Secret Admirer

BY : escapeasy
Category: +. to F > Code Geass
Dragon prints: 373
Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining/related to Code Geass and I’m not making any profit from this work.

Happy Halloween! Here’s some weird yaoi!

This is an older (wordy and alliteration-filled) work from October 2009 [was revised/reposted in October 2014] that meant a lot to me when I wrote it -- has been revised. This is supposed to be strange.

I hope you enjoy?


Secret Admirer

Lelouch is all alone in a crowded room.

He had agreed to come to Milly's "End of Summer Bash" on the pretense that he wouldn't be staying long, but he’s been here nearly the entire time. (Well, actually, since before this senseless celebration began in the late afternoon, "assisting" with the decorating and such along with their other close friends – and anyone else not fortunate enough to get away from her grabby demands.

Additionally, because this soirée is being thrown on the Ashford campus they had a lot of ground to cover with little help… So, as it is, he's tired and would very much like to flee from this hell Milly calls a "party.")

Any and all of his other familiar persons (Rivalz, Shirley, Milly, and even Nina) have dispersed or anchored down with someone other than him to chat with.

(Nunnally of course has long since been sent home. Hell will freeze over before he'd allow his angelic little sister to mingle with subpar characters that make up the typical party crowd.)

The only semblance of comfort – or perhaps, companionship – he has are the gleaming orbs that have been glued to him all evening.

Being watched, getting stares, or long glances are not new occurrences to Lelouch, and he's quite positive there have been many pairs that have targeted him tonight. There is no doubt in his mind of that. Why, he's had a few of those on-lookers try to spark a discussion with him, only to be thoroughly shot down with an indifferent comment which was, ultimately, a genuine conversation killer.

However, none of them have dared to dart another eye at him after a cool rejection (and any other that might have engaged him have long cut their losses and moved on) like this constant ogle that is cocooned deep in this dark room.

Lelouch isn't even unnerved by this, strangely enough. In fact, he is more or less intrigued by the ominous, flickering eyes pinning him down like a helpless butterfly…

He knew they were watching him, observing him, examining him for the span of this party's lifetime. He had caught the gaze a few times before the reality had settled on him that those eyes were only transfixed on him. Earlier than that, though, he is nearly certain that he was aware of the presence surveying him, knowing it was happening as if it were out of second nature – like blinking or breathing. He honestly cannot seem to shake that feeling that he knew before he became conscious of it.

Maybe that is what intrigues him more than just the aurora of that stranger alone.

Maybe it is because he is finally alone that he is heavily considering giving in to the person that appears to want to be chased rather than chase another.

Either way, it was only a matter of time before Lelouch let himself be tugged by the entrancing pull those eyes have held on him all night.

Lelouch shows no alarm (why should he?) and tries not to make it terribly obvious as he weaves through the maze of party goers and fine (now somewhat trashed) furniture that he is purposefully drifting straight to the predatory gaze tucked away in that lone hallway – that incidentally leads directly to a dorm hall. He tries to give the impression that he is only mindlessly wandering; perhaps looking for a lost companion, but somehow he feels his charade is obvious to this stranger that hasn’t let him out of sight.

The room itself is dark with the low lights that invite and instigate – insist – shameless behavior from those lounging too closely together. The soft and devious blue, almost moon-like glow that blankets the expanse of this great room leaves too many pockets for shadows to nest in, seeming to love the estranged corners which aides one certain person's lurking in a distant, thick, black veil. The obscurity of that dark mass surrounding that figure is extremely successful in concealing any sign of his watcher's identity, keeping Lelouch from even knowing their gender. The only clear piece of evidence he has to work with are the glowing amaranth eyes tucked away from the dying fire of this party—

Lelouch is only steps away from this unknown person before he is really ready or expecting to be, but nonetheless he finds himself staring straight into the shimmering, beastly eyes…

Quickly, all the splicing sounds of the party go mute in Lelouch's ears, fading out like a low tide as the awareness to anything other than this mesmerizing eye contact bleeds away from him. Just a pace or two from him, poised in the murky mouth of the overcast hall is that pair of twinkling eyes and all he can think to do is feel the air merging between them.

For heaven's sake, all he can think to do is feel? That isn't like Lelouch at all…

But he isn't afraid, rather, he is completely at ease as if this person he can hardly see is draining any stress that has accumulated throughout the day by simply just being there.

(Lelouch doesn't understand, but those glimmering eyes suggest that he doesn't need to.)

He parts his lips to say something instead of gape like a halfwit—

Only to close them as a silent, gentle gesture of a black gloved hand is offered to him, crossing the vague and hazy line of the shadow's border. Lelouch looks down at it as if surprised to see a human appendage, wondering if this is where they give some pleasantries: "…Pleased to make your acquaintance…" or something of the like. But that is only what Lelouch tells himself he is expecting.

(Somewhere in his head, he knows better than to believe what his mind is telling him.)

He lifts his right hand, a little lazily, as he reconnects with the carmine hues glittering in the gloominess, still not finding any need to speak.

Their hands clasp…

For a noiseless beat – where there should have been a handshake and a quaint introduction – there is only a squeeze of a hand and Lelouch cannot distinguish whose is squeezing whose.

He finds himself wanting to speak again – or at least his lips want to commit the action—

But once again movement plucks his voice from his throat before it has a chance to grow—

Slowly rising, arm slowly getting swallowed by the prominent darkness, until he feels a chaste peck on the back of his hand…

The first and foremost thought in Lelouch's brain is that this person must be male. Women don't kiss the back of a man's hand in such a masculine way – at least none of the women he has ever met would… maybe Milly.

With confusion profoundly set on his features, Lelouch releases a tiny sigh through his nose as he ponders whether or not his decision to join this fellow was a bad idea—

(And still those eyes insist otherwise, that there isn't a matter to fret over. That he is safe…

Despite that, there is a place in his mind that is not pleased with what is transpiring here – or what will transpire here.)

Lelouch feels a slight tug on his captured hand, noticing the eyes of the other have moved backward a bit – deeper into that darkness.

It's a hint of a request, if nothing else.

Swallowing the comprehension that all his brilliance has failed him in this moment (but did it even try?), Lelouch complies with this second coaxing gesture and steps over the line between light and dark, absolutely allowing his body to be pulled. He thinks about stealing a glance behind him to see if anyone has noticed him (or them) as he is consumed by the inky hall but finds it difficult to terminate this eye contact. It isn't until he is wholly eaten by the lightless hallway that he manages a brief backwards glance – to learn that not a single person has their sight thrown in his direction.

That isn't a satisfying finding for Lelouch. He has no idea if anyone has watched him disappear into this shadow with a stranger or not – not that he should really care what others think (and he really doesn't) – it just feels uncomfortable not knowing what others know and don't know. Especially pertaining to his private life—

Private life? Where exactly does Lelouch think this is going?

(As if it wasn't obvious. But these things never are to Lelouch.)

Lelouch knows he's being led astray. Lelouch knows he shouldn't let anyone lead him away from anything. Lelouch knows he has no foundation to trust this person – whoever they are. Lelouch knows he could potentially be in some sort of danger—

But those eyes…

Now they're not facing him as he is ushered further into the vacant hall, opening a nearby door, and pulling him into another pocket of darkness, sealing – locking – the way out softly behind them. They still don't face him as they direct him towards the center of this bedroom, not lighting a single light, not making a single sound except for the suffocated scratching of clothing rubbing as they move.

Lelouch cannot see anything. He is utterly blind – a mere sheep to be herded by this shady shepherd.

(If Lelouch's memory serves him correctly, he hates playing the role of a sheep.)

Those round, dancing eyes are on his again in a slow turn towards him, and Lelouch can distinctly feel the pressure in the room get denser.

"You've been watching me all night," Lelouch finally says, cool and calm – detached – like he always trains his voice to be.

Lelouch is pulled closer, being moved a little to the side.

"I have," is the response; sounding like heavy iron. Not smooth but not gruff. Somehow it is like slick steel flowing from that mouth in a mechanical tone – like he was expecting to hear that question.

Lelouch is still calm.

"So you aren't even going to try to deny it?" Lelouch asks mildly playful, letting his lips quirk unseen in the dark.

"What would be the point in playing coy with you? It is very clear you were aware of my watch or else you wouldn't have come to me."

Lelouch hates that he is so matter-of-factly cut down and that it came so easily for this man with no sign of hesitation anywhere in his toneless voice. And yet, he likes the forwardness, the unabashed edge to the response; that stench of superiority that leaks through his sterile words.

(Love and hate, there is no in between.)

Lelouch is frowning slightly as he is positioned right in front of this man – they seem to be the same height, his eyes hovering on level with Lelouch's peer, looking like two dying suns in a starless space – and the back of his calves bond with the familiar firmness of a mattress's side. There is another firmness encircling the place just above his right elbow as this clandestine man continues to hold him in place – less like Lelouch might flee, more like he doesn't want their link to be severed – with the other hand docking on Lelouch's left cheek. His thumb is close to Lelouch's eye, causing the flutter of an eyelid at the unexpected action.

Lelouch's face relaxes, any trace of displeasure gone as the gloved hand cups his face so daintily – afraid of cracking something. He even closes his eyes a moment, as if to allow himself the time to absorb – savor – the feeling of warm cotton pressing lightly but securely against his skin. The sensation melts into his body, loosening every kinking nerve until all he feels running through his body is pooling warmth – a mellow and sunny glow flowing through his veins. The fingers on his face twitch faintly and the ghostly knowledge of movement stirs Lelouch's eyes open so he can witness the invasion of the other's face looming close to his own—

His head being tilted by the comforting hand—

Lucid orbs disappearing into blackness—

Warm breath wafting over his lips—

Lelouch snaps his head back unappreciatively, "You're a complete stranger." – It would have been a bark of disdain if his voice wasn't so thorough in cushioning his words with indifference.

"I am not."

Lelouch lets his mouth hang open ajar hoping the reply to that statement will just trickle out. His brain is kicking itself as it attempts to not only digest and believe that comment but to also manufacture something that can rebuff it. The once flawless mask of placidity that coated his face slowly drips away in this second of hesitation he makes (lost in those gleaming eyes), pulling his countenance tense underneath that coddling hand. He suddenly becomes very aware of his own breathing pace, monitoring it carefully like an artist lingering over a fragile chalk drawing—

As that invisible face eliminates the gap between them, sealing their lips together—

Disconnecting and reconnecting for some choppy yet drawn out kisses where the violent sound of the exhales bustling through their noses is magnified against their skin. That hand sneaks around to cradle the back of Lelouch's head – to hold him in place – while winding his other arm around Lelouch, ardently latching it diagonally up his thin back. Lelouch himself lets his hands come to rest on his watcher's torso – too enthralled with the lips leveling out his own—

Then they break apart, filling the tiny space between them with small pants.

The side of this watcher's mouth skims up next to Lelouch's ear with his moist, hot breath licking at Lelouch's skin; his hold planted on Lelouch like Japanese Bittersweet around the hardened trunk of a wild cherry tree, hoping to snake itself all the way to the stems of those radiant fruits. And when he speaks, it's a touch hotter than before – the refined, steel tongue is starting to heat from the warmth of Lelouch – sounding lustful even in the cool coat of his voice—

"You have a beautiful mind."

Lelouch moves his head, sharply angling his stern expression towards this mysterious man claiming dubious things, hoping to glare away the cloud of anonymity that won't dissipate from around these spellbinding eyes (or will it not shake from Lelouch's cerebrum?).

(It is strange to hear such a compliment, especially when he's sure he doesn't know this person, but it also isn't a flattering remark he often hears. Yes, many people tell him how smart and brilliant he is but no one ever says he has a beautiful mind (in fact, some might suggest all that intelligence is a dangerous weapon…). More often than not, he is told how utterly beautiful he is, not his mind.)

Contrarily, before he can get any words out about the absurdity of that statement, he finds his lips captured again by the flattering pair of his Mysterio. Fingers thread so tightly in his hair as their mouths mingle greedily again that Lelouch has the urge to bit these lips that seemed to have silenced him before he could speak, but he refrains. He slides his hands along the solid limbs of his captor, digging his nails into hidden seams and clawing the material taut into his fists.

They break away again, practically abruptly. He isn't pleased at being cut off once again. He can feel the embers sparked by their heated exchanges begin to heat in his blood and he is struggling to keep his ravaging fingers to himself. He is quite sure the flush of this fervor is already starting to bloom on his face, even if no one can appreciate it.

Lelouch still has presence of mind to ask: "Who are you?" in a hushed whisper that sounds too distant to have sprung from his own mouth. His own reflective violet eyes are trying to seek some sort of clarity behind the glistening, iridescent depths glowering at him in the midst of all this darkness.

A slight pause is taken on the stranger's end, "I am no one, and yet, I am someone," nevertheless his answer is still so damn collected it makes Lelouch want to—

The tempting brush of lips over Lelouch's is all that is needed to lock away his brain in the foggy blaze of yen; reeling him into the deliberate distraction of but more kisses that steal his breath. This man appears to be very good at that. So beguiling with the workings of his lips, be it in forming words or covering Lelouch's, all the while hugging the body in his arms closer – as if trying to fuse them together. That compelling need to scale his fingers all over the entity twining around him is nearly too overpowering for Lelouch during this lip-lock, but still he refrains.

Their lips divide again, this time with Lelouch denying any recess to catch a fleeing breath—

"Was that supposed to sound clever…? It just sounded idiotic," he derides offhandedly, gasping under his haughty words with his brow furrowed; marginally affronted this man would take him for a simple fool – a clueless prisoner to his sly charm.

The gloved finger lodged in the locks of Lelouch's ebony hair detach, making its emergence known as it trails lightly – wraithlike – along his left cheekbone, "…Hmm, well, you are a hindrance for my wits, Lelouch."

Lelouch doesn't know what startles him more: the way that cold voice suddenly plummeted into fiery desire, drenching the sound of his name in sultry honesty, the sweltering feeling beginning to coil tightly around him, or the general statement at hand. He studies those luminous eyes staring down at him as if the answer to his question will suddenly appear – like in some child's psychic toy, revealing some unclear answer that never really pleases a curious mind. Alas, nothing is brought forth over the resonant jewels that Lelouch can use to quell the bunching nerves starting a mutiny against the previous pining in his gut.

He feels stuck – frozen in place, and he isn't sure why. The comfort thought to exist in the irises of the man before him begins to leak away from his body—

This other man leans forward again; hand now clasping the side of Lelouch's face – perhaps perceiving this slip he inadvertently made around the base of his capture—

But Lelouch nudges away from his advance slightly – enough to slay the chance of another meeting with the devilish lips hunting his.

His gloved fingers twitch again, "Don't be afraid," he murmurs in a low, soft, pacifying voice, "There's nothing to fear." He pulls Lelouch's semi reluctant face closer—

(Lelouch mind chimes in again with the revelation that he shouldn't trust him, shouldn't believe what this man tells him – and he really doesn't – but he does. Letting himself believe the words of an unsolved mystery rather than the precise presumptions of his internal intellectual guide.

(If those eyes say there isn't a thing to fear…))

—And once again Lelouch is overtaken by the wispy breath blowing over his mouth as all he can think in reply is: but fear itself.

The instant both pairs of eyes close – amethyst absorbing the affirmation of amaranth – the fleeting struggling of a wanton fire reignites and they are left to the minds of groping hands, scouring tongues, and eager hips. Lelouch finally loses the control he held in his unsteady fingers, letting them fondle their way around the entirety of his admirer's form, wanting to learn the clothes hiding this body. He grasps fabric of what feels like an elegant suit (clinging in all the wrong places as far as Lelouch's hands are concerned), dragging his nails across the back, pulling at the front, and wishing so desperately that something would give in to his hungry actions. The hands on his body do seem to mirror his own actions as they press and smear about his back and hips, reeling the bones as close as possible, and then further until there is no physical space left between them.

(Here Lelouch absently muses that they fit together so impeccably; not necessarily like they were made for each other, but that they belong to each other like a pair of gloves.)

Mentally, Lelouch recognizes the stiff warmth radiating and growing from both of their eager bodies, but he is distracted, trying to stay on par with the slick, sliding organ that is massaging everything in his mouth. He is not thinking at all when he is gently pushed down onto the bed, the edge of which comes comfortably to the bend of his knees. His hands are still hanging on the lapels of the blazer this man is wearing, even as he kneels down to his knees…

Hands are on Lelouch's face as the man splits from his now plump lips, holding onto the lines of his jaw, drawing in a long breath. Lelouch partakes in some strong gasping of his own as he lets the sensation burgeoning between his legs settle into his senses. One of the hands docked on his face floats away, smoothing over a bony shoulder where it stops—

A soft kiss is placed on Lelouch's forehead; the other hand moves to the partnering shoulder—

Another soft kiss on his lips; those hands slide down the length of his arms—

A kiss on his heaving chest; those hands hop to his waist—

Another kiss on his stomach; hands sneak to his thighs—

Kisses on the tops of both of his upper thighs; hands moving to his knees—

Each knee-top is garnished with a soft peck; fingers curling around his calves and slinking all the way to his ankles—

Lelouch watches in a longing trance, one of his hands resting on the crown of fine hair this man possesses atop his head, the other clenching around the end of the mattress in this moment of rustling movement. He then feels the busy work of his shoes and socks being removed, curling his toes under (insecurely) as he feels gloveless hands curve around the tops of his feet and little kisses at his ankles before the grappling fingers skim up under his long, white pants in a dilatory ascent. The leisurely scale prickles all over his skin in a shivering quake just as the glinting, ruby eyes of his watcher sling back up to his face. That twisting heat bubbling in his belly is seeping faster and faster into the sensitive flesh pushing uncomfortably at the front of his pants; growing hotter as his shudders grow strangely colder when the other man runs his hugging hands back up Lelouch's thighs outside his clothes, groping until they reach the band of his pants.

The eyes are glazed and the breath against his lips is steamy – but Lelouch doesn't need any more influence from those shiny marble eyes. Not even as tips of fingers tuck themselves into Lelouch's trousers after having undone a thin, dark belt, a small button and then a painfully slow and grazing unzip of his fly. All movement is tracked by the hardening extension of his crotch that is getting far too impatient and hurting in its compact quarters but a little wiggle of the newly felt fingers parting fabric from skin is all it takes to finally relieve the unwanted pressure bundling his groin. The air hitches in his throat and he clamps the bedding in his hands as he feels those crafty hands languidly pull away his material skin. Lelouch lifts his hips to help the removal ease down his legs, feeling the sudden chilling air against his bare skin as soon as both his shorts and slacks flood off his feet. His skin tingles madly again as bare tips trace along his thighs, breaching the extension of flesh that really wants the attention.

A bare hand cups Lelouch's left cheek again, rubbing the pad of a thumb over his skin with a mouth exhaling against his all the while anticipation gnaws away at his stomach. The man gently parts Lelouch's legs and pushes himself in between, making his hips meet the bed with a bump that Lelouch's more animalistic imagination steals to send another sizzling jolt right down to his already half-hard erection. His eyes are hooded, staring down at nothing in particular (perhaps trying to find his fleeting mind) whilst paying extra attention to the goosey trials left by skipping fingers drawing over his slim thighs before he is drawn into another deep kiss that certainly stirs something in his hazy head – which is cradled by that hand again.

Intense and short, but intense nonetheless; so when they part again, Lelouch gives only a split second of separation until he attacks that mouth immediately after. He grasps the flapping sides of this man's suit jacket that are teasing his skin in faint slides, holding fiercely as an arm is hooked around his back and he is hoisted and carried up the bed. His head lands on a fluffy pillow as his lower half writhes faintly on the plush bedspread – his legs open with the admirer falling into place between them. A pleasurable friction hastily burns as they begin grinding, which is far more potent on Lelouch's naked self. He sends his hands on a feel mission over the velvety fabric harboring this man, the tantalizing material scraping so nicely against his bare legs that are rubbing against the admirer’s sides.

The other man breaks away quickly, leaning back to frantically unfasten his unseen but elaborate apparel in the thinning darkness of this summer bedroom. Lelouch watches him in a dazed moment, scanning his eyes over the slim outline and longish dark – from the looks of it – hair. From this angle, flat on his back, Lelouch sees that the other man looks skinny and smaller than his impression as he fumbles with the frills of a cravat; Lelouch even takes a moment to relish the sight of this previously composed man struggle with his undressing. However, he soon realizes the need to shed the rest of his clothing, tossing the white, mid-length long-sleeve jacket, light pink button-down shirt, and the coinciding turquoise tie all to the floor.

He lies back again nervously – not entirely happy being the only one nude – with the crisper air washing over his skin in arctic waves. The other man is still unwrapping himself, and Lelouch thinks he might be feeling some mild frustration at having to wait – why is it taking so long?

Lelouch lurches up, irritatedly shoving the inept hands away and pawing at all the cloth halting their progression, carelessly throwing that neck scarf to the side, until his starving fingertips finally meet with skin. Hands rummage through Lelouch's hair and caress his bare shoulders as he grabs the sides of the flesh exposed to him. He cannot describe the feeling, but it is much like before when he had first seen his admirer's hand. Finally touching all this flesh… it's like he wasn't sure there would be a body under all these layers, under those gleaming eyes…

(Almost as if he wasn't ever expecting to reach the human buried in this darkness.)

Lelouch presses his face against this chest – elated now that he doesn't feel so alone – with a tiny grin stretching across his lips which push tender smooches to the supple torso arrested in his hands. The feeling of the other's fingers still running through his hair and over his skin is like a roasting waterfall that crashes right to his crotch.

He is pushed to his back, lips reconnecting to his as the layers of attire join the others on the floor, letting Lelouch feel the slender shoulders that supported them all. Over a bare back his fingers glide, dipping into every indention, skimming over the bumps of bones and the gentle slither of muscle under all this skin. He gropes his way to the front, smothering his admirer's chest, rubbing over hard nipples and a flexing ribcage. The watcher will break away again here to discard his lower coverings and Lelouch looks on intently, not wanting to miss a speck of skin that will be revealed…

Something catches his eye. Lelouch looks to the side opposite the door seeing the thick, dark curtains are swaying in a constant breeze – most likely from an air vent. This movement is allowing the contrasting outside light to dart in every time they split apart at their center. So, Lelouch follows this lazy light as it falls across the lean and fair-skinned chest of the man sandwiched between his legs. Lelouch's eyes are wide in their watch as that light shifts—

Sinking lower over the nimble hands yanking pants down, releasing a straining erection—

Rising higher to swollen lips and the fray of sleek, black hairs—

Cascading back over the blanched, panting chest with peaking buds—

And then the man leans forward, ignorant to the sabotaging light—

That paints its sharp, icy blue stream in a flash over his frothy red-violet eyes and a curtain of sable strands—

Lelouch's heart skips a beat, a stark stall from the constant thrumming it has been doing since the moment he linked hands with this man… Who moves back swiftly, throwing his eyes to the draperies that nearly revealed his identity. Lelouch's eyes are still locked on him, gaping at the moment that ran by him and trying to make it freeze in his mind, trying to conjure up the full form of the stranger's face—

The heated sparkling of magenta irises zing back to the awe-struck expression smoothing Lelouch's face, and the admirer swoops down speedily, catching Lelouch by surprise with a crashing kiss. No more is seen as the curtains eventually flutter to a rest – not that Lelouch can look at anything other than the magnificent red eyes blaring into his own as they perform a tight lipped kiss. Lelouch's arms are limp on the bed and he loses the trace of the transitory image he had collaged in his mind as the forceful tongue licks at his lips and his eyelids suddenly feel so heavy…

The luscious lips disappear from Lelouch's to try and devour the available skin on his neck, lapping and biting so pleasantly while confident hands learn his form; lips pressing gentle, phantom kisses all over his vulnerably presented body. Each one has spreading huffs of blistering breaths from that mouth that flow over his skin, leaving him feeling colder and deprived of the attention before another place is touched by those lips. They feel as if they're pressing everywhere all at once even as they are unhurried – enjoying their pauses on Lelouch's skin (enjoying the way the shudders feel against his mouth as touches on Lelouch's lower regions make said boy twitch and push into grasping hands). He feels them on his shoulder, his neck, his chest, one pushed against both of his erected nipples with testing licks, his stomach, his arms, his thighs, his inner thighs, on his—!

They all make him want to moan, but only the last one is able to reach down his throat and wrench it from his control; it is quiet, subdued, but still made nonetheless. Lelouch weaves his fingers through the hair on his admirer's head (which he has distractedly forgotten about trying to picture) as it opens around the tip of his stressing length, encompassing it with wet, hot goodness that scrambles his excited brain. He tries to concentrate on the feeling of the magical mouth as it dips and rises, on the feeling of that slippery tongue…

Lelouch manages to mutter out a question about protection and lubrication when this man parts from his pampering, only to smile wryly when the couple consisting of a thin square and a small tube is brought to his fingers.

(Somehow, he isn't surprised by this man's planning. He knew, somehow, that this man would be prepared.)

Lelouch isn’t quite sure what he’s gotten himself into, tentative tendrils stringing over the building fire at his crotch as this strange man lies flush on top of him – and then he remembers he isn’t without his own will, he isn’t  (completely) paralyzed. He digs an elbow into the bed, rolling his weight over and on top of the man who not only allows the sudden change, he encourages it with an opening of his legs.

Lelouch isn’t sure how he feels about that.

He lets the suspicious thoughts get dragged into the dark sides of his mind along with the others still vying for his attention and focuses on the mouth that’s now bellow him. He doesn’t waste any more time on being coy, kissing roughly and deeply as if becoming aware of hormones and (repressed) emotions this very second, dipping his tongue into the wet cavern that was sealed around his flesh just seconds ago. Their tongues tangle together, slithering like snakes trying to constrict each other, and he feels hands smooth down his back and over his rear before gliding back up like a swaying breeze – he doesn’t like the ideas attached to those hands. Lelouch pushes his hips intently on the pair below him and reaches to wrangle a hand that scouted his backside in a warning—

But his hand is caught in response, their oral connection breaks, and he finds himself staring down at those shimmering eyes that appear to smirk at him as his first two fingers meet a tongue. It slathers Lelouch again, only this time it’s his digits and it’s less calculated as all of the earlier measured movements have been – it’s controlled but acquiesced, serving. Lelouch’s fingers are bathed in the hot, salaciously subservient saliva of his admirer (and those lulling eyes seem to tell him everything he wants to hear.

That he is in control.

But he isn’t alone.

(Is it at all possible for those bewitching eyes to lie to him?))

Lelouch plucks his fretless fingers from the mouth he can't see and plunges them down between the legs that parted so easily for him. His watcher accepts his directing digits with surprising warmth; a tangible torridness that flexes and tightens around his fingers too sinfully seductive that Lelouch can feel it burrow in his weeping erection. He can feel them, the sparks of something dormant in the dark sizzling through his body and connecting with something else in his brain as if re-aligning, rewiring, and he’s blindsided by it.

Those eyes, they aren’t blind.

(Are they what’s rolling around inside his skull?)

Lelouch watches them narrow into slivers of volcanic red as he enters where his fingers had toyed, slick and protected but feeling human – silken heat coiling tightly around his hardness, where all his blood has rushed in a violent pulse. It’s a riot running rampant through Lelouch’s body that he’s moving his hips before he’s aware of anything else. All he knows are those eyes and his blood – and he wouldn’t have thought that this would feel so natural. His hips are automatic, aggressive, and the man under him is panting in static pleasure like white noise bleeding from his throat. Whatever silver-tongued tones he might’ve had are shredded bits lost from his lips, purged by Lelouch’s thrusts that begin to hit him like a brain-freeze he… Too much too fast, and it’s made him dizzy – all his heart has pumped blood away from where it should always be – and Lelouch tries to focus on the optical orbs that are no longer eclipsed to keep himself grounded—

And he’s on his back with a heavy swirl of gravity, the face-less man poised securely on top of him and riding along their pleasure without skipping a beat – picking up where Lelouch slacked. Maybe Lelouch should feel a dent to his pride (and he does) but all attention is on the sensations swarming his body and stripping him down to a numb-mind. He grabs at knobby, undulating hips that kept him from falling somewhere too far away from this moment, this bed, and he feels hands anchor on his shoulders as the body around his hard flesh grips and shifts in exactly the right way. Lelouch doesn’t understand how, but the more pleasure this unknown person squeezes around him with fluid hips the more he drowns – as if by his own thoughts, body, like the strings between the puppet and the puppeteer.

(While it is lucrative to have his every unspoken needs and desires understood, it is still disconcerting and somewhat alarming to have his every whim granted without it ever leaving the walls of his skull.)

Lelouch wonders if he really is losing his mind.

(Or if he’s already lost it.

And if he can get it back.)

So he reverses the puppeteer performance.

Lelouch yanks at the strings, reigning on high again in comfort and haste as he drives himself as deeply as he can into this stranger that seduced him. Legs wrap around him but the body he’s controlling beneath him isn’t as yielding as it was. (Or was it ever yielding to him? Who was controlling who?) The hips under him are adamant and stubborn, steely against Lelouch’s overturn and direction, wanting to maintain the grounds they tended in their own way.

An ominous specter reaches up from the night – from those apple eyes that just might’ve been poisoned – and grabs Lelouch’s neck. They don’t caress or stroke him along; they don’t coax him into a heaven of peace and forgiveness.

(They drag him down to hell.)

Lelouch isn’t sure he can feel them constricting, if it isn’t just his heart and his brain falling loose and twisting together in asphyxiating desperation – each struggling for victory. He feels a needle-like pressure prickle around and through his head and he hack briefly, but when he tries to reach for his neck—

He finds it’s his own hands ringed snugly around that of his mysterious man—

Fingernails claw down his left cheek away from his eye—

And he recoils, losing himself in the darkness with only raspberry red eyes like beacons holding him afloat. His face is caught and held by not his hands as lips press against his, a tongue speaking spells in his mouth and he’s reeled back into the sensuous swimming of their connection. Lelouch’s startled heart is soothed, eased, by this man who sweeps it all away into hiding under a dark cloak like it never happened – and Lelouch wants to believe (that he didn’t have his hands around another person’s neck), wants to forget (that he could even be capable). So, it he dives into the other man’s mouth, buries himself between the legs locked around him; into the surprisingly soft and resilient body swallowing his body and mind (never to let go.)

Lelouch hits at the optimal angle, making the man sputter more ecstatic shrapnel and he’s quick to return the pleasure to Lelouch (erase, reinforce – destroy, recreate) by clenching and jerking as blissfully as he had before, throwing the young Britannian out of his lungs. He is breathing heavily, heavier than when he was forced to participate in that mini marathon back at school by Milly, heavier than he ever thought he could breathe. The husky, weighty sound of that metallic voice of his stranger isn't at the front of his mind, nor is the dark cloud that has moved over glazed, hot-magenta eyes. Everything in the world has zeroed in on to their connection, at the unbearable cork angrily pulsing his hardness to be released, and how close to paradise Lelouch climbs with the help of his anonymous admirer – two steps forward, one step back like a tortuous temptation that might not ever come, or it might detonate with a climax so liberating Lelouch won’t know what to do with himself afterward…

(In a twisted way Lelouch almost wishes that this could last forever (lost in the perpetual waves of bliss) but if it never ended then he might truly lose his sanity; something like this cannot last forever.)

The bloody lines carved in his face sting, watering his eye—

He’s consumed by the slick sound of skin slapping skin enveloping this dark room—

The two of them synchronized in harmony, creating their own heaven—

Loins electrified with coursing need as their thrusting is racing to finish—

Sweat and pressure rolling down their bodies; insufferable scorching desire threatening to—

EXPLODE

The room slashes from black to white.

Then back to black again.

Lelouch comes down slowly (faintly aware of his voice moaning out something incoherent in the surge of ecstasy that engulfed his body), his breath as ragged as ever, head still spinning and groggy with the wonderful afterglow raining on his senses. He is nothing more than a gasping heap – still inside the man – wilted and spent as he succumbs to the lulling relaxation brought on by release.

The room finally appears to be at peace. Tranquil and quiet now that all this pent up energy sprang from their loins—

There is a sticky essence slick between them, Lelouch is finally realizing. Not exactly the best feeling. So he listlessly uproots his flaccid length from his admirer’s body and flops to his back.

(If Lelouch makes a discontent noise at this action, he isn't sure – it could have been either, if not both, of them at this point.)

A vague feeling of cloth wiping at his stomach is hardly acknowledged by his over-stimulated brain, but the sweet kiss and upheaval from the damp spot on the bed is bluntly noted. He is pulled up by the same arm that has had him ensnared all night, laying him back down on the unsoiled side of the bed, dropping a cool blanket over him as he is carefully placed. He watches tamely through his fading fog as the dimmer eyes of his partner hover over him arranging something or other; Lelouch cannot really tell nor does he even care. He just lies on his side, drowsily waiting for everything to just stop moving.

Soon enough the man nestles down with him, slipping an arm around Lelouch’s tired body, tucking his head under a strong chin that lies tilted against his forehead. The musty smell of their exchange is slathered over their skin and drifting through the cold air – which has incidentally began to tickle those curtains open again, leaking that baby blue light horizontally across the bed and over the ivory skin on the other's arm. Lelouch's fragile eyesight is penetrated by the sliver of that harsh ray reaching over them, touching the boundaries of the bed's domain, causing him to cringe. He turns his face into the downy linens supporting his head to escape that piercing flash, nuzzling into his admirer as a result.

Purely as a result.

A contended sigh spills from his nose as he feels his body drain into the mattress, totally at ease. Fingers sweep the messy frame of his onyx hair away from his face where lips press subtle kisses to his forehead and closed left eye (but not his scratches), combing through the silky strands with light rubs. Then the fingers move, slipping down his nape and cruising along the path of his protruding spine in the center of his back hidden under the blanket draped over them. They skim farther, over his side, into the slope of his angular hips in this light and comforting graze, helping Lelouch's consciousness sail away on the sleepy seas of somnolence.

"Lelouch."

The soft sound of his name causes Lelouch to stir slightly. "Hm?" he indolently hums.

Instead of receiving any sort of answer, the fingers on his body continue to soothingly stroke abstract designs on his skin. He lets these idle drizzles from those fingertips pull – or push? – him along the currents of slumber…

Then they pause—

"Would it be acceptable for us to meet again?"

Lelouch, in his sleep shrouded mind, thinks about the answer. He honestly isn't sure if it would be “acceptable” to meet this man again – this man who is still unknown to Lelouch's eyes. While it is true that joining this man probably wasn't the smartest decision of his young life, it is also true that no harm came to him. He may have no clue who this person really is, he may not know his name, he may not know his face, but he knows that trust can be placed in him. However irrational and illogical that sounds, Lelouch feels that to be true—

(Because those eyes told him so, and they would never lie to him.)

—no matter how much Lelouch's suspicions and cynicism insist on the opposite.

Conversely, does that mean Lelouch actually wants to see this man again? How would he even know if he saw him? The eyes would be a dead giveaway, but…

(And his clawed cheek, it hurts…

Even if little by little it dissolves…)

"Under these same circumstances?" Lelouch mumbles blearily, the cheeky underlines of his words straining to hold weight without his strong, snarky tone – but not missed by his listener.

A low, throaty chuckle rumbles in his chest as he animates his fingers to skate over Lelouch's skin again. "Not these same circumstances." he lightly drawls.

Lelouch smiles faintly, exhaling through his nose again as he fidgets just a little more into the body (heat) holding him close underneath this airy blanket. Lelouch means to give his answer here, means to let it slur out of his mouth—

Like it does in his fainted head, in a dream he isn't aware he's dreaming, just before the thick, black blanket of sleep snuffs out the dwindling consciousness of his mind.

.

.

He awakes alone the next morning with nothing but a dreamy memory, an empty body and left cheek pure of any scratches.

.

.

It isn’t long after that when he’s reunited with his best friend and he meets a strange girl with a strange power…



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