Disastrous Drabble Thread D:<

[Beyond Birthday]

We might as well continue the drabble tradition here. D:

"Teacher"

Female!Q/Anslem

G

“I don’t believe you should teach Franguan sharp shooting.”

Bang! another can died with a clatter as it fell off a post fifty feet away and five feet high, a perfect hole in its abdomen.

“Hm? Now why is that? He's a new recurit and I would not want to be caught in a street battle with someone who does not know how to shoot.” Another swig and another mark in the ground for a record of her hits and misses.

“He has a severe inferiority complex and an extreme aversion to water. He’s neurotic and unpredictable; he may very well one day shoot his teacher in the back from a long distance to conceal his crime.” The young woman said turning to the man perched atop the fence behind her, her blue eyes narrowed and her petite nose scrunched up in dislike or from the acrid smell. He smiled blandly at her.

“But you wouldn’t?”

“Not so long as your proved useful of course,” she replied easily, turning back to the next target. He couldn’t help but to chuckle at the diplomatic yet honest answer.

“Oh good, for a second you almost sounded jealous.”

She missed her next target.

[Beyond Birthday]

"Victory"

NC-17

Anslem/Amel

For Sarah. :D

Sometimes fate was strange.

Sometimes you somehow ended up in the same whore’s room with your rival at a brothel that didn’t allow weapons.

Or that when you came in you mistook him for her in the bath tub and when he stood up, you mistook his svelte body for hers and laid your hands on his toned back, and drew little figure eights and Venn diagrams with your fingers. That the groan you heard made you throb as his head moved back, his blond hair clinging to his neck the droplets falling in small rivulets down the ridge of his spine. When you stood behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist and he gasped, and tensed, and you smirked, thinking she was impressed by the girth bobbing between her legs. So your hands wandered down the smooth stomach as you rested your head into his shoulder, nibbling and sucking and…your hands felt a cock instead of vaginal folds.

Your head pulled back, but it was nothing you hadn’t ever done before and given you’re drunk you could have easily wandered into the male end of the house. So you shrug and start fondling him, his cock growing larger and hotter in your hands as your tongue licks the moisture off his body as he flushes and starts arching his back and groaning softly. When his arms reach behind and dig his nails into your back as his hips buck violently and his thighs are rubbing against your cock, and he’s moaning shamelessly, and you can feel the pre-cum leaking over your fingers and all you can think of is finding the bed so you can give the little whore the fuck of his life you get a good look at his face. His head hits your shoulder as he shudders and your eyes meet and you finally realize who he is.

He’s Amel Allen, the sequestered capo of the Innocenzos whom you’ve only previously seen dressed in a suit and smirking at you across a large oak table. He’s naked, blushing, with his erect cock in your hands, and yours is throbbing between his skinny thighs, and he’s panting softly in wanton lust. You should kill him, take his neck in your hands and break it for his cowardice and all the Liberatores murdered by his schemes.

Yet in the haze of the schnapps and the searing tension in your loins you simply hoist him by his narrow waist and throw him onto the bed in the next room like he’s a war won concubine.

“You…you are…” he mutters in a daze as his back hits the bed, is he drunk too? Probably if he’s here, they ply the alcohol like water here. You put his thighs on your shoulders and grab the lube they always leave by the bed.

“Anslem Aslem!” he cried as he’s entered, and you’re impressed he can remember your name. Shocked he doesn’t try to kill you as you shove back and make him whimper, pull out and shove back in until you find a perfect rhythm. The actual whore walks in as you grab his shoulders and you’re thrusting as hard as you can, panting as he bucks his hips and creates a consuming and wild friction between your bodies.

She quickly walks out and locks the door behind her.

“Say my name again!” you order as you slow, threatening to prolong his suffering as you tease the head of his cock, prolonging his precipice before orgasm.

“Anslem Aslem!” and that alone is nearly enough to make you cum. You groan and began your frantic pushing into him again continuing to made broad strokes with your thumb as you invade him again and again. His body clenches when he shoots violently over your abdomen. The tension is enough to force you to explode inside him.

You leave immediately afterwards, your cock still covered in semen and filth, you’ve sobered during the experience and no doubt so has he. You rather not be involved in a life or death struggle once he comes out of his daze.

This is one victory you will never forget.

[Opa Ophilius]

I should've known this was only a matter of time. >>

Pairing: Picard Rossi/Ines
Rating: R

He's a yellow man. Though he wears black, Ines can almost smell the yellow and red coiling off of him, his eyes hidden by strange eyewear and a large tophat pulled low over her face, his hands gloved and knotted together in an ominious gesture, the stink of chemicals and wine clinging to his every step, leaving a filthy puddle of--blood? as he moves across the velvet carpet of the restaurant, spoiling the beautiful night in Italy with his very presence, blond coils of hair spilling from beneath his hat like snakes.

He is trouble, and he is dangerous, his grin a little too thin and sharp. He reeks of sewers and rotted flowers as he squashes his large frame into the seat beside her, waving the bartender over and asking for something in his low voice, that somehow is like jagged glass to the sensitive flesh of her ears that sounds toxic. Even his voice is full of awful colors, spotted with red and drenched in orange.

He doesn't touch his drink, instead fiddles with something from his coat pocket. Ines strains over the rim of her glass to glimpse it, and just barely stops herself from recoiling when she sees the man playing with a dead rat from between his fingers.

From behind tinted glasses, his eyes flicker to her, and his white, wire-sharp grin grows even thinner, curling up his cheeks. Ines stops herself from shuddering, merely makes a light, fluttery giggle, her fingers clenching the stem of the wine glass.

She hates this man. This...Liberatore.

When he slowly sips his glass, roving a small, greyish tongue over his lips, his gaze is caught on her again, and this time, Ines peers over to him from beneath thick lashes, resting her breasts on the table, watches as his eyes follow their curves through the crimson silk dress. The stiletto firmly strapped to her thigh is a slight blessing, able to calm the writhing knot of intestines inside her.

"Do you want to go somewhere...more private?" Her voice is a low murmur, like an innocent little bird flying willingly into the paws of this beast, but this little bird is a cunning one.

The great, terrible man stands, pushing his emptied drink and a few coins to the bar, tucking the dead animal back into his pocket, and Ines tries not to think about what he'll do with it later.

"I hear there's a great many rooms upstairs." Again, that horrible voice, full of sour notes and garish, sinister colors.

"Lead the way," Ines giggles, smiling. "I'm new to town. Please call me Bella Uccella."

"That's nice, Bella Uccella." He doesn't give his own name, merely clasps her tiny hand in his, as if he aims to smash it.

He opens the door for her once upstairs and locks it behind her, turning on a grime-coated light to reveal a gloomy room. The wallpaper is curling and chipping but a nice shade of pale blue, but Ines has no time to focus on that when the man's hands clasp around her hips from behind.

"Picard." He chuckles into her ear.

"Picard it is, then," She replies, regaining her breath, hoping he couldn't hear the frantic pound of her heart. She bites her lips to hide her disgust when she feels something thick pressing against her inner thigh, forcing herself to laugh playfully.

It's when he grabs her thin shoulders and pushes her down into the mattress does she begin to be alarmed. Most times, people want to look at her face, but Picard is smashing her head into a pillow, her vision obscured, her mouth and nose pressed tightly into the fabric.

Her hand sneaks down to her garter, taking hold of her knife just before the hot reek of death brushes across her hair, Picard speaking but his words muffled by the pillow.

You Innocenzos should know not to be alone with a Liberatore.

And Ines freezes right then, clasping her weapon in shock before reaching up and slashing blindly behind her, hearing something tear. The crushing weight disappears and Ines pushes herself from the bed, seeing Picard's coat has torn and crimson is leaking from his shoulder. The Liberatore grabs his shoulder but grins awfully all the same, revealing what else was in his pocket--a revolver, black and shining.

She darts forward with her stiletto, aiming for his unguarded throat as his finger worms around the trigger.

[Cerise Abel]

Fever
Amel/Cerise
G

How could she fail him like this? How pathetic was she? Done in by a fever? Cerise would damn herself if she was not all ready certain that she was in Hell. Heat consumed her as she sweated in the covers, as Amel sat next to her... Attending to her.

No! She was his assistant! She should be taking care of him!

"You shouldn't push yourself so hard, Cerise..." But what was she to do when she woke up that morning feeling as if flames were covering her again? He had an important meeting! She had to be there! "It's okay, it's not your fault."

It was all her fault! How embarrassed he must have been when his own assistant fainted in the middle of the meeting? Feh. There is professional for you.

"I am sorry Amel..." She muttered with a dry throat, looking at the blond with sincerity. "Thank you, for taking care of me."

His heart nearly broke in two. The words in his head, echoing, If it weren't for you, she wouldn't be here. You caused all of this. You killed her father and ruined her life. It's your fault. It's your fault. It's your fault.

"It is my fault. It is my fault. It is my fault." He did not think that she even realized that she was saying that. Cerise looked so out of it. Amel could only stare wide eyed at her. No. It was not her fault! It was his!

It's all my fault...

"It is all my fault."

It's all my fault...

"It is all my fault."

It's all my fault...

"It is all my fault."

Pressing his lips to hers, he silenced the girl. He could not stand to hear her blaming herself for what he did. It had to stop!

It's all my fault...

He mouthed the words against her lips as a few tears fell from his eyes, dripping down and splashing against her face. Cerise staring up at him with hazed watery eyes herself.

He had to keep her happy. That was his purpose. After ruining her life... Making her happy was his purpose.

I'm sorry.
"I love you."

Those words would make her happy. He knew. As he sat back staring at her, waiting for her reply. Not expecting what he received as she murmured out a tired,

I love you.
"I am sorry."

((I hope you don't mind me posting this before I was accepted! SARAH MADE ME DO IT. I SWEAR.))

[Amel Allen]

Fever (yes, we both used this one)
Amel/Cerise
PG

Amel never slept anymore, it seemed. There was work to be done; the justice of the world depended on it, and L depended on him. The methamphetamine coursing through his system kept him awake long enough to keep up with the insane amount of work that he had piled on him currently. Proof of one of the family stealing from his brothers. Not a matter to be taken lightly. And Amel wouldn’t just take one fucking prick’s word for it. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The thought made him flinch, and he ran a shaky hand across his face as he walked past Cerise’s room, pausing at the horrid memory. His first hit; his first mistake. He rested his hand on the oak door, remembering that the poor girl had contracted another fever earlier in the evening. Also his fault. Not only was this a side effect of the burns that she ended up with from the fire that he had set, but he had also been working her very hard lately.

His heart beat even more frantically as he opened the door, from anxiety, not from the drugs this time. Moonlight poured in through the window and strayed beneath his feet as he walked across the carpeted floor to her bedside. Her breathing was strained, ragged. Probably another side effect of the fire. Amel rubbed the back of his neck nervously, fidgeting with the back of his tie that she had tied for him that morning.

He couldn't stand looking at her like this; the proof of his idiocy. He took a step backward, away from the bed and accidentally knocked into her bedside table, causing a cup of water to almost clatter to the ground. As he arranged it back into a safer position, the young girl’s eyes fluttered open.

“Amel?” she groaned, barely conscious. “Is that you?”

He frowned, ashamed that he'd been caught so easily. “Go to sleep, Cerise. We have another early morning.”

She nodded and nuzzled against her pillow, her eyes closing as she let out a shuddery sigh. “I love you,” she whispered into her pillow, barely audible. Amel blinked at the declaration, but didn’t respond. He simply reached down and pulled her bedspread up to her chin, his cool fingertips exploring her neck to check her temperature and pulse as she shivered underneath of them.

There’s nothing I can do to bring him back, Cerise. But I won’t let you die as well.

[Amel Allen]

Opportunity
Cerise/Amel
PG

The letter had been abrupt and concise; Meet me at the café where you ate your first almond croissant at 12:00 sharp. The intriguing message and neat cursive handwriting was enough for the still healing girl to leave her house and brave the cold winds that threatened her sensitive burnt flesh to find the sender of this letter. Sitting down in a corner booth, she idly played with the end of a frayed napkin and glanced up at the clock. 11:59 and 57, 58, 59--

She jumped when someone slid into the booth and sat across from her just as the clock turned to the next hour. The French girl remained silent as she narrowed her eyes at the man.

No wait. Boy. The blonde male sitting across from her didn’t appear to be older than sixteen! This was who sent the urgent sounding note?

“Thank you for meeting me, Cerise,” he said softly, gesturing to the waitress to bring him a cup of coffee. “I’m sorry for the vague message, but I had to meet with you. Albeit under rather unorthodox circumstances, but the very fact that you agreed to come tells me that you’re not against such practice, am I right?”

Cerise cocked her head to the side with a confused, “huh?”

The boy smiled at her and took the cup of coffee when it was offered to him, taking a long sip before answering. He looked like he could use it; he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“I’m here to make you an offer. However, you can know nothing of the circumstances surrounding it until you agree to it. Even as you might feel adamant to accept such a tenebrous offer, I can assure you that you will be paid well for it.”

“Yes.” It was all the information she needed. After all she'd been through, she wouldn't pass up an opportunity like this now. He could ask anything of her, and it wouldn't matter.

He blinked, obviously taken back by the quick answer. But he could tell from the girl’s desperate expression that she wasn’t lying. His smile grew wider.

“I’m glad to hear it. My name is Amel. Let’s get to know each other, shall we?”

[Adrienne Ayers]

Debt
Amel/Adrienne
PG

Adrianne sighed softly as she glanced out of the corner of her eyes towards the shivering boy next to her. They had only been staked out in this area for 30 minutes and he had been doing nothing but complaining since they’d arrived. They could be here all night, for god’s sake! Did he really think he was going to gain a high position in the family if he couldn’t handle a little cold weather? The sun had gone down hours ago, and despite her fear of the dark, she was still handling it.

Of course, she’d set them up in a spot 10 feet from a bright streetlight. Still. What a wimp.

Fifteen year old Amel pulled his jacket around himself tighter and looked through his binoculars towards the warehouse where they’d received information that the Liberatores were holding a meeting. The binoculars suddenly dropped from his shaky hands and clattered to the ground. Before he had a chance to bend down and pick them up, the young girl’s hand flew out to slap him across the back of the head.

“Fuck, Amel! Be quiet! You’re going to give us away with all of the fidgeting and noise you’re making!” she hissed to him. “I swear to Christ, if you don’t shut up I’ll stab you before the night is over!”

Amel frowned and rubbed the back of his head where he’d been hit. “I’m sorry, but it’s cold! I can’t keep a hold on anything when my hands are frozen!” Adrianne glanced down at the thick wool gloves on his hands and quirked an eyebrow. Her own gloves and jacket were thinner than his, and more than enough to combat the cold weather. This kid…

“Bloody nancy boy,” she answered, turning back to peek above the row of bushes that they were stationed behind. “You sure you’re as smart as everyone says you are?”

“Shh!” Amel hissed suddenly, his eyes glued to the warehouse as he picked up the binoculars and pointed them through a window. “Did you see that? The light in that small window turned on, and then turned off again, then back on. It’s a signal. For what? They…RUN!”

Amel grabbed the red haired girl’s arm and dashed into the street towards their car, just moments before a burst of gunfire cleared through the bushes where they had been crouching only moments before. Adrienne glared at Amel as she jumped into the driver’s side of the car and peeled out, torn is she should be glad that they lived, or upset that she now owed her life to her rival.

She figured it didn’t matter after the entertainment that she got as she watched the frail teen cry the entire way home.

[Anslem Aslem]

No pairings;prompt: childhood;rating:M;Anslem and Beyond


To say “Anslem was not a normal child” was to say “the earth revolves around the sun”.

Sitting night after night, motionless, sleepless, eyes wide awake with a never ending nightmare branded onto his pupils. Cradling the pistol to his chest like a cold iron teddy bear. Waiting, waiting, waiting for his horrific memories to slide on flesh and blood and once again play out before him.

Then one night he fired an errant shot at a man coming through the door of the dilapidated barn. It was not his phantasmagorical Russians but his mentor who sputtered and cursed at him, so drunk even a shot to the chest would not have stunned him. He didn’t appreciate the bullet whizzing by his infected stump where once a right arm hanged however.

One foot came down onto the shocked boy’s chest as the working left arm shoved a bottle into the child’s panting mouth.

“Kleiner, you are of no use to anyone if you go mad at the age of eight.”

So the survivor of the blood soaked fields of Prussia was saved once again, and damned for all eternity as he slept for the first time in days.

The man wept more than the child in despair for the future in their entire time knowing one another.

----------------------------

To say Bando Botan was an extraordinary child was to concede the truth.

The first thing he became cognizant of after the sound of the man hitting the floor (a vivid splat) was the tangible taste of blood that exploded into the air. Behind him, somewhere in the darkness, Kaa-san and Tou-san were gasping their last breaths, he thought he heard someone call his name but he ignored it. He was not their son any more.

The intestines coiled around the floor like snakes, and his hands were hot and sticky as he firmly grasped the sword still. Undigested food and blood formed a splatter pattern across the woman’s koi patterned carpet. He dared not step for fear of slipping on the offal.

He recalled the man once telling him their family had been vassals for a great lord, and when that great lord turned to crime they had obediently followed him. The lord was like the Emperor, a god waiting to sweep you into his awful clutches. The boy knew that lord would be coming for him, and he would swept away like a leaf caught on the kamikaze.

The man had been wrong however, they surely had not just been mere vassals for their daimyo for all those generations.

They had been Death Gods as well.

[Adrienne Ayers]

Artistry
Adrienne/Samir
PG-13

He’d been shocked but intrigued when the normally insolent woman had asked him to sketch her after she’d come across his work one afternoon. The chance to have a female pose for him was always welcome; it was easier to have a willing model rather than a subject that he had to track as they didn’t realize that they were being drawn. She seemed genuinely interested to see him at work, and Samir had to admit, she would make a lovely model. Once her mouth was shut, she was really quite beautiful.

“Go sit on the armchair near the window,” he requested, taking out a few pieces of charcoal and flipping his sketchbook to a new page. When he looked back up to give her further instruction on how to pose, he was shocked to find the assassin fully nude, her clothing and weapons strewn across his bedroom floor.

“Wh-what do you think are you doing?!” Samir shouted, covering his face with his hands as he flushed.

“What do you mean?” she purred innocently, sitting down in the chair and crossing her legs politely. “Artists have been studying the human form for thousands of years. Surely you are fascinated by it as well, Samir. C’mon, it’ll be tasteful.”

The Middle Eastern man peeked through his fingers and looked her over. The thin legs, the pouty mouth, the mussed hair. This…this could work. He could do this. He was a professional. And she seemed more than willing to pose any way he asked. She was an artist too, she understood. Yes, he could do this.

“Very well,” he muttered, clearing his throat and still keeping his eyes averted. “If you will please keep all comments to yourself, we shouldn’t have a problem. Now, lean back and place your arm above your head while the other sits in your lap. And keep your...private area covered.”

She complied, the smallest hint of a smirk on her face as she did so. “I’m glad you see things my way. And what a relief! I was convinced that you didn’t like girls at all, but your half mast erection tells me otherwise. Nice girth.”

The session was over before it even began.

[Panas Demidov]

Told from Berraby's perspective.

Pairing: Dionna Lamarre/Berraby Romano
Rating: PG-13

One, two, buckle my shoe--three, four, out the door--five, six, dynamite sticks--seven, eight, take the bait--

You hum off-tune but cheerily, a new stuffed bunny cradled tightly in your arms as you skip along the length of the street, the red ribbon tied in your blond hair whipping in the toxic breeze, threatening to untie the bow perched on the top of your head. Bright, curious green eyes--which you so used to pride yourself on--laze on the sewer grater, wrinkling your nose at the raw and foul stench spiraling from its scummy depths. You hug your toy tighter, pressing it to your chest, rocking back and forth on your heels until you hear the tell-tell chime of bells.

You take another step, but your ankle is positioned awkwardly, causing you to stumble and flail on the edge on the street. Spreading your arms in hope to regain balance, you don't even notice your stuffed rabbit falling down the open grate, slipping into darkness until you hear its soft splash, the end of its descent into tainted water. And all is for naught, because you can't right yourself; you end up landing painfully on one knee and skinning your palms, blood staining your stockings and grime smeared on your dress.

You scramble to your aching, throbbing knees, watching the sewer, as if in disbelief you could lose your toy. But you did, and now its gone forever.

And now, huddled next to the grate, you wail pitifully, because you loved that rabbit, you really did, its furry hide bulging with explosives and smelling of gunpowder; it's not as if you did it on purpose, oh no, you're just a little girl who lost her stuffed friend and is so heartbroken.

Now, your bunny's smell of gunpowder is covered up by the stench of waste--the toy will sit and rot there, undetected, until you throw a match down. And look, your miserable crying has caught the attention of the flower lady. You wipe your eyes with bloody hands, your bow unraveled and your dress ruined, glancing over to the woman.

If you were an Innocenzo, you would know that her name is Dionna Lamarre, and that she's on the wanted Liberatore list. You would know that technically, the flowers she sells are illegal to be sold so cheaply, that she's making borderline profit. Maybe, you would know that the flower in her hair is not just for decoration, and that beneath that pinstriped, blue dress of hers there's a small wire that leads to a microphone in her ear, disguised as an earring. But you're not an Innocenzo, you don't know anything, you're just Berraby Romano, who lost her dolly down the sewer and her parents in a train collision.

Dionna certainly doesn't look like a flower seller. With painted scarlet lips and cream-colored breasts nearly pushed out of her corset for maximum exposure, dressed up in black bows and white frills, her hair brushed and the color of sugar roses, she looks more like a very pretty whore from The Square in Italy.

She has a boquet in her pale arms, already half-wilted, which she has marked at an especially low price. Business is slow, her tin is empty. Having heard your sobbing, Dionna turns, heels clicking on the street. She takes you by the hand and gently dusts off your clothes, before picking out a red poppy from her boquet and giving to you with a smile that's more seductive than maternal.

You extract the flower from her fingers carefully, so as not to crush it, matching her smile with a watery, innocent one you've learned to mimic flawlessly. Her hand gently pats your head, and you don't flinch, even when she asks you where your mommy and daddy are.

You tell her daddy wanted to have a smoke, but he doesn't have a match. You ask, Please, pretty lady, could you have one?

"Of course, little Berraby." You should've expected this, should've known they would've had you on file, as Dionna's hand tightens in your hair and she smiles slickly.

"Okay, Dionna Lamarre." You reply, and watch her scarlet eye narrow from beneath the mascara, her smile breaking beneath the blush and foundation. She reaches into her pocket, withdrawing a match. Just for you, she croons. She holds your hand in hers and places it between your fingers, her hand casually slipping from the top of your head to grab your chin, polished nails scratching against your cheek.

She smiles, and you smile back, both of you frozen in this faux politeness, this pretense of formalities. You try to pull away, and for an instant, she doesn't let go.

Lovingly brushing your bangs away from your face, Dionna kisses both your cheeks with all the tenderness of a mother. You want to rub off the sticky lipstick with a napkin, but instead you curtsey, thanking her for the flower and the match.

Still marked with the kiss of death, you start turning back. But before you go, you light the match, streaking the head across the wall and inciting a small red flame.

Acting quickly, you throw it down the sewer, and start running from the smell of gunpowder and rotting flowers.

[Amel Allen]

Topping
Beyond/Anslem
R

It hadn’t been hard for Beyond to discover that this capo would fuck anything with two legs once you got a few drinks in him. It had been even easier to procure a syringe of sodium thiopental from the red doctor.

“Drink up, Aslem,” the Japanese man hissed as he clasped his long fingers around the flask in his superior’s hand. In a solid movement he hoisted it up to help him navigate the alcohol into his mouth, grinning as the man tilted his head back to accommodate it. “Tomorrow we go to war.”

“The war,” he stuttered, “the war has not yet begun, Beyond. The war begins when I get there.” He threw the flask at the wall and stumbled backwards, his body in a drunken freefall as Beyond caught him and carefully lowered him to the ground.

“What do you say we get to know each other a little better before the war begins?” he purred into the man’s ear as he injected the drug into a vein in his neck. “I want you to tell me exactly how good it feels to be topped by your inferior.”

[Amel Allen]

Caught on Tape
Amel/hand
PG-13

I knew she wouldn’t let me down. The Innocenzo capo stood before his Sekonic projector, an 8mm tape in his hand. He loaded the tape that was recorded in secret during the interrogation that Ines had performed the day prior. She had “gotten the job done” according to her, but Amel was quite interested to see exactly what her technique was. A talented woman like herself had no doubt used her charms to con the information out of the woman.

What he saw was…not exactly the charm he had in mind. F-fingers…

He shut the projector off before it could go any further, his breathing frantic and labored. Oh, this could never see the light of day. If the Liberatores discovered this…

The thought was lost in the back of his head as his hands trailed down into his pants. I guess I can watch it in its entirety before I destroy it.

[Amel Allen]

Sarah needs to be locked out of the drabble thread again. Also, loltastic pun coming your way.

Gunplay
Anslem/Amel
R

It hadn’t taken much to disarm the smaller man, even as intoxicated as he was. The blonde hadn’t even seen Anslem’s hand fly across the table and grab him roughly by the collar of his jacket, pulling upwards in such a fashion that it was impossible for him to reach for his weapon. As for the German man, his pistol was already drawn, cocked and jabbed into the heir’s side as he shoved him across the room. Another tug and the jacket was discarded and thrown to the floor, exposing a small coffee stain on Amel’s dress shirt. The capo smirked at this small flaw; how was it that this unkempt child could ever have risen to the same rank as him?

It made him all the more appealing.

Anslem shoved the man against the wall and slipped his gun into the capo’s pants as he rubbed the cold steel against his crotch, continuing to smirk sinisterly in his face as he felt the smaller boy stiffen beneath him. He liked rough play, it seemed.

“The gun is loaded,” he hissed into the Irish boy’s ear, pressing their bodies together as he pinned him harder against the wall.

“I know,” he gasped, thrusting his groin against the metal barrel. Anslem laughed loudly and continued stimulating the boy with his weapon. Sweat beaded along Amel’s forehead as his breath became erratic, and after a very tense moment he ejaculated hard, a bit of the fluid accidentally shooting onto Anslem’s gun as he moaned like the whores that Anslem paid to pleasure him.

The German removed the pistol from his rival’s pants and with a sweep of his arm slapped him across the face with the handle. Amel fell to the floor, blood spilling from the new wound on his cheek. He looked up at the taller man, confused and trapped somewhere in between pain and pleasure.

“No one soils my pistol.”