A/N: Hello All! Another ficlet for my series, A Series of Fragments and Nothing More. This one rated M for reasons. Enjoy. :)

Pornographic [His Voice Should Be Illegal]

When we're alone, he calls me Yu.

Under his breath. At the top of his lungs. In a sigh. In a scream. "Yu...Yu...oh god Yu." He doesn't call me Yu when we're in public, when we're around others. Because no one else knows what we do when the sun goes down. When the only witness to our secret is the moon.

When we're alone, I call him Allen.

When I do, he reacts with his whole body. He moans—mewls—gasps. I have learned to use it and he knows it. And he knows when I'll use it, when I'll whisper—breath—pant into his ear those five letters. And then it's all over for him.

Sometimes he's submissive—but only when he feels like it. Oh god I love it when he does that. His body buckles—writhes—tenses as I take what is mine. I know all of perfect places that he loves me to touch and lick and bite. It drives him crazy. Oh god it drives me crazy too.

Most of the time though—It's so hot when he does this—he's feisty. He's experienced. He goes down on me, that tongue so skilled, so indecent and how the hell does he know how to do that with his tongue.

I feel his hands on my thighs as he focuses. And the sounds that escape his throat, around me, are indecent—pornographic—should be illegal. Those mismatched hands massage and claw and leave red marks on my skin as I try to stay still, to not choke him. But it's so hard oh god he shouldn't do that with his throat.

I pull him up to me and kiss his lips, bruising—crushing—breathtaking. "Yu. Yu."

Sometimes he is innocent. When he is tired from a mission. He lets me do what I like, and he's soft and sweet and we do it like we have all the time in the world, and with him, it feels like we do. I know he likes it when we do that.

Sometimes he is not. After a hard mission, after something hard and broken and isolating happens, he wants it hard. He wants it fast.

I am the only who sees these two parts of him, these two contradicting aspects, but I know they're both him. It is in his voice—murmur—enunciation and I know that it's my Allen, and not the demon lurking inside.

His thighs squeeze around my hips. Those pale, milky, perfect thighs. And I want it all. I want all of him, body—mind—soul. I want to drown in him, sinking down, and dragging him with me and we can drown together.

Fuck, those lips look so innocent, how can they be so sinful? In response, I bite down on that pearly neck before me and I am rewarded by a noise that goes straight to my stomach. It burns—bites—twists and it is so hot.

Don't do that. Don't do that. Oh god you did that. I try to last, because my pride depends on it. As he moves above me, I try to memorize that angelic face, that strong fire that burns within, because I know—and he does too—that the world could end any moment. That we could die tomorrow. That we will have to go into battle tomorrow—the day after tomorrow—in hours.

And his silver eyes bore into mine. He wants to memorize this feeling, this sight as well, I can see it in that lust-filled gaze.

He stops.

I groan and growl and grip his thighs and I know there will be bruises there on that alabaster skin, the shape of my fingertips.

He looks like the moon. Everything about him. Those eyes. That hair. The scars decorating his body like dark jewelry. And as the moon filters down onto them, he opens those lips still bruised from those kisses. "I love you," he whispers, leaning down across me. His thighs squeeze tighter.

Don't say that. I can't do that. He knows I will never say it in return, because I can't do it. We can't have that life, we are weapons, nothing more. And this is physical. He is fine with not hearing it.

And as he rotates—gyrates—undulates like he knows exactly what it will do to me, I stare into his eyes. I do love him. I do. And yet, I can't utter those words. Not so easily, not like how they slip so teasing, so tantalizing, so wonderful, from those cherub lips.

He looks like a Roman statue. Except alive and breathing and oh fucking hell do that again. I want you to do that again.

One day we will die. It could be soon, it could be later, but it'll happen. Allen will go first. He burns so hot—fast—strong and with that parasite—Innocence—demon inside him he burns even faster.

He knows he will go first. I know he will go first.

And so I take another shot of my drug of choice. I fall even farther, and as he oh damn Allen if you do that again I won't last at all breaks me down like I know he can do. He exposes everything I have hidden and he sees it and he takes it in and he does not judge.

He is a god. Of everything wonderful and sinful and broken and whole. And as he repeats that two letter word, like a mantra—"Yu. Yu. Yu. Oh my god, harder"—he tears that last wall down, like it wasn't there at all.

In the dark, only the moon witnesses what we do. If the others knew what we did, what would they do?

But as he screams—whimpers—convulses all thought is forced from my mind.

And I drown in him.