Title: My Friend Will Be Me
Author: Elf Asato
Written: June 28, 2006
Summary: Traditional smut or just masterbation? You make the call! Riff's friend will be him.
Disclaimer: Yuki Kaori has that lovely honor. "My Friend Will Be Me" is property of Of Montreal. Montezuma Triple Sec owns my soul.
Notes: I'm writing this drunk. ish. (Thank god for spellcheck.) Erin French wrote it first, though, with "Fractured".

Lick a strand of your hair, kinda, and it tastes like wood. Or wait, maybe it was the other thing. I can't hardly tell anymore. Kiss you again and it doesn't matter.

I can tell you don't enjoy this, but I must say that I do, Riff. I enjoy it muchly, as much as you enjoy that young little master of yours. The one with the cute face and high cheekbones. He looks like a harlot if you ask me.

But you don't. Instead you scrunch your eyes together as if trying to blind the sun out that is me, trying to avoid the fact that you're kissing me back. Trying to avoid the fact that you're kissing me, too. Do you think it's just like kissing your pillow? It's not.

And my fingers trail down your chest to remind you of that.

I bite your lip suddenly, and you gasp, not sure what to expect. Shall I tear you apart right now? Or wait for foreplay to run its length? We could simply have sex if that's what you desire. I don't love you, but I don't hate you, either, so it's your choice, not mine.

The scrunch of your eyes lose their intensity and become soft and resting. You must be coming to a conclusion inside that head of yours that I should share. We're the same, but we're not the same. I don't know what's going on inside you, and that makes me want to shove this hand of MINE down your throat, bringing your lungs to your teeth.

It's unimportant, though, as you sigh softly and lean into me. I let you go and your tongue flicks out to caress my lip. I let out a short laugh as you're fucking traitorous to your own soul, not to mention the one of your master's.

Once a Raffit, always a Raffit.

Do I press you down into the soft crevices of his bed? You should really turn his mattress for him, dear. Turn it like I turn you, facedown to his pillow. Let out a moan, a scream, a call for HIM, I don't care. Your words will fall and die upon cotton and down. But you do none of that and instead let my hands run all across your back without word. Have you given up, Riff? That's not like you.

You have a nice ass, you know that? Well you do, and I'm sure that the cute harlot you take care of has told you so. Or maybe he hasn't, I don't know. I don't know you anymore. The only thing WE have anymore is that rose-shaped scar on your chest, you've reassured me with hate in your eyes. He hasn't seen that yet, so I'm satisfied for now. I won't let him see it with you alone, after all. But that is neither here nor there as my fingers play in crevices unknown, and you lift your bottom up meet them with fervor.

The eagerness on your part is slightly sobering. Fuck.

I lean over and bite your left shoulder, suck on it a bit to leave a mark. A mark that HE will find. A mark you'll have to explain. Pretend I'll be there, laughing as you stumble over your words. Whatever he wants to hear, you'll tell him, after all. You've never been very honest, Riff. Do you love him like you love me?

Well, you shouldn't. Because you plain despise me.

But isn't that what makes our union so great?

Sixty, forty, eighty, thirty, I count as I shove myself into you, eliciting a muffled cry in response. But it's not working. It's embarrassing, but I'm not a marathon runner. You know that because neither are you.

We have some short or long moments between us as I shove in, shove out, pound in, pound out, mounting, mounting, thrusting on a Thursday, perhaps. Whatever it is, I'm fucking you, and not for long. Us Raffits aren't known for our endurance, you know. You do, so it's good; I don't have to say anything to you as you cup yourself and join me on our ride.

Do we have a destination? Probably not. We'll end up wherever we end up when we eventually run out of steam, which will be rather fucking soon judging from the pitiful little cat-like moans you're making. Fucker. You're supposed to hate me and thrash against me, not give in with your liquidlike compliance, forcing my cock into confusion. Is unwillingness hot? Is willingness hot? I can't tell, I can't think anymore. You're stealing my thought in that velvety hot crevice of yours.

Our thoughts, really. You don't look like you're doing much thinking yourself.

In, out, in, out, in, out, in, out, like a retail door or cat. I'm sure you're lucky to not have a pet to take care of, Riff. They're an awful amount of work. Why, look at you!

I don't suppose you thought that was very funny. Partially because I never really told it to you and partially because I'm fucking you raw. You'd probably just moan in response if I said it, pretending they were dirty words for you to hear. You're really fucking weird, you know. Sometimes I'm glad I'm not you.

But a lot of times I wish you were me. Your life, my life, our lives, would be so much fun then.

And with an OH! or really an OH SHIT! in my head, we're done. Or, I'm done. I wasn't paying much attention to you, and I really don't care since I'm satisfied. I'm a selfish lover, Riff, you know that. You know that because you are, too. But you're not. Though you are. You only think you're not. But I don't know. I really don't know you anymore. You're probably patient and gentle with that kid, having sex with your shirt on so he doesn't see our shared symbol. How kind of you, Riff. Pedophile.

Your eyes are closed again, shut tightly though I'm hardly doing anything else to you. You'd think I was whipping your bound lips with the way the folds around your eyes placed themselves. Don't you like me? Don't you love me? Don't you just want to do this again?

Of course you don't, and neither do I. I don't particularly care for you, Riff, though you are beautiful. Our chemicals are too different, taking us away into different directions. You're just something I need to survive. I'm the same to you, I know.

You eventually rise up from HIS bed, cup your face in your hands, and get up. Are you sorry? You shouldn't be. Nothing to be sorry for when you do it to yourself. Nobody you're hurting except you. And me. But we're we. And we are.

Shall we look at us in that mirror over there, Riff? The one your cute little master uses to admire himself in day after day as you dress him with muted desire. Your fingers try not to rest on one place for too long, I can imagine. Because I know you, I can imagine. Because I don't know you, I can't feel. So why don't we just look for ourselves?

I can tell by your eyes that you're not surprised by what you see in the mirror as we look as you look as I look at you and you look at you but you're me and that makes us we. You know? You're the friend from inside of me. You're the friend that's me. You look into the mirror and what you see is...

me.