Randomness!

What's here are snips and scraps of things I'd started but never managed to complete, but which I liked too well to discard. Things may come and go from here. These aren't intended as drabbles but many probably read that way, and some end quite abruptly. Some are smut, some are character pieces, some just are. Most are also terribly rough or years old, and some will make no sense whatsoever, having been written for a very specific audience.

untitled Stahn/Garr (Tales of Destiny)

Chelsea had just disappeared into her room with Master Alba's pants when Stahn began shivering. It began a little at a time - a twitch deep in his shoulders, a tremble in his fingers - but quickly overtook him, leaving his teeth chattering so hard that he nearly took the tip of his tongue off when it brushed near.

Garr's eyes found him, assessing in a heartbeat, and then his hands were turning the blond and guiding him the bed. "You are not fully recovered," he scolded, his shiver-deep voice touched with mingled humor and concern. "You pushed yourself too hard; Phandaria's cold requires some adaptation."

"D-don't s-say I t-t-to-old you s-so," Stahn stuttered around spastic chattering, wrapping his arms tightly around himself as he sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm f-f-fine."

The rich blue of Garr's eyes lightened slightly with a smile that did not reach his lips. Gently, he drew Stahn's arms away from his chest, bronzed fingers finding the closures on Stahn's jacket and loosening them.

Stahn startled so badly that he nearly went over backwards, his muscles locking so that, just for a moment, even his shivers could not move him. "Wh-What are you d-d-doing?" he demanded, knocking Garr's hands away.

"I am getting you warm," Garr responded mildly, his fingers moving instead to his own jacket, freeing himself from its confines. "Are you able to undress yourself?"

Stahn blinked once, then nodded, his trembling fingers working clumsily at laces and buckles. His eyes narrowed as he stared at his fingers determinedly, grimacing each time a shiver wracked them and send them skittering elsewhere. He'd managed to get all but his breeches off, and struggled with the belts until, once again, bronzed fingers deftly loosened them. In only a moment more, Stahn was left in nothing but his smallclothes.

"In bed with you, now."

Queerly embarrassed, Stahn slid under the heavy blankets and curled into a tight ball, only to be surprised once again when the mattress dipped as Garr joined him beneath the blankets. The silver-haired man drew them together, spooning his longer body around Stahn's as his arms wound snugly around the blonde's waist. Stahn couldn't help but press into the heat radiating from Garr's body and sighed softly in bliss as the shivers slowly died and exhaustion overtook him. The last thing he was aware of as he slid into slumber was the soft, even brush of Garr's breathing over his cheek.

When Stahn awoke, he was alone and not entirely certain that he hadn't dreamt the previous night. He debated rising and seeking out his host, only to settle more deeply into the warmth of the blankets and play the preceding events over in his mind. He could still feel Garr's heat like a brand against his back, the hard muscle under surprisingly soft skin, shifting fluidly with each slight movement. His fingers touched his cheek as he recalled the rush of Garr's breath over his skin, warmth with just a hint of bittersweet chill in its wake.

The touch of the calloused hand to his forehead made him realize that he had closed his eyes, and slowly, savoring the dreamy quality of the moment, he raised his eyelids to meet Garr's gaze.

"You do not have a fever. How do you feel?"

"Warm," Stahn answered without thinking, and to his surprise, Garr tossed his hair and laughed, a rich trill of sound so deep that it vibrated down Stahn's spine in a pleasant shiver.

"Would you like to leave for Janus, then?"

"Janus?"

Garr nodded, finally removing his hand from Stahn's brow. "A border town between Seinegeld and Phandaria. You can continue your journey from there." He paused, then lifted Stahn's chin and studied his eyes intently, his own narrowed slightly in consideration. "Perhaps you should rest today, at the very least. We can leave tomorrow, if you feel up to it."

"I'm fine," Stahn grumbled, pushing back the blankets and sitting up, only to promptly groan and press his hand over his eyes. "Maybe... I could rest today."

Again, Garr's rich chuckle washed over him, and gentle hands pushed hand back to the mattress. "I'll bring you some soup."

Desperation (Resident Evil 4)

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Leon 's heels slid impotently across the floor as he struggled to lift his hips and thrust into the hand roughly pumping his cock. His breathing seemed overly loud in the small room, ragged and stuttering with just a hint of a whine deep in his throat when he inhaled. It was suicidal, what they were doing, downright insane to hole up in this deserted cabin only to fuck - but there was the taste of desperation on the back of his tongue, bitter and sharp, and he wouldn't begrudge himself - either of them - this one small reprieve.

Behind him, Luis shifted, his engorged cock sliding through the channel between Leon's buttocks, and Leon bucked, head dropping against the other man's shoulder as he came and came and came, his fingers covering Luis's and squeezing, smearing both their hands with his semen. He could feel Luis rocking against his ass, the slide of heated skin a mimicry of penetration as Luis rolled his hips, his breathing harsh against Leon 's ear until he stiffened and sticky warmth splattered Leon 's skin, tickling strangely as it dripped.

It was hard to know what to say as they sat there, disheveled and smelling of sex. He hadn't known what to say when he'd found Luis in this cabin, hadn't known what to say when Luis had grabbed his cock through his pants and breathed a plea in his ear, hadn't known what to say when Luis jerked his belt loose and pushed his pants down until they'd caught on the buckles circling his thigh. Luis's hands had been cold when they'd closed on his hips and pulled him down to the dirty floor, but they'd been warm enough when they'd wrapped around his cock. They'd been something real in a world that had gone hazy, truth and fiction tangled together until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Leon said again at last. Luis's hand still gripped Leon 's cock, just this side of uncomfortable against his sensitized skin. In turn, he could still feel Luis's cock against his ass, half-erect now, sticky with spent cum.

Luis's laugh was low and a bit shaky, but somehow reassuring regardless. "Madre mía, Leon . I could really use that smoke now."

Leon shoved his hair out of his face, exhaling slowly. "Still only got gum." His fingers skimmed over Luis's, an aborted attempt to push his hand away. "I'll buy you a pack when we get outta here."

"I will hold you to that, sí?" At last Luis's fingers slid away from Leon 's softened cock, spreading instead over his belly as his mouth found the back of Leon 's neck. "It is not safe to leave here in the night. We should stay here, rest."

untitled Cliff/Albel (Star Ocean: Til the End of Time)

There was nothing graceful about it as Cliff slammed Albel's back against the wall, pinning the slighter man with his hips. Albel's eyes were promising death as Cliff leaned in to kiss him and Cliff was unsurprised when sharp teeth cut into his lip. The taste of his own blood sent a wave of lust roaring through his head and Cliff rocked his hips against Albel's to find the first hints of answering hardness.

He'd pinned Albel's hands against the wall, the swordsman's wrists hauntingly delicate in his grasp, but released the right now. Albel's fist immediately began battering against his side but Cliff ignored it, instead catching Albel's chin in his newly-freed hand and pressing his thumb hard against his cheek. Like magic, Albel's mouth opened, prevented from biting again by the blockage of Cliff's thumb and his own cheek, and Cliff's tongue pressed its advantage, laying claim to the cavern of Albel's mouth with broad strokes. He tasted of blood and sweat and dust and Albel groaned into his mouth in the moment before his hand fisted in Cliff's hair and wrenched his head back.

There were no hints of hardness against his groin now; Albel's cock rose to meet his like a blade, furnace-hot even through their clothing. Cliff thrust against him again, and again, and again, until Albel's fingers were loosening from his hair and skating over his back without purchase as one leg lifted to wrap around Cliff's thighs. Cliff's hand slid away from Albel's cheek to curve at his hip, forcing Albel to stillness as he thrust one last time and came, his stuttering groan muffled against Albel's shoulder.

It was some seconds before he realized that Albel's hips were still moving with short, abortive thrusts against his own and that Albel's curses snarled near his ear carried a distinct overtone of desperation. It took only a slight movement of his hand to jerk free the ties of Albel's skirt, another to rip loose the twist of fabric cradling his genitals, and then Albel's cock was in his hand and Albel's groan was a benediction. Cliff didn't realize he'd let go of Albel's gauntleted hand until four lines of fire opened over his shoulder blade, but it didn't matter by then; it was the most natural thing in the world to press a finger past the tight ring of Albel's anus as his other hand jerked Albel's cock. It was artless when Albel came, a howl strangled in his throat as he clamped down around Cliff's finger and spurted messily over Cliff's hand, painting the black of Cliff's clothes with white.

Before His Time (Shadow Hearts: Covenant)

He loved his wife.

She was a wonderful woman, strong in ways that he couldn't begin to fathom, and beautiful enough to make his heart ache. He'd fallen hard for her from the first moment he'd seen her, crumpled and limp beneath that tree, even before he'd seen the photograph cradled in her hand. He'd only tried to question it once, much later, after they'd hesitantly begun to consider themselves a couple, and the speed with which she closed off was enough to convince him never to mention it again.

They'd married within the year, young and in love. She'd been beautiful, clad in Western white lace, but, then, she was always beautiful. There were times he'd watch her sleep, her head turned away from him in slumber, afraid to so much as brush away the locks of hair clinging to her cheeks. She'd talk, sometimes, when he touched her, sleep- blurred syllables an automatic reaction to the contact, although she rarely truly stirred.

She usually said his name.

Sometimes, she didn't.

He loved his wife, and that was why he never asked her why she occasionally murmured another man's name in their bed. That was why he never asked her why that name graced their son, born after two of the best years of his life. That was why he never asked her why he was wont to find her hovering over the infant, her fingers lingering against round cheeks.

"I love you, Yuri."

She said it at every available opportunity: at waking, at bedtime, at mealtimes, in the lull in the afternoon. When she said it, she'd smile at their son, but a shadow seemed to dwell in it, as though she were seeing someone else in the place of the happy boy with his fingers stuffed into his mouth. She said it far more often than she did "I love you, Jinpachiro."

He loved his wife, and he loved his son, and even as it killed him to be so often apart from them, it was at the same time a relief.

Drink (Samurai Warriors)

Rain, days of rain, had trapped all but the servants, the foolhardy, and the lovestruck indoors. Amusements had soon run short and tempers had run high, simmering beneath the lid of gentility. Mitsuhide had deemed the wisest course to be to simply absent himself whenever possible, and so he came to be sequestered in the small room overlooking the courtyard, a tray of sand before him on the low table that was all that stood between him and the smooth line of Ranmaru's mouth.

The boy had joined him hours ago, silently folding down on the floor and hugging his knees to his chest. He'd been undemanding company, and the only sounds to break the silence had been the rush of their breathing, the rustle of Mitsuhide's sleeve, the susurration of sand pushed aside by the stylus, the swoosh-clack as the wood wiped clean his calligraphy to present him with a fresh plane. Mitsuhide had appreciated Ranmaru's silence, but the younger retainer had no doubt come for a reason, and such patience deserved a reward.

Clearing the sand one last time, Mitsuhide carefully set the stylus alongside the tray, then lifted his gaze to the firm set of Ranmaru's mouth.

As though he sensed Mitsuhide's regard despite his closed eyes, Ranmaru parted his lips and inhaled slowly. His eyes opened a moment later, although his gaze didn't lift from his knees. "Takenaka-san sent me another letter."

"Did he?"

Much of their conversations were carried on in what was not said, and so Ranmaru had no difficulty recognizing the invitation underlying Mitsuhide's question. "How do I make him stop?"

Mitsuhide could feel a faint smile softening his own lips, and turned his head to partially shield the expression with the sweep of his hair. "I doubt you can, Ranmaru." He angled a glance toward Ranmaru, meeting his confused gaze with his own gentle amusement. "Beauty has its price, and you are unusually beautiful."

He couldn't help but be gratified by the flush that reddened Ranmaru's cheeks, any more than he could help the amusement at the glare the boy shot him, eyes slit with irritation. Ranmaru made no attempt to rise, however, instead sliding his foot over the floor as the irritation gave way to an amusement to match Mitsuhide's.

"He likened my mouth to a persimmon."

Folding his hands in his lap, Mitsuhide clucked his tongue. "It is unseemly for you to speak of what he sent you, Ranmaru." Any sting was taken out of the scold when he shuffled around the low table on his knees and reached to press his fingertips beneath Ranmaru's chin. "Still, it is apt."

Ranmaru twitched away from Mitsuhide's touch, another chiding glare directed at Mitsuhide as Ranmaru pursed his lips. "It is foolish."

Mitsuhide's lips curled with a grin as he folded his hands once again in his lap. "That you do not wish to hear it from him does not make it any less true. Your mouth is an enigma, Ranmaru." He tilted his head slightly, brows creased with thought as though he studied Ranmaru for the first time. "Would you feel any differently had I been the one to tell you such?"

The widening of Ranmaru's eyes was strangely gratifying, and Mitsuhide's fingers found the soft point of Ranmaru's chin again as the mouth in question opened on words that never attained speech. Ranmaru's lips tasted nothing of persimmons but, oh, they were soft, as was the stutter of his surprised exhale against Mitsuhide's lips. It was only a fleeting contact, and then Mitsuhide was releasing him to fold his hands in his lap again, his expression as unreadable as a jizo's.

Necessary Evolution (Gundam W)

They never slept together, after they'd fucked; one or the other of them would fetch something to clean up with, then leave to seek the comfort of his own bed. It had been a tenet of their relationship since Heero had first slid his hand into Milliard's pants and proposed the arrangement and Milliard had never truly found himself minding - not until now.

A month of overseeing disarmament and further negotiations had kept Milliard everywhere in the world but Sank. A month of sleeping in unfamiliar, oft-times uncomfortable beds, of political bickering that he'd once thought to leave behind with OZ, of tours and dinners and balls and offers had left him exhausted and questioning why he'd left behind Noin and Mars and the honest exhaustion of honest labor.

Still, when Heero had shown up at his door he'd let him in, despite the bags still sitting in the middle of the room and the reports needing dispatching and the siren's song of his own bed. The door had barely been closed when Heero all but attacked him, his fingers winding painfully tight in Milliard's hair to pull the tall blonde down for a forceful kiss. Milliard's hand rose to cup the back of Heero's neck but his mouth had fumbled, clumsy and uncoordinated against the practiced crush of Heero's.

After some long moments, Heero pulled away with a noise somewhere between frustration and disgust, turning toward the door only to be caught by Milliard's fingers at his wrist. He looked down at the digits caging him, then lifted his gaze back to Milliard's as one eyebrow rose in silent question.

"Just for tonight," Milliard said - pleaded, if he was honest with himself. He squeezed Heero's wrist lightly, tugged him gently in the vague direction of the bedroom, then released him; if Heero didn't choose to come on his own, Milliard was hardly up to forcing him, and the last thing on his mind was a fight for the sake of a bedmate. He didn't wait for Heero, didn't so much as glance at him again. He only crossed into the bedroom of his suite, fumbling with the constraints of his suit and letting the garments lie where they fell as he succeeded in freeing himself. Finally, triumphantly nude, he squirmed awkwardly beneath his bedsheets and wrapped his arm around a pillow, breathing a deep sigh as he sank into the comfort of home.

Two heartbeats later, he was fast asleep.

Milliard didn't remember Heero joining him but, when he woke in the morning, it was obvious he had; Heero's stiff back was presented to him from the far side of the bed, still clad in the dark tanktop he'd worn the night before. One arm, folded under his head, served for a pillow and his legs - bare, Milliard noted appreciatively - were bent as though even in sleep Heero sought to shield his vulnerabilities. The nape of his neck was temptingly bared and Milliard, thoroughly rested now, saw no reason to resist; it took only a slight shift to be able to press his lips to the soft skin, and he smiled at the feel of Heero's hair tickling his nose.

Extrapolation (Heatguy J)

He hadn't known what to expect when he brought his hand to Bohma's cheek; despite his first-hand knowledge of Bohma's true face, he was irrationally surprised to find that it was not warm skin. There was the flicker-flash of an interrupted hologram, and then his fingers were buried in thick fur.

Bohma watched him silently, his crimson gaze expressionless as Daisuke's fingers carded his fur. Taller than the blonde, he watched him down his nose as his hands remained lax at his sides.

They were alone in the dark office, the others having long-since escaped to their own means; even J was gone, sent off with the pretty doctor for a systems check. Bohma hadn't minded being left; without the hunt calling him, there was no need for him to be elsewhere, and Daisuke - especially a focused Daisuke - was strangely soothing. They'd remained in comfortable silence but for the clattering of keys as Daisuke typed, until he'd pushed his chair back, golden-haired head tilting over it until he regarded Bohma upside-down, his ocean-colored eyes bright with curiosity.

"What does it feel like?"

"Mm?"

Daisuke had grinned at Bohma's wordless response, righting himself and spinning the chair to fully face the dark man. "The holo-mask. Does it feel differently?"

Bohma had considered carefully; being spare with his words, he preferred to waste none on idle curiosity. In the time since he'd come to know the younger Aurora , though, he'd found him to possess surprising depths, so that even his idleness seemed to be for some greater purpose. "The holo-mask affects visual perceptions only," he answered carefully. "All others are true."

"Oh?" Daisuke had risen with his usual grace, crossing to Bohma in the darkened room; light had still flooded through the enormous window when the others had left, and neither Bohma nor Daisuke had felt the need to switch on the artificial lights as twilight had deepened. The room was lit well enough by the waxing moon as Daisuke stood before Bohma and studied the construction of his face, ignoring the faint amusement in Bohma's eyes as they watched his. "Remarkable," he said, quietly.

And then, he'd touched him.

It had been years - a lifetime, Bohma sometimes felt - since he'd been touched with anything other than violence or necessity. Daisuke's fingers were steady as they stroked through the hidden fur, their journey continuing without pause down his throat. Bohma froze reflexively, too shocked to even attempt to stop the instinctive snarl that curled his upper lip, unable to think of anything but his unexpected vulnerability as Daisuke's fingers scratched along the tense muscles. Before the impending growl could surface, though, Daisuke's fingers had completed their trek and, betraying his familiarity, switched the mask off.

Bohma's illusions fell away, the light of the dying mask reflecting briefly in Daisuke's face before they were left with nothing but the lunar illumination. Bohma's eyes sought Daisuke's again, extrapolating to discover Daisuke studying the hint of fang still revealed by Bohma's snarling mouth, then his flattened ears, then his own fingers, buried still in fur so dark that it devoured the light and made the shadows its own.

"Werewolf," Daisuke said, and from him it was no curse, no epithet, but almost a prayer.

Surprise left Bohma's lip dropping, his ears canting crookedly as the amaryllis gleam of his eyes was shuttered by a slow blink. His confusion only grew as Daisuke began to scratch again, a strong curl of fingers at the base of his throat that left him helpless to do anything but lift his chin and stretch into the blissful caress. He could feel his ears perking as his lip curled again - in ecstasy, this time - but could only submit to the masterful scratching as his eyes rolled shut; it seemed as though his entire body was being pet, rather than only the small portion of his throat usually hidden by his collar.

It seemed hours later that Daisuke finally ceased, although logically Bohma knew that it had not comprised even a full minute. He slit his eyes open, pleasure still pounding too enthusiastically through his veins for anything more energetic, and regarded Daisuke's amused grin, although the vague tingle of annoyance was squelched before it could become anything more.

"Werewolf," Daisuke said again, and made to step away. He seemed as surprised as Bohma to find Bohma's hand at his wrist, preventing his flight with a firm grip that was just shy of pain, and stumbled slightly at the abrupt counter to his motion. Staggering, he half-fell against Bohma, catching himself awkwardly with his hand on Bohma's thigh and the unexpected heat of Bohma's erection against his belly. His eyes widened and he struggled, briefly, only to find Bohma making a sound that was more growl than moan and jerking him up by his still-captive wrist.

"I am no tame dog," Bohma warned softly, moonlight flashing on white teeth as he spoke. "I am no one's pet." He held Daisuke effortlessly, the shorter man barely balancing on his toes until his eyes were level with Bohma's. Despite his position, there was no fear in Daisuke's eyes - pain, curiosity, interest, sheepishness, but no fear - and its lack sent another jolt of excitement through Bohma, coiling with weighty heat between his legs as he leaned forward.

He supposed, off-handedly, that in some circles it might be called kissing, in the loosest sense of the term. His tongue lapped over Daisuke's chin, warm and wet as he licked along the blonde's jaw line. Another flicker of tongue against his ear made Daisuke shiver within Bohma's grasp, and so he did it again, with the same result. He tasted his cheeks, half-expecting the saltiness of tears against his tongue, but this was Daisuke and his skin tasted only of the faint musk of his aftershave. He compared it to the skin at the tip of his nose, then between the fine slashes of his brows, then again at his ear, before his tongue slid, sinuous and insistent, over Daisuke's lips.

There was no resistance. In fact, Bohma found quite the opposite as Daisuke's mouth opened and his tongue sallied forth to meet Bohma's, less agile but no less enthusiastic. They tangled with clear intent, Daisuke's tongue exploring the points of sharp fangs before it was routed by Bohma's, which pressed forth to claim the hot cavern of Daisuke's mouth as its own.

He'd released Daisuke's hand without realizing it and his freed arm wrapped around Daisuke, fingers plunging into his thick blond hair to hold him steady as his mouth was all but literally devoured. It was only when Daisuke's fingers brushed over the fine, soft fur covering his ears that reality rushed back to Bohma, leaving him pressed back against the wall as he regarded Daisuke with wide eyes.

...the More Things Stay the Same (Xenogears)

"It was so much simpler back then, wasn't it?"

Hyuuga smiled and turned from his contemplation of Fenrir to face his old friend. "No, it was not," he corrected mildly, lifting one hand to brush over the patch covering Sigurd's right eye. "It was only complicated on different levels. We have exchanged one for another."

Sigurd's pale brows lowered slightly as he regarded Hyuuga for a moment, then lifted his chin to gaze up Fenrir's length. "I do not believe that I mentioned that it is good to see you again, despite all that it signifies." Although his eyes cut sideways toward Hyuuga, his chin neither turned nor lowered. "I thought of you often."

"Did you?" Hyuuga's voice echoed with the same surprise that lifted his brows, a surprise which struck Sigurd as jarringly false. "How did you ever find the time? You are indeed a man of many talents, Sigurd."

"So I am," Sigurd agreed placidly; if there was anything that he remembered about Hyuuga, it was his ability to circle a subject without so much as ever brushing against it, and the best way to learn more was to join him in the verbal dance. "He still has much to learn, but he will make a fine King."

"Indeed."

Silence stretched between them, neither comfortable nor awkward, in itself as revealing as any conversation. Hyuuga was a man of many silences and, although it had been years since he had done so, Sigurd was an expert on reading them. This silence was melancholic, bitterness lining the edges with the sharpness of a knife, guarding a pure, simple belief at its core. It was a silence that spoke of remembered curt words and the resultant recalcitrant kisses.

"I am sorry that I left you."

Hyuuga's eyes reflected that false surprise again, making Sigurd want to shake him until truth touched his dark eyes. "Of course you had to leave; your young Prince needed you. I understand, Sigurd; there is no need to apologize."

"No." Sigurd's hand gripped Hyuuga's upper arm, and for the first time, there was some truth in the surprise in Hyuuga's eyes. "I am not sorry I left. I am sorry I left you."

Hyuuga watched Sigurd consideringly for a long moment, then nodded firmly. "Perhaps we should take this conversation to a more private setting."

Melting (Yoroiden-Samurai Troopers)

The day died slowly, the red of its blood splashing across the sky as it succumbed to its eternal opponent, finally slipping away into the relentless grasp of night. The stars whispered amongst themselves as they appeared, some entering with the shyness of a debutante while others sparkled too brightly to be ignored, matrons in the Society of the cosmos.

Seiji stood still as night spread its wings, his gaze turned to the endless dance. Twilight was one of this favorite times, the time where the fire of the day gave way to the water of the night, no more able to resist than he was to join the stars in their celebrations. Watching the close of the day always filled him with an immeasurable sense of peace that carried him through the subsequent tumult of life.

"You are thinking too much."

Seiji couldn't help that smile that came at the soft words and the glide of strong arms around his waist. "I am not thinking at all," he replied, his voice touched with gentle humor, and tipped his head back to accept Anubis's kiss of greeting. "It is a nice night to simply be."

"Surely it is lonely, with only your thoughts – or lack thereof – for company."

A rich chuckle bubbled from Seiji's throat and he leaned back into the familiar embrace. "If you would like my company, you know that you are always welcome to it." He turned within Anubis's arms and lavender gaze met darkest blue. "The moonlight is lovely on the lake. Perhaps you will walk with me."

In reply, Anubis released him, and the two men moved with the innate grace of those to whom martial arts is as natural as breathing. They did not touch as they walked, nor did they need to; each was as aware of the other as they were of their own hands. Without thought, their strides, even their breathing, fell into tandem, and no sound but the rustle of grass underfoot and the ever-present songs of night creatures broke into the web of peace woven around them.

Their pace remained steady, their steps unflagging as they circled the lake. Only when they reached the far side did Seiji draw to a halt, turning to regard the scene. The moonlight glistened on the water, bright against the black of the trees surrounding it. On the far shore, the Yagiyu house blazed with light, although it was too far to identify the shadows that occasionally crossed the windows. Despite the intrusion of the building, the scene was soothing, tranquil.

"It is beautiful, is it not?"

Anubis's gaze did not so much as drift toward the lake, instead caressing the revealed planes of Seiji's profile. The moonlight limned the straight line of his nose, pouring itself over the soft curve of his cheeks, and coursing down the column of his throat. He appeared as fragile as spun glass, but Anubis knew – perhaps far better than any – of the tempered steel hidden just below the surface. As though with a will of its own, his finger lifted, following the moonlight over Seiji's cheek. "Beautiful," he agreed, then, when the blonde turned to him with a warm smile, brushed his mouth over the winsome curve on the Cupid's bow lips.

Seiji's smile deepened, lips smoothing beneath Anubis's before parting to close again around Anubis's lower lip. His tongue ghosted over the sensitive flesh, and Anubis's breath froze in his throat. The next heartbeat, serenity was forgotten as their mouths merged, tongues twining together with twin intent. Hands came to rest on broad shoulders, a warm contact that remained even as their lips parted again.

Seiji did not speak as he moved, only watched Anubis with an unfathomable expression as he pressed their palms together. Callused fingers intertwined, jarring Anubis with the remembered unintentional intimacy of their first casual touch, and Seiji's thumb stroked the heel of his hand warmly as he stepped back, their linked hands drawing Anubis with him. Anubis's tread was slightly heavy with surprise, but unhesitant as he followed Seiji's lead, his eyes holding the blonde's as slow paces took them from the lake's shore to the shelter of the canopy of leaves.

Their lips found each other's again in the shadows cast by the surrounding trees, their fingers parting the darkness to caress shoulders and arms, flushed cheeks and soft hair. Seiji's taste was of light and life against Anubis's tongue, twining with his own flavors of stardust and shadows, a heady mix no less intoxicating now than when he had first sampled it.

The buttons of Seiji's shirt slipped from their buttonholes almost before Anubis had touched them, and it seemed only a heartbeat later that Anubis's hands were splayed over the bare skin of Seiji's chest. Seiji's soft moan was muffled against Anubis's throat and his hands clutched Anubis's upper arms as Anubis's thumbs rolled over Seiji's rosy nipples. The blonde quaked as though his bones had suddenly been transformed into gelatin, and Anubis laughed huskily as he wound a supportive arm around Seiji's waist.

"Easy," he murmured, his lips catching against the fine strands of Seiji's hair with the motion. His hand slid from Seiji's chest to tip his chin up so he could claim his lips again, and his own knees weakened with the enthusiasm of Seiji's response. The sound of his own heartbeat was over-loud in Anubis's ears as Seiji's tongue caressed his, exploring his mouth leisurely.

untitled Seifer/Squall (Final Fantasy VIII)

Seifer let himself into Squall's room with a silence bred of years of practice. The brunette was in his bed, already asleep, his sheets twisted around his slender hips as he lay on his belly, his head pillowed on his crossed arms. A faint smirk curved Seifer's lips as he leisurely undressed, depositing his clothes on Squall's desk before moving to stand next to the bed. His gaze drifted admiringly over the prone form, then settled on his slack expression as one hand found a firm globe of Squall's backside and squeezed.

One storm-colored eye slid open and a soft, complaining groan escaped from Squall as he roused. "Mn?" he slurred sleepily, then, "Seifer?"

"Yeah. Miss me?"

Squall rolled over and sat up groggily, pushing the soft fall of his hair from his eyes. "What are you doing here? What about the field test?"

Seifer snorted and chucked Squall lightly under the chin. "Who needs to be a SeeD anyway? I'd rather stick around here than risk my neck for some greedy politician."

"You failed," Squall translated succinctly, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Around two." Another faint smirk curved Seifer's lips as he seated himself in Squall's desk chair and quirked a beckoning finger.

Squall's brows drew together slightly, then his shoulders lifted with a sigh. "I was sleeping, Seifer."

"Now you're not." Again, the blonde's finger crooked, implacable.

Squall regarded Seifer for a long moment, then bowed to inevitability; once Seifer got something into his head, it was virtually impossible to change his mind, and far more expedient to get it over with. Sliding his legs over the side of the bed, he rose only to kneel gracefully at Seifer's feet. Fair as they were, his fingers still appeared dark against the pale skin of Seifer's thighs as his hands nudged them apart to accept the lean of his body.

The blonde was silent, neither encouraging nor suggesting, and Squall simply sat for a moment, considering his options with the decisiveness of a trained soldier. A heartbeat later, he was leaning forward, the tip of his tongue extended through his lips to sweep over Seifer's lax flesh, and the blonde's breath hissed out audibly. Never removing his hands from Seifer's knees, Squall's tongue ran firmly over Seifer's stiffening cock, teasing it to full hardness before sucking the swollen head into his mouth. He'd learned Seifer's rhythms long ago; it had been, after all, three years since Seifer's fourteenth birthday, the birthday for which Seifer had picked his own present – Squall. Those years of knowledge went into every motion, and soon enough, Seifer grunted and the salty-sweetness of his release flooded Squall's mouth.

Squall scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth as he straightened, then rose. He settled himself back in his bed, rolling himself into his blankets with a sigh as his eyes drifted closed once more. Seifer was silent behind him, and Squall gradually settled into a slight doze, only to be abruptly awakened again when the blonde moved to join him on the narrow bed. Trapped between Seifer's body and the wall, the brand of Seifer's renewed arousal burning against his hip, Squall breathed a sigh and resigned himself to another sleepless night.

Feed (Final Fantasy VIII)

If there was one thing that Laguna should have learned after a decade and a half in politics, it was that schedules were made to be broken.  Particularly given the fact that they were meeting to continue an on-going discussion on the regulation of sorceresses, it had most likely been quite foolish of him to plan on meeting Squall for dinner.  As it was, he barely had enough time to send Squall a hastily-worded note to beg out, which he regretted now; with the backlash against sorceresses and the resultant political maneuverings, private time with his son- cum -lover was a desperately-needed respite.

By the time the debate for the day had reached a deadlock, the sun had long since set and the only external lighting was the soft, omnipresent blue glow that was Esthar.  Taking his leave of cabinet and concerned citizenry with a tired grin, Laguna waved off the company of Kiros and Ward as he stepped into the hallway; they weren't as young as they used to be, and both of his friends had put in long hours of research and discussion as they fought for tolerance for, if not acceptance of, those with the powers of sorcery.

His fingers trailed over familiar walls as he made his way to his suite, eyes half-closed as he let his feet follow their habitual path.  The hour was late enough that the halls were empty but for the usual guards, who saluted briskly as Laguna made his way past.  He absently wondered why those salutes had been accompanied by hints of smug grins, but dismissed it as he palmed his door open.

One step inside the door, he tripped over a pair of boots discarded haphazardly in the middle of his path.  His irritated grumble, however, was never voiced as his brain caught up with his eyes, then shut down completely.

Squall, it seemed, had decided to wait for him - or not to wait, depending on the point of view.  He appeared quite comfortable on Laguna's bed, amidst a tangle of rumpled sheets, and not in the least perturbed by his supposed solitude.  His pants were on the floor between bed and boots, one leg pulled inside-out as though they'd been removed in a rush, and his jacket was a shapeless pile half-hidden under sheets as they puddled on the floor.  Only his T-shirt remained to cover his skin, and even as Laguna watched, the hem of that was pushed farther up as one of Squall's hands sought out a dusky nipple and rolled it beneath his thumb.

Laguna had decided, in the early days of their relationship, that nothing could rival the beauty of Squall as Laguna sank into him, losing himself in Squall's silken perfection.  Now, however, as he watched his son bring himself to the peak, he hastily revised his assessment.

Nothing could rival the beauty of Squall. Period.

Beautiful he was, primitive and intense and utterly focused.  His spread knees offered Laguna an unobstructed view of Squall's focus, his tensed thighs rocking slightly as his hand enthusiastically devoted itself to its task.  It swept audibly over his blushing erection, grip rough and tight one moment, only to still the next as Squall's thumb tweaked the swollen head, smearing the pre-cum in a glistening line that made Laguna's mouth water as he longed to follow it with his tongue.

Duty (The Bouncer)

He'd had a kitten once.

She'd followed him home, nothing but a fur-covered skeleton, and had looked at him with eyes such a pale blue that the delicate red tracery of veins had been visible at their edges. He'd been helpless; even before he'd picked her up and she'd curled under his chin, he'd known that he wouldn't be able to leave her.

He'd named her Shadow. Her name reflected her coloring - her fur was the color of moonbeams, shading to deep silver in a pattern that pointed to Siamese somewhere in her dubious ancestry - but, moreso, it reflected her personality. She was his shadow, following him everywhere, always a precise distance behind. When he stopped to look at her, she'd meet his gaze as though it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be where she was - three feet behind and slightly to the right - and he had always been able to smile at her reliability.

She'd slept next to his pillow, curled into a tight spiral close enough to his head that his breath ruffled her fur. When his eyelashes fluttered open in the morning, she was always there, her sharp teeth gnawing lightly at his fingertips until he pushed her back enough that he could give her neck a proper scratching. She always went stone-still as he scratched, her neck stretched out farther than should have been physically possible as she leaned heavily into the caress, and her purring had been breathy snorts.

She'd disappeared one day, slipping out the window and vanishing into the wavery light of early morning. He'd thought he'd seen her once as a tattered corpse, lying forgotten at the side of the road, but it hadn't really been her; the fur had been too dark, the bones too heavy. He preferred to think of her as stolen and living a pampered life in a climate-controlled townhouse, fawned over by a loving family; aside from his sister, she had been his closest friend, and he wanted to think of her as happy.

In time, he had forgotten about her. His parents had left - dead or fled - and he'd had to support himself and his sister on what little a teenager could earn. He'd only been able to watch helplessly as his sister sickened, struggling to make her well, to return her strength, then finally to save her life. As the train of his life jumped the track, he'd had no time for thoughts of lost kittens.

untitled Dias/Ashton (Star Ocean: The Second Story)

Dias found Ashton with surprising ease, given their general unfamiliarity with the world, much less the small town of Armlock . Ashton had found his way between two buildings and leaned against one of the narrow alley's walls, Gyoro and Ururun drooping low over his shoulders. He didn't look up as Dias approached, although it was impossible to miss him; his height and the breadth of his shoulders in the opening of the alley cast Ashton into heavy shadow. One foot swung steadily, stirring the dirt.

"Rena is concerned about you," Dias explained shortly, each word cut off precisely. "We have rooms at the inn, when you are ready for sleep."

"Dias?"

Pausing at Ashton's soft utterance of his name, Dias tilted his head slightly and folded his arms over his chest. When Ashton remained silent, he prompted, "Yes?"

Ashton's eyes lifted to meet his, unnaturally bright even in the dim light of the alley. They held his gaze for a long moment, slightly overwide until Dias felt as though he were being sucked into their aqua depths, until Ururun roused and lifted to study Dias, breaking the line of contact.

Finding himself instead bring stared at by the flat, icy eyes of one of Ashton's companions, Dias felt his lips turn down with an irritated frown. He turned quickly, only to be abruptly halted by unexpected resistance. Glancing over his shoulder, he found Ashton directly behind him, his fingers curled in Dias's cloak.

"Wait."

"What for?" Dias snapped, Ashton's unusual mood leaving him annoyed.

Gyoro and Ururun reared back, an odd counterpart to Ashton's drooping. Dias knew fully well that Ashton was nearly his own age, but at that moment, he appeared little more than a teenager. "I don't want to be alone now."

Someone else may have questioned why, then, he had sequestered himself in a lonely alley, but Dias instantly understood; even as he walked his solitary road, he had craved company, a simple presence that understood. His annoyance dispersed as quickly as it had built, and he nodded shallowly. "Very well."

"Thanks," Ashton said softly, his fingers still curled in Dias's cloak. "Can I ask you something?"

Dias turned, dislodging Ashton's grip in the process, and raised an eyebrow as Ashton instead wrapped his arms around himself.

"We're going to die, aren't we?"

Despite himself, Dias blinked in surprise; aside from his odd barrel fixation, Ashton was usually stable, if not upbeat, and the question was not one that Dias would have expected from him. "I think we are," Dias admitted at length, "but I will never admit that in Rena's hearing."

Ashton's gaze met his again, screened by dark lashes. "You really love her, don't you?"

"Yes." It was a simple, obvious answer, and Dias was baffled as the sadness in Ashton's eyes deepened. It was not in Dias's nature to pry, however, so he instead continued, "Would you like to go to the hotel now?"

"I think so, yes," Ashton murmured, gaze dropping again as Gyoro and Ururun craned over his head.

Dias moved aside to allow the younger man to slip past him, then watched consideringly until the black-clad figure disappeared into the hotel.

The sun had long ago set and silence had blanketed the hotel. Tucked into their room, the girls had long-since left off their chattering, while, in the next room, Claude, Bowman, and Noel had settled in for the night. The only one able to sleep through the bickering of the twin dragons, Dias had taken the room with Ashton and sat now in the center of his bed, finger-combing his tangled hair as he watched Ashton prepare for sleep.

The dark-haired man was bared to the waist, stymied for the moment as he attempted to wrestle his belt away from Gyoro. Alternating pleas and curses were muttered under his breath as he appeared to dance in place in his attempts to retrieve the leather strip from the playful dragon.

Separating one last tangle, Dias took pity on the other man and slid from the bed to curl his fingers around the trailing end. He ignored Ashton's surprised look and thrust his face into Gyoro's, upper lip curling in a vague snarl. Gyoro reared back in alarm, releasing the belt as he ducked behind Ashton's head, and Dias straightened with a vaguely-amused glint in his eyes. He pressed the belt into Ashton's hands, curling his fingers for him when Ashton failed to grip. "They take advantage of you."

"I know," Ashton admitted softly, his fingers twitching within Dias's grip. A self-conscious grin curved his lips as he glanced at Dias, his free hand reaching to pat Gyoro's head. "I guess it's part of being possessed."

Dias lifted an eyebrow, shaking his head slightly at Ashton's rationalization; the younger man definitely had his moments.

untitled Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)

"Mm, smells good, Verg. Dinner?"

"What?" Vergil was only beginning to turn, but it was already too late; Dante had lifted the lid of the pot on the stove, and a rather upset, multi-legged creature had shot through the opening, straight at Dante's face.

The next sequence of events happened in rapid succession: battle-trained reflexes had Dante's hand up to bat the creature away before it had come within six inches of him, while Vergil cursed and lunged to catch the slippery creature, which evaded his grasp and landed sloppily on the counter, only to be pinned down by one of Dante's bronzed hands. It squirmed impotently beneath the cage of Dante's fingers, tentacles wrapping around the sides of his hand in an attempt to escape.

Dante's pale eyes found Vergil's, as one silvery eyebrow lifted. "Dinner?"

"No." Carefully, Vergil removed the creature from beneath Dante's hand, ignoring the clutch of its tentacles as they wrapped around his wrist. "Experimental potion. Ordering out for dinner."

"Is it supposed to be able to escape?"

Vergil grimaced, a small flicker of magic coaxing the tentacles from his skin as he slid the resisting creature back into the pot. "The viscosity changes if it's dead, which affects the strength of the final product. If it's not alive, I may as well be using dish detergent."

Dante watched as Vergil turned to resume his chopping of something that looked suspiciously lizard-like, despite the fact that it was making the counter smoke. "And this is supposed to accomplish...?"

"Spiritual cleansing. Possessions are on the rise lately, and most priests trained in exorcism are bound to the Vatican ; who around here would think to call in a priest, if their darling baby boy suddenly started speaking in tongues, anyway? They'd blame television and sue the producers of Sesame Street for exposing their darling to questionable influences."

"You're rambling, Verg." Reaching over his twin's shoulder, Dante plucked a crumpled bag of chips from the cupboard, then ducked to rest his chin on Vergil's shoulder. "When will you be done?"

"If you're bored, you can grind the nobody knuckles."

"Subtle." Unperturbed, Dante pressed a warm kiss to the back of his twin's neck where the skin was exposed by his short hair, then moved to straddle a chair and wolf down a handful of chips.