Me = Catalyst, aka Untitled Ficlet with clones
Okay, everyone who knows imlikat knows she's cracky and wild. It's all good. And the good stuff does weird... things.... to my brain. Hush, yes, I know, it's already there, and I'm just blaming the catalyst. Soooooo, over on Ygal, imlikat, who goes by 'yaoiismy' posted this picture. I really liked the idea, so I posted this ficlet in response.
Untitled Ficlet that was really comment-spam-smut
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Ibiki, Iruka, with hints of Clone Abuse by unnamed Akatsuki
Genre: CRACK
Rating: Rish for uhhh, frot? Cross-dressing? Dub-con? It's all kinda there, but not.
Word Count: 600ish
Disclaimer: I don’t own Naruto. Masashi Kishimoto does, along with whatever other people/entities are along for the ride.
Ibiki wasn't feeling himself, hadn't been for two weeks. He had never imagined his clone would hold out that long. But he kept on working, certain that when the clone disappeared, they would learn something useful about the Akatsuki.
He stood in his office, glaring at the man seated across from him. Why did the teacher have to be so stubborn? He wasn't going to hurt the students - he just thought they should have a few practice interrogation sessions, to make sure if they were captured they would know what to do. But Iruka was refusing.
Then it happened, and Ibiki groaned and sagged against his desk, every sensation, every experience of the clone snapping back into his body in one erotic explosion. His body was hot, his face flushed, and he groaned again when his cock answered with an envious throb.
Iruka stared at him, concerned, but Ibiki waved him aside with a grunt. "Clone reintegration," he gasped, hands white-knuckled against the desk to keep from falling.
With a nod, Iruka pulled out a notepad. "Tell me. It will go faster if you dictate the report now." The faster that got done, the faster Ibiki could leave and take care of the really fantastic erection Iruka was trying not to notice.
Ibiki began to narrate the clone's experiences, too overcome to bother with editing, or analyzing - that would come later. He'd never imagined this was what the Akatsuki did with prisoners.
It took nearly twenty minutes to narrate two weeks worth of time, and Ibiki was practically blind with arousal by the end of it. This was a new kind of torture, one he'd never experienced before. He leaned against the wall behind his desk, panting. His only consolation was his report had affected Iruka as well - the man was shifting in his seat, his face red.
"I have one question before I go write this up properly," Iruka whispered, darting a glance at Ibiki. "What did it feel like? I mean, all that lace and satin. A-a-and the panties. Wasn't it uncomfortable?"
Ibiki shut his eyes for a second. Remembering the brush of the skirt and petticoat against his bare legs, how it rode up in the back when he bent over. A hand slipping between his legs, sliding the satin panties down and slapping a hand against his ass when he missed a spot. And the teacher had the nerve to ask how it felt?
With a growl, he dragged Iruka across his desk, slamming the man down on his back. Ibiki heard cloth ripping, heard Iruka squeak, then moan and gasp when the man's legs were lifted up into the air, his pants and briefs bunched up around his knees. Ibiki scrabbled through his desk drawer, snatching the hand lotion and emptying it on Iruka's stomach, his own pants sliding down to the floor.
"You want to know how it feels?" he whispered, holding Iruka's legs tightly, spreading the lotion over abdomen, cock and legs. "Tell me, Iruka, how does this feel?" He pressed his own cock between Iruka's legs, sliding it across drawn testicles and the hardness of the teacher's cock, hissing when Iruka shrieked and bucked at the contact. "When you can answer that, I'll answer your question." Then he pulled back and thrust forward again, groaning when Iruka's hands held their cocks together, his hips bucking to meet each thrust.
He would apologize later - maybe. Or maybe he would find a maid's outfit and let Iruka find the answer to his question firsthand. But now he was going to get off, counting on the brown skin and flushed, scarred face beneath him to help him forget.
[END]
NOW, after that, how could she not draw me Ibiki in a French Maid's outfit? she couldn't - not draw it, I mean. Voila - Ibiki at your service. Proof that sometimes Crack isn't merely its own reward.
Untitled Ficlet that was really comment-spam-smut
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Ibiki, Iruka, with hints of Clone Abuse by unnamed Akatsuki
Genre: CRACK
Rating: Rish for uhhh, frot? Cross-dressing? Dub-con? It's all kinda there, but not.
Word Count: 600ish
Disclaimer: I don’t own Naruto. Masashi Kishimoto does, along with whatever other people/entities are along for the ride.
Ibiki wasn't feeling himself, hadn't been for two weeks. He had never imagined his clone would hold out that long. But he kept on working, certain that when the clone disappeared, they would learn something useful about the Akatsuki.
He stood in his office, glaring at the man seated across from him. Why did the teacher have to be so stubborn? He wasn't going to hurt the students - he just thought they should have a few practice interrogation sessions, to make sure if they were captured they would know what to do. But Iruka was refusing.
Then it happened, and Ibiki groaned and sagged against his desk, every sensation, every experience of the clone snapping back into his body in one erotic explosion. His body was hot, his face flushed, and he groaned again when his cock answered with an envious throb.
Iruka stared at him, concerned, but Ibiki waved him aside with a grunt. "Clone reintegration," he gasped, hands white-knuckled against the desk to keep from falling.
With a nod, Iruka pulled out a notepad. "Tell me. It will go faster if you dictate the report now." The faster that got done, the faster Ibiki could leave and take care of the really fantastic erection Iruka was trying not to notice.
Ibiki began to narrate the clone's experiences, too overcome to bother with editing, or analyzing - that would come later. He'd never imagined this was what the Akatsuki did with prisoners.
It took nearly twenty minutes to narrate two weeks worth of time, and Ibiki was practically blind with arousal by the end of it. This was a new kind of torture, one he'd never experienced before. He leaned against the wall behind his desk, panting. His only consolation was his report had affected Iruka as well - the man was shifting in his seat, his face red.
"I have one question before I go write this up properly," Iruka whispered, darting a glance at Ibiki. "What did it feel like? I mean, all that lace and satin. A-a-and the panties. Wasn't it uncomfortable?"
Ibiki shut his eyes for a second. Remembering the brush of the skirt and petticoat against his bare legs, how it rode up in the back when he bent over. A hand slipping between his legs, sliding the satin panties down and slapping a hand against his ass when he missed a spot. And the teacher had the nerve to ask how it felt?
With a growl, he dragged Iruka across his desk, slamming the man down on his back. Ibiki heard cloth ripping, heard Iruka squeak, then moan and gasp when the man's legs were lifted up into the air, his pants and briefs bunched up around his knees. Ibiki scrabbled through his desk drawer, snatching the hand lotion and emptying it on Iruka's stomach, his own pants sliding down to the floor.
"You want to know how it feels?" he whispered, holding Iruka's legs tightly, spreading the lotion over abdomen, cock and legs. "Tell me, Iruka, how does this feel?" He pressed his own cock between Iruka's legs, sliding it across drawn testicles and the hardness of the teacher's cock, hissing when Iruka shrieked and bucked at the contact. "When you can answer that, I'll answer your question." Then he pulled back and thrust forward again, groaning when Iruka's hands held their cocks together, his hips bucking to meet each thrust.
He would apologize later - maybe. Or maybe he would find a maid's outfit and let Iruka find the answer to his question firsthand. But now he was going to get off, counting on the brown skin and flushed, scarred face beneath him to help him forget.
[END]
NOW, after that, how could she not draw me Ibiki in a French Maid's outfit? she couldn't - not draw it, I mean. Voila - Ibiki at your service. Proof that sometimes Crack isn't merely its own reward.