Self-prompts. Yaoi. Almost-wanna-be-bestiality. Smoking and blood. Group sex. Swearing. Kink. In that order. AU. Liberties. M for mature.

Part VI: Price

The price of power depends on the person paying.
The price of power depends on the power being bought.
The price of power depends on what one is willing to pay.
More often than not, the price of power is freedom.
Orders are our contracts.

I: Penny-copper

Mao remembers being human. He remembers the feel of fingers, toes, walking upright. But its all a distant memory, a dream, almost-mirage at the back of his mind.

(Remembers BK-201 bending him over a table in their little apartment, fingers pressed against the scar that ran along his back over his hips, the wood grain pressing back like the dark-haired man (boy really) pressing forward).

He remembers the feel of humanity in his veins, like dirty coins in his mouth.

II: Nickel drip

The first time they fuck it isn't pretty. Fucking, in fact, is probably too light a term, he later reflects. But it wasn't pretty, either way. They bit and fought and there was definite ice-ing and shocking and general dangerous screwery, and there was no designated bottom man until the end of their little fucklovebattle. And he knew he only won because the other man had been injured before hand.

(deep gash on side press fingers indent blood on palm rub bite shoulder grab member roll pin hand bite neck thrust forward pause he's not breathing ohshitohshit twitch thrust forward deeper still, listen to him gasp pull out start the rhythm again, listen to him moan beneath you, press your fingers into that cut, rub his own blood along his organ, stroke in time)

He pulls out a cigarette and breaths deep, feeling the bruises and bite marks and scratches in his bones.

III: Dime toss

The power that ripples over his skin is... exciting, in a dangerous sort of way. Like placing his hand above fire and slowly lowering it, or dodging bullets on a live range. He's the weakest link in this chain, the first to fall in any battle and the last to rise again. Thats why they encompass him in these little trysts. Protection, domination, whatever they call it, to him it's a good, exciting fuck, and he appreciates it in everyway.

He grazes his teeth over a shivering member and smirks as the one in front of him gasps, while the other rhythmically slides through him, again and again and ...

IV: Quarter Past

"... what."

"I said I want you to -"

"Ch. I heard what you said. I mean. Why?"

"..."

"Well?"

"Things... there was.. a-a battle. I - I..."

"... want me to fuck you."

"... want you to fuck me. Yes."

"... Well, lets get on with it. I have an appointment at quart to four."

V: Half-dollar bang

It's disturbing how much this turns you on. The feather ghosting of that skirt over your thighs, the snap of the garter against your hip (contractors can't grow anything more than facial hair, lucky you), the gentle scratching of the lace at your wrists. The stockings on your legs look sleek in the half light, the wispy smoke curling from the low table incense wrapping wraith-like (tender, calloused, almost aggressive but never quite) fingers around your ankles. You adjust your skirt and lean against the wall of the brothel, the memory of your next clients last appointment dripping through your memory.

You wait, your cock half hard in your imitation-silk panties, your arousal not even showing through the overzealous ruffles of your skirt, the multiple layers looking expensive in the cheep light.

And then he takes you, stripping you slowly, leaving your wig in, barely tearing your stockings, ripping through your underwear with his teeth, stripping you to the bare and your platform shoes, the almost-real strands of your blue-black hair twisting around you.

You wake and he is gone, a single note left on your cubicle table, written in elegant black ink.

Kimono
- 11