it in the first place. ^_^

PW, "What It Is," Klavier/Apollo, NC-17

2008-10-22T16:13:12Z

This is based off a gorgeous WIP lineart posted some days ago by Nyarlathotep23, which mesmerized me enough that I broke my no-more-fanfiction rule and wrote a story to go along with it.

It breaks my heart that she's right about this pairing not being nearly as popular as it could be. It's a great pairing, two very interesting, delightful characters, and the pornographic possibilities are limitless, wtf. So! Here's some more of it.

Oh, and this is the third attempt I made at writing fiction for this drawing. The other two attempts were angsty and I know Nyarlathotep23 likes fluff of these two, so there you go. It's fluff, it's filth, I hope you all like it. :D

What It Is

by mistr3ss Quickly

It's Apollo's idea, Apollo's suggestion. Turns into Apollo's request when Klavier laughs it off and takes matters into his own hands, taking things the direction they usually go. Becomes Apollo's demand, Apollo's repeated insistence, when Klavier hesitates and questions and does his utmost to flirt his way into a change-of-subject.

"Forehead, baby. It's good how it is, ja?"

"Yes. And it'll be good the other way, too."

"Ach, you cannot be sure of that."

"It's always good when we do other things."

"Well of course it is, baby."

"This won't be any different, then, will it."

It's a day of silence between them, followed by a week of nerves and tension and long hours spent apart, their only time together rushing past in the break-neck pace of the courtroom. It's exhaustion, afterwards, Apollo's client found guilty only of the charges Klavier could prove him guilty of, the real perpetrator of the murder taken away in chains.

"I want you to, Klavier. Just this once. Please."

"And if I should happen to hurt you, baby? I would never forgive myself."

"Then don't. I know you better than that. You'll do it right."

"You have no guarantee of that."

"No. But you didn't either, the first time with me. I trust you. It'll be okay."

"Ah, Forehead. You flatter me. It will get you nowhere, though."

It's drinks in the quiet of Klavier's apartment, after the last paper has been signed, the last folder filed. It's the bitter flavor of beer on Klavier's tongue and the rich aftertaste of wine on Apollo's, the hush of fabric rubbing as the lovers take the kiss deeper, Apollo's back pressed into the sofa cushion's, Klavier's fingers curled tight around the armrest.

"Mmm, you are so hard already, Forehead. All for me?"

"Y-yeah. Ngh, it is. I ... I want. Tonight, just once, I want to try it. Please."

"Mein Gott, baby, as if I could refuse you. Yes, all right. If that's what you want."

"Yeah. It is. I want it really, really badly."

It's legs tangling and feet stumbling, laughter as they sort themselves and move to the bedroom. It's Apollo pulling Klavier's hair out of its neat spiral in his eagerness to take his lover's mouth in a kiss. It's Klavier groaning, too busy stripping his lover nude to bother with the necklace hanging heavy around his neck, Apollo's bracelet cold against his bare chest.

"How do you want me, baby?"

"Behind me. Over me. Like, um. Like our first time."

"Ah, much more of that and I will disappoint you, Forehead. Mein Gott."

"You won't. I know you better than that."

It's Apollo's body, lean and muscular, spread out and exposed and waiting, the bed squeaking as Klavier climbs onto it with none of his usual grace. It's Klavier's hands, touching and rubbing and stroking. It's Apollo's voice, muffled in the sheets, Apollo's erection dripping, sticky-wet already when Klavier reaches for it, stroking it slowly and firmly, root to tip.

"S-stop that, I don't want to come yet. Please don't—aah!—not yet ..."

"Oh, but baby you're so hard already. Are you certain that you would not rather—"

"I'm sure. Please?"

"Mmm. Very well. You know I cannot say no to you, Forehead."

It's movement, Apollo's eyes closed as the bed shakes, Klavier's hands shaking as well when they touch him, tracing the curve of his ass, tickling up the inside of his thigh. It's the click of the lube bottle, the moment's hesitation before Klavier touches, presses fingers slick and cool against Apollo's asshole, one sliding inside when he pushes, Apollo's body spasming faintly around it.

"Gott, you are tight, Forehead. Is it all right?"

"Y-yes. It's good. Feels good."

It's two fingers, Apollo moaning for them before Klavier gives in and does as he's told. Two fingers and Apollo's hand gripping the sheets, the mattress only doing so much to muffle the noises he makes as he's fingered. It's Klavier's erection bumping wetly against Apollo's thigh, Klavier's apology breathed in German as he slides a third finger into his lover's body, impatience finally winning over restraint.

"That's enough, isn't it? For you to, um. Try, at least?"

"Yes. I think so."

It's forever, waiting for Klavier to tear open the condom and roll it down his length. Forever, listening to Klavier slick himself. Then it's blunt pressure, cool latex and warm flesh pushing and stretching, opening Apollo and sliding inside, Apollo's muscles tensing and voice coming loud and breathy, his own neglected erection dripping onto his lover's expensive sheets.

"Are you okay, baby? Does it hurt?"

"No, it doesn't ... mmm, doesn't hurt. It's good."

It's Klavier's breath and hair and lips tickling Apollo's shoulders, once he's buried inside his lover's body, Klavier's hands running down Apollo's sides, one going down to the rumpled sheets to hold himself up. It's Apollo's eyes squeezed tightly shut, Apollo's hand twisting the sheets. Apollo groaning, begging for his lover to do what the man is restraining himself from doing.

"I'll come too soon if you don't. Please, fuck me."

"Scheiße, Apollo, you could ruin a better man with your begging."

It's movement and choked noises of pleasure and sweat and heat, the bed squeaking as Klavier loses himself in the feel of his lover, tight beneath him. It's Apollo gasping and shifting, grabbing himself and stroking furiously, his brow furrowed in concentration. It's the burn of muscle, the balance of bodies. The raw, primal carnality of fucking.

"K-Klavier ... I'm close."

It's shifting and creaking and Apollo crying out, Klavier moving to mount his lover, one foot braced against the mattress well enough for him to pound into the man. It's Apollo's back arching, Apollo's thighs trembling, Apollo's hand tightening on his cock, stroking steadily as he's fucked. It's Klavier's hands, gripping the mattress, anchoring him as he fucks.

"Come for me, baby. Please, please come, I cannot ... ngh—!"

It's the throb of Klavier's cock inside Apollo's body, the echo of Klavier's shout in the quiet of the bedroom. It's the rush of orgasm, the tight shaking pleasure that makes Klavier curse and pant and jerk his hips in tiny, desperate motions, Apollo moaning beneath him. It's the breathless aftermath, the wet sounds of Apollo masturbating still under the weight of his lover's body.

"Stay in. I'm—ngh, Klavier, fuck me, please, I'm ... oh God ... aah ..."

It's tightness around Klavier's length, tighter than any virgin really ought to be, even one as thoroughly deflowered as Apollo. It's a mess on the sheets and a shout that makes Klavier's ears ring, Apollo's hips jerking as he fucks his own fist, his ass sliding up and down Klavier's wilting erection just enough to feel too much, too soon.

"Oh, baby. Oh Apollo."

It's too much, Klavier sliding out, Klavier pulling off the condom and tying it. Not enough, Apollo slipping from the bed, into the bathroom for a wet cloth. It's terrycloth against messy, sensitive skin, against sticky, messy sheets. It's Klavier's patience running out, Apollo squeaking as he's grabbed and pulled and kissed.

"See? I told you it would be good."

It's Apollo's smile and Klavier's laughter, Klavier's hands on Apollo's sensitive backside and Apollo's hands in Klavier's hair. It's Apollo shivering and Klavier pulling back the blankets, Klavier lying down and Apollo settling beside him. It's two sighs of contentment, two bodies lying sated together, their heat slowly warming the bedclothes.

"Ja, baby, you did. You were right."

"Mmm."

"I was good at it, ja? As you said. I am a natural."

"Mmm-hmm."

"You were as well, of course. My sweet little Forehead."

"Yeah?"

"Mmm, ja."

"Good."

It's a gentle kiss. A smile, shared between lovers.

"Then tomorrow, I'll top you, show you how it's supposed to be done."

It's laughter, swallowing the lovers as they hold each other, and fall asleep.

Original, "Critique," Justin/Callum, hard R

2008-10-22T15:48:49Z

Written in celebration of PseudoNonchalance's 80k views over on y!gallery. Congratulations, hon!

Callum and Justin are hers, I just borrowed them long enough to play with them. I hope I kind of got them okay, dear!! ♥

Critique

by mistr3ss Quickly

They're never happy with the answer, never happy with the debate even, I tell him. They bring it up all the time, take it 'round and 'round. Discuss it and argue it and beat it to death and part angry and frustrated, to come home and huff and puff and complain.

Like you do, right? he says, biting me on the chin.

Yeah, you got a problem with it? I say, even though I know he doesn't.

He shakes his head. Says he doesn't.

They're never happy with it, never happy with what they make, never happy with what they see. They create and destroy and display and consider and critique and snort and tell me that I'm not doing it right because I sometimes enjoy what I'm doing.

Well, it's different 'cause I enjoy it too, he says, pulling up the blanket.

I can't very well tell them that, I tell him, even though he knows that already.

He shrugs his bony shoulders. Says still, that's got to count for something.

They're never happy, or maybe that's the only way they can be happy, when they're convincing other that they're not happy. When they have the world convinced that they're suffering and miserable, just to create what maybe no one will appreciate.

I appreciate this, he says, touching where it's too dark between us to see.

That's a bit different, I tell him, even though I'm laughing all the same.

He grins. Says he doesn't give a damn.

They'll never understand this, I tell him, murmur to him around the feel of the kisses he pressed against my mouth, never create anything like it themselves. They'll sit and argue and hate themselves and each other and I won't be part of them, because of it.

I can't see how that could bother you, he says, shuddering when I touch him.

I didn't say it did, I tell him, even though it does.

He shudders again. Says he's glad to hear it.

They don't ... they can't. They say it's ... they say they can't force it but it's not force it's music and color and touch and taste and feel. It's my muse and I'm his and what we create is beautiful and it's scary sometimes but it's ours and beyond that, beyond ... ngh—

You talk too much sometimes Cal, he says, dipping down so that his hair tickles me.

Don't hear you complaining about it, I tell him.

He snorts. Says I won't hear any, ever.

They're just a bunch of egotistical jack-offs, he says. Says I shouldn't pay attention to them, that it'll just make me crazy. He says he thinks it's art, what we do. Says he hears music in every little breath I take, every little moan that comes out of my mouth.

It's art, he says. It's music.

It isn't, I tell him. But I like it anyway.

He chuckles. Drags his fingers through the mess on my chest, paints a smiling face.

"I like it too, Cal," he says. "I like it, too."

Original, "Illusion," Jackson/Kyle, R

2008-10-13T05:24:54Z

I've lately discovered a part of my brain that isn't very well liked by the rest of the greymatter. It's a part that's taken to recognizing love where, before, I'd thought there was nothing but fetish, a part that's not willing to believe that there's obligatory love in things that can be chalked up to nothing more than mechanics.

My reaction to that part of my own brain has been pretty negative. I'm still struggling with it. A lot.

This story came about when I had a realization about a piece of artwork. I won't spill out my life-story to you, but I will say that it's very much like the feeling I had when I realized I was gay. I wrote this so that I wouldn't have to bolt back into the farthest corner of the closet, because honestly, right now, that's looking like a very welcoming spot.

[Edit]: Added some stuff to the front of it, just on a whim. Maybe to make it clearer. I hope so.

Illusion

by mistr3ss Quickly

You made the decision eight years ago. Put the decision into words seven years and three months ago. Went through with it two years after that, almost to the day.

It was the right thing to do. It was what you wanted to do. It made you feel good, better than you'd ever felt before. That's what you told him, the first time you met him. When he touched and felt the scars on your chest, his big blue eyes wide as he put into words the question you didn't have any problems answering. When he smiled and said huh, cool, then wanted to know what time you'd be done with work for the night.

That night, he drank beer and asked you questions as they occurred to him. He put his hand on your knee. Slipped it up under your skirt. Grinned when he felt you reacting, asked if it felt just as good, now, as it did then.

It didn't. It felt better. You told him that. Then you slapped his hand away and got up to get him another drink, to get one for yourself.

He didn't ask, that night, one of the questions you'd grown used to getting from other patrons. Didn't ask. So you didn't give him an answer. Didn't give him the answer, the one you've given other patrons every single time they've asked. The one that makes men laugh and grope your ass. The one that makes women stare at you. Maybe makes them wonder things about themselves.

Maybe. You've never asked.

You've been with him—officially been with him—for five weeks and two days when he finally stops wondering so loudly that you can practically hear the question he didn't ask that night, running through in his head. He takes a deep breath, and asks. Plainly. Opens his mouth and says the words.

You've been sleeping with him for two months and six days. Known him nearly a year, just four months and a handful of days shy of a full three-sixty-five.

It doesn't make it any easier to hear the words come out of his mouth, though. Doesn't keep your heart from leaping up into your throat. Sticking there, beating hard, while you watch his lips stop moving, feel the words lingering there, heavy in the space between you.

Do you actually want to be a woman?

He's entitled to ask, of course, and you've always sworn that, if he did ask, you'd tell him. Not just tell him whatever, either. You've always sworn that you'd tell him the truth, whatever that happened to be at the moment when he finally asks. So that's here now, at eleven fifty-two p.m., the two of you lying on his sofa, breathing hard because it's been a long day and you didn't get very far when you came in together, even though you'd talked all the way home about having a beer together before dinner. He's asking you now, now when you're under him and you're hard and he's hard and he's touching you, the backs of his fingernails touching where there should be stubble on your cheek, rasping over it loudly enough that you can hear it, feel it.

Do you actually want to be a woman?

It's your fault that he's asking, you're the one who didn't want to change after work, the one who held his hand while the two of you waited for the subway, while we walked from the station to his flat. You're the one who kissed him on the cheek while he unlocked his door, even though one of his neighbors was right there, right there, watching and smiling and dropping her gaze because it's not polite to stare when two lovers are being affectionate. Nothing to see, so long as it's just affection, anyway. Not like you were making out or fondling each other, out there on the balcony. And then when we came inside, when he called you a tease and you mentioned the other girl, just to get him jealous, that was your fault, too. Your fault because it made him wonder. Made him ask.

Do you actually want to be a woman?

He touches his lips to the tip of your nose. To your cheek. To your lips. To your chin. He moves his body down yours, popping buttons and pulling at your belt. It's nerves, for him, not pure arousal like it was the first night, when he was drunk and confused and you were horny and eager. It's nerves because you're too quiet, because you've lied to yourself when you promised to tell him when he asked, because you're too quiet and he knows it's a weird question, that the answer will be weird, too. His hands are shaking when you lift your hips and let him pull at your boxers. He looks up at you, big soft brown eyes and coarse five o'clock shadow and his tongue darting out to lick his lips. Hesitates, before kissing you where you want to be kissed. Closes his eyes and breathes words across your thigh.

Do you actually want to be a woman?

It's good. The way his voice doesn't quite break. The way he kisses you, down there. The way he moves up again without doing what he usually does when things are awkward. It's good, feeling him heavy on top of you, his arms pushing insistently under you until he's got you in an embrace, all hard muscle squeezing around your ribcage, your thin arms around him, holding on even though you know he's not going to let you go. His breath warm against your ear, whispering to you. Calling you by name, reassuring you that it's okay, whatever "it" might be. Telling you that you don't have to answer, if you don't want to, even though that's just as much a lie as your own promise that you'd tell him. That you wouldn't hesitate and make him do what he's doing now. Back-pedaling. Regretting.

"Do you actually want to be a woman?" he says, when he lets go enough to look down at you. When his hands brace him against the sofa-cushion, his weight dipping it down enough to unbalance you. Give you the illusion of falling.

You give him a smile he'll recognize as false. Lift your shoulders, enough that your skin scrubs against the upholstery.

"Too late now," you tell him. "Can't undo what's already been done."

He watches you for a moment. Long enough for your heart to beat in your chest, faster and faster. Ready for hurt. Ready for disappointment. Then he kisses you. Leans down and kisses you on the lips, gentle and sweet and everything you fell in love with, back when he was still a stranger and you were just as unsure as he.

"Good," he says, when you slip a hand between his belly and his belt, moving around to feel his warmth through the waistband of his boxers. "Good. Because I really, really love you like this."

You move your other hand up, curl your fingers in his choppy black hair. Hold him still and kiss him, the slow kind of kissing that makes him breath hard, gets him hard enough that you know you won't have any trouble getting him to fuck you.

I really, really love you like this.

You keep him close, and tell yourself that you could love yourself like this, too, if only to keep up the illusion, long enough to forget he ever asked.