|harukami (harukami) wrote,|
@ 2005-09-09 10:47:00
|Entry tags:||cfud, death note, slayers|
[fics] Slayers "As Generations Move", CFUD-Death Note "Realization"
Mmm, in the computer lab doing email/internet/etc. ^^ Just a couple more days and I'll have internet all of my own! That'll kick so much ass it hurts, yes. Not been up to much the last few days. Some visits with cythraul, a lot of reading for literature courses. *g*
So, obsessive a little -- I've already written my 'Mello returns to CFUD' post and am just holding onto it for monday now. Fuuuu.
Pardon any weirdnesses in style -- wrote this after reading WAY WAY WAY too much of Henry James' The Portrait of a Lady and man, that style is really, really pervasive.
As Generations Move
Gen -- some vague pairing references, but nothing that doesn't keep it gen. *g* Safe for work. Spoilers for the end of TRY.
It wasn't love that sent him back to her, and he wasn't intending to get anything out of the visit except, perhaps, some entertainment. And after all, it wasn't as though he'd been ordered not to see her; given that, he was free to do as he wished on his own time.
The door was opened by a boy in early childhood, pale green hair falling about his shoulders, his gold eyes bright as he peered up at Xelloss.
"Can I help you?" he lisped, politely.
Xelloss smiled at him as pleasantly as if the boy were unfamiliar. "Yes," he said. "I'm looking for Filia."
"Ah!" The boy twisted to look into the depths of the little antique shop, towards the stairs. "Mother! You have a visitor!"
Filia herself came down the stairs a moment later and stopped on them as she saw who her visitor was. "You--"
Xelloss let his smile brighten, tilted his head at Filia. "Good evening, Filia-san."
"Xelloss," Filia said, and resumed her descent. At the bottom, she turned her attention to the child. "Go play outside; there's a good boy."
Clearly displeased, the boy made a face, but he was obedient enough, heading past Xelloss to the door just as he was, barefoot and shirtless, to go play among the flowers in the field outside.
"Saa," Xelloss said, following the boy's path with closed eyes. "You'd hardly know him to look at him, would you?"
"I intend to keep it that way," Filia said with steely determination, her arms crossed, though her expression showed something wry on it. "You'd better not interfere, Mazoku."
Xelloss held up both hands as if to indicate he were unarmed, as meaningless as the gesture was. "Ha, of course not! Would I come all this way just for that?"
"You're not putting me at ease."
"Of course not," he agreed again. "Aren't you going to even offer me tea, Filia-san? And after I came all this way, too!"
"I don't have any to spare for garbage like you," she said, but she filled the kettle nevertheless from the pump beside the sink, and put it on to boil. "If not for him, why have you come?"
"I was in the area," Xelloss said, and took a seat on the edge of the table, crossing his legs almost daintily. "Was it wrong to come check on an old friend?"
"You don't have any of those," she retorted. "Off the table; there's a perfectly good chair over there."
She watched him settle into it, and he saw her note his bemusement and respond to it with a wry smile of her own that she tried to hide by turning away.
For a few minutes, she fiddled with the kettle and teapot. There was something, he thought, fairly comfortable about this; she and he were both perfectly aware of what the other was, and had been since they'd combined power. Which wasn't to say they knew each other well; he wasn't sure, for instance, whether she'd felt defiled by his demonic energy after all, but he rather doubted she hadn't, given how he hadn't felt cleansed by her holy power.
But perhaps he simply wouldn't recognize the feeling; then, there was no guarantee that she would know what it was to be defiled, either.
She set the teacup down before him with a light clink and he pondered it with curiosity before picking it up to drink from. The tea was well-made. "Ahhhh, Filia-san! This is the sort of company I was hoping for!"
"Strange to hear that from you," she said, taking a seat with her own cup and a sigh. "How long has it been?"
"A long time," he said obliquely.
"I'd think you'd have lost interest in the last remaining follower of the Fire Dragon King," Filia said. "Don't you have more important things to do?"
"Well," he said, cheerfully, "I do feel I should keep track of you; you're the only survivor, so in a way you're my responsibility!"
She snorted, eyeing him. "That's not encouraging, coming from you."
"Was I trying to be encouraging?" He smiled at her across the rim of the teacup. "Well, I suppose I might seem to be!"
"It's not needed."
Xelloss's smile brightened and he took another cup of tea. "I had hardly thought it was, so that's fortunate, then! I'm surprised to see you still stationary here. But then, people like us, we live so much more slowly than humans do, don't we?"
She glanced to the side. "Don't lump me in with your type," she said. "...But yes. I've been thinking of moving, though."
"Perhaps," she said, "to the other continent. The other world, as it were. I don't know the customs, but..."
"Looking for anyone you know?" Xelloss slitted an eye open to smirk at her. "Or were you simply thinking of finding other dragons?"
Her voice was vaguely reluctant. "Something like that."
"Well, I suppose there's a burden in being the last, isn't there!" He'd never tired of reminding her of who he was, and what he meant to her people, and it had just grown more interesting since she'd accepted it and refused to argue. "Are you thinking of children?"
"Not for me," she said. "I'm a mother already."
He followed her gaze to the window, where the boy could be seen, on his back in the grass and watching the sky.
"I suppose you must be," Xelloss said. "Not thinking of letting him grow up, then marrying him yourself?"
"Don't be grotesque," she snapped. "I raised him. That's disgusting."
"...but I do want him to have the chance to meet someone," she said. "One of -- not of his own people, obviously, but a dragon, at least. He deserves the chance to grow up and have children of his own."
"Perhaps," Xelloss said. He looked down into his teacup, almost regretfully. "Well, I seem to be done, and I have work I still have to do. I'll have to stop by again sometime."
She rose and saw him to the door. "I wouldn't bother," she said, but her tone of voice let him know it was just another step in the dishonest relationship between them.
On impulse he offered his hand; she took it with some confusion, and just held it a moment before she attempted to give a shake. Through his gloves, her hand was tangibly warm, and he felt that warmth even when she shook his own grip off.
"Later, then," he said, and headed out again.
Naturally, I stay up for two hours later than I wanted to, trying to get a fic idea because I didn't want to go without writing today, then finally give up and go to bed -- and almost the moment I lay down and close my eyes to try to sleep, the first line pops into my head.
I'd decided to try sleep FIRST next time, only that probably wouldn't work out. XD
Post-CFUD fic, because everyone's doing it. CHEAP EXCUSE FOR SMUT. WHAT. I got in all my brainwork with the Slayers fic!
CFUD-fic (death note centric)
Not safe for work. No spoilers for extremely obvious reasons.
The Camp Director's dead but, unfortunately, the force field is still up. Every day, more people vanish -- presumably having found a way to breach the shield; Mello and Near are not those people.
Mello knows they should be putting forth all their effort to that end, and knows Near knows it, but there is unfinished business here.
After all, for seven years it has been a matter of personal stress that they haven't been able to consummate their relationship; if they leave camp without at least once fucking here, now that all the rules are gone, Mello isn't sure they'll ever be able to. And that's fine too -- after seven years, you get used to not, but he'd rather have the closure.
Also, it's a matter of personal spite, and he's always put value in resolving those.
The two of them have a cabin to themselves at this point -- just a simple matter of watching others move out as they left, or as they went to join friends in other cabins, or so on, and adopting Boys' Cabin 1 as their own. L uses it sometimes, but recently he's been spending all his time outdoors, watching things change.
So they have no rules, and they have privacy, and Mello isn't entirely sure how to begin. He suspects Near feels the same way; Near's lips are tight with contemplation, and Mello watches him make a mess of his hair by winding his fingers in, one after another.
And then Near slowly untangles his hand and lifts his face so he's looking at Mello. He's apparently come to some conclusion, which is more than Mello's done.
"Well," Mello begins, and Near hits him hard.
Mello hits the edge of the bed with the small of his back and smacks down to the floor. He's reaching for guns out of instinct at this point, but Near follows the attack up, dives down to pin him, grabs Mello and shoves him against the floor face-first with a hand in his hair that grinds Mello's cheek into splintered floorboards, his other hand on the back of Mello's neck, a knee in the small of Mello's back.
Caught up in it, Mello cries out and fights back.
It is fast, and it is violent, and it is painful enough that Mello can't quite bite back a scream at one point -- less because of the pain itself, though, and more because this all needs expression somehow and he's always been loud. He shouts his voice hoarse, scrapes himself raw on the floorboards, bleeds in shallow, thready lines that sting with sweat and spatter down onto the wood beneath him. Near comes; Mello doesn't, but that doesn't much matter -- when Near shivers and goes dead-weight on Mello's back, Mello aches and Mello is dissatisfied, but, at the same time, Mello is so deeply content that he thinks the world could end right now and he wouldn't notice.
It only gets better when, somewhere between five and ten minutes later, Near's hand slides around to grasp Mello's limp cock and stroke him hard, jerk him off with rough, unsteady strokes and gets him off in under a minute. Mello hears himself make a choking noise into the wood as he comes; Near still has a hand in his hair, keeping his face pressed to the floor, and it's hard to breathe.
He thinks, at this point, that air might be an unnecessary thing.
After, he basks in the pain of his body and its lazy satisfaction. The experience was -- it has been rough and painful and bloody and violent and Near's desires over his own and he is left bruised and battered and elated and, in short, it was everything he'd dreamed of when he was younger, come to realization.
It's over now, he thinks, peaceful. Slowly, he draws breath. "Near?" He hardly recognizes his own voice, hoarse as it is.
He feels Near's lips stir against the back of his neck. "Mello?"
Mello smiles with cracked lips.
"Let's go home," he says.