save the biggest slice for me.
fandom: Code Geass
rating: NC-17
genre: drama, PWP.
word count: 978
warnings: violence, NSFW. One-sided Diethard/Zero.
notes: Sort of an alternate ending for the first season. Written in 30 text messages to optical_nerve.
Diethard moving lips over the celluloid still of Zero's helmet, his spit glistening hot on the projector screen where Zero's mouth would be, where Diethard imagines the marble pale line of Zero's jaw, all those thin delicate bones that make your face look sunken in and hollow on film, the sweeping high cheekbones and the hard Britannian slope of his nose. Diethard moves fingers over the dark curve of helmet where the terrorist's mouth should be, hanging open, slack, the soft pink skin red and bloody from nervous biting, from Zero licking his lips between chess moves.
Diethard, he thrusts into his hand as he fastforwards through genocide footage, through propaganda death film stills of piles of Eleven refugee corpses.
His cock dripping hot over knuckles knobby from being bent hours around a camcorder, a scene of a Knightmare frame exploding, the driver flying from the wreckage, all of it beyond mangled, plays fast and blurry across Diethard's hunched shoulders. He presses play as Zero comes onscreen again, him wrapped death camp skinny in his cape, talking booming and loud to a sea of supporters. How all of those people have lost something, you can tell that Zero, he doesn't even care. How he sounds forever preoccupied, Diethard knows he practices speeches alone in his room. Shouts a thousand words of suicidal hope and encouragement to that green-haired chick, and all she does is laugh. What no one can help but admire about that girl, it's how bored she is. Getting a view of Zero anyone else would die to ahve, and she's just as selfish as he is.
As selfish as anyone is.
Years spent in the journalism business, Diethard, he knows no one works for the common good. How he doesn't care whether the rebellion succeeds, how he's just along for the ride, for the scoop, he figures the same is true for everyone else in the Black Knights.
In the scenes they won't show you in the documentary, you've got hidden 8mm footage of Zero clenching his fist in the air, over and over again. Practice.
The scenes that really get Diethard's rocks off, they're ones where Zero, he sits, clicking a pen for minutes. How, in the grainy film, you can catch those wasted young limbs shaking, all of him knees and elbows crashing hard, long fingers scrabbling at the mask you can tell he's just itchign to rip off but knows he can't, it's those captures of Zero, the ribs-showing caged lion, that Diethard's rubbing himself off to against the projector screen. Beneath him laughing, breathing hard, over the gattling gun rattle of the sprockets punching holes in the soundtrack, you can hear Zero panting. His breaths, ragged. The green-haired girl gone, in this footage; his favorite, you can hear Zero whispering, "Nunnally." Saying, "It's going to be okay." Just quiet enough to hear, he wraps himself in his cape and says, "I will make everything all right, for you."
This clip's running time, it's fifteen minutes long. Zero does this forever.
Diethard bunches up the screen in his wet hands, the floor of Zero's room warped across his fists.
And Zero says, both hands going to cover the left side of his helmet, "Suzaku." The leather tips of his fingers squeaking barely audible down the side of the mask, Zero groans, "I am so, so sorry."
Diethard smears his cum across the black and white shuddering blur of Zero's abdomen, and he starts working his fingers over the film reel as Zero starts on, "Euphie--" What the reporter guesses was some sort of pet name for the people's beloved teenage princess who just happened to like assault rifles more than she liked the Japanese. How Zero knows that name, he has no idea, but the film stops there. The sound cuts out and the celluloid, it starts to wear thin as Zero pries fingers under the bottom of his helmet.
Diethard's zipping up his fly as the movie cuts, loud, to documentary footage of Honorary Britannian Suzaku Kururugi's nationally televised execution. Diethard, he's slipping on his jacket as the speakers throb with gunshots. He's locking the door at the part where the news cameras swung away, where he caught them hauling off the body, it so riddled with bulletholes, you can tell that Zero, how he pauses for a long moment, hunched willowy over the corpse, before he turns to the crowd and says, "And thus always traitors," you can tell he can't recognize Szuaku anymore. Zero's hands clench and unclench, almost unnoticeable, fast, at his sides, and you can tell that whatever connection used to be there, whatever thick thread of human relation used to hang heavy between them, it's not there, anymore.
---------------------------
Diethard, his shadow is super-imposed over the Tokyo settlement going up in flames. He spreads his arms, and he says, "This is a film for the new world." Fastforwarding to the crash and roar of a thousand recorded Hail Zeros, Diethard yells, "This is the music for the revolution!" It's all just grainy Super-8 footage, but Diehard, his shadow looming huge and dark over all of them, he says that this is what people will remember Zero by. Long after you're dead--and long live Zero--you'll live on in my movies. In the hearts of people that watch this movie. Diethard, his face dripping wet with sweat, he drops to one knee, and whispers, "Please, Zero. If you allow me to continue...I could have thousands of people writing your bible. The Black Knights will go down as heroes. People will remember you forever."
"You're making a mockery of me." Zero uncrosses his legs. He stands up, Diethard eye-level with his knees, and looks down. "You underestimate the Order of the Black Knights."
rating: NC-17
genre: drama, PWP.
word count: 978
warnings: violence, NSFW. One-sided Diethard/Zero.
notes: Sort of an alternate ending for the first season. Written in 30 text messages to optical_nerve.
Diethard moving lips over the celluloid still of Zero's helmet, his spit glistening hot on the projector screen where Zero's mouth would be, where Diethard imagines the marble pale line of Zero's jaw, all those thin delicate bones that make your face look sunken in and hollow on film, the sweeping high cheekbones and the hard Britannian slope of his nose. Diethard moves fingers over the dark curve of helmet where the terrorist's mouth should be, hanging open, slack, the soft pink skin red and bloody from nervous biting, from Zero licking his lips between chess moves.
Diethard, he thrusts into his hand as he fastforwards through genocide footage, through propaganda death film stills of piles of Eleven refugee corpses.
His cock dripping hot over knuckles knobby from being bent hours around a camcorder, a scene of a Knightmare frame exploding, the driver flying from the wreckage, all of it beyond mangled, plays fast and blurry across Diethard's hunched shoulders. He presses play as Zero comes onscreen again, him wrapped death camp skinny in his cape, talking booming and loud to a sea of supporters. How all of those people have lost something, you can tell that Zero, he doesn't even care. How he sounds forever preoccupied, Diethard knows he practices speeches alone in his room. Shouts a thousand words of suicidal hope and encouragement to that green-haired chick, and all she does is laugh. What no one can help but admire about that girl, it's how bored she is. Getting a view of Zero anyone else would die to ahve, and she's just as selfish as he is.
As selfish as anyone is.
Years spent in the journalism business, Diethard, he knows no one works for the common good. How he doesn't care whether the rebellion succeeds, how he's just along for the ride, for the scoop, he figures the same is true for everyone else in the Black Knights.
In the scenes they won't show you in the documentary, you've got hidden 8mm footage of Zero clenching his fist in the air, over and over again. Practice.
The scenes that really get Diethard's rocks off, they're ones where Zero, he sits, clicking a pen for minutes. How, in the grainy film, you can catch those wasted young limbs shaking, all of him knees and elbows crashing hard, long fingers scrabbling at the mask you can tell he's just itchign to rip off but knows he can't, it's those captures of Zero, the ribs-showing caged lion, that Diethard's rubbing himself off to against the projector screen. Beneath him laughing, breathing hard, over the gattling gun rattle of the sprockets punching holes in the soundtrack, you can hear Zero panting. His breaths, ragged. The green-haired girl gone, in this footage; his favorite, you can hear Zero whispering, "Nunnally." Saying, "It's going to be okay." Just quiet enough to hear, he wraps himself in his cape and says, "I will make everything all right, for you."
This clip's running time, it's fifteen minutes long. Zero does this forever.
Diethard bunches up the screen in his wet hands, the floor of Zero's room warped across his fists.
And Zero says, both hands going to cover the left side of his helmet, "Suzaku." The leather tips of his fingers squeaking barely audible down the side of the mask, Zero groans, "I am so, so sorry."
Diethard smears his cum across the black and white shuddering blur of Zero's abdomen, and he starts working his fingers over the film reel as Zero starts on, "Euphie--" What the reporter guesses was some sort of pet name for the people's beloved teenage princess who just happened to like assault rifles more than she liked the Japanese. How Zero knows that name, he has no idea, but the film stops there. The sound cuts out and the celluloid, it starts to wear thin as Zero pries fingers under the bottom of his helmet.
Diethard's zipping up his fly as the movie cuts, loud, to documentary footage of Honorary Britannian Suzaku Kururugi's nationally televised execution. Diethard, he's slipping on his jacket as the speakers throb with gunshots. He's locking the door at the part where the news cameras swung away, where he caught them hauling off the body, it so riddled with bulletholes, you can tell that Zero, how he pauses for a long moment, hunched willowy over the corpse, before he turns to the crowd and says, "And thus always traitors," you can tell he can't recognize Szuaku anymore. Zero's hands clench and unclench, almost unnoticeable, fast, at his sides, and you can tell that whatever connection used to be there, whatever thick thread of human relation used to hang heavy between them, it's not there, anymore.
---------------------------
Diethard, his shadow is super-imposed over the Tokyo settlement going up in flames. He spreads his arms, and he says, "This is a film for the new world." Fastforwarding to the crash and roar of a thousand recorded Hail Zeros, Diethard yells, "This is the music for the revolution!" It's all just grainy Super-8 footage, but Diehard, his shadow looming huge and dark over all of them, he says that this is what people will remember Zero by. Long after you're dead--and long live Zero--you'll live on in my movies. In the hearts of people that watch this movie. Diethard, his face dripping wet with sweat, he drops to one knee, and whispers, "Please, Zero. If you allow me to continue...I could have thousands of people writing your bible. The Black Knights will go down as heroes. People will remember you forever."
"You're making a mockery of me." Zero uncrosses his legs. He stands up, Diethard eye-level with his knees, and looks down. "You underestimate the Order of the Black Knights."