InsaneJournal

Porn Battle Recap Post
Didn't do nearly as much this round as the previous. It. This round, it sort of seems like everyone went "Eeeeh. :( All my work is suck. :(((" and I. I am not immune.
/Edit: And hey! Even though I felt like kind of fail this run, I still tied for 5th place. :D This comm is like Nano for plot-phobes. *andheartssemi-colon*


Final Fantasy VII, Aeris/Sephiroth/Zack/Cloud, everyone genderswitched, not worksafe


And because I entertain me:
Zack should just be glad they all already love him, because. He makes a really fugly girl. I'm sorry, it's true. On the other hand, he was the only one who'd trade pants with aeris, so. He's so sure this should lead to lots and lots of lesbian sex, and Cloud makes his "I don't know about this, zack," face. "No really," Zack says back. "LESBIAN SEX."

Meanwhile, I'm very politely asking seph how he wants to cover up his new assets, and he sort of just glances between me and cloud's shirt-buttons (now on the ground from when Cloud got HIS new assets) and tells me he hasn't needed one up until now, and if anyone between here and his office thinks that having breasts makes him either a)vunerable or b)a sex object, then he and masamune will gladly take the time to reeducate them.

Cloud is just pissed that genderswitch seems to have left him EVEN SHORTER than before.



Bleach, Byakuya/Rukia, tea party, worksafe

Captain Ukitake smiles at her paternally as she reports back from patrol. He’s too pale in the afternoon sun; she wonders if he’s sick again. “Thank you all for your hard work,” he says, and she’s on her way out the door with everyone else when he calls her back. “Ah—Rukia-chan, I spoke with your brother earlier. He hoped you would drink a cup of tea with him, once you got back.” He leans more heavily on his desk, smiles again, and she tries to arrange a similar expression on her own face without much success.

“Thank you, sir,” she manages after a minute, discreetly pulling in a deep breath to calm herself. “Did he say when he’d expect me?” Captain Ukitake only shrugs apologetically, though, which means Nii-sama is probably already disappointed with her for being late. “I see,” she says. “Thank you.”

***

She comes in her spare uniform, has no time to divine the proper kimono Nii-sama will expect—is it too late in the season for the one with the wisteria he’d given her last year?—doesn’t want to antagonize him further if by some miracle he’s not angry with her yet. Her hakama catch on the garden gate, and she has to consciously slow down, force herself not to hurry. She washes her hands at the little stone fountain outside, and is pleased to see them steady. Nii-sama’s face is perfectly calm when he comes out to greet her, his bow perfectly correct. She wants to ask why he’s taking this time for her, wants to know what kind of test this is, whether she’d already failed. She bows instead. Nii-sama turns without a word, the small door to the tea house forcing him to bend his neck low, and Rukia tries not to think about the graceful lines of his body—so impossibly strong, solid—as she creeps through behind him.

The scroll in the little alcove has calligraphy that she reads, after a minute of squinting, as “lingering days”. A white camellia in a glass bowl floats below it, the edges of the petals bruised. She has no idea why Nii-sama picked this blossom out of the hundreds of perfect ones on the grounds. His eyes are heavy on her as she comes to sit near him. The water boiling in the kettle hisses and roils.

The cakes Nii-sama hands her are from the real world, much sweeter than he likes. She wonders how he knew she had a taste for them, when he’d gotten them, why. “Thank you for inviting me to this tea,” she says dutifully. “I’ve been looking forward to it.” He almost smiles.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” he murmurs, voice low and deep. She forgets the sound of it, always unexpectedly sensual. The water splashes as he purifies the tea-making tools. His gestures are elegantly minimal as he scoops out the tea, pours the water, whisks it for her to drink. She burns her tongue watching the muscles move in his wrists. For a long moment, neither of them speaks. “Could you…” he hesitates, wiping down the bowls. “Is it possible that you could forgive me, someday?” She doesn’t know what to say. The diplomatic calm he usually wears is gone, face young-looking, vulnerable. It makes it easy to reach out to him, one hand wrinkling the sleeve of his elegant kimono.

“I know of nothing you have done that could require such a thing,” she says seriously, looking up into his eyes. She can see his throat work when he swallows silently, without looking away, can feel the movement of his shoulders broadcasting his intent. She doesn’t move when his hand slides up her arm to settle at the back of her neck, when his lips dip down to press warm and moist against hers. “Nii-sama…”

“It’s not what I’ve done,” he whispers, pulling back only enough that their lips brush with every word. Her hands are shaking as he moves back away. “Though I have certainly done enough.” He closes his eyes. The fire under the kettle has died. The teahouse is quiet. “Thank you for having come,” he says finally. He won’t meet her eyes.

“Thank you for having me,” she replies, forcing her fingers to uncurl from his sleeve. He slides open the little door for her, and when he bows, face shuttered again, she doesn’t know what to do but leave.

Note: Please please don’t take this as a good example of an actual tea ceremony ohgod. I left so much out, and glossed over so much more. Just. Focus on the kissies, ok?


Bleach, Rukia/Byakuya, 'I have a surprise for you, Onii-sama', not worksafe

The thoughts ambush her, over the next week while he’s gone scouting Hueco Mundo alone. She’ll be fighting hollows, and the taste of sweet cake and bitter tea will overpower the blood in her mouth. She’ll be washing her hair, and the water on her nape will remind her of sword-calloused hands. Matsumoto-fukutaicho wears a new camellia perfume and she’s half-way across the training grounds before she realizes she’s following it. The night he gets back, they cross in the halls and she makes the mistake of meeting those dark eyes, and she realizes suddenly that just that—just him looking at her—has her wetter than she can remember being. It’s getting ridiculous.

She takes her time, the next night, waits until most of the main family members have retired to their rooms before she showers carefully and puts on the wisteria kimono after all, and the purple under-kimono that made Renji say she looked like she was selling and Kaien-dono try to deck him. The collar goes dark where her hair drips onto it. She takes a steadying breath and pads down the empty corridors to the part of the house where Nii-sama’s rooms are.

She can’t help but hesitate outside the sliding door, knows what she wants but not quite how to go about it. She doesn’t want to have to leave again. “Onii-sama?” she calls, kneeling. The silence drags out long enough that she wonders if he’s already gone to sleep before a rough voice calls out for her to enter. He’s in bed, alright, sleeping robe falling loose off one shoulder, fingers laid deliberately smooth over the bedcovers like they wanted to clench.

“Rukia,” he murmurs, clearing his throat. “What are you--” She steps inside, pulls the door closed behind her before he can finish. Her fingers work quickly, deft from kido practice, over the obi, lets the expensive kimono crumple on the floor around her feet.

Nii-sama’s broken groan sounds nothing at all like an order to leave.


Naruto, Sai/Sasuke, comparing fiction to the real thing, not worksafe for dumb
"Hmm," Sai says, leaning back a little further in Sasuke's hold. He just sits there, looking, long enough that eventually it makes Sasuke growl "What?", head turned aside awkwardly, fingers still buried in Sai's ass.

"It's much smaller than Konohamaru's version." Sai nods, seems to come to a conclusion. "Now I see why Naruto-kun likes you so much. The two of you match." He flashes his happy face up at sasuke, pleased to have figured it out.

Sasuke makes an incoherant choking noise, and tosses Sai roughly off his bed onto the floor before stalking out.


Dragonlance, Raistlin Majere/Dalamar Argent, 'What a big desk you have there, master!', not worksafe

The first time he’s called into his Master’s private study, it takes his breath away. There are shelves to the ceiling over every wall, filled with the rarest tomes from his Master’s collection. There was a free-standing self-rotating model of the universe mapping out the movements of the moons tucked away in one corner. His master’s desk—a heavy valenwood thing that took up half the room—actually had a copy of Fistandantilus’s “On Time” open on it. It took every ounce of willpower Dalamar had to keep from trying to read the diagrams at once. He closed his eyes, curled his fingers into fists at his side, drew in a deep breath. Bony fingers drew up the length of his neck where his robes lay open, cool and dry. “Shalafi…” he breathed, voice low and pleading. He could feel his Master’s smirk against his skin; felt shame curl up around the want.

“Keep your eyes closed,” his Master whispered, drawing Dalamar forward until the sharp edge of the desk pressed into his thighs. He braced his hands on the desk for balance, felt the subsonic hum of sheer magical power radiating from the text between them and moaned. Shalafi’s hands slid further down the front of his robes, pushing them open, caressing the strong muscles in Dalamar’s chest. Dalamar hoped it galled him, choked on a cry as Shalafi took his cock in hand. “In the third measure, the orders move in retrograde, four and twenty minutes, and again in the fourth measure,” he heard his Master begin to read. Dalamar’s body tensed, mind leaping at the scraps of information and trying to make sense of them. Twenty-four minutes of ark? Or minutes as code for hours of the day? Or more of a riddle yet? The movement of Shalafi’s hand quickened, steady and demanding as Dalamar bucked and groaned and analyzed. “The fifth measure is the golden hour, calling back the others,” Shalafi curled his fingers further, long nails scraping fiery lines down his member and Dalamar choked back a scream and coated his Master’s hand with sticky white.

“You may take the book with you if you like,” Shalafi murmured, stepping away from the desk and letting Dalamar crumple over it’s top. He was wiping the semen on his hand onto the edges of the jade bowl he’d used to catch the rest, smirking at him again. “And thank you for this—it’s annoying to acquire it for myself.”


Final Fantasy VII, Jenova/Sephiroth, mother complex, not worksafe

Sephiroth stood on the bridge over the reactor core and stared, breathless. She was beautiful. Her hair had crystallized into materia-gems, strung like swords around a face as inhumanly perfected as his own. “Only I,” she whispered into his mind. “Only I have ever loved you.”

“Yes…” He pressed his fingertips against the glass they thought would keep her from him, pressed his lips to it over her face in the promise of a kiss as she crooned at him. He’d kill Hojo first, for having taken her away at the beginning, and then destroy the rest of the traitors, kill as he’s been bred to, born to, until there was nothing left of this world but a scorched husk to lay at her feet.

Her pleasure at the thought slid down his spine like Slow, thick and heavy and so warm he groaned under the weight of it. “Take me,” she said. Masamune shattered the mako-proof glass with hardly a flick of his wrist, and then he could lean in, press up against her, hungry. “Take me, and we can be together always, my love, my most beloved son.” Her voice swelled inside the confines of his skull, thrumming, crowding out all thoughts but hers as he rocked up against the glass. The jagged edges where he’d broken his way to her caught at his skin, tearing hot lines of pain on his stomach that only fed into the pleasure building there. She smelled his living blood. “Take me,” she said, as semen smeared the glass beside it. “Midgar waits.”


Final Fantasy XII, Basch/Balthier, bondage- 'Tell me when it hurts,' not worksafe
AN: gods, this one is so OOC. Just. Skip it. Trust me.*cringe*

The rope from Basch’s pack is rough, climbing rope, scratching at his wrists no matter how careful Basch tries to be as he loops it around his wrists. “Are you sure about this?” Basch asks, one more time, hesitating before making the final knot between his elbows.

Baltheir looks from Basch’s sand-colored skin to the blood-bright red of his vest on the floor and breathes. “Yes,” he hisses as Basch pulls the rope tight around him, shoulders wrenched back and skin burned from the friction of the rope scraping over them “Do it,” he demands, and Basch wraps one end of the rope around Balthier’s straining cock, abrasive, stroking up the length of it as Balthier writhesbeneath it. “It hurts. Fates—it hurts, just like that—“ and Basch just watches him with those steady eyes, leaning up against the bruises on Balthier’s chest from fighting their way across the desert. “Want—gods—want you to fuck me like this, no oil, want you to push me down on the ropes and fuck me until I can’t walk,” and there it is, Basch’s pupils going heavy and dark, breath just that little bit rougher. Only a little more now. “Want you to hold me up against that big sword of your and fuck me until I bleed.”

“Tell me when it hurts,” Basch insists, slicking his cock with more oil than Balthier wants but probably less than they should be using as he pushes Balthier’s bruises down against the floor.

“It’s a promise.”


Fullmetal Alchemist, Hughes/Roy/Riza/Gracia - home movies, not worksafe

Roy is cursing at the barbeque grill in their backyard, threatening it with instant incineration if it doesn’t relent and light soon. Gracia sits back at the table next to him, plate of hot dogs and corn slowly warming in the afternoon sun, smiling too gently at him. “Just tell him how to get it started already!” the voice comes from behind the camera, blaringly loud from being too close to the microphone. “I’m hungry already!” Elicia laughs, bouncing up and down in Riza’s arms by the playset, echoes back “Hungry! We’re hungry, Uncle Roy!” Roy stomps his feet like a little boy and gets halfway through tugging on his gloves before Gracia relents and reaches over to flip on the gas switch.

“My husband,” Gracia whispers brokenly. She trails off like she doesn’t know where the thought goes, plucking helplessly at the black lace on her dress like she doesn’t know where it came from. “We’re still here, though,” Roy promises, nuzzling her chin as Riza strokes Gracia’s hair back from her forehead. “We’re both still here.”

There’s a good five minute shot of Gracia sleeping with the baby cuddled up against her, with no other sound but her breathing and the wind from outside. Her nose twitches a little when a tuft of baby-hair tickles her face. She and the baby both wriggle the same way when a stronger breeze gets them cold. Barely choked back sounds of the “aww, that’s so cute” variety waft back from behind the lens. The camera doesn’t move when the baby starts fussing; Gracia almost wakes up before Riza stalks into the room and picks the baby up, rocking her a little as she glares directly into the camera. “You could have helped,” she points out a little archly, but doesn’t bother doing anything about it. The camera tilts at a crazy angle a few seconds later anyway, and a betrayed voice demanding to know “what was that for?!” is drowned out by lower-pitched chuckles.

Roy hits the eject button and doesn’t seem to notice he’s bitten his lip badly enough to bleed. Gracia is a widow now; that sleepy baby has no daddy anymore, because of him. There aren’t words to even begin to offer the apology he needs to offer. He stole Maas from them twice. Riza’s fingers on his lip cue him to let go of them, let the blood bead. It’s subtle enough when she wipes away the tear that escapes to slide down his cheek that they could all pretend it’s not there. It’s Gracia’s kiss, licking the blood clean off his lips that really breaks him.

Roy’s lifted Gracia’s arms out to display her round tummy and heavy breasts, smirking at the camera over her shoulders. “I don’t know, Maas, look at how gorgeous she is. Damn good work, that, if you ask me. You sure you’re to blame?” Hughes sputters off-screen, trying for an angry tone but mostly laughing too much to manage. “She’s MY wife! I may not be an alchemist, but I do know enough to take care of her.” Riza ignores them both, taking advantage of their distraction to press slow kisses up against Gracia’s shoulders and slide a hand down pregnancy-sensitive breasts, over the bulge of the baby-mound to card through the wet curls beneath it until Gracia begins to moan. Roy steps back enough to come into focus on the screen, pauses half-way between them to lock eyes with Hughes. “Truce?” they both ask, and the picture blacks out within seconds.

“Not a single one,” Riza murmurs, voice and face and body so empty the others don’t know what to do but wrap her up between them. “He doesn’t show his face in a single one, always filming.” They shift around so that they can lean her up against Roy’s chest and let Gracia kiss her until none of them have to talk anymore for a little while.