Quem dorme à noite comigo
Who sleeps at night with me
É meu segredo.
Is my secret.

The fresco, the white walls, reminded of the buildings Cross had seen in Portugal, some years ago. (Allen would walk amongst them and the winding alleyways of some grand city in Europe some time after now, and wonder about them, because he would be in Japan.) When he saw the milk chocolate skin of Tyki Mikk's arm very close to his eye, brushing on a high cheekbone and shifting garish red hair out of its naturally graceful swoops, he realized why. But he was no longer outside with the fresco.

His vision blurry, the movements of the body situated in his lap were slow and smooth, the expanse of skin down between rolled up sleeves and white gloves made him think of cocoa powder and milk poured and hardened on bone. But the skin was soft, and the small, almost-invisible dark hairs on it pleasant against his rough jaw. He also smelt of flowers. And alcohol. It was all so soft and pleasant and warm here, blushing warm like a good buzz, and his lesser judgment suggested he might have left himself in the care of a woman for the past several nights.

The dull clinking of chains was in the air, but he was too dazed and lazy to know what this, and the darkness all around, meant. He shifted, and a quiet voice above him sounded confused, "Qual?" No, that was a man's.

There were some shafts of sunlight spilling in through the narrow windows and over the hard flooring he was suddenly aware of, but nothing could compare to the pair of bright orange that came down from above. Tyki looked straight at Cross with those dilated cat's eyes, from sockets with dark skin and black, curled bangs tied back high on his skull. There was a slow smile for him. "Que pana. Descuple, mas... tens sono?"

There was not enough of Cross' mind coherent enough at the moment to understand the exotic language that rolled fluently off of the other's tongue, but easily it was recognized as Portuguese. Something inside his chest hurt and his eyes closed for several moments.

He was acting like this for a reason. There were drugs. They were either slowing his mind down or pulling it bit by bit out of the reverie others had brought him into; he couldn't think of their names but they had always been described as having the effects he was feeling now. His heart beat profoundly, but slowly, and he became aware of the labored breaths coursing from his lips, his air the taste of heavy wine and something bitter. The grizzle on his chin was thicker and had spread up along his jaw line, slightly over the top of his lip. He had been here several days, but he was clean and so was the Exorcist uniform covering his body. Someone took care of him. Had he been in a daze?

"Noah," Cross muttered.

Mas se insistirem, lhes digo,
But if they insist, I say to them,
O medo mora comigo,
Fear saddled with me
Mas só o medo,
But only fear.

"That's right, pão," Tyki said, smiling still. His hands came down from above Cross' head and the chain he had fastened to the wall, white gloved fingers coming to curl about a strong chin on either side of it, so lengthy the tips settled at the bottoms of his ears. "That's right." His voice was a breathy grin, smelt of the same things Cross tasted.

The Portuguese man pressed his forehead to his and Cross' brows furrowed; he swore he could feel the crown of thorns burning its mark into his own skull, but that was a mark reserved only for Noah's descendants. But he was too tired to be angry or threatened yet; he simply felt, and fragments of the past floated around in his head, of being called pão before. He remembered it as Portuguese for "bread," but in their native land it was what they called handsome men. The old Noah, dead now, had used it.

He tried to shift a little, and that was when he knew there was cause for alarm; behind his back, there was something cold and uncomfortable digging into his skin, keeping his wrists crossed and placed at the bottom of his spine. His neck was bound by some black leather collar, notched taut to his throat, and connected to a chain that let up from the floor, to his wrists, to the back of his neck, and—tugging on it—he discovered something on the wall behind him.

Cross didn't feel like the collar choked him, but rather, the gentle touch of the hands did, for he knew what blood was spilt on them, that the softness and the chocolate was poison, and the wine in his throat hadn't been a kind he'd ever tasted before. He made his first attempts at struggle.

Orange eyes narrowed, displeased. This would not do.

It was one thing to be grasped by the neck, chained to the wall, and have all possible forms of movement bound from you, to be made a prisoner of one's own body—but there was a new level of capture that was a unique pleasure, which was solely Tyki's. When Cross felt himself held by his spinal cord, suddenly, he had no choice but to fall absolutely still, immediately, to avoid any damage.

Tyki's hands sunk through the leather, his skin, past the flesh, blood, anything vital, and came to touch the bones that supported his head. Cross was not unaware of the things the Noah family were capable of, but being subjected to their powers one by one had always been unique experience. He decided, immediately, that this one would be one of the most frightening. (It was, after all, the one that made Allen cry.)

The position of his hands simultaneously blocked his air and caused Cross to have a distinct desire to throw up. He could not move, but his eyes popped wide now, and his chest heaved but there was nothing, and he could feel a dull, imaginary pressure against the back of his throat, inside it, like someone was pushing a tongue depressor far too far down, and was inching it further and further to trigger a gag reflex.

Tyki pushed his thumbs up, and pressed them to the back of his throat, stretching the pipe that allowed air, giving him a small but precious breath through the space between the extension of the thumb and his palm, and then moving them backward to press the other side against his tongue, beginning to truly trigger what Cross had only imagined before.

Cross choked, and as he unconsciously jerked and made a strained noise, Tyki let his spinal cord pass through his hands, and then let him go completely. Once immaculately white gloves now full of blood and mucus and other fluids, mixed tar black, wound red, and sick green, he looked at them distastefully and removed them quickly; his hand phased through the less than desirable coating and touched only the clean fabric, tossing them aside several feet away in a goopy pile.

"Now look what you've made me do."

The dark-skinned man sat back on his legs—his backside rested on Cross' outstretched ones—and watched him with wide eyes and a blank face. His hands came to settle down on his own knees and he just looked at him. The other gasped for breath and tried to force the lurching feeling away from his stomach, but it was hard to suppress when doubled over fear and anger.

Tyki was nothing short of amused, and another grin spread across his face. Cross said nothing, but jerked against his chains and struggled to make the man get off of him. His wrists twitched, his throat choked itself on the tugging leather, and his irritation was amplified by the sound of subtle, haughty laughing.

"Temper, temper, pão," Tyki teased, lifting one of his bare hands to grasp firmly at the other's scratchy chin. He squeezed, and held him in place, tilting his head as he leaned in slowly. Thumb rubbed along steadily growing stubble, while Cross' single eye trained itself to lock with his, and he gave a fierce stare.

A moonlit gaze stroked his form up and down slowly. Tyki half-lidded his eyes and leaned forward again, while easing the angry beast's neck forward to the farthest point that chains would allow, chains rattling as if the metal leash of a dog being strained. He stared. Cross growled.

The scent of alcohol was so heavy then, the Exorcist swore he was getting drunk off the smell of him.

A kiss, then, initiated by the Noah. Hard, and deep. Needy. There were no warnings. Cross wanted to draw back, and did, for a moment—but received a profound jerk forward. He decided it would be best to stay in place as the other man desired, because who knew what else he would do to his body if he didn't.

He could taste foreign wine on his lips and on his tongue, all of him sloppy and wet at the mouth, and he realized the other man was probably so drunk he didn't know just what the hell he was doing.

Sucking the face off of an Exorcist.

An awkward tilt of the head for a moment and Cross managed to get a look behind Tyki: several feet away, there sat numerous amber bottles with sunlight pouring through them and glimmering patterns on the floor. All except one were empty, and in that but one fifth of its contents left. It was Mama Juana, a Latin drink from the Caribbean: a heavy, thick mixture of rum, wine, honey, and herbs left to soak with one another. He had no idea how much Tyki had made him consume, how much Tyki had consumed himself.

The Exorcist smiled, just a little, into the kiss, in spite of himself. It was the drugs, the alcohol, the sickness and morbidity of it all that made him do that, and what could he do but play the game. If he were lucky, Tyki would come to eventually and realize the mistake he'd made. Live with the regret.

Tyki was, oddly, saddled with the same logic.

It started with that kiss, all hot and hungry and Tyki's tongue forcing itself inside Cross' sweet mouth, lapping at the traces of alcohol from what he'd forced him to swallow, craving more of it, craving more of him after he had a taste. The fire was lit then and the Exorcist gave in, slowly.

This was sweet, sweet blackmail and he was going to make Cross' skin crawl. He was going to make him the man who had done dirty things with a Noah. He wouldn't be able to escape the imaginary whispers all around him, the ones that say, look, there's Cross Marian. He's fucked a Noah. He was going to be the one who got hot and tight in the pants when Tyki touched him, and those pants were part of an Exorcist'suniform, and he was going to make him cum in them, cum because Tyki goddamned Mikk just got him so fucking hot he couldn't hold it back anymore.

Tyki laughed abruptly at the devilish thoughts, against the other's mouth, and then pulled away an inch or two, his tongue playing over his lips, lapping teasingly, teeth nipping at the corners of his mouth. He didn't really react, rather, allowed the man to do what he wished to his mouth then, staring quietly, eye only half-open, across at him.

That was not enough for Tyki.

É com silêncio que fala,
And in silence it speaks,
Com voz de móvel que estala
With the voice of creaking furniture
E nos perturba a razão
And clouding reason.

He was going to work him up. His hands lifted; one placed itself partly over his shoulder, partly over the breast of his coat—covering the Black Order's emblem proudly displayed there, which he ignored completely. The other hand began to undo the large, white buttons, fingering at them expertly and working them loose of their holes. He pressed more kisses against Cross' face as he worked his way down, kissing and biting his scratchy jaw line, breathing hot alcohol breath against his skin, purring like a cat in heat.

Now he opened the garment, carelessly ripped the buttons of the white shirt away, wishing to himself the Exorcist uniform had been flimsy enough to do with that with as well... but that had to remain in tact, for there were plans for destruction otherwise. The shirt was out of his way and he placed both hands to Cross' bare chest, pulling from his tugging kisses to look down at it, smile knowingly, and rub his hands over the smooth, hardened muscles. Cross arched into his touch. This was years of work. Destroying Akuma. Killing Tyki's family.

A hiss. "Cabrao." Nails dug into skin.

Cross tensed. Tyki eased his anger by feeling out his body slowly, stroking every curve and arch and—he was like a Greek statue, Tyki thought—and flawless and tan and smooth. His hands moved along his chest, his broad and strong shoulders, working down again and to his abdomen. Tyki hated it and found his own cock hardening with every touch of it; this body, this body that would kill his people was on so many levels, so desirable. Desejável.

The Exorcist just watched, trying to keep himself even; his breath was getting more ragged.

Tilting his head up, Tyki flashed him a toothy smile, leaning up to flick his tongue at the bottom of Cross' earlobe. "Vamos fazer uma sacanagem," was purred in a husky whisper, looking down and letting one set of fingers run themselves just an inch or two along the inside of the waistline of Cross' pants. "Let's do something dirty."

The red-head sharply inhaled, "Mmmnh," as he felt a hand cupped at his crotch firmly, and long fingers were beginning to massage, rubbing first at the very bottom, around his balls and shifting the skin.

Then the fingers moved up, and Tyki felt out the hard curve of a surprisingly erect cock through the fabric, pressing his palm against it and sliiiiding it up—"Do you like that, cabrao?"—like he was pushing a quiet moan out of Cross' lips until he felt his palm pressing against his washboard stomach again, against the wiry dark hairs that trailed from his navel and downward.

"You want it, you sick fuck," Cross muttered.

This was the reaction he was looking for. "Acho que eu estou ficando viciada em você." Now just a little more...

Fingers first undid the bottom at the top of his pants, then grasped the tab at the top of the zipper and began to pull it slowly down. An impressive bulge protruded from the V-shaped slit of the trousers, which Tyki eyed with hungry orange eyes and smiled at the sight of. Wasting no time, he pushed the last covering of fabric out of his way to let him free. Who knew General Cross Marian had such a big dick. No wonder the ladies loved him.

Cross huffed through his nostrils, feeling himself played with, and shifted his eyes down lazily to watch; he was very aware of his surroundings now but his body lagged, struggling to process what happening still. Thoughts disjointed, his consciousness danced from being pissed off he was held captive to being very, very horny and just not giving a fuck. The most intense sensation was the hardening of his length the more Tyki played with it, running his fingers up and down it, tracing the veins and tugging the dark, ruddy skin. His brows furrowed in reaction, lips parting slightly to give a louder moan than before. What man could not get hard when such dark, long, and talented fingers touched him?

Tyki caught the sound in his ears, loved it, and looked up at his face. Wrapping his fingers and palm around the entirety of the shaft, he began to slowly stroke Cross' cock up and down, drawing soft noises from his lips and leaning in to kiss him, to catch them and let them reverberate in the cavern of his own mouth. He replied to them, lips and words and tongue crushing all together in many breaths of hot, needy mumbling, "Yes, oh yes, gatinho, cabrao, mmmm..."

He wasn't even doing anything but letting him sit there and stroke his cock, but Tyki swore this was the stiffest he'd ever felt in his entire life. Perhaps it was the danger, the wrongness of it all; to him, he was playing with the enemy, forcing him to submit and make him like this, make him dirty and want more.

Cross wasn't sure what he felt, besides good in the crotch, mildly annoyed at Tyki thinking he was the one running the show, and that he really wished that he was coherent enough so he could enjoy this properly.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized his dream: if Tyki wanted to play this game, he would fucking play it with him, and that was what kept him wanting more. Exorcists didn't roll over and beg like dogs; Cross found himself entertaining the idea of being free from his chains and collar and pushing Tyki down onto the ground, pressing his face to the floor with his calloused fingers holding him by those pretty, curly strings of black hair, and shoving himself deep inside that ass, that ass that had to be so tight and hot, and fucking him, making him SCREAM, not moan, for him. For an Exorcist.

But Tyki kept playing, stroking, faster and faster, until the friction was beginning to make Cross hurt a little. He growled in distaste and bucked his hips to show the frustration, which resulted in a small laugh from the Noah. He bit at his lip and then drew back, unwrapping his hand from him and instead, shifting forward, so Cross was properly sandwiched between his own abdomen and Tyki's clothed one. Tyki pressed his body against his, forcing his weight to the wall, and so he made another noise of discomfort, feeling his cock squished.

"Don't... fucking..."

"Don't fucking what, gatinho?" There was a smile in his voice; Tyki's head bowed, and he kissed up his thick neck, licked and bit at it as well, gracing over the leather and covering every inch of skin available to him.

His fingers started to tease the head of Cross' cock while keeping it pressed in place, his pointer and middle rubbing over the very small slit and feeling the bountiful stickiness that dewed there, "You're cumming for me, pão." Then rubbing his precum around the bottom ridge of the head, and eventually, spreading down to the shaft, where he worked it all over, getting him slick, playing with it. "You're cumming so much."

Cross didn't bother to answer; he just moaned. His body arched again, but this time it was not from discomfort and it was much harder to control. Tyki loved these reactions he was getting.

Between his thighs aching, the Noah decided he wanted to be played with too.

Using his clean hand, Tyki quickly worked his pants down as he lifted himself off of him for a moment, easing them off his hips and letting Cross get a good view of his dark-skinned cock as he tugged it out. Mouth parted as he licked his lips, he swung his lower-half forward and rubbed the wet, glistening head against the Exorcist's stomach, smearing the lighter skin with his own precum.

"Mmm." Giving himself a few strokes, he lowered his body again and pressed close; their cocks rested against one another and he began to rock slowly, keeping himself steady by holding onto Cross' broad shoulders. He lifted one hand momentarily to tilt his chin upward, however, and cup the side of his face; tilting his head, he pressed bruisingly hard against his lips as he moved against him, riding his body, feeling their cocks rubbing together, trapped, again and again. Precum dripping, mixing, spreading over their stomachs, seeping.

His heart racing a million miles a moment, Cross returned the kiss, his breath labored and his body frustrated. He stopped to bite at Tyki's tongue and then his lip, and growled huskily, "Touch it."

"Ooohhh, fuck. Mm." More kisses, all of them sloppy and drunk. "Mmmmm."

"Fucking touch it." His chains shifted. He wanted his hands back.

Laughing, licking, purring. "Suddenly so responsive, General..." Tyki's sticky fingers slowly trailed down Cross' uniform, spreading his own precum across that fucking emblem, trailing all the way and then finally grabbing him—grabbing them both, and beginning to jerk. Hard.

"Shit!" Cross hissed, "Ahhh... fuck, Noah..."

"That's it," Tyki muttered, burying his face in his neck as he felt himself building up, rapidly stroking up and down their cocks together, making sure they were coated in one another. "Moan that name. Moan that name."

"No, you fucking... ahh... ahhh oh god," and suddenly Cross had trouble breathing correctly, and all he could make were unintelligible sounds, "Oh god, oh god, oh god, fuck, Noah..." He could feel Tyki's fingers, slick and wet and warm, rubbing up and down him again and again, feel the skin of his cock brushing against his, feel that translucent stickiness seeping against his own, getting milkier and milkier.

"Ahhhh. Gatinho. Gatinho," he heard Tyki whimper. "Eu estou gozando... eu estou gozando... FUCK."

Gritar: quem pode salvar-me
Crying: who can save me
Do que está dentro de mim?
From what's inside me?

His stomach, suddenly, was plastered in white; Tyki's cock erupted in a series of thick, sticky jets of cum, aimed to land mostly against Cross' abdomen, along the set of rolling muscles there. He heard the man cry out in a way he never would have expected him to: a high whimper, his complete surrender of his body in that moment, as heat shot through his thighs and stomach and he made himself finish on Cross.

In several seconds, he was resigned to the same fate. His throat strained the collar and he bucked up hard, unable to control the feral growl that came from his mouth, and his stomach received a second coat, nice and thick.

Minds swimming with alcohol and who knew what else, the two of them rocked against each other the last few times desperate to force out all that they could, until both were spent and there wasn't even enough energy to open their eyes. The final mewls and grunts of pleasure came and went, and then...


Dizzy, Tyki pressed his forehead against the high shoulder of Cross, where he opened his orangey gaze and stared at the blackness of his coat. The Exorcist leaned himself back against the wall. The two of them just paused to breathe for a few moments, and the reality of the situation came flooding into their minds like someone had released a floodgate of negativity.

Gostava até de matar-me...
Even wanting to kill myself...

Tyki looked up, and stared blankly for a few seconds. Cross met his gaze. What had they done?

Everything was still so blurry, for the both of them. They smelt musty and potent, sex and alcohol, and it was quickly making the both of them sick. Cross would be the one who would have to sit it out; Tyki's heart thundered in his chest as he quickly moved back, stumbling on all fours like an awkward newborn foal, swallowing hard as the heels of his dark shoes hit against the bottles with a loud series of clangs.

The last of the Mama Juana tipped over, spilling dark brown liquid all over the floor. Tyki only gave it a moment's glance, before looking across at the Exorcist General with wide eyes, frozen.

Cross had jumped at the noise, and then met him in a blank long stare, silent, as a knot in his stomach formed. Shaking his head, the other man was hurriedly moving to his feet and stumbling about like he was rushed. Tyki did up his pants and wiped his hands quickly against his own clothes in a stupor of terror. What had they done?

The general shifted uncomfortably, finding good in spite of his sickness: Tyki was a spooked cat, unsure of what to do with himself and stumbling out of the room like an idiot, making himself presentable.

The general laughed, and asked himself out loud: "What was it again? Sacanagem."

Mas eu sei que ele há-de esperar-me,
I know he'll be waiting for me,
Ao pé da ponte do fim.
At the final bridge.

Tyki would have to be back eventually.


The lyrics featured throughout the story are from Mariza's song, "Medo."

Translations... first, let me say I don't speak Portuguese that well, and what I do know of it is very, very broken. Hell, the lyrics of the song might even be inaccurate, because I translated them myself. If you know the language better and would like to correct me, please feel free to. That said, here we go...

sacanagem something dirty/naughty (in a sexual way) "O que?" "What?"
"Que pana. Desculpe, mas... tens sono?" "That's too bad. Excuse me, but... are you sleepy?"
pão bread, slang for a handsome man
cabrao bastard, vulgar
"Acho que eu estou ficando viciado em você." "I think I'm getting attached to you."
gatinho little cat, kitten, like America's "baby" but for males, usually used among couples, or creepy people P
"Eu estou gozando." "I'm cumming."

And it's done.