redders: (bored lou reed)
[personal profile] redders
I forgot these somewhere! they were askbox stories for ang3lish1 and velvetcadence, so I'm just compiling them for the year's end meme. Both are mature.


It’s shady and the wind rushes harsh through the copse of pines, the spring’s hardly started yet and this far north Charles is forever freezing.

His scarf is long discarded, snarled in a nearby branch. Sweat trails down his spine, darkens his hair and fur, his hands slip and fight to clutch the writhing body beneath him. Between his panting breaths, he growls again and digs his hands against feverish skin, leans in and scores his teeth against flesh, and fucks his hips harder into that sloppy wet hole when he hears bleating.

The faun underneath him is delicious, all salt and musk, and a curiosity, too. Charles is no stranger to the pleasures of rut, but he’d never found it so enticing; he’d never expected it here, not in this strange desolate land that his southern-valley tribe has never mapped. There’s other satyrs and fauns out there, he knows, who live as isolated as his own people—as a whole, they’ve much less wanderlust than other creatures like centaurs and humans, they’ve much more lust instead.

Maybe the fauns up north are all like this, whipcord muscle and silver-tinged fur. Maybe they’re all just exactly like this one, just as tall—taller, really—than a satyr. Maybe they’re all scarred warriors, all deep-voiced bleating and fight, all hard-earned submission.

Charles grunts, the heavy weight of his balls smacking loud against the faun’s swollen cunt.

Maybe. But he doubts it, he simply can’t imagine any other faun like this one. His hands skim up again, over the startling off-season curve of the faun’s belly, going again for the temptation of dribbling milk.

Do the does breed in autumn, up here? Do satyrs abandon their mates as a matter of course? The faun smells only of musk and the sweetness of bred does, and nothing at all of a satyr, and Charles finds it all at once unthinkable and irresistible.

Another thrust, and another, the faun clenching and spurting against the thick drive of Charles’s prick, and soon Charles is baying and filling that rippling fertile passage with seed.

Perhaps it’s not the custom up here, but when he’s pulled out he flips the faun back over, minding the swell of his stomach. The faun blinks up at him, perplexed, hands clawed against pine needles, and Charles tells himself he’s just doing it for the faun’s protection when he aims, when he stains the stranger’s fur with his mark.


SPOILERS for Digital Devil Saga below, if you're ever gonna play!


It's been years, that they've been working on the cure together. Years long with late nights, failed experiments, the distasteful politics of the Karma Society.

Erik steps into Charles's room, snug and private and oddly tranquil in the midst of the isolation ward.

There isn't much they can do, the doctors here, and Erik hasn't visited Charles in days--he's been up, day and night, putting all his energy into that elusive cure.

Sitting on the bed, Charles beams up at him, bright and joyous, utterly without judgment. He raises one hand--the left, the one now gone fully stone--and gives a short, if a bit morbid--wave. Erik can't help grinning back, a slight bearing of teeth.

These years have been long, fruitless, but not completely without joy. Erik thinks back, of the long nights listening to Charles laugh. To watching him misplace his glasses, time and time again. To hearing him sing, sweet and gentle, to his test tubes and Petri dishes.

To knowing, to trusting in the certainty of all the data before him, that Charles loves him, and he, Charles.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, shattering the silence. "I've wasted so much time, being afraid."

Charles tilts his head, glancing up at Erik over his glasses.

"It's normal," he says, tucking the diseased arm behind him. "The disease process is--well, it's difficult to be dispassionate, I'd imagine, even for you, it being someone you know... And anyway, it's just been a few days and I--mmph!"

Erik kisses him solidly, his mouth firm and desperate and nervous with inexperience. Against him, Charles hums, a musical little noise, and clutches him closer. Guides him, gently, into a deep and wondering embrace.

When they do finally part, they're both hard--Erik can feel Charles's arousal, pressed up against him. But Erik is more, besides.

He clears his throat, kneels back in deference to the slickness gathering down between his thighs, beneath his cock.

"I didn't mean the syndrome," he says. His voice is gravelly, rough--the testosterone his body produces easily overpowers the rest. "I mean--this. I was afraid of this."

"Of--being with me?" Charles asks, frowning a bit. He straightens his glasses, a thoughtless little gesture that Erik's seen a thousand times, that he loves more and more every day. "But why--you know I'm--"

"I know," Erik breathes. "I know, but I'm not--" he pauses, not certain how to continue. Words feel clinical and inadequate, and Charles is gazing up at him like he's some rare gift and--

And Charles’s hand lies inert and grey on the hospital linen.

They have so very little time, and Erik has wasted years.

"Can I just show you?"

Behind the thin frames, Charles's eyes widen. He swallows, nods once, a frantic approval, and Erik smiles ruefully.

"Then, here," he says. He unbuttons the crisp white oxford, pulls off the thin shirt underneath.

Charles is the smartest man Erik knows, the nearest Erik has ever had to an equal--better, in fact, for all his kindness and the superior depth of artistic intellect--and he knows without looking that Charles has come to a conclusion already, seeing the final layer.

"You're," Charles says, putting his good hand on Erik's side, muscle and incongruous fat constrained by smooth dark fabric. "God, that's--fine, brilliant, even--Erik," and flustered, Erik glares at the dull reproduction art above the bed.

"Shut up," he snaps, a touch more unkind than intended, "let me finish."

"Of course, do go on,” Charles replies, his hand sliding down to rest on a thigh as Erik pulls off the binder.

He knows his breasts are not data enough. In all truth, he doesn’t mind them—it’s simply easier, he’s found, to pick a side and display only the expected—and he minds the rest just as little.

It’s just… complicated.

Unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his slacks, Erik does it all facing a faded poster. A meadow, a time long past, when the sun seemed not as cruel. Shoving the rest of his clothes off, he kneels before Charles, and is for once careless in his nudity.

There is so very little left on this planet to lose, and should Charles reject him—yes, it’d sting, but it’s not like Charles hasn’t been taken from him already.

Oh,” Charles breathes. Now his hands are both on Erik’s thighs, flesh and stone both, and he runs them over the lean muscle.

Erik shivers.

“I know it’s—improbable, at best. And if you’d rather—“

“No,” Charles interrupts. He’s smiling, gentle and fond. His good fingers track up, tease lightly at the base of Erik’s flagging erection, slide down to stroke the weight of his balls. “No, I’d—I’ve always wanted you. You’re perfect, just glorious. May I?”

“Yes,” Erik sighs, kneeing in closer, and spreading his thighs. Charles brushes down and back and rubs tentatively at the folds of Erik’s cunt.

Charles grins, hearing him moan, and slides his fingers, quick little circles. The tiny room echoes with the sounds of harsh breathing and wet flesh, and Erik thrusts himself back and back.

“Actually,” Charles pants, and Erik doesn’t need to open his eyes to see that infuriating expression Charles gets, scientific curiosity personified, “Actually, intersexuality is relatively common, as human conditions go. Perhaps up to one percent of the—“

“Charles,” he growls, pulling away, and Charles is blushing and scooting back.

“God! I’m sorry, I can’t believe I—I always say the absolute worst—“

“Charles,” he repeats, ripping carelessly at the loose tie of Charles’s hospital-issue bottoms.

He wants Charles, has for years, and as he tugs the blue-green fabric down and exposes the thick shaft of Charles’s cock, as he straddles Charles’s hips and guides him in, he can’t help whispering the last of his secrets against the curve of Charles’s ear as he fucks himself harder and harder.

“You should know. I ran the tests myself. I’m fertile,” he breathes, and it’s a poor attempt at pillow talk, even for him.

But Charles only clutches him closer, kisses him softly over jaw and cheek, as he rides Charles to completion.

“That’s—I understand,” Charles whispers, and Erik tastes salt as he nuzzles close, hoping for the future, for a lasting reminder of the only kindness he’s known.
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