This, uh, this is for Chelsea. And for Juri, since she'll be the only other person to know what this is about (even though she'd already read it too....). I'm putting the damned thing in fanfiction because it IS a fanfic of Chelsea's series "Zettai." When Juri gets her server back, if that may ever happen, and somehow Chelsea gets her Zettai comic up on the web, you'll know more.

Spoilers here are HUGE and RAMPANT. BEWARE. Actually, you might not even notice the Spoilers because they are subtle. BUT JUST TO MAKE THIS HUGE ASS NOTE::: THERE ARE *GIANT* SPOILERS!!! BEWARE!!!

And I'm saying that Shijaku Komoro and Tatsuya Inegawa are DEFINITELY Chelsea's (email is spiretkiss@hotmail.com and LiveJournal is ) and NO way MINE. Hideyori and Taisha are not really mentioned, but they belong to Chelsea too. Alright, so my next issue is with the background story. You must know some stuff to understand this story.

Shijaku is probably the most insane person that ever lived. She has 'no' fear and will willingly risk her life for pleasure, fight with anyone, and jump across buildings to get a thrill. Shijaku screwed her worst enemy back in high school (his name is Hideyori) but she never loved him. Recently, she'd acquired a boyfriend named Taisha that she is starting to love, something that's VERY scary for Shijaku.

Tatsuya Inegawa was Hideyori's... uxorious friend (read: willing slave) and would pretty much crawl naked across broken glass for Hideyori. As time goes on and they grow up, (SPOILER! SPOILER!SPOILER!) Hideyori realizes that Tatsuya is completely in love with him and they live happily together. (END SPOILER! END SPOILER!)

Shijaku Komoro and Tatsuya Inegawa are MORTAL enemies. Yay. (oh, BTW, Shijaku has loooong brown hair and green eyes, and Tatsuya has indigo/blueish hair and hazel eyes. both are fairly small built)

And, finally, just to let you know, there is excessive cursing in this story and LOTS O SEX. I mean, the whole story is sex. It's... weird. I don't know why I wrote this... ACK. My brain is decaying......

warped motive
a zettai story
by charisma

___________________________
i am reaching, but i fall
as i stare into the void
of a world that cannot hold
i'll escape now from that world
there is nowhere i can turn
there is no way to go on...
'javerts suicide' -- les miserables

Her hands roamed over the smooth expanse of his back. Neither quite certain how he'd gotten his shirt off so fast, but it might have had something to do with the blue shards of a shirt in her clutches. He was not much better, the dark red fabric of her sweater stretching (breaking) in his grasp. Clothes didn't matter though; mouths, those (hot) mouths mattered. And there was a mouth on her neck.

Hot and searching for something, leaving a glistening sheen (slug trail) as it roamed. The muscle beneath shifted as she moved (struggled) wildly, but there were no noises. For noises could identify them. Noises could give them names and families and loved ones back home. There could be none of that.

Roughness as he handled her breast; he wasn't used to them. But she liked that, so no whimpers were made. It would have (should have) disgusted him, and it didn't.

She licked her lips when he bit her stomach. There would be none for him. He did not like the biting (vanilla). Of course, if one wanted to get severely technical, he didn't like (hated) her. There were no technicalities presently.

Long slender fingers tried to open his pants because she wanted it and would not stop. His own grabbed her wrist and put (slammed) her hand near her head. The other followed. He'd control (dominate) now like no one else ever (dared) would. No hesitance stayed his mouth or the way his lower body pressed above hers. When he let those pale hands go, she wove them into indigo hair, relishing the soft texture. Small tugs he did not mind so she gently made them.

Eyes of iridescence were firmly shut.

"We shouldn't do this," he whispered, hands finally ridding her of that crimson sweater. Fluttered like blood around them.

"Why?" It was becoming of a moan and he loathed it.

"You have—and I have—" Those names would not be marred by the obscenity of their actions (fucking). There wasn't supposed to be talking.

"It's not about them."

Tears of gold and splashing water fell around her nose. "I love him." Peals of laughter (screams) echoed through the harshness that was the bedroom.

"It's definitely not about love."

Pain coursed through his chest when he kissed her. Only this once was she submissive and it hurt to push his tongue into her mouth. More (crocodile) tears and how could he possibly be the one to be doing this to her?

Long brown hair finally free wrapped around his fingers and pulled so much she gasped. He swallowed her gasp, and her moans and anything else that come from her mouth.

As slender hands moved to remove her jeans, she sat up. With a viciousness (he liked it), shoved her back down and eyes rolled back into her head. Damn her for liking this. Jeans were gone; underwear was matching that blasted bra. Stiffness pervaded his hands, preventing any real smooth sensuality.

"I hate you." He says, realizing that they are both free from restraint of clothing. Now was the time, now was the exact moment.

"Aw, shut up." As she rubs her cheek along his face: a cat.

"Don't tell me to shut up!" Dark blue bruise will form on the chin he shoved back. Green eyes were alight with passion and something dangerously peeking into fear. This was all her doing (liar) damnit, not him. Not HIM.

The ceiling was light beige and smooth, no stucco. His eyes were not shutting. Blood coated his hands from crescent-shaped wounds made in agony (pleasure), in hatred (love). A broad back of shining skin curved over the end of the bed and she was finger-combing that mass of hair.

"Shower?" Her voice was meek (a game); she wouldn't stop playing. Under heavy lids, she glanced back at him.

"Yes, God do. Stop smelling like me." Dirty (beautiful) were his hands and mouth, lathered in girlish scent. A depression in the bed and she was crawling towards him again. She made him sick (hot). "Go. Take your shower."

Her face brushed along the side of his ribs as she purred (hissed), "Come with me."

Springs creaked as she was pushed into the comforters. He was dirty (beautiful). "We aren't done playing? You want me to force you into the shower?"

Thirty minutes later, he was just as naked but clean (on the outside).

Clothes landed in his lap. "Get dressed boy." Eyes were daggers.

"Are we done playing now? Are we going back to normal?" Again she laughed (cried) and shrugged into the extra shirt she'd brought.

It was red again.

His palms (soul) were still bleeding.

"Fool. You thought we had ever stopped? The rules have only changed. For the time being." They battled eyes for endless moments until he lowered his head. Yes, the game was over (changed) for today. In the paper she pressed (shoved) into his hand was the word of the week. One utterance (moan) of it and this process would be repeated.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

He was a (fucktoy) shampoo.

Pulling on the comfort (shield) of his clothing, he ran one quick hand through hair of blueness. Bloody palms left a steak that she laughed at when she saw. Even his fumbling didn't rid him of it. Her spit (sweat) and rubbing (tears) removed it, leaving her own flesh pink with metallic smelling liquid.

"So desperate to get rid of me? You leave first then." Ten minutes separated their departures, despite that they wouldn't use this place for the next (next?) six times. If there were even six more times (delusional)

He was mostly out the door when her mumbling stopped him. "What?" (run now)

"You didn't say his name." Stopped. Cold. Dead.

"What?" Was seethed through clenched teeth.

"You always say his name. Today you didn't."

Disbelief (really?) "Yes I did."

"No, you said-" Pink lips formed the word and hazel eyes greener (deadlier) than ever showed whites. His hand was against that mouth.

"Never. You are mistaken." But the damage was done and she had gotten back (never lost) her control. She turned sinewy and water. One pale hand traced (ripped) his cheek.

"Did it change? Did it stop being about them and is now about us?" Fingernails scraped over his chest, sending a strange thrill through the never-quite healed collarbone.

"I'll-"

"You had to know, didn't you?" Her mouth was near his ear. "You had to know why me. He had you there for always; why did he have to pick me? What was so special about the psychotic bitch that he chose her over you? It couldn't be just that I was a girl Why was I better than you?"

Eyes shut out her words (the truth). "Don't-"

"But why continue? One taste should've shown you. Seven tastes so far, haven't gotten enough?" He moved out of her grasp (barely) and she caught him (easily). "Do you like me boy?"

Movement like lightning and she was against the wall, toes scraping the floor, his hand pushing her throat (more games. more games).

"You got him. You got something I can never have but it's mine. If I- if I have you enough times, it could be mine." His eyes were (passionate) wild. Her breath was heaving.

"My name. I didn't even think you knew it but you said it. My name." Raspy voice.

"I-"

"Want someone to listen to you. Someone that must do what you want. Someone you can hurt. No one better than me."

Tables turned, flipped, he couldn't let her talk more. His words hurt (burned – scarred) "And what of you? You finally have love and yet"

"I explain nothing to you." But his hand pushed her harder; she snarled. "That'll bruise."

"You want it to."

"I DON'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN MYSELF TO YOU!" Screaming blew red across his cheeks.

"Frightened!" Fingernails scrabbled at his locked wrist.

"Shut up." The whisper was more fatal (carnal).

His whisper. "Terrified."

"Yes!"

Lips collided and teeth clashed. Brutal. (Honest) Hate. (Love) and-

-foreheads met, eyes never daring to (drown) look.

She did not look at him, opening and shutting the door.

"Catch ya later Inegawa." Door shut.

"Neh, hopefully not Komoro-san." Hands opened the piece of paper she'd deposited earlier.

Illusion.

(reality)

la fin

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