Sorcerer Hunters Fan Fiction ❯ By the Day: Love's Ambivalence ❯ By the Day: Love's Ambivalence ( One-Shot )

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Sorcerer Hunters, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.

Warning: This story contains the themes of incest, mild violence, sex, and male/male relationships. If any of these may offend you then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive then I have to say it is your own fault. Some scenes are of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write them as tastefully as my ability allows.

Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: 1) they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, 2) not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, 3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, 4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, 5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, 6) it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.

So, anyway, please review and no flames.

Important: This is a second person narrative. The 'you' is Carrot.

By the Day: Love's Ambivalence

There's something to be said about smiling. You know this very well. If you smile, the world seems brighter. But now life interferes, and smiling isn't as easy. Surrounded by friends and family, a full course meal spread out before you, and all you think about is the night. They don't know this about you. They don't know you fear/love/hate the dark. But now it is day and you can smile. You laugh. You crack jokes.

Would they be horrified if they learned about your night? Well, it wouldn't be the first time horror touches you all.

You have a secret for the night, and one for the day. Which one is worse?

As you sip your drink, something brushes against your knee. You freeze, pulse speeding up those precious few beats. Carefully you set the glass back down and shift in your seat. A second touch, more deliberate this time, and you still, waiting. There! Elegant fingers gently slid up your thigh. You struggle to maintain equilibrium. You have to appear normal, even though those wicked fingers have glided to a more intimate playground. The fingers flex and a thread of tension tightens your groin. With palms flat against the tabletop you fight to maintain your composure.

No one must find out. It's your daytime secret: your day lover.

Stroking fingers work their heated magic. Everyone is talking so happily. The fingers continue. You shift, seeking and escaping the tortuous contact, to follow the arm attached to those obscenely playful digits. A wonderful, subtly strong arm disappears under the table, the perfect level to belong to the fingers.

So hot…Not here, not here!

A fall of midnight hair interrupts arm and shoulder. The profile of a pale face, mouth moving with words spoken to an attentive companion, arrests your attention. You must not let them know. He shows perfect composure. Outsiders would never guess that he is teasing you so delightfully, so sinfully. Remember to breathe, in, out, in, out. He finishes the conversation and, ever so slightly, looks at you. Dark fires burn within the black depths of his eyes. Oh he knows perfectly well what he's doing to you!

For a moment you hate him, but you love him. You love his composure and his elegant, sinister fingers. Why now? In public? Your day lover is always obliquely brazen. You cannot help the slight movements in your chair. All you want is to close your eyes and give in, let the sensations ride over you, through you. You want to tear your chest open and let the afternoon air cool the fire in your blood. You itch to move in shaking gyrations. Those deliberate touches coerce the softest of sighs from your tightly sealed lips.

You must look normal! They cannot suspect your day lover!

A distraction, that's what you need. Frantically you cast your gaze about. There must be something you can latch onto. There must be something to take your attention away from the painful heat in your groin and the fingers playing there. This game is too dangerous. You know this. You know that he knows this. But you've never stopped him before and you never will. There's a thrill in the danger, a spike of fiery rapture.

As if the gods are listening, a sumptuous waitress approaches your table, hips swaying provocatively. Perfect. You plaster your most lascivious grin on your face and proposition her. The playful hand tightens warningly. Your smile falters. It's working. And the twin fists of vengeance, brought to you by a pair of pissed off sisters, crash into you. The waitress moves things along by slapping you, hard. The fingers withdraw sulkily.

Success!

Your day lover is no doubt miffed, but it's a small price to pay for peace. If only he wouldn't do this while the others are around. Then you wouldn't care. Then you could just feel. You want to feel. It's getting harder and harder. Force that smile and pretend. Add this to your list of horrible secrets.

You cut a glance and find burning black eyes watching you with reproach. You've hurt him. How could you be so cruel? He loves/wants/needs you. But you need the little sanity allocated to you.

Making thin excuses, you rise from the table and seek out the solace of the lavatory. Not much of a refuge, but it's as far away from the crowd, the people, your companions as you can get right now. You know this is cowardly. You're running away again, running from your problems.

Dust-filled light streams in from the cracked window high upon the farthest wall. Strange dark stains mar the tile. You grimace in disgust. You definitely don't want to know what caused those stains. Ignorance is bliss.

Peeing proves to be difficult, if not nearly impossible, considering your current state. You have a raging hard-on. Damn him! He always affects you like this. His touches burn you so deliciously. And he always touches you at the most inopportune moments. Those little lascivious caresses shatter your control so easily. You hate/love it. You want/crave/need it. The game's too dangerous now.

You used to play another game. Now you think about it having more or less successfully emptied your bladder. You played this game alone when you were fourteen and seething with hormones. In fact, it won't even be the first time you play this game in a bathroom. You grimace/cringe/frown. It's too childish, you know this.

Carefully you tuck everything back where it belongs, button your pants and buckle your belt. In the cracked mirror over the sink you observe your face. There is something sublimely dazed about your brown eyes. You wash your hands slowly. You want to prolong your absence from the table.

The door clicks open. You turn and look. You start.

Sin watches you with dark, hungry eyes. You watch pale, tapered fingers slide home the deadbolt on the door. You wonder why a bathroom door even has a deadbolt. What's the purpose? Surely, whatever it's purpose truly is, it isn't to trap wayward lovers.

In the men's room!

You smile tremulously. How your legs shake, your body shudders. Your day lover stalks closer. Gods, how you want his flesh!

Not here! Not in the men's room!

This is still in public, isn't it?

Elegant fingers, the same that toyed with you so wickedly at the table, ghost across your cheek. They sweep warmly across your parted lips, down the quivering column of your throat, and pause at your collarbone. He leans forward. Your eyes flutter close.

Gods…

His mouth devours yours. His scorching lips consume you. The hand upon your collarbone trails downwards, spins in languid circles before slipping about your waist. The other hand sinks into your spiky hair and tilts your head. Is that you whimpering? Is that you moaning for breath, inarticulate?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You want this. You don't. You yield so beautifully that it would bring tears to the eyes of any voyeur. You grip your day lover's broad shoulders. He pushes you back against the sink. A velvet tongue glides past your captured lips. Wet and moist, heavenly and hellish, it tastes you. He tastes you. He suckles your tongue greedily. You arch into him with pitiful desperation. This is too much for you. You're breaking up. He's tearing you apart.

With too much skill he undoes your buckle and unbuttons your pants. They slid down your shaking legs to pool about your boots. Cold air touches you. He touches you. You scream delightfully into his mouth.

So hot! So frickin' hot!

This is everything you want. This is the power he has over you. This is your day lover.

You can taste your heart. It pulses inside your mouth, your throat. Yes…Yes! He's gentle with you. He's rough. The cold sink bites into your heated flesh. He grinds his pelvis against you. He is more than ready, more than hard.

All for you. He's like this just for you. You could cry.

He eats your scream as he enters you. As unready as you are, you feel everything tighten. Pain and pleasure are not so different, are they? The same! The same! He's inside you. You rock against him. The sink shrieks in protest. It wasn't made for such activities.

Ivory teeth sink into your shoulder. Blood is drawn. You gasp. This is too good. This is too…He pumps into you, pounds you into the sink.

You must not make a noise. But how can you not? How can you be silent when your day lover is so wonderfully thrusting into you? Yes, this is love. You've never doubted this. Isn't that why you let him do this?

Isn't it?

You can't draw in enough air. Pinpoints of white hot pleasure/pain stab your wildly rolling eyes. You're moving against him. You're stifling your harsh, ragged moans against his clothed shoulder. His tapered fingers dig painfully into your hips. Your groin tightens to agonizing proportions.

So close…Gods…

He withdraws, flips you over. You kiss the cold mirror. His burning, furious eyes catch yours in the silvered-glass. Your forehead smacks against the glass as he reenters. Damn, that hurts. There will be a bruise, but what do you care? Your sin is taking you so vigorously, slamming into you with overwhelming violence.

Your heart pounds. It wants to crack your rips and erupt from your chest. It wants to write exaltations with your rich blood. You can hear it. You can hear the banging of your heartbeat above your day lover's breathy groans and the shrieking of the sink.

It's the door.

Someone needs to pee.

Oh gods, they'll know! One look at you and they'll know.

You bite your hand to muffle your cries as he thrusts deeply into you. Over and over and over and over. And always he manages to hit that one spot. The spot that lances you with uncertain ecstasy, agony. He's your heaven, your hell, and you are his.

You wonder if the man outside knows what's happening inside the men's room. What would he think if he saw you? Saw you bent over the sink, gripping its white porcelain rim with one hand while the other smothers you. What would he think of your beautiful, regal day lover lording over you, driving you mad, owning you? The forbidden thrill, so intimately familiar, elicits the most wicked shudders.

If he knew…if he knew…

You look into the mirror. You look at your day lover's glowing face, his eyes like inescapable traps. A convulsion shakes your legs, thighs. Biting deeply into the flesh of your hand you shriek. Blood trickles across your tongue.

You shatter.

He doesn't even need to touch you anymore.

Darkness wells up.

You scream and scream and scream and scream and scream.

Your viscous essence splatters against the frigid tile. He shudders exquisitely within your passage. Thrusts once, twice more and then jets into you with startling violence. His boneless weight presses you down into the rim of the sink. Harsh breaths fan your cheek and neck.

The pounding continues on the door. Somebody really has to pee out there.

His delicious withdraw pulls a muted moan from your blushing lips. Groggily you watch him straighten his appearance. He smiles at you. He loves you. With heart-breaking tenderness he brushes back a few stray bangs from your forehead and kisses your cheek. He tells you that he loves you.

You'll let him take you again. You both know this. You've never complained.

He touches the blooming bruise upon your forehead and frowns with chagrin. He looks at your hand and sees the blood welling up from the perfect imprint of your teeth. He apologizes. You smile. It's almost a real one.

Ignoring the indignant man outside the locked door, your day lover casts a simple healing spell. The proof of your intercourse evanesces. You feel sad, happy.

No one will know.

Why does he have to love you so? You don't know why. He just does.

He pushes you away from the abused sink with lovely gentleness. He turns on the tap and catches the water in his cupped hands, his beautiful, skilled, wicked hands. Liberally he splashes the tile. Mournfully he comments upon the precious loss of liquid. You know he isn't talking about the water.

Hastily you redo everything he has undone. Pants back up and secured. Amusement and contentment suffuse his face. You run your hands through your hair. You glance in the infamous mirror. You look thoroughly taken.

He undoes the deadbolt and opens the door. An irate, pot-bellied man rushes in. He pays no attention to you in his race for the nearest urinal. Your lover beckons you. Together you leave the dingy bathroom.

Your companions don't seem to have noticed the commotion.

They'll never guess that your little brother has just fucked you mindless in the men's lavatory.

Good thing, huh?

You smile and your day lover smiles back. In the back of your mind you're thinking about the night.

* * *

From Sarryn:

Ah yes, another experimentation, this time in the exotic dimension of second person narratives. Before you ask, no there isn't a true character doing the narration. Think of the story as coming from some incorporeal voyeur. That's rather disturbing, isn't it?

This is one of TWO parts. This one is about Carrot ('you') and Marron ('day lover'). It's a strangely warped and twisted view of their relationship if they were to be involved sexually. While writing this I attempted to incorporate a sense of some sort of imminent destruction, a break down or loss of cohesion. I have not quite accomplished this, but I feel that I can do no more with this. Alas and alack.

The second part of this short series, which shall come out some time in the near (hopefully) future, will be about Carrot and his night lover (Sacher/Zaha Torte). I will attempt to write it in the same style. It will be much darker and put more emphasis on relinquishing control to an unstoppable, irresistible force.

So please REVIEW, and tell me what you think of my efforts. And please restrain yourself from flaming me, if you would be so kind.

Much love,

Sarryn