Standard disclaimer applies--I do not own Super Smash Brothers, Fire Emblem, or the lovely pair featured in this fanfic. The "Smash Mansion" is the property of fan-canon (or fanon, as I like to call it), in all likelihood--I've seen it in enough SSBM fics--and so I'll slap a disclaimer on that too.
Just to warn you, there is yaoi in this--meaning boys getting it on with boys. Don't like it? Don't read it--nobody's forcing you to.You know where that back button is. Also, keep in mind that this is indeed a rapefic. Before you call me sick and twisted for writing one (It may be true, but that's not the point) you need to remember it was in the summary. And on another note--lemony content!
Roy's POV. You still with me? All right. Enjoy the story, and don't worry about the plotlessness of this chapter. There'll be plot later..
"No… no, Roy, please…"
His cries are delicious. I drink them in, and glutton as I am I plunder his pretty rosy lips for more. He melts into the kiss with a sob, tears leaking from those beautifully cold eyes. He cannot push me away, I have tied his hands to the bars of the headboard. All he can do is lie there and let me ravish him, my royal prize.
Even as his pleading is reduced to incoherent gasps and moans under my hands that know exactly where to touch, where to pinch and rub and squeeze—for it isn't as if I haven't fantasized about this before, after all—I can hardly keep from taking him right then and there. But I have to do this slowly, I have to make him like it. I can't hurt him too much, otherwise he'll never see how much I love him. Still… he looks absolutely delectable. If I could have devoured him I would have, but I settle for planning my descent upon that half-staff member between his legs.
The only thought in my head is that this is my last chance. After all, tomorrow he will leave the Smash Mansion in his best formal outfit, as expected of a prince becoming a groom. He will take the hand of his bride-to-be and they will present themselves to a priest, who will then bind them in holy matrimony for the rest of their foreseeable future. It makes my stomach turn to realize how close I am to losing this rare beauty, this angelic prince who captured my heart from the first time I laid eyes on him. I can barely think the words, let alone 'honeymoon,' and my despair leads me to suck hard upon his collarbone. I know I'm leaving a mark, and his bride can (and undoubtedly will) ask him about it—it's just a selfish way of keeping him mine, because no matter what he says he'll always know that it was I who left this mark of possession upon him. My beautiful, icy prince. I like the sound of that.
Still, it doesn't really matter. Lapping at the tip of his half-hardness (and from the look of pained, constantly disrupted concentration on his face, he must have been staving off the evidence of his arousal the best he could—I had to commend him for his efforts, at least) I cannot help but smile at the strangled sound of pleasure that rips from his throat. His widened eyes had already betrayed him, and oh, the sobbing breaths and heady moans make me so impossibly hard!
"Ahhh, ah! Roy… no, sto—unghhh, hahh! Please…"
But it doesn't stop there. Soon he is writhing beneath my hands and my mouth, although more than once I have to shift the former to his hips to keep him from bucking into my throat. As much as seeing him in such ecstasy might be worth it, I would rather that I not suffer the damage for it—and I scrape my teeth ever so gently along his member, as a bit of a warning. The hiss I receive for my trouble does not sound displeased, however.
Preparation is slow, languid. As much as he resists, tightening his passage so that my fingers can move neither in nor out, I coax him to behave by teasing him with sensations it is clear he has never felt before, except perhaps by his own hand. Soon he completely forgets that he was trying to keep my digits from invading his body, and when I touch that spot inside him he throws his head back, baring his neck to me, and groans. His face bore such a gorgeous look of helpless pleasure that I could not help but do it a few more times just to extend its time on his features.
I needed him. I wanted to make him mine. I wanted to mark him so that he knew who it was that he belonged to. I traced my name on his pectorals with my tongue—two characters in katakana, six strokes. Again in English—three characters, three smooth tracings. I savor his hitched breaths and quiet moans like a rare kind of sweet, something to enjoy to the fullest. Somehow, though, he finds breath and the coherence to speak.
"Please, Roy, ah! No… we can't do this—ahh… sto—mmph!" I distract him with a forceful kiss as I slick myself and press against that tight pucker that has probably never dealt with this kind of intrusion before. As I slide inside, I play with his erection a little—it is harder now than before, though it has softened a bit from the pain of entry. He is every bit as tight as I imagined, and though at first his expression shows a little pain he seemed to gradually relax, slowly becoming accustomed to my presence inside him. Fingering the blue curls at the base of his shaft (I found it rather amusing that he was, indeed, a genuine bluenette, and though I did not comment on it the fact was still of some entertainment value) I sucked the tip into my mouth again. Teasing it with my tongue and lashing the shaft with long, slow licks, I did not find the salty bitterness of his precome entirely disagreeable. Perhaps it had to do with how he began pleading with me not to tease him so terribly, his skin flushed with the heat of arousal and tears welling anew from his eyes.
Long, steady thrusts went deeper, faster, harder, and all he could do was spread his legs wider and plead for more with breathless moans and impassioned cries. Clearly he no longer thought of the coming wedding, nor of his future wife—all he could see was me, all he could feel was how much he liked being impaled upon my sex. Stroking him once, I watched as he arched his back and cried out helplessly, his first climax something that will probably be imprinted on my memory forever. He was truly a stunning creature—but I wasn't done with him yet.
After all, he was still hard. I angled my thrusts carefully, and when I hit his prostate and stroked him firmly at the same time he threw his head back and quietly keened my name. Hoisting his right leg over my left shoulder, I thrust in still deeper, harder, and he rewarded me by crying my name again.
I had never once dreamed that the cold, handsome—nay, ravishingly beautiful—prince of Altea would look so utterly luscious like this; his skin flushed, lithe body covered in sweat, and his rock-hard, leaking arousal jutting proudly from between his legs as he met my every thrust with a moan and a push of his hips against mine. It was not long before he covered my stomach in his release with a wail and a strangled cry that sounded like my name—I was not long after him, his orgasm pushing me ever so close to the edge. His walls clenched around me, almost painfully—three thrusts and I stiffened and spilled my seed deep inside him, breathing his name softly as I claimed his mouth again one last time.
"Roy… why did you do it? I… I never wanted this…" He buried his face into the side of one of his arms, unwilling to look at me. Tomorrow, he will marry a princess, dressed in his best formal attire as such royal weddings require. Tomorrow, he will no longer be only mine.
I look at him long and hard, taking in every detail of his still naked body—his lean, muscular form, his coldly attractive blue eyes, that impossible-yet-natural shade of blue hair… his pale thighs, softened length, the hickey I left on his collarbone, the tracks that his tears have left on his face. I have yet to untie his hands from the headboard. In the end, I cannot tell him anything but what is the truth in my eyes.
"I love you," I say, and he looks like he's been punched in the stomach. "I don't want to lose you. This… was my last chance." This was my last chance to make you mine.
He looks at me, his expression now unreadable, and says carefully, "You are a fool, Roy." Then he closes his mouth and will say nothing more. Shutting his eyes, he spreads his legs and offers himself to me in silence.
A/N: Dreadful excuse, really, but I was quite terribly bored and in a mildly sadistic mood. shrug At least Roy didn't do any excess damage aside from the whole scarring-the-psyche deal that usually results from rape. Erm... yeah. Hated it, loved it, wanted to call me a psychotic bastard with too much time on my hands? By all means, reviews are the best places to do that.