A/N - These are really two separate vignettes published together for the purpose of contrasting the two characters. Dietrich is ever blunt and slightly hysterical (childish) while Isaak is dreamy and poetic (absent). They are both horribly delusional in their own ways. And even though they describe the same situation, nothing is similar. Dietrich remembers the violent affairs on the floor of his office while Isaak counters this with a far more romantic scene. While PikaCheeka just writes a lot of senseless smut.

Written before the voices of Isaak and Di were definitely formed, so they are more similar than I would like, but…

R for sex and violence. Isaak x Dietrich. Yaoi. Oh yes and beware blatant f-canon, as this vaguely ties in with my fanonized TB world. Isaak especially is DELUSIONAL. If you can’t figure that out I’ll politely ignore all accusations of OOC-ness.

And yes, each narrative is one paragraph. So don’t comment on the formatting. It is on purpose. Oh yes and this is dedicated to all of you who pushed me into posting more of my IxD fics. I have plenty more.

Like I Do : A Contrast of Sexuality (oh, subtitle!)

By PikaCheeka

Dietrich, reflecting upon Isaak:

Isaak is violent. Mad. Primal. He is so deadly calm, composed, calculated and proper in his tailored suit and wingtip shoes. Never raises his voice, barely changes his tone at all except when he is mocking. Everyone who meets him is unnerved by how collected he is, how disconnected and bored he seems by everything. But they don’t know Isaak like I do. Isaak as he throws me to the wall and rips my clothes off, all because I smiled at him the right way. I laugh and writhe and moan against his musculature, the anticipation already taking over. He holds my wrists above my head and struggles with my belt and locks his mouth over mine and I give in to his passion, the taste of blood in my mouth as he bites again and again, moving down to my neck and chest and I can’t stop screaming his name and gasping until I am on the floor and his hand is clamped tightly over my mouth. Everything hurts already and he is heavy on top of me, sharp and strong, twice my size and weight and age, surprisingly muscular, as if he were a jackal. Panzier Magier. No one knows what happens here, on the floor of his office. They know it happens. That is all. They don’t know how. They don’t know Isaak like I do, that all his composure is stripped away when the urges come over him. I one read that the more brilliant one is, the more likely he is to be mad and depraved, perverse in some manner, inhuman. That is Isaak. I always scream. I cry and sob and beg him to stop and he never listens, and it doesn’t matter because I want it anyway. It just hurts so bad I can’t help but wail. And even now I throw my head back and scream, crushing him between my thighs, legs wrapped around his hips, claws dug into his arms as he slams me into the floor and forces his bulk fully into me. It is agony and there is blood everywhere. There always is. He’s too violent, too strong, and I’m too frail inside. I’ve needed stitches too many times to count. But I don’t care. Here and now on the floor I can forget everything but him. There is only him. And the primal, animalistic rutting, the movement and the thrust and the half-darkness around us, his hair hanging down in my face, the sweat running down his chest, his growls and moans loud and pervasive in my ear. And Isaak inside me, loosing his fire into my blood, making him into me and me into him. I can feel him move, strong and devouring, and can feel my insides give in to him, the muscles contracting, screaming in agony. And yet it is good. Beyond good. It is Isaak. No one else can make me do this, can make me thrash and moan and squeal, can make my eyes burn and the back of my head shatter and my spine melt. It’s usually over as fast as it begins. He leans back and sighs heavily, running his hands through his hair, and I collapse fully to the floor, convulsing in pain. I can hear him laugh quietly and I know he is getting dressed again. In a matter of minutes he will be calm and deadly as ever, untouchable, so human he is not a human at all. I don’t know why he chose me. I really don’t. I am nothing compared to him. I hated it at first. It was rape then, those first few years. But things have changed, and I’ve grown to love him in ways I can never describe. He is still violent. This is nearly a daily affair for us by now. And yet now I crave it. I institute it oftentimes. I need the wildness of Isaak in my life, need his smile and the way he leans over and kisses me gently afterward and strokes my face and whispers that he loves me while I cry.

Isaak, reflecting upon Dietrich:

His body is silk against mine, smooth and soft and timelessly alluring. He is of a long-lost beauty, pale and languid and seductive, tightly built but yielding to my touch. He grew taller than I ever expected him to be, but he is still half my size, whipcord-thin and ghost-like. He eats little and faints easily. His lashes are long, his brown eyes like those of a creature about to be sacrificed, desperate, shifty, hopeful, lost. His hair is a soft red-brown, a dark wolf color, falling over his face and neck, over the pillow he now arches against. He sighs and shudders and clings when I touch him, longing for me but ever afraid. We were never lovers until recently. When he was a child, not yet in his teens, I forcefully overtook him, and seven years later the fear is still in his eyes as he stretches against me and cries softly. And panting into my ear he whispers he loves me, clutching my shoulders, moving his frailty in time with me. Never in my distracted mortality have I ever felt such passion. Never have I ever wanted to reply that I, too, am capable of love. But all these years in his lilting languorous presence has changed me. After a time I rejected my lusts and dedicated my world to protecting his delicacy, even as I tear it apart again and again. But now he is mine. I cannot say again, for he never truly was. Even now in this mutual act his body is wracked with pain, his whimpers ripping at my heart. And yet afterward, lying limp and spent in my arms, he cries and confesses his love again and again, his jagged shoulder blades quivering like broken wings cupped in my hands. I can only sigh and kiss his throat and feel the blood pulsing through his veins and reply. And in replying, I say those words for the first time in truth in my entire wretched existence. It is the first time I feel anything at all, holding that silken angel boy to me, protecting myself from the darkness within.