This is just a space for all the fic I have written/will write about Pandora Hearts characters... fapping. No promises on which characters or situations you will see, but feel free to review and make suggestions. If a couple of these look familiar, that's because they were originally kink meme fills. (No, I would never have thought to write Yura on my own.)

#1 Isla Yura

It's not enough, it's never enough. There's a thick metal chain wrapped around his twitching, dripping member, and still he's desperate for more. Is this what THE chains feel like? The ones that B-rabbit so casually tosses around, or the ones held by those creatures that reside in that place that he can only dream about. He knows those chains can pierce flesh, knows they can restrain, they can kill, but this pitiful simple metal replacement doesn't do anything at all, but turn tortured cock a darker purple as he, panting, thrusts toward the empty air.

He wants to know. He wants to lay them all bare, and he will someday, he's promised himself. All the money and the cultists and the words of paradise are nothing next to the sick selfish desire to see with his own eyes and feel with his own hands all those things that lay beyond.

Will they pierce him like this, like he pierces himself, feeding link after link of the cool rough metal into his body, straining his lithe form against cool stone, each wiry muscle bunched and knotted with the strain of his awkward position? Surely those creatures will share his perverse longings, those unknowable unnatural forms will writhe and twist and shudder in the darkness of the Abyss, tortured and torturing.

It's not the paradise he describes that he longs for, after all.

No.

It's the torture of it all, this man, sadist and masochist both, wants to see. And it's those thoughts that pound in his brain as he closes his eyes, begins to slowly tug on the chain, unwinding the end wrapped so artfully around his purpled pulsing head even as he sliiiiiides the other end - link by link so slowly - out of his twitching fluttering hole.

Behind his closed lids, there are a multitude of images, flickers of those around him in obscene poses, from the dead children of Fianna house stretched open on cold slabs to the brilliant beautiful figure of Jack-Oz Vessalius, gleaming under a warm sun, standing tall and straining forth a leaking erection to offer his own meager humble self a taste.

There's no continuity to it, none at all, as his shattered-broken-obsessed brain erupts alongside the straining body, streaming images of Glen Baskerville chained to the sealing stone, dripping-dripping blood and Vessalius seed alike, the victorious image of the 'Hero of Sablier' hyper-sexualized and become nothing but pornographic fantasy for the zealot.

And when finally he's lying still, on the stone floor, the coils of chain clinking a little as his shuddering form expels the last of them, the sticky mass of someone-else's-blood-his-own-cum splattered across his groin, he speaks a single laughing line to the sickened-curious servant whose duty it is to stand guard over these little sessions.

"Well, that was refreshing."