First, a word from Mei.

.destiny: Thank you so much. Really, it was reading your two China and Japan-centric fics that got me into this pairing, ohoho. And of course I'll continue writing this pairing! I love it so much - so much history between the two, raaaagh.

Olivia Odyssey: Hehe, glad that you liked it! I find it a little hard to write fluff for these two, which is why is tends to come out so. . .well, abusive. Ehe. But anyway, I'm glad that you like it.



debase /dɪˈbeɪs/ Spelled Pronunciation [di-beys]
–verb (used with object), -based, -bas
1. to reduce in quality or value; adulterate: They debased the value of the dollar.
2. to lower in rank, dignity, or significance:

The way Honda's hands run over his chest makes the older man shiver, makes his back arch in pleasure, and makes him cry out. But there are times when it is not Honda's name, and the only response from him is a tightening of the hands around his neck. Honda can never understand why Yao always looks at him in such a serene manner - and he simply wants to knock away the look on that face and. . .

"Mmn. . ."

The Chinese man arches underneath his fingers once more, and Honda allows himself a small smirk on his normally impassive face. It pleases him that he can make him moan and cry in such a wanton manner. It makes him proud, to know that he can reduce this - this God to such a state. Honda stops his touches, hears a small whimper at the lack of contact, and turns to find the red armband - a keepsake from his Communist days. He undoes the red fabric, and wraps it around Yao's throat. And still, he stares with impassive eyes, a small smile lifting his lips.

To Yao, giving himself up to Honda like this is a rather mocking act - he acknowledges Honda's superiority, knows that no matter what he says that Honda would take him either way. He knows that the Japanese man needed no consent. But at the same time - that he gave up so willingly. . .Always, after their acts, there is a slight smile on his lips - slow, sensual, mocking, accepting and relieved, and loving.

"Do you want it?" Honda hisses, leaving the scarf around his neck for now, and instead, brushed his hands against the smooth thighs, and then lifted the legs so they were around his waist, and he feels them tighten, pulling him closer.

"Yes, yes, Honda, aru."

It's nice to hear him plead like that.

And as usual, there is the slight gasp of pain from the man underneath, and Honda pulls at the red scarf, tightening it around his neck, and Yao's breath catches in his throat. The thrusts are fast, hard, and rough - just as usual, and Yao is accustomed to them, and he agrees, goes with it willingly, urges Honda on.

As their game continues, Honda tightens the scarf around Yao's throat, and he recognizes the dazed, glazed look in the immortal man's eyes, and knows that it would only be a little more until he would be tipped over the edge. The Chinese man is unusually silent tonight - only small pants and mewls, the occasional moan. This frustrates Honda, and he tightens the scarf even further, hears Yao choke slightly, but knows that the man wouldn't pass out - he is too careful to let that happen.

Faster and faster, harder and harder, and everything between them escalates and Yao wants to cry from it all - the shame, the guilt, the pleasure and -


It's a near scream, and his back is arching off of the bed, and Yao closes his eyes as a kaleidoscope explodes in and around him, the lack of oxygen heightening everything, and his arms are scrabbling down Honda's back, causing bloody and red scratches. And oh, Gods, suddenly, the Chinese man is shockingly tight, and even he can't hold back, and his face twists into pleasure and his hands tighten the scarf once more, and he wants to hear his name like that - just like that, again and again. . .

He collapses onto Yao's body, not bothering to pull out quite yet, and ignores the sticking feeling between their stomachs. He shifts his position, glances at Yao - sees that he is completely relaxed, that serene look on his face once more, that smile. . .The only thing that betrays him is the quick, shallow breaths, and he is not sure as to whether it's from the scarf cutting off his oxygen, or from the games that they play. But he quickly removes the red scarf from around his throat, and instead, ties it around Yao's naked arm. He hears what might have been a laugh, and feels a hand run briefly through his hair.

Despite all of this, Yao still feels like the immortal - the God - that he is, no matter what Honda attempts to do.