I was going to wait for someone else to do it, but. No. No one writes about this shit. Why? Are the admins not epic enough in their amazing retardedness? Seriously. I'm fanboying alone and it hurts. One of them is like Gary Oak aged ten years and lost the motherfucker edge, but still flamingly gay. Why isn't that idiocy incredibly attractive to anyone else?
Anyway, BlakexSinis Trio crackfic to start off what will hopefully spawn more fics about these awesome retarded villains. Blake's the boss of team yamiyami/dim sun, in case anyone forgot about him—and since I've already spoiled that, reading the rest of the fic won't make that much of a difference. It's pretty obvious in the game, anyway. Surprise pairing at the end, but it doesn't really matter.
Warning: little spoilers, much wtf-ery, crack!sexual tension, weird interpretation of the boss, not beta'd or checked over for mistakes
He'd been young. His likes and dislikes had constantly changed, as well as his desire for taking over the region and turning it into a new one. That took a lot of work, after all, and he hadn't been so business-oriented back then.
However, none of his phases had ever lasted so long, that long. It was a week where the whole evil organization business didn't quite seem as appealing as it had been the previous week that he'd faltered—he was up to some socialization, chatting up his inferiors, maybe partying a little if everyone else would be intoxicated through their stomach linings.
Heath had been eighteen, then. He'd been young and round and just as tanned and Blake had watched him often. He'd had sudden desires, just moments of it, where he'd wished to place his hands on a smooth, soft belly and joyously grasp into his palms parts of the wealth. Heath liked to sneer and look tough but he really was soft in more than one way. He'd been so young, so round, so…cute.
One day, the moments became long nights to waking up with wet sheets. Wet sheets that had nothing to do with having drunk too much coffee the day before to try and not dream about such vile, horrid, cuddly situations with—with a lowly subordinate. After a few more nights, Blake decided that he just couldn't keep telling himself that he'd merely pissed his pants, and accepted the more humiliating reason.
He was a gay pedophile who couldn't yet afford therapy and therefore needed to either kick Heath off the team, or get rid of his desire by proving to himself by stupid it really was.
Heath showed up at his office doorway upon call one day, large and round but still able to fit through. He had a frown on his face and his arms were slightly raised by his sides, but his gangster appeal would not stop Blake.
"So," Blake started conversationally, "I've been looking at your progress lately and I see that you've been doing a fine job."
Heath merely stared at him as if to say, I have? Blake desperately wanted to bang his head onto the hardwood table until he bled so that Heath could see how much internal turmoil he was going through, but instead clenched a fist under his desk until the force of it was somewhat satisfactory. Give me something to compliment you on, Blake wanted to scream. He'd really only seen the blond growling at his higher-ups like a rabid animal, but since this helped tighten his baggy pants he supposed it was fine.
"…So how would you like to be promoted?"
Heath continued staring.
"Okay, no. That was a rhetorical question," he lied through his teeth, "you're getting promoted and you needed to be informed of your new position. That is it." He snuck a shaky breath inwards and out. "Any questions?"
This time, Heath finally spoke. "Is truly me?"
No, because you really don't deserve it but I'm trying to come to a truce with myself here and I'm failing miserably because of you and—"...Yes! Yes," Blake chuckled, realizing that it was a wise thing to actually think things through and use his brain at the age of twenty-five. "indeed." He paused, mentally riffling through all the right words as fast as he could, but the speed was going overtime and he'd lost his index at the beginning of the search. "It's you—Heath, right?"
He knew who Heath was. He definitely, absolutely had it burned into his mind. Adding an unsure suffix at the end seemed to make everything better, as if he was indifferent to this adorable young man before him. Because he was still a teenager deep inside and had to avoid saying the name of his loved one out loud, because it was still a forbidden word—a familiar mantra in his mind, but foreign on his tongue. It was like a twisted form of respect, and Blake thought that Heath had better appreciate being respected by his metaphorical king.
When Heath left, Blake was left with the feeling of having done something completely retarded. He'd originally planned to put Heath through a test of worthiness, but when he'd spoken with that endearing accent and defective grammar, there was no way he could've let him go. He couldn't do that to his sweethea—th. Sweet Heath. Anyway, taking over the world didn't seem so important in the face of his distress, so it was only fair that he could raise an unworthy subordinate to the top and not have to worry about the consequences.
The next day, he'd called Heath to his office again to give him his new uniform. He'd memorized the measurements from when he'd first joined so it was just a tiny bit tight on him, but he supposed it didn't matter. Heath was eye candy no matter what he wore.
He may have been modest inside, Blake thought, but he would definitely find this uniform fitting to his form—both metaphorically and literally. He waited for Heath's first words as a top admin.
"Well?" Blake leaned forward, hoping to get some sort of response.
"…Why yellow," Heath finally said.
Nails in his palm weren't enough this time, Blake decided. He needed some real sharp claws on his leg.
There were many things he wanted to say that he couldn't, which further confirmed exactly how stupid he was to promote his guy. It brings out your eyes, Heath. It brings out your hair. It looks good with your skin. I have a thing for foreigners.
Instead, he opted for a less personal answer, which was also vaguer but he doubted Heath would really understand his difficult wording, anyway. "There's more black than yellow," he said, "it's more of an orange, anyway. There's also some white."
Heath didn't miss a beat. "Why," he asked.
"Because you just got promoted and if you'd like to keep your position you'd shut up and go away now, wouldn't you?" Blake was torn inside. He was so harsh to his poor, poor baby—relevantly, Heath left the room.
-
A month later, his plans worked. He had found rediscovered old hentai videos in a hidden folder on his secret laptop, and his desire for folded rolls on stomachs was rapidly obliterated. It was something he hadn't thought over properly—he couldn't say that it was because he'd once, in a time long, long ago, found Heath attractive, and now that his desires had modified Heath should lose his place in the top. Now that they've been getting closer and closer physically, Blake found that he was pushing the previous object of his desire further and further away.
A few years later he was in a local café, privates throbbing from the latest animated porno he'd watched only moments ago, thoughts completely void of plump flesh and crushing weights. The Heath phase had passed, and only now did he wish it hadn't.
"Boss." The title came in a whisper.
With his hands halfway to his pants, Blake watched in wonder as a pink haired lady slipped in front of him. Her eyes were pink and her clothes were pink, and her tongue was pink as it darted out—"I have a very important matter to discuss with you."
Blake also had important matters to attend to that required immediate attention like fulfilling his newfound urge to jack off, but decided that the evil team came first. Also, between admiring a sexy lady and touching himself with his boring, rough hands, the latter didn't seem nearly as appealing.
In the next two minutes, he learned that he'd had a very sexy subordinate since the beginnings of his half-assed journey to remake Almia and that she was a very willing inferior. In two days he searched his rotting databases to find that he wasn't really a gay pedophile because Lavana was nineteen and a girl—he was just a bisexual, sad man who liked jailbait faces on developed bodies. He also learned exactly how developed Lavana was from her mandatory uniform measurements, and after watching her for a few more days, that she loved rolling up her uniform to expose a pale, flat stomach. She also liked tugging her skirt down and foregoing the black stockings completely, but that was a matter too obscene for him to handle thinking about his new object of desire.
Then he bumped into another unknown subordinate on his way to his secret base, and when said inferior bent ninety degrees to apologize for tardiness he found his eyes trailing downwards. He had more than an image of Lavana to jack off to that night.
Sexy lady and sexy man showed up at his office doorway upon call one day, and Blake was pretty sure they could both fit through together, at the same time. He found that fact very attractive.
"Ice, Lavana," he addressed. They shuffled into the room—the lady before the gentleman, which Blake thought was absolutely honourable and Ice should receive a pat on the back, or somewhere close to the back—and thoughtlessly dipped their heads, just by merely being in his presence. Blake's ego inflated.
"You two have been doing wonderfully thus far," Blake started, his speech having been rewritten thrice and memorized perfectly, "therefore, I present you both with—a promotion." He even remembered the dramatic pause.
Lavana looked up with wide eyes, a smug smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Ice dipped his head further and if Blake was craning to see, he would be rewarded with a light smile.
Blake was craning further than he needed to.
He righted himself after a mutter of ah, found it, and sat up professionally as he regarded his inferiors. "You may excuse yourselves. Both of you are off duty for the rest of the night." He spun slightly in his office chair. "You will be given your new uniforms and schedules tomorrow morning."
He wasn't making promotions unreasonably this time, Blake thought to himself. Lavana enjoyed being part of an evil organization, as it apparently upped her sexiness or so he'd overheard her say once; she would not give up aiding the team, even if she ruined her make-up in the process. Ice liked reading until he fainted on his books, and assuming they weren't pornographic novels, having a person with actual brains on his team may help their currently nonexistent progress.
He watched as their retreating backs disappeared into the hallway, and let his eyes travel lower before they were completely gone. This was it, he thought. He might actually be able to concentrate on his wavering dream, now that he has more useful people in charge. He felt good about himself. He felt proud. He'd done a good—
Six pm, Blake read on his wrist watch. Lavana's shower was in a half hour, so he'd better get going.
-
11:00 pm—Break
11:45 pm—Patrol the upper floors (14-A to 27-E)
Blake paused, and read over the schedule. Should he push their sleep to midnight? Heath had been given guard duty at two in the morning, but Blake had long stopped believing the ball needed his beauty sleep—he really didn't have much attractiveness to preserve beforehand. Ice and Lavana however, needed to rest so that they'll be rejuvenated in the morning and look graceful during their mandatory training sessions and be sexy with sweat sliding down their faces, dipping below their collar bones—
A small window at the bottom of his screen flashed orange momentarily. Blake focused his attention on it and saw Ice stepping into the bathroom.
He looked down at his deflated erection. Though it was small and pretty insignificant against the vast backdrop of his black dress pants, it was still strong and magnificent despite already having been tended to when Lavana was showering. He looked at Ice's frustratingly slow stripping of cloths, at his hands still poised at the keyboard, then at his erection that suddenly twitched.
That decided it. The evil organization could wait later. Fulfilling the wishes of his dick was serious business.
-
Blake woke up with a hurting hand and tired privates. He should really get rid of the habit of jacking off under tables, he thought. It was unbecoming of an evil mastermind like him to become so accustomed to sneaking a few strokes at the general crotch area during important meetings.
Yawning, he padded to his grand-suite washroom and finished his morning necessities before heading back to his bed and pulling out a few folders. He searched with drooping eyes through the many files until he came to the right one, and pulled out the schedule printouts from yesterday. He scanned the pink sheet briefly, still tired, and started looking over the blue one.
12:30 am—take off cloths
Blake's saliva shot out to the opposite wall.
Was he wearing the right pair of sunglasses? These were the ones with prescription, right? Maybe he needed new ones, or actual glasses that didn't have shaded lenses and were used for the indoors. He looked closer. The page could nearly trace the contours of his face.
Last night...what happened last night? It was all a blur. (And he waited for the day he could truly mean it like that.) He'd been watching his newly promoted subordinates shower, he remembered vaguely. Surely they couldn't have been that much of a distraction? He recalled having checked if he'd used the right colour paper beforehand. How could he have done so if his eyes were still glued to the screen?
No matter. Blake growled, glaring towards his computer menacingly while he was apprehensive inside. If only he'd deleted those hentai videos when he'd had the chance...now, his computer was clogged up with more than straight and lesbian porn. It would take more than ten minutes to complete the process of booting up and logging in...if he could even remember his password while his brain felt fried like this.
No streaming live security tapes while writing up important documents, Blake scolded himself. He'd have to go with the pre-recorded ones next time.
Forty minutes. Printing things didn't take long, but forty minutes was all he had to get out of his secret base, travel nearly half an hour in traffic and elevate himself three hundred floors, do the ritual cleaning of his desk's underside, then fatten his ass for the next ten minutes until someone comes in and sees him looking all proper and boss-like, as if he'd been office-bound since yesterday.
He had to try. Blake booted up his computer, desperately wanting to bite his nails but not allowing himself to do so until he would have the sanctuary of a desk bottom, and brainstormed up many useless ideas. He technically didn't need to sit and do nothing for ten minutes, but he'd gotten so used to relaxing and being bored before the morning really started that he'd be lost without that routine. His eyes darted to the blue sheet frantically. Take off cloths...shit, how could I have typed that? Take off cloths, ha. ...Take 'em off, oh yeah—
He really needed a mental censor bar. That was white. So that it'd look angelic and not like a censor bar at all, so that even Blake himself would be blinded to his previous perverted thoughts—
Whiteout. Blake felt his brain twitch with newly fuelled power. This was probably the first good idea he'd had today. He'd whiteout on both sides of the paper so that his nerdy subordinate would have no chance of uncovering the true secret of Blake's inner workings. Even though it would look sloppy and completely out of his style, it'd have to suffice.
He looked at his computer. Still loading. He looked at his room.
Now to actually find the whiteout in midst of his junk covered floor...
-
"This is your schedule, Lavana. Now, Ice..."
Blake gulped as discreetly as he could. In the end, he neither found whiteout nor remembered his password. He'd tried scheming—telling Ice that 'taking off cloths' was a reminder for him to change before going to bed since so many male members sleep in their sweaty cloths or something—but it was too obvious. At that time, anyway. Now however, it seemed like a pretty good excuse, because he'd have to wing it now and he knew that he sucked at adlib. He needed more public appearances so he could practise bullshitting the public, he thought.
He snuck a deep breath through his nostrils, and spoke. "Ice, you have a...special schedule," he started. He really had no idea where he was going with this, but doing things at the last second seemed to motivate his inner genius into getting out some fairly trustworthy words. "I've ordered it to be delivered since a few days ago. However, just this morning they've contacted me about their failure in completing the delivery process." Good job brain, mentioning a nonexistent delivery process for a piece of paper. "Your schedule should arrive by afternoon."
Lavana had an expression that spoke volumes of her astonishment at Blake's professional nature, going through such a complicated process just to get them their schedules—Ice basically mirrored her astonishment, except perhaps in a more sarcastic tone as if he couldn't really believe that Blake would need to order external large-scale sources to do his print-bidding for such a crappy result, like the one clutched in Lavana's hand.
However, Blake would not give up. Ice was getting two promotions and that was it; he was a brainy seventeen year old (who Blake had inevitably spied on showering last night, but his gay pedophilia was a different subject entirely) who had much potential to grow both mentally and physically. The latter being the less important of the two, of course. It wasn't a bad choice, and Blake didn't really regret it when the time came, not that much. He'd said his lie and now he needed to stick to it.
And that is how Ice became leader of the sinis trio.
-
In the end, all three of them left him, but what did that matter? Blake had always known that those times hadn't exactly shown the best usage of his brain, and that the said lack of practice would one day come a kick him in the balls. He was no longer an evil mastermind bent on taking over the world; Kellyn's actions and silent speech had made sure of that. He'd been so deeply touched, realizing his wrongs...
He'd watched him. The young man looked dashing in his ranger uniform. Blake envisioned himself in the same clothing, and found it to his liking.
Therefore he sat in a coffee shop one day, the young ranger raising his eyebrows before him. What an endearing habit! He really was so demure.
"Say," Blake started, hands itching to grasp the boy's own in his, "how would you like to form a justice union with me?"
Because as much as I like him, I firmly believe that Ice is a useless piece of shit and there really isn't any reason he's in such a high position. Computer genius? What use is that when your genius is a pussy and very possibly has a pussy? Lavana's just fappable and Heath's usefulness is equivalent to that of the grunts, so I don't see why they're there either.
BlakexKellyn? I didn't see it coming either until I wrote the ending, which existed for the sole reason of ending this fic on a more final note.
Come on people, you know you like them. Write something about them. Please, before I die of fandom loneliness.