you never tell me what is wrong

Written for kuroi_santa, yay~

2008-12-24T09:02:36Z

Title: All the World's a Stage

Author: bureburehyatt

Pairing: Sebastian/Grell—IN GRELL'S HEAD LOLWHAT. Some Will->Grell overtones. Okay, more than overtones.

Rating: NC-17

Warning: So um. I know you wanted icons/art, but I can't draw and suck at making icons. And I'm also terrible at writing Sebastian, so I kinda twisted the pairing around so it worked a little better. ;_; So, um, Merry Christmas! =D I hope you're not too terribly disappointed.

Also, at my friend's suggestion, I decided to use the German “Sebastchen” for Grell's “Sebasu-chan,” since using Japanese honorifics in fics set in Victorian England is lame and with any other option I'd probably spend this whole fic calling him “Little Seabass.” And that would just make for the worst Christmas evar. D:

–

It's everything he ever envisioned it would be, violent, rough, passionate, as much like fighting as it is like sex. His hands are rough as they push him back into the mattress, his lips are warm as they trail up his throat, and oh, then they reach his mouth, kissing him so fiercely their teeth clash. Grell feels him flinch as he catches his tongue on one of those sharp, filed teeth, and then he tastes blood—his Romeo's blood—sweet and coppery, and he can't help but moan in ecstasy, savoring the taste as one would fine wine. He can't remember the last time he's been this aroused, and his poor Sebastchen seems to be in a similar state, if the hot firmness he feels against his thigh is any indication. He wants him so badly, doesn't he? Grell smiles into their kiss, hands sliding up to tangle in that dark hair. Oooh, he knew he wouldn't be able to keep away forever.

Clothes are discarded as fast as their hands can get them off, and only enough to give them access to what they need. Most of Grell's clothes end up scattered across the room—his pants landing awkwardly on the nearby chair, his vest flying to the dresser, his underwear, who knows—leaving him in only his stockings and an unbuttoned dress shirt. His Sebastchen, efficient as ever, merely undoes his belt and gets his pants open, tugging his underclothes out of the way.. It's disappointing, because there's scarcely anything in this world Grell would've given to see that perfectly sculpted body, glistening white from the moonlight seeping in from the window, but he can ignore it right now. The realization that his Sebastchen is so desperate to get inside him that he won't even fully strip, risking the possibility of sullying his nice, expensive clothes, it's more than enough of a comfort.

He's surprised when Sebastchen pulls away suddenly, reaching over to the bedside table. He's looking for something. Lubricant, he assumes. Grell frowns, annoyed with the loss of contact. “You could just use spit, you know,” he purred, hands trailing up the Demon's chest to rest on those strong shoulders. “I wouldn't mind.”

“Don't be absurd,” a very non-Sebastchen-like voice responds, and it nearly throws him out of the illusion. “You'll tear.” He draws a small bottle from the drawer, shutting it quietly.

Grell closes his eyes, laughing breathily. “I know,” he answers, licking his lips. “Oh how I'd bleed...”

He can feel his Sebastchen shudder in response, and he can't help but giggle girlishly.

“Do you like that thought?” he asks. “The thought of making me bleed, Sebas--”

He's silenced roughly by another fervent kiss and a hand between his legs, slick and cold to the touch, and Grell's instincts nearly drive him to squirm away if not for the fact that his Romeo has him pinned. Two fingers press inside without warning, straight to the knuckle, and he moans desperately, arching into him, already craving more...

They break apart, both a little breathless, as Grell tilts his head back, smiling a toothy smile as his fingers tangle in that wonderful, dark hair.

“O Romeo, Romeo,” he laughs, “wherefore art thou, Romeo...”

His Demon remains silent, seemingly ignoring his words as he works those nice, long fingers in and out. Grell exhales shakily as they twist in a way that sends a wave of heat straight to his cock, continuing on.

“Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet.” His hand slides down his Sebastchen's body, cupping over his groin, reveling in the way he shivers. Though his lover does not speak, does not join in this little scene, he can only imagine that sweet voice in his ear, a low rumble, husky with lust, “Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?”

He sighs happily. “Mm... 'tis but thy name that is mine enemy,” he says, one arm draping over his forehead, as if he cannot stand the beautiful drama of his existence. "Thou art thyself, though not--!” His voice tapers off into a moan as another finger slides in, stretching him so much that it stings, and oh that sting feels glorious. He realizes he's forgotten where he left off—how shameful for an actress of his caliber, but all the more shameful to let it throw him off completely. And so he picks up at the nearest line he can recall. “What is Montague? It is neither hand nor foot, nor arm nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. Oh, be some other name!” Those fingers slide out abruptly, and Grell's voice cracks on the last word, the redhead hazy for a moment before he notices that hand reaching for the bottle again. He licks his lips, reaching over to stop his hand. He dare not speak, lest he ruin this exquisite monologue, but the gesture serves as a fair enough “please, darling, allow me.”

“What's in a name?” he continues, pausing to steal a kiss as he pours some of the sweet-smelling oil into his hand. “That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.” Clever fingers take the Demon's cock in hand, and Grell laughs as the coolness of the oil clashes with the warmth of his Sebastchen's skin, causing him to hiss, half in pleasure, half in pain. And for a moment, he forgets himself again, marveling at the flesh in his hand, the perfect length, the perfect thickness, and ooh, he wants it now.

He looks up at his lover, eyes pleading, and the Demon can't help but concede, pushing him roughly back onto the sheets. Their lips meet again as Grell's thighs are pushed apart roughly, and he barely has time to process the sudden prodding at his backside before he's pushing inside, filled to the core and loving every inch of it. The Reaper lets out a yell, his legs coming instinctively to wrap around his Sebastchen's waist, rocking up into him, needing him deeper. Cruelly, he stays completely still several seconds once he's seated inside, and Grell bites his lip in frustration, rocking futily against him in an attempt to gain some sort of friction. Of course, just before he's about to outright beg him to move, he does. The rhythm is fierce, unforgiving, and the bed's creaking so loudly that it almost overshadows Grell's passionate cries and the harsh panting in his ear.

“S-so Romeo would,” he gasps, nails digging into the Demon's back, “were he not Romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection to which he owes without that title--”

It's not enough, the angle leaves something missing, and so his Sebastchen, ever thoughtful, chooses to fix it. Grell jerks violently as that cock slides out of him, and then there's a hand on his shoulder, pulling, guiding him to turn over. He complies all too eagerly, tugging a pillow under him as he positions himself on his knees, hips lifted, inviting, waiting. The position is terribly undignified, but he scarcely minds. Especially not when he's penetrated yet again, deeper and even more forcefully than before. He can't move, can scarcely think, can only lie there and take the full brunt of those thrusts, his hands clawing at the sheets for purchase.

“Romeo, doff thy name,” he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut, “and for thy name, which—ahh!--which... which is no part of thee...” A hand reaches around, encircling his neglected erection and pumping fiercely, impatiently, as if he's trying to end this as soon as he can. And indeed, that contact alone is more than enough. The pressure builds, his sight becomes fuzzy, and Grell lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan as he comes hot and hard over the sheets. “Take all myself!”

And oh, he does, and with such enthusiasm. In the haze, he can feel the Demon give a few last little thrusts before shuddering hard, pleasant warmth spreading throughout the redhead's body. When the cock inside him slides out, Grell's legs give out from under him, and he lets himself sink down to the mattress. In the back of his mind, he can almost hear the crowd cheer. Such a stirring performance. And the actress, never lovelier. His eyes close, and he smiles tiredly. He can't even remember the last time he felt quite this beautiful.

Though the body behind him is gone, he's still so very warm, and he realizes that while he has no idea how this blanket got draped over his body, he's not going to complain.

He'll see his Sebastchen in his dreams, he's sure. And then they can continue this game for as long as they choose. It's nowhere near as satisfying as the real thing, to be sure, but, well...

… One illusion is as good as any other, no?

–

William, for his part, says nothing, leaving the redhead to his afterglow as he disappears into the bathroom, cleaning himself up as quickly as quietly as possible. By the time he exits, Sutcliff is curled up on his side and fast asleep, his expression one of pure satisfaction.

Not at him, of course. Never at him. But that's fine. Tomorrow, he predicts that Sutcliff will oversleep, as always, and William will punish him—thoroughly—for his indiscretion. And then, perhaps a week from now, perhaps a day from now, through some ridiculous lapse of judgment, he will end up here all over again. Watching the same Reaper as he sleeps, thinking these same thoughts. It's a vicious cycle, one William knows full well he has the authority to break.

And he hasn't. Nor does he see it happening in the foreseeable future. Nor does he understand why.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sighs, though it lacks Grell's usual dramatic flair.

… Honestly.

He wasn't sure he could hate Demons more right now if he tried.

[005] [Suikoden III] [Albert, Yuber] [PG]

2007-05-25T16:10:52Z

Title: Conspicuous

Author: Hyatt

Rating: PG

Fandom: Suikoden III

Characters: Albert, Yuber

Warning: I guess slight spoilers for Suikoden III.

Disclaimer: Own Suikoden? Moi? If only, people. If only. ;-;

A/N: I’d originally started this as a drabble for daily15, but ended up kinda going over. XD Oh well. I’m still kinda happy with how it turned out.

“This is stupid.”

Albert Silverberg sat back in one of the chairs by the fitting room, turning to the bookmarked page in the novel he was holding. “So you’ve been saying all day. Complaining about it won’t make it end sooner, Yuber.”

The blonde scowled, browsing the rack by the wall disinterestedly. “I still don’t see why that brat found this necessary.”

“Luc said it was a matter of being conspicuous,” Albert replied, nonchalantly flipping to the next page. “And he’s right, you know. Conspicuous doesn’t suit us well right now.”

“Your point?”

“Bulky black armor is the definition of conspicuous, Yuber.”

“Oh, oh, right, and he isn’t at all. He just blends in perfectly with that big, attention-grabbing iron mask, doesn’t he?”

“That ‘big, attention-grabbing iron mask’ doesn’t elicit that kind of reaction from passersby,” Albert said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Sure enough, the other customers were looking over at them nervously, quickly turning away when Yuber met their gaze.

Yuber seemed on the verge of some clever retort, before one particular outfit caught his attention. “… Hey,” he said with a manic little grin, holding the suit up by the hangar. “This doesn’t look so bad, does it? I think I could still strike fear in the hearts of innocents with this.”

Albert glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “Black,” he observed, going back to his book. “How surprising.”

The blonde draped the suit over his arm as he waved over one of the salesgirls, a tiny, terrified-looking girl with thick glasses. She bowed her head meekly as she approached, trembling as if afraid Yuber might eat her.

Albert supposed he couldn’t blame her for that. If Yuber weren’t so desperate to get out of here, he actually might’ve tried.

“It was on the 75% off rack,” Yuber said, handing it to her. “So how much is it going to cost?”

“Oh… I… uh…” the girl looked down at the suit, shaking fingers fumbling for the tag. “S-sir, I think someone put this over here by mistake. It’s s-still full price.” A strange, uncomfortable silence settled between them, and she looked up, confused. “… Sir?”

Yuber stared at her.

She stared back.

Yuber started to reach for the hilt of his sword—

“Yuber.”

Yuber flinched, hand falling limp at his side again. “… Fine.” He snatched the suit back, scowling at the poor clerk. “Count yourself lucky, woman.” The girl staggered backwards, nearly crashing into a rack of pantsuits, before hurrying off to the back room, sobbing into her sleeve. Albert watched dispassionately, shaking his head.

“… And that’s what we mean by ‘conspicuous,’ Yuber.”

The other man shrugged, making his way over to another rack. “The wench deserved it. So how do you think I’d look in one of these hats?”

[004] [Suikoden I] [Gremio] [G]

2007-05-14T02:26:11Z

Title: Hour Follows Hour (2/?)

Author: Hyatt

Rating: G

Fandom: Suikoden I

Character: Gremio

Warning: None, really.

Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue.

A/N: Okay, no. This one turned out worse than the Age 5 one. D: But the good news? I AM DONE WITH CHILDHOOD FICS. THANK YOU GOD.

--

It had been raining all night.

Gremio sat at the window watching it tiredly, the words of the soldier on the sofa filtering in through one ear and out the other. He didn’t want to listen. He’d heard enough when the man first showed up on their doorstep ten minutes ago, a heavy bundle resting under his arm.

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he’d said, “but I really must come in. It’s about your husband.”

He wished his mother had turned him away right there. He didn’t need to tell them anything more. The stiffness of his back and the solemn tone of his voice made his reason for being here easy enough for even a ten-year-old boy to understand. And Gremio knew his father wasn’t coming home.

His mother sat in her chair, pouring herself a cup of tea. She did not weep. She was not a woman particularly disposed to weeping. But she was not unaffected. Gremio could tell when she forgot to offer the soldier a drink; no matter what the circumstances, she never forgot her sense of etiquette. Their guest sat in awkward silence for a moment, searching for the right words. “I really hate to ask this, ma’am, but I’m afraid orders are orders. Were you aware that your husband was conducting illegal business in the City-States of Jowston?”

”No,” Gremio heard her say, her voice clipped and sharp. He didn’t know if she was lying or not. The soldier certainly didn’t seem convinced. Still, he nodded his head, wisely deciding to leave the subject there.

“Of course. My apologies. It’s just protocol, I assure you. There would have been some… trouble, had he said anything to you or your son—“

“Well, he didn’t,” she snapped, fingers twitching around her teacup. “My husband never said anything about where he went on his business trips, and I never once accompanied him. If you’re looking to accuse anyone—“

“No, no!” he replied, throwing his hands up defensively. “I’m just doing my job, ma’am; really, I’m not here to make accusations. But there really are some things that, as his wife, I need to talk to you about.”

His mother exhaled slowly, something she often did to calm her temper. “… Of course, sir,” she said, taking a small sip of her tea. “I understand completely. Please, continue.”

“I… ah… right.” The soldier nodded, hesitating as he tried to recall his place. “Well… as you probably know, according to the law, all property of your husband should return to the empire. That includes this house, everything in it, and every Bit he had to his name.”

“I see,” said his mother, hands folding in her lap. “So you’re telling me my son and I are homeless, now? Or will we simply be shipped off to Banner Mines?” Gremio started at that, looking over his shoulder with wide, horrified eyes. Even at his age he knew something of what went on in the Banner Mines. Enough to know that he would’ve much rather preferred being homeless.

“That would have been the case, if you’d had any direct involvement with your husband’s business dealings,” the soldier replied. “But since, ah… it would seem that you don’t, you’ll still be allowed to keep the house.” He sat back on the couch, looking around the room. “As it is, the empire has little use for this—“ Gremio could almost hear the word ‘shack’ leaving his lips, and it seemed his mother could too, the woman staring daggers at him from her chair. Wisely, he held his tongue, choking back that first impulse and continuing with a far more neutral “—place. His money, on the other hand—“

“I understand,” she said coolly. “It will be delivered to your outpost by the end of the week.”

The soldier tipped his helmet appreciatively. “Thank you, miss. We’ll be expecting it.” He stood, picking up that bundle as he did. “That should be all. If there’re no questions, I’ll take my leave of you.”

“There are none,” she replied, crossing her legs. “I believe you know where the door is, sir.”

“Of course. Again, my apologies for disturbing you, ma’am.” Gremio heard his footsteps, loud against the old wooden floor. He felt the soldier’s hand clamp on his shoulder, and impulsively recoiled. “Are you Gremio?”

Gremio pulled away roughly, staggering back against the wall. His mother actually looked a little scared herself, already halfway out of her chair, teacup absentmindedly dropped to the ground. The soldier glanced at the woman briefly over his shoulder, before handing the child the bundle. It was heavy, and a struggle to hold onto with his small arms. “His axe,” the soldier explained. “Before your father was taken into custody, he asked that we give it to you.” He lifted his hand suddenly, giving the boy a small pat on the head. “You be a good son to your mother now, won’t you? Don’t get caught up in the same sort of nonsense your fa—“

“Get out,” his mother hissed, bitter and venomous. “Just get out of my house.”

The soldier wisely backed off there. “… Certainly. Sorry to intrude.” He turned away, walking the short distance to the front door. His hand hesitated on the doorknob. “… You know, you should be happy. A lifetime in Soniere is preferable to death, isn’t it?” He opened the door, stepping back out into the rain.

As soon as he was gone, his mother turned away, a hand going to her face. “Gremio,” she said. “Go to your room.” He hadn’t gotten two steps to the hallway before she added, “Leave the axe.” Obediently, Gremio set it down by her chair, casting one last look at the woman before rushing off to his bedroom.

The last thing he heard as he closed the door was a heart-wrenching sob, and the sound of a teacup shattering against the wall.

[003] [Suikoden I] [Gremio] [G]

2007-05-13T19:25:26Z

Okay, here's my THIRD FREAKING ATTEMPT at posting my first fic for everyfiveyears. Seriously, LJ, what the hell? D:

Title: Hour Follows Hour

Author: Hyatt

Rating: G (a gen fic? From moi? SHOCK!)

Fandom: Suikoden I

Character: Gremio

Warning: None really. Somewhat AU-ish, I suppose, since I think in the original canon Gremio was born in Kirov. I don’t know for sure. D:

Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t sue.

A/N: I hate, hate, hate writing “childhood” fics, and this one was no exception. @_@ I’m still somewhat proud of how this turned out, I guess. Hopefully I can make the fic for Age 10 flow a little better.

Also, kudos to my girlfriend for helping me come up with the idea of Gremio’s mother having been from Crystal Valley. It certainly would explain where all those aristocratic sensibilities came from, whether or not Gremio himself was of the upper class. XD

They arrived in Kirov when Gremio was only five years old.

It hadn’t been anything too awe-inspiring, even for one as small as he was. He’d seen his fair share of towns like it in his young life, with old cobblestone streets and the smell of the sea carried on the breeze. But no child his age could truly be bored with anything new, whether it was really new or not, and he still found himself distracted by anything and everything, from the housewives chatting idly on doorsteps to the stray cat that just dashed off into the nearby alley. His parents were used to this (as was anyone who’d ever cared for a young child), and his mother remedied it by giving his hand a rough tug, making him stumble awkwardly as he tried to keep his footing. “Don’t lag behind, Gremio.”

People looked at them strangely, but that was hardly uncommon. No matter how much Gremio’s father tried to convince her to, his mother flat out refused to dress down. From his earliest memories of her, she hadn’t changed at all, always wearing the finest of silk dresses with silvery high-heels, golden hair tied back and held in place by an intricately carved ivory comb. It was as if she’d never left the mother country she’d spoken of so fondly in her rare reflective moments, still walking among the well-dressed noblemen and their elegant brides instead of half-awake, foul-smelling fishermen on their way to the docks. Even now, with her gown heavy and worn from the thick sea air, her hair growing limp and lifeless from the strain of a long journey, she held her head high and kept her eyes forward, face set in upper-class pride.

To her son, there was no one in the world more beautiful.

She stopped abruptly in front of a tiny little house, one pale arm lifting to stop Gremio from going on any further. They waited at the base of the porch as his father climbed the steps to the front door, one calloused hand digging in a pocket for his keys. Gremio looked up at his mother curiously, tugging her sleeve. “Mama?” he asked. “Is that where we’re gonna stay?”

“Not if your father values his marriage, it’s not.” She sighed, looking the place over with disdain. “I thought you said you found us a house. That barely qualifies as a shack.”

“It’s only temporary, angel,” he replied, smiling in triumph once he’d finally dug up the little copper key from his pocket. “Just give me some time to get this business goin’, alright? We’ll have a better place in no time. ‘Til then, no harm in calling this place home, is there?”

Her fingers closed around Gremio’s tiny hand, dragging him to the front door, nose turned up in that way that told them both she wasn’t convinced. “I suppose we don’t have any choice, do we?”

His father could only shrug helplessly, smiling as he scratched the back of his head. “Suppose we don’t, angel.” With that, he followed them inside, closing the door on one dismal scene and heading right on into the next.

[002] [Suikoden 1] [Viktor/Gremio] [PG-15]

2007-05-06T17:40:10Z

Title: Five Things Viktor Never Told Gremio (and the One Thing He Did)
Author: Hyatt
Rating: PG-15 for post-sex stuff
Fandom: Suikoden I
Characters: Viktor, Gremio
Warning: Vague allusions to The Bad Thing that happens in Suikoden I. If you played the game, you know what I’m talking about.
Disclaimer: If I owned the Suikoden series, Murayama would’ve been forced to continue working as writer at gunpoint. I know it’s extreme, but it would’ve been for the best, people. Graham Cray, folks. Graham fucking Cray.
A/N: Viktor/Gremio has always been a favorite pairing of mine, though I'm sad to find nobody writing it (then again, people just aren't writing much Suikoden in general these days D:) Still, it's a pairing I've always been fond of. They have such a great, almost antagonistic relationship at the start of the game; Viktor teases Gremio mercilessly, and Gremio's aristocratic sensibilities keep him from seeing Viktor as anything but an amoral brute. Not much time is devoted to developing this relationship (as is the case with most of the relationships in Suikoden), but by the time they reach Soniere, it's clear that Viktor at least cares for him. Hell, the guy holds onto his axe up until near the end of the game. And if that doesn't give me ample reason to write yaoi with them, I don't know what does.

So yes. Comments, plz. HOW ELSE DO YOU PEOPLE EXPECT ME TO FEED MY CHILDREN? ;O;

--
1.

Viktor has never understood Gremio.

He knows Gremio was--is--a soldier, no different from them. He knows Gremio served in the house of a high-ranking general. He knows Gremio has seen the lies, the backstabbing, the corruption, because the Young Master he loves so fiercely is no less a victim of it. And Tir knows it. Cleo knows it. But Gremio is still as disgusted with their little band of rebels as he always was, bound by his loyalty to an empire that cares nothing for him.

He wants to tell him that he’s blind.

But he lets him open his eyes on his own.

--
2.

Even a hardened man like Viktor won’t deny that it hurts, and every ounce of testosterone in his body strains to make sure he doesn’t flinch. Blood trickles down the tanned skin of one arm, and he tries to focus on that, watching with a sort of morbid fascination as it moves down the ridges his muscles make, slow and sluggish. He seems almost disappointed when Gremio wipes it away with a warm cloth.

“No one remembers how to do this the old-fashioned way anymore,” the blonde explains, tying a bandage around his arm with a careful, steady hand. “The easiest way to drain one’s medicine supply is to use it too frivolously, you know. It should be at least another two days before we reach Seika. We can’t afford to be wasteful.” He ties the dressing off perfectly—not too loose, not too tight—and stands up, flashing Viktor a small smile. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Viktor flexes his arm curiously, surprised when he finds that, no, it doesn’t hurt at all.

He wants to thank him.

But instead he grins and says, “What, ain’t you gonna kiss it better?”

Gremio’s eyebrow twitches in irritation, and he smacks him roughly on the back of the head, storming off to join the rest of the group. And all Viktor can do is laugh.

--
3.

They all saw it coming the moment that fucking wolf bit Tir’s shoulder.

Viktor leans back against a tree and watches Gremio fretting over his charge, the blonde hurriedly sitting him down on a nearby rock. He undoes the clasp of his shirt, tugging it back to expose the wounded skin, looking it over carefully. “Young Master, are you alright? Does it hurt? Oh, heavens, at least it doesn’t look too deep. Do you want me to bandage it for you? I’m sure we have some medicine lying around somewhere?” and so forth. Tir is annoyed, Viktor can tell, and he can understand why. A few months ago Gremio’s spaz attacks were something the boy seemed to have accepted as just par for the course, endearing more than anything else.

Only Tir isn’t a boy anymore. Tir’s a grown man. And Gremio has yet to realize that.

He wants to tell Gremio to quit worrying, that Tir’s grown up and doesn’t need his babying anymore.

But then Tir knocks his hand away with a hiss of “I’m not a child, Gremio!”

The forest goes silent, awkwardly silent, and Gremio draws back, both startled and hurt. His gaze lowers to the ground, and he stammers out a quiet apology. Tir’s expression softens, and he gets to his feet, hand resting on Gremio’s arm as he says he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean it.

Viktor knows he’s lying.

--
4.

Viktor’s surprised to find Gremio in his room late one afternoon, leaning against the windowsill, sipping from a glass of wine as he watches the rain.

For once, he doesn’t know what to say. He could ask Gremio what he’s doing here, he could ask if something’s wrong, he could ask if that glass is all he’s had to drink tonight (he reasonably assumes that it is not), but speaking just seems inappropriate right now. So he leaves his sword and scabbard by the door, and goes to join him, leaning against the wall.

Instead of watching the rain, he watches Gremio. He knows what he’s thinking of. Any man who’s left his home before would know. His eyes are sad, distant, lonely, and Viktor knows that even if he’s here with them, his heart is in a mansion in Gregminster, with a family, with a child, that he will never know again. Viktor knows what it’s like, of course. And he wants to say something, anything, to comfort him.

But instead he gingerly takes the glass from Gremio’s pale fingers, downing what’s left of the liquid before setting it on the nearby table. “Not sure how much you’ve had,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure it’s more than enough.”

Gremio laughs, but there’s little life behind it. He nods in agreement. “You’re probably right.”

--
5.

Viktor collapses at Gremio’s side, sweat glistening on his skin, his veins humming with the satisfying warmth of the afterglow. The blonde settles down next to him, one arm draped over his stomach, and he rests his cheek against his bare shoulder, burning hot against his cooling skin. He doesn’t know if what they just did was a mistake. He doesn’t know if anything will change. He doesn’t know if they remembered to lock the door. But right now it doesn’t matter. Gremio, for the time being, is content, is at peace. Viktor supposes he can’t ask for anything more.

Gremio’s eyes are closed, and Viktor wonders if he’s sleeping. He gets his answer when he reaches out to touch that scar on his left cheek, and green eyes stare back at him, glazed over and sleepy. “That was… nice,” Gremio says, fingers absently tracing the muscles of his abdomen. Viktor says nothing, but just looks at him, skin almost alabaster white in the moonlight, golden hair fanning like a still wave over the pillow, chest rising and falling slow and steady as he catches his breath.

Viktor wants to tell him that he’s beautiful.

But instead he leans over to brush his lips against that sweaty forehead.

Maybe some other night.

--

“You shouldn’t go.”

Gremio looks at him strangely. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says with a small smile, turning away from Viktor to hurry back to his Young Master’s side.

Viktor watches him helplessly, scratching his head. Figures that the one time he’d actually get to say what he wanted, the damn fool wouldn’t listen.

[001] [Phoenix Wright: JFA] [Matt Engarde] [NC-17]

2007-05-06T17:32:07Z

Title: ‘Part of Me’ or ‘When I Think Abouuuuut You, I Touch Myse—‘
Author: Hyatt
Rating: NC-17 for masturbation
Fandom: Phoenix Wright 2: Justice for All
Characters: Matt Engarde
Warning: Huge, huge, huge spoilers for PW2: JFA, Case 4. Also kindasorta manporn but not. Mostly it’s just a hot guy jacking off. And if this offends your delicate sensibilities… you might not want to read any of my other fanfiction. XD
Disclaimer: I don’t know the Gyakuten Saiban/Phoenix Wright series. Seriously, if I did, I’d have way better things to do than write porn about it.

--

“Do you trust me?”

He’s laying in bed now, his eyes closed, hair fanning out over the pillow. He’s more than a little uncomfortable at the moment; the window is closed (he never leaves his window open at night), and so the ‘refreshing spring breeze’ outside is replaced instead by the unyielding, artificial cold of the air conditioner, blasting in from the vent above the door, making him shiver and causing a small, if nagging, ache between the eyes. And despite how cold it is, somehow he’s still entirely too hot as well, naked body smothered and sweating under the thick wool blankets. That warm hand creeping down his stomach likely doesn’t help. Oddly enough, he finds that he does not care.

“Uh huh,” he replies breathlessly, nodding his head. He doesn’t really know what he’s saying, really; he just knows it’ll keep him from stopping. He hears a quiet chuckle as those fingers linger over his skin, tracing circles along his side, light and airy and ticklish like a feather’s touch.

“Of course you do. Sentimental little fool.” That hand moves, fingers tracing the trail of hair down his stomach, gradually drifting closer and closer to where he really wants them. ”You shouldn’t, you know. You know what I’m capable of. You’ve seen what I can do.” His voice an intimate whisper in his ear, thick with lust and sickly saccharine, sweet like blood and honey. “Or maybe it’s not that at all. Maybe it’s just that you’d tell me anything to get me to fuck you. Well?” His fingers finally curl around his neglected erection, and Matt can’t help it; he moans. “Am I too far off the mark?”

He can’t say that he’s wrong, and he can’t say that he’s right. But he knows the other man well enough to know that ‘No’ will probably get him more than ‘Yes’ will. So he shakes his head.

Matt hears him chuckle darkly, hand simply resting over his cock, not stroking, not moving, just staying there, and it’s almost infuriating. “Well, you know I can’t do that to you,” he says, fingers slowly tracing up the firm column of flesh. “So we’ll just have to make do with what we have, won’t we?” Matt seems about to say something, but just as it’s leaving his lips he feels that hand grasp his cock more firmly, and whatever it is comes out as a choked off moan; it’s just as well, he couldn’t remember what it was anyway, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t important.

His hand moves in steady, confident strokes, up and down the thick shaft, knowing just where to touch, which spots to exploit. He knows his body as well as Matt does, maybe better, and why shouldn’t he? How many hours have they spent doing just this, nights stretching out into what feels like a blissful eternity and yet somehow still not long enough He knows that his stamina only can hold out for so long under such torture, and then it’ll all be over and there will be nothing left for him to do but settle down, spent and sticky, and fall into a fitful sleep, all alone, save for—

“Hey,” he hears him say, hands going still for a moment (and god, the sudden lack of stimulation is almost painful). “I’m taking time out of a good night’s sleep to get you off; the least you can do is stop thinking and enjoy it.”

Fair enough.

And then he’s moving again, and somehow that sudden stop makes the quickening pace feel even better, and he’s fucking that hand now, rocking his hips up, his own fingers clutching the rumpled bed sheets for purchase. Almost… almost…!

The pressure and heat reach their peak, and for a moment body and brain seem to go numb, leaving him aware of nothing but the pleasant euphoria spreading through his veins and the hot spurt of come splattering up his stomach and chest, a few stray droplets catching him in the face. He slumps back onto the mattress, hungry lungs aching in his chest as he gasps for air (when did he forget to breathe?). He doesn’t feel the other’s presence at his side, he never does, but he knows he’s still there, unmoving, silent, and Matt imagines him as almost reverent even though he’s not sure if either one’s capable of such an emotion..

Seconds pass, then minutes, maybe even hours, he’s not sure. But eventually his breathing calms, his heartbeat slows, and for a second, he tries to open his eyes.

“Don’t,” he hears him say. “You know the rules.” One look and I’m out of here, got it? Matt remembers, he’s said it before. But he doesn’t listen. He never does.

His eyes stare dumbly up at the ceiling, and though he doesn’t look, he knows he’s the only one in this bed right now. His hand is still wrapped loosely around his cock, sticky and wet with come, and he wipes it unthinkingly on the sheets. He’ll have them washed tomorrow. He settles onto his side and closes his eyes, drawing the covers up over his neck. Still too cold, still too hot, but he doesn’t quite feel the need to remedy the situation. He’s much too tired now.

Tired, and yet he can’t sleep. It’s too quiet, and Matt doesn’t like the quiet. He knows he broke the rules, knows that he’s alone now because of it, but the silence still is just too much for him. So he asks, calling out into his head.

Are you there?

There’s no response, and the stagnant silence hasn’t gone away. But Matt knows better. When he listens, he can still hear quiet breathing, a steady heartbeat, muffled, as if he’s trying to hide, somewhere deep in his mind. And Matt smiles. He’s there. Of course he’s there. And why wouldn’t he be? His heart, his body, his soul, his everything is something Matt himself breathed life into, his company the only purpose which gives him substance. He is only real in that Matt made him real, and no matter how much he tries to convince Matt that he’s no different from the rest of the uncaring, unforgiving world, with no qualms about dropping him at a moment’s notice, there’s no way one can truly abandon that which made them whole.

“Whatever, dude,” he says, rolling onto his side. “You couldn’t leave if you wanted to."