The Couch
A story by Besieged Infection
Standard Disclaimer Applies
…
Dying one's own hair is never easy. You have to maneuver into odd positions, apply the color, check what you've done, double-check, re-do what you missed, check again, and then proceed to wait in horrible gut-wrenching silence with really bad air for about twenty minutes until you can do your eyebrows. (Because black hair does not match blonde eyebrows.) Then, if you missed anything, you have to go and redo the entire process, hoping you don't trash your hair.
But this way no one called me Naminé, so I was happy to do it.
At least I didn't have to worry about dye getting on a bra I didn't wear.
…
Before we go any further, I'd like to announce my disdain for the American accent. Every other country has such an interesting twist to the words- many of which being the fact that they are pronouncing them correctly. Even more, I can confidently say that I have only been attracted to older British men. (Imagine a heavy longing sigh here.) They're so mature in their upper twenties. But as a seventeen year old American girl with a limited vocabulary one wouldn't expect me to have much hold in their circles.
But let's rewind. The root of all this can be traced back to a the end of last Winter, right before I was recruited into the Newas Circus. I was having some coffee down on the corner of sixth waiting for my sister, Naminé, to show. "Late" was the only time she was aware of, it seemed.
"Is this seat taken?" a man asked out of the blue, steaming mug of what could only be tea in hand. Earl Gray, if the smell was anything to go by. Absolutely disgusting. Don't know how my sister can swallow the stuff.
"Go on ahead." He was older. British, if his accent was anything to go by. Obviously not from around here. A heavily embroidered vest brought accent to his rings and frilled dress shirt. How he pulled off lace was beyond me. It was medieval, but modern. No American man would ever risk it, let alone look nearly as fantastic as he did. A few earrings were there, too, and his eyes were a dark, common shade of brown. As was his hair. My own leather jacket paled in comparison to his splendor, but it didn't look nearly as out of place.
He smiled, and something in me jumped. "My thanks," he offered, pulling out a chair and sitting across from me. My heart began to pound. A closer look at his face brought the epiphany that this man was gorgeous. The kind of man you'd want to take home to mother. The kind you wished so dearly would take notice of you in the supermarket or at the mall. And here he was, sitting on the other side of the table sipping tea and most likely open to conversation.
"What's your name?" I eventually asked, sick of sitting in mundane silence with a man who was obviously anything but.
He looked up, probably surprised that this little slip of a teenage girl had deigned to speak with his greatness or some such nonsense. To my surprise, though, he replied, "Ffamran. Yours?"
I couldn't suppress a grin. "Xion."
"That's a rather strange name," the Brit mused, tapping the table twice with his pinky which was, in fact, extended.
"Yeah, you run into that a lot around here. Lots of weird names. Xion, Naminé, Rumpelstiltskin- that sort of thing." I paused. "Ffamran isn't all that common, either, though."
The man chuckled at this. "You're quite right. It really isn't." His accent got the most of this line, mangling it into a graceful set of consonance and vowels.
I almost said, "Is it hot in here or is it just you?" But that would not have been cool. Better just to subtly flirt and-
"Sorry I'm late!"
And then my sister showed up, Ffamran left, and my hopes were dashed. It's also why I refuse to date Americans, because they're just not suave enough.
…
On a night that was supposed to be of no particular importance I was woken from what could have quite possibly been my first proper bout of sleep in my new apartment. However, with a roommate like Larxene I could not have expected this to last long.
The front door slammed against something- probably the wall- very loudly, and I was shocked awake just as raunchy, drunk laughter rang through the rooms. Hoping it would only be loud for a bit, I shut my eyes and rolled over. No go. She had someone with her, most likely a man. There was no giggling, like usual. Instead, they went straight to it, from the sounds of things. Most likely on the couch. Heaving a sigh, I rolled out of bed. A mini-skirt later, some panties, and a tank top- it was too hot for pants, being August- I grasped my pillow and the key on my bedside table and made my way into the hall.
I just had to share an apartment.
Slipping by the threesome in the living room- and it was a threesome, what with their clothes already shed and some body parts penetrating others- I made my way to the beckoning door, which was wide open. What was this? A free show? I slammed the door behind me as I left, though I knew Larxene didn't hear. I made my way to the elevator, ignoring the raunchy laughter that trailed behind like a shadow. It only faded with the introduction of elevator music- smooth jazz. The owner had a sense of irony, it seemed.
Far from the Ritz, the building was run down and filthy. The tenants were even more so. It seemed that the elevator, at least, was spared its building's disgusting status quo. Everyone seemed to agree that it was to be regularly cleaned and respected. Brass panels shone like new, tiles unbroken lined the floors, and the mirrors that lined the walls were freshly washed, free from the cracks and breakage that one would expect from such a building. Buttons were polished to a shine. Even the speakers were dusted and- revealing the building's age- grainy with fifty's style.
It was always fun riding in the elevator- or the lift, as the British would call it. Sometimes I imagined that I was going back in time. When chandeliers were bright and polished with crystal fittings. Women wandering the streets with fur lined coats and large jewels encrusting their necks. Back when pearls were classy, not tacky, and chivalry was required instead of a plus. Men would tip their hats in the street, music was good, and golf was a respected gentleman's sport.
Fifteen floors later, I stepped from my private little time machine and made for the stairs- the dreaded, smelly things. Five floors up I was gasping. A day of practice and a night without sleep had taken its toll, not to mention the insufferable temperatures of summer. Reaching for my pocket for a cigarette, I cursed. Mini-skirts didn't have pockets. I would have to go without. Already my mouth was feeling lonely, and one of my fingers began to twitch. I was horribly addicted.
While I was at it, I figured I might as well quit.
Another five floors and things began to get a little better, aesthetically. Gone was the worn concrete and heavy stench of decay and vomit. Instead, cheap carpet had been layered over the stairs and the handrail was even painted. Windows were propped open on ever floor, with signs that read, "Keep closed during Winter." A gentle breeze fanned my face as I walked, and it was from some place far away where the smells of New York city couldn't touch it. I idly imagined it was from the West Coast, far on the other side of the country where there were beaches that went on for miles and things like organic food were everyday.
Up the stairs I went. Five floors. Ten floors. With only a floor between myself and my destination my eyes drooped, my foot slipped, and the sting of a carpet burn shoved a syringe loaded with a few thousand CCs of adrenaline straight into my ear canal. Figuratively, of course.
"Mother of the three Kings of Orient!" I hissed, clutching the leg with wide eyes. It hurt like no other, and set straight to throbbing. Tears started to bead at my eyes, and promptly fell freely.
After a good deal of bitching and complaining I swallowed my pain, grabbed the key and my pillow, and made my way up the final set of stairs to arrive safely on the fiftieth floor. As I stood before door 5010 I took catalog of myself. My clothes were rumpled from the fall, sweat beaded at my temples as well as my pits, and some of the skin on my leg had broken open and was probably bleeding. Paired with my no doubt messy hair and tear-streaked face, one could think that I was a rape victim. Which I wasn't.
Heaving a sigh, and preparing myself for some sort of 90's B-movie misunderstanding, I let myself into the apartment. The door swung open easily, not including the few jiggles it took to get the key properly in the lock. At first it appeared that no one was home, and a slow scan of the apartment only proved that it was as poorly furnished as I remembered.
Suddenly, a man stepped from the kitchen. He blinked at me from the doorway, confused. "Aren't you going to close the door?" With a grin, I did so. "What happened to you?" he asked from the kitchen, which he had returned to.
"Almost fell down the stairs," was my reply as my feet took me to his side. He was cooking. I glanced at the clock. He was cooking at one in the morning. A glance in the pan- or wok- shortly followed, and I winced. He was making stir fry at one in the morning.
Shirtless.
More specifically, in a pair of very comfortable-looking jeans.
"We're quite the sight, don't you think?" the man inquired humorously, turning to the side (and down, because that man is tall) to meet my gaze.
I couldn't help but nod in agreement, because what a sight it was.
Perfectly sculpted abs, strong pecs, that tantalizing line of blond hair leading into his pants- he was more than a sight. He was a meal for the soul, all wrapped up in one convenient British package. And he was my co-worker. Of all the damned luck.
"Are you single?"
Luxord spared me a skeptical look. "Yes."
I scoffed. "Impossible."
"No, improbable," he corrected with a grin. A laugh escaped us simultaneously.
Leaning forward, I stared into the wok. "There's a lot in there. Got company?" Sidling over to the doorway, I leaned over and peered into the rest of the apartment, reminding myself of a prairie animal.
"Just you," he remarked. "I was hoping to have leftovers. Are you hungry?"
"Not if you want leftovers." We shared another chuckle, and he glanced over me. My first thought was that he was appraising my form- it was flattering. Very flattering. But the look in his eye was not complementary.
Without apparent reason, he turned off the stove, grabbed my hand, and dragged me over to the kitchen table. Pulling out a chair, he motioned for me to sit. Before I had a chance to ask what was going on he had fled into the hallway, and towards the bathroom. There was a bit of rustling, and as I took a seat he came out with a first aid kit, eyes fixed on my shin. Glancing down, I found that it was bleeding a bit more heavily than I originally thought it was.
Kneeling at my feet, Luxord wrestled an alcohol wipe from the kit. "This is going to sting," he informed me.
I rolled my eyes. "Do you know how many times I get injured a week?"
"Three on average," he replied immediately, pressing the wipe to my leg. He wasn't gentle. It stung. A lot.
"Holy mother of Jenova's Witnesses!" I nearly screamed, swatting at him with my hand. "I'm a human, not a cake! The instrument of pain isn't supposed to be shoved all the way in!"
"I said it would hurt, and it did," the man had the gall to argue. "I'm a Magician, not a Doctor."
This earned a scoff. "Trekkie."
"Teenager," he replied.
"Blondie."
"Blondie." I looked at him in confusion. "You're roots are showing."
I lightly kicked him. So we're playing that game, huh? "Homo."
He chuckled. "Manly man."
"Baby."
"Sexy."
My eyebrows shot up. "Oh no you didn't," I scoffed, moving my shin away from the touch of his rough, evil Magician hands. "Take it back." Mentally, eyes were rolling. Shrugging his shoulders, the man tried to get at my shin. Standing from the chair, I stared down at him with false anger. "Take it back."
"You're seventeen."
"Apology accepted." Sitting back in the chair, I allowed him to work at my wound with more force than was necessary. When he deemed it clean and a bandage was slapped on, he grinned.
"You know I can see up your skirt like this, right?"
I kicked him.
Hard.
God, I wanted a cigarette.
"What was that for?" he hissed, clutching his jaw.
"Pervert," I pouted.
"It was the truth."
"The truth hurts."
Popping his neck in one swift motion, the man rubbed the sore spot with one hand. "Yes, but it's not supposed to hurt me."
I laughed tiredly, and when he made his way back into the kitchen I busied myself packing the first aid kit and storing it in the medicine cabinet. There I stalled. Eventually, after I had spent a good amount of time brushing my hair and applying (his) deodorant, I felt human enough to step out and confidently steal the man's couch. It was possibly my ninetieth time staying at his place overnight. It had become an unspoken occurrence, which is convenient considering how uncomfortable I was with the whole thing. He wasn't getting anything out of the arrangement. But here he was, patching my holes and being a perfect gentleman.
When I came out, the table was set for two, and he seemed to be holding out a chair for me. Unable to resist, a grin spread across my face. Honestly, if that man was not my coworker I would snatch him up. Not that he would be interested in a slip of a girl like me. When I was seated in the chair, he pushed it in and took his own seat.
"You know," I began curiously as he took the first bite. "I don't think we've ever shared a meal together before now."
"We still haven't," he mused, pointing to my untouched plate with his fork. "Eat."
Cue mock salute. "Yes, sir."
Let it be known that Luxord is a terrible cook, because no one else should ever be subjected to such horrible, tasteless ingestables. (Is that even a word? It should be.) No one can mess up stir-fry. Somehow he managed. Never one to hold back, I commented between bites, "You know this is terrible, right?"
"Don't bite the hand that feeds you," he quoted as he finished, moving to the sink and washing his plate. Without missing a beat, and so quickly I couldn't track it, Luxord was out on the balcony, Saxophone in hand and playing for all the world to hear.
Seeing as I don't pretend to know anything about music and instruments, it wasn't my place to say anything about his skill. Playing. Thing. To me he seemed very good, but someone else might be able to give you a more accurate description.
I didn't follow him immediately. Actually, I didn't follow him at all, choosing instead to finish my slop in peace. Peace referring to, of course, the action of staring out the balcony door at Luxord's back. At that moment my brain decided to remind me that I was ogling a man nearing his thirties with myself at a meager seventeen. Yes, I was technically legal, but that wasn't the point. Nor was the fact that I had slept with both men and women twice his age in the past. It all came back to the 'coworkers' thing. Relationships in the workplace were generally a bad idea. Sure, he and I didn't work in the same area, nor were we ever in direct contact. Neither during practice or shows.
But through it all I really wanted to sleep with that man.
And just like that it occurred to me. I hadn't smoked in hours. Clear thinking would come later. Until then, I should do nothing that might change things between Luxord and myself. After all, I was a single teenager going through nicotine withdrawals. Ideas that came while in this state were not the most thought-out.
On the flip side, he was a single man in his upper twenties. Possibilities.
Around the time these thoughts had jangled around my head I had been wandering around the living room. Finally settling on the couch, I stared at the ceiling and tried to think of other things. Like daisies and flowers- but Luxord gave me those sometimes when we chatted on the balcony. Next came science, which led to a mental debate as to how Luxord did his magic tricks. Soon was math, but I was always shit at that so it was dropped almost immediately. History never held much sway, and the last thing I wanted to think of was work. Eventually, I settled on writing a novel in my head. What began as a fantasy morphed into a Sci-Fi, followed by more fantasy, and was finished up with a horrible, horrible romance story about an American man falling in love with a Scottish woman in sixteenth-century London with magic and modern-day technology. Like Twilight, but smarter and a distinct lack of sparkly-homo-vamps.
Satisfied that I wasn't Stephanie Meyer, and that the only reason I wanted to kiss Luxord was because my mouth was lonely, I stood from my seat and made my way over to the hallway closet for a thin blanket. Target acquired. It was green, and airy. Too thick to be a sheet but too thin to be anything else. Hard to explain, really.
Once back to the couch- eager to get a head-start on it since the man usually banished me to his bed and took the rock-hard anti-comfort device to himself- I set about stripping to the pajamas beneath my clothes. Pajamas meaning birthday suit, of course. I had never understood why people wore clothing to bed. Pants would tangle, shirts would rise to your chin, and nightgowns somehow wound up under the pillow. There was no point.
Still deep in thought, I grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled it up and over my head. Tossing it to the side, I worked at my skirt's buttons. That soon fell to the floor, and I looped my thumbs into the sides of my panties. But as soon as they reached halfway down my thighs a gasp and a thump was heard across the room. It was then that I noticed that something was off.
Oh, right. The saxophone. It wasn't being played any more. I tugged my underwear back up.
Glancing over to the source of the noise, I found none other than Luxord face first against the wall. He seemed rather cozy with it, clutching at the corner leading to the hallways with his left hand and the wallpaper with his right. His forehead rest against it as well. Soon after this observation was made the man let out a long, melancholy groan. Straining my ears, I was just able to catch the words, "Why must you do this to me?"
I blinked. "I didn't know you and the wall were so close. Should I come back another time?"
"Ye- no. No. It's nothing."
There was a pause. "I can leave the panties on if it would help."
"Yes" he squeaked, and I allowed myself a moment of surprise as he cleared his throat. "Yes, that would be preferable, thank you." He's so cute when he worries.
But his reaction got me thinking. "How long has it been since you had sex?"
"Three years- months- days. I mean..." The answer was quick, and nearly as choked as before. And as the words came out he remained face to plaster with the wall. "Quite frankly I don't see how that's any of your business."
That's about when I had the terrible, wonderful, horrible idea, as well as the guts to ask, "Would you be open to a proposition?"
"It depends on what it entails."
Allowing the conversation to pause, I watched him struggle with himself. I could only imagine what his inner turmoil could be. Did he want to leave? Did he want to force me into some clothing? Did he want his key back? "Turn around."
"Is that the proposition?"
"You expect me to take you seriously with your face to the wall?"
"I do not believe the dilemma here is your taking me seriously. I highly doubt you have any trouble with such a thing at this moment."
"I'm topless, not stupid."
"That appears to be the point."
"Turn around, stupid."
"Calling me names isn't helping your cause."
"Yes it is. I am female. Hear me roar. Now turn around." Hesitantly, and with his eyes glued to the floor, he did so. "Look at me."
"That may not be the best course of action. I am a single, grown man who could easily overpower you."
"You seem to be ignoring the fact that I'm a stick."
He grunted. "A chocolate- no matter the shape, size, or lack of decoration- is still chocolate."
"Don't get eloquent," I demanded, stomping my foot. All of a sudden I felt very juvenile. And to be completely honest I really was. "Look at me."
Slowly, as if terrified of what could happen, his eyes rose. They raked along my nearly nude form, taking in every curve almost as if he meant to memorize them, before his eyes finally met mine. His body language was submissive, but the look he gave me was beyond flattering, and yet was laced with so much reluctance. His gaze seemed so very different from the glazed leers of those who had seen me in such a state before hand. For a moment I was thrown. It was as if it was my first time all over again, but with no sex and no promises to be gentle. Instead, there was just him looking at me, and it was as if everything within me had just been laid bare before this man. Except the only thing that had been laid bare were my breasts- or the lack thereof.
There. I said it. I don't have breasts. I'm proud of being flatter than most men.
After a minute he seemed confused by my silence. Obviously, thankfully, he could not read minds. "Your proposition...?"
Working up a fake courage that I seemed to have lost in the transition from his eyes from the wall to my face, I squared my shoulders. "I've decided to stop smoking."
He looked genuinely pleased at this. "Congratulations."
"But I need help." For a moment he looked puzzled, but shortly after he turned bright red and looked away. "Eyes on me, please!" I demanded, and he complied, but not until he had willed down a good majority of the blush. Just what was he thinking about? Oh- right. Practically nude girl demanding his attention. Kind of a no-brainer.
"My apologies."
"Whatever. See, the biggest problem I've been having in the last few hours is that my mouth feels lonely, and you know my stomach can't handle sugar so candy is out of the question."
"Of course."
I steeled myself for the next line, not entirely sure that I should really go through with it. After all, I was a lonely teenager going through nicotine withdrawal. Not the best combination in the world. But I blundered on, hoping that I didn't come across shaky or confused. "I was wondering if I could, you know, kiss you whenever my mouth gets too lonely."
"No!" The response was near instantaneous. It was a bit insulting to be rejected so quickly. After a moment he seemed to realize this and cleared his throat. "I mean, that is, I meant to say that it would be unprofessional of us to engage in such... frivolities. With each other, that is. It would be a bad idea. Totally bad. And-"
"Luxord."
"Yes?"
"You're babbling."
"That I am."
Rolling my eyes, I bent over and grabbed my skirt from the floor, tossing it over to my shirt. "Good night," I bid him before hopping onto the couch, throwing the sheet atop me. It settled over my frame easily. A bit heavy for the weather, but still enough to cover me should the temperature drop a few degrees.
"Xion-"
"Good night," I hissed.
He seemed to shuffle about for a bit before hissing one last, "Americans," and heading off to bed. But off to bed he went, and I realized that I had won.
The couch was mine.
…
Tight-rope is fun. I'm going to leave it at that. But the costumes? Not so much.
A knock from the door made me jump. "Larxene left." It was Luxord, who remained courteously within the hallway as he informed me, "Out drinking. You can either request a ride from Xaldin or myself, and Xaldin means to leave within the hour as Zexion has nearly finished resetting the lights."
Heaving a sigh, I let my head fall against the dressing room table. "Fuck." There was a short pause before he spoke.
"Are you all right?" he inquired, accented voice lilting through the vowels with ease, layering the consonance in a manner almost required of the British.
"Not really," I admitted, reaching backwards once again to reach for the straps of my- downright flashy- leotard. "The ties are a bit-"
Laughter. "Ah- your costume. Do you require assistance?"
"Yeah." As soon as the word left my mouth the door clicked open, and Luxord came strolling in, all charm and British... something. The man had a presence, to be sure. I was more than relieved to find that he'd taken off his costume, and instead was clad in his usual ensemble. A turtle-neck hugged his upper body in a way that was strikingly delicious, jeans sliding against his waist and thighs like...
Oh dear God. I was thinking it again.
All of a sudden I came to a realization as to how very silly I must have looked, trapped in my own costume. And when he reached for my back there was a moment where I forgot why he was there, and the man had to manually rotate my form before he could get at the ribbons.
And he laughed.
And I realized that I was absolutely smitten.
I also wanted a cigarette. However, life doesn't always go the way your brain thinks it should.
His fingers brushed against the line of my back, and the trail of his touch would grow alight and spread until I couldn't remember where my back was for a bit. Instead there was a growing center of tingling pleasure that began somewhere between my shoulder blades and faded out above my butt.
Gone was the first ribbon, and my eyes began to flutter.
A thrill raced up my spine as he worked at the second.
"Bloody-" he hissed. His fingers worked at a frenzied pace. "Who knotted this?" the man demanded, frustrated by the ribbon. "For the love of-" I couldn't help it. I laughed. He dropped the ribbons, prompting me to watch avidly in the vanity mirror as he threw his hands into the air in exasperation. "Pleased to see that you find my reaction comical."
A mental pause followed this line. It had almost sounded sincere despite the heavy sarcasm. His hand flew to his beard, then, and I followed the wire of his fingers as he combed them through the scruff. They were talented hands; Magician's hands. Long, calloused, and sinfully nimble. A simple knot should have been no match for him.
"Who knotted this?" he requested once more, fixing me with a look of fury.
I blinked. "Larxene."
"Larxene!" Luxord shouted her name to the ceiling, as if remotely condemning the woman to a horrible fate. "Moreover, the fact remains that you are stranded in that costume and we must liberate you before I grow cross and murder some innocent soul."
The entire situation deserved an eye-roll. "Right. Like you could murder someone."
"If a specific desire is powerful enough anything is probable," he mused, still joking.
"Given the specifications of the situation," I mocked, sliding a British accent into my voice, "the probability of homicide is rather low."
He seemed to take pause at this. "Your accent is terrible."
"I think it's rather good," I retorted, still mocking.
"Please, just," he sighed, almost as if taking offense, "never do that again. Americans are American. They should stick with what they know."
"You mean nothing?"
"Exactly."
We shared a chuckle at this, before he once again began work at my ribbons. And there is was, that budding heat in my stomach. I wondered when it had first begun to grow. Surely not when he and I first met- that would be ridiculous. When he game me his key? Probably. And then there was the time we spent at his apartment when I was topless. His gaze was certainly flattering.
But then, attraction isn't the most convenient or predictable thing in the world.
A good ten minutes later Luxord freed the third ribbon with a triumphant cheer before working on the third. It was getting to the point where I wanted to cut the thing off, if only to get his hands off me. It was strange- a man's hands had never bothered me before.
It was then that I realized that the ribbons on my back had been undone, as had the ones on my shoulders, and it was only his hands keeping my costume up. Yet, I made no move to relieve his fingers of their burden. The room itself seemed to hold its breath for what seemed to be an eternity, though I knew that was impossible. My stomach roiled, and everything seemed to go out of focus aside from the feeling of his fingers, which still had not moved. It was a sweet torture, and almost more than I could take.
Ten minutes, an hour- time was lost concept. Time itself had stopped, and all there was in the world was that room, Luxord, and myself. My breath came in gasps, and I struggled to make it even and shallow, but it wouldn't allow itself to be controlled. Suddenly, before I knew what was going on, I felt the man's breath gently brush the tip of my right ear. "You should probably take this," he hoarsely whispered. In a moment of pure instinct, I turned. Luxord fumbled for the ribbons in a panic, making sure my costume stayed on. And while he was stooped I leaned in, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my lips to his.
The response was immediate. Without hesitation his fingers gripped my shoulders hard, tugging me close and gasping through his nose. It was shaky, and far more uncontrolled than my breathing had been. When we finally parted for a decent breath of air he tugged me to his chest, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and burying his face in my hair. Instantly I was self conscious. My hair was matted, and I was beyond sweaty from my time on the high wire. What if I smelled? What if it soaked through his shirt?
Slowly, he pulled away, taking special care to keep hold of my shoulder ribbons. "This is dangerous ground," he stated simply. "We're co-workers, and there's no getting out of this job. It's a bad idea in general."
He really was cute when he worried. "Would you like to talk about it for a while before one of us asks the other out?" Luxord paused at this.
"That would be preferable," he admitted.
I smiled. "Just one thing, first," I mused, standing on tip-toe and tugging him down into a kiss. He resisted. "What gives?"
He laughed. "Americans." And with that, he leaned down, kissed me half so sweet I felt I might melt, and that's when I knew I had won. The couch was mine.
The couch, of course, is a metaphor. For what, you ask? Well, I'll leave that up to your imagination.
…
End Notes: Today, December 29th, 2011, I claim rights to first Xion x Luxord fan rights. It is my OTP, has been my OTP for more than a year. It took a very long while to write this fic. I've been waiting a long time for this day. This story is actually 18th of about 32 one shots in my Queens-Verse that is usually available only on my Livejournal! More snark there, folks. If you're not interested, then oh well.
Reviews are the wind in my sails. Without them these stories wouldn't make it to the site. If you have the time, please consider dropping me a line or two. It always pleases me to hear what you have to say.
Love,
Besieged Infection