He's not a happy drunk. He never really has been. He always tries too hard to be happy for everyone when he's sober that when his inhibitions fall away he is just…sad. He finally realizes that, yes, the fate of the world is on his shoulders and, yes, that should he fail…all is lost. That's not exactly what sends people to sleep with thoughts of lollypops on their minds, and he is no exception.

He has nightmares when he sleeps, and he realizes that the nightmare is reality when he's drunk. It rocks him to his core, and he's often left yelling, crying, destroying something…or…

…or he ends up where he is now.

He's entertaining all three of his drunken faults, yelling, crying, and destroying something, and he's doing it in your bed. What's worse is you're helping him. You're helping him stumble into your room, and you're helping him strip out of his shirt and pants, while he clings to you for balance because he's beyond gone now. You're helping him undo your belts, and holsters, your pants—vaguely you wonder where the hell your shirt went, but that is quickly lost. You're struggling out of your shoes, out of your boxers, and then you're helping him out of his.

You're pushing him on the bed, and you're relishing the way he moans as skin collides with skin, rubs together so sensually, soft and hard and jagged with scars. You're kissing his neck, shoulder. You're moving down his chest until you find his nipple and you lap at it, rough but gentle as it always seems to be when he's here. And he's holding onto you, tearing scratches into your back as you abuse his sensitive pink flesh; damn you are going to hell too, because it's just too erotic when he's feisty.

Then he's yelling:

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Leon! I don't need any damn foreplay…just…" a desperate moan, "just fuck me already!"

You don't listen. You don't care how drunk he is; his body is not just a ragdoll. He deserves pleasure, divine, sinful, unbelievable pleasure! So you keep biting at his chest, switching from one nipple to his other, delighting in the way he arches beneath you and yanks on your hair, the way he moans pathetically and shreds you even more with his nails as he drags them down your side. You just fucking love the way he bucks his hips into yours, trying to get more contact for himself, trying to turn you on more so you just screw him into the mattress like he wants…just trying to touch you because he's so tired of being alone in a roomful of people.

You're pulling away now, moving off of his body and sitting on the bed beneath you, enjoying and mourning the way his body is just spread for you to take. He's so willing to just let himself be used because he feels like there's no way to feel anymore. He can't remember what he's doing on this planet. Radiant Garden is so far away from home and he doesn't know why he left home in the first place. He doesn't understand why he couldn't have just been swallowed up with his home like everyone else! He wants to die; he wants to remember so he can have a reason for wanting to forget again; he wants to feel safe…

You run your hands down his body now, marveling at how thin his is—skeletal—and wondering if you should fuck him or feed him, but you're hard already, and he's looking at you like that, and suddenly you don't care quite as much as you did. He wants you. He wants you here; he wants you now; he wants you bad, and you're not going to deny him such a simple pleasure no matter how immoral it is. So, you reach your hand and you grab him, watching with lust emanating from every pore of your body as he shrieks:

"Getting closer!"

Closer to what he wants, not climaxing. The two of you have played this game enough; he can stay with you right up until the end. He wants you to prepare him quickly and then slam home. He wants it so bad he's practically begging for it. He moans, groans, and he just flat out screams out in frustrations when your hand 'slips' further down for one enticing second before pulling back up to continue stroking him. He arches off the bed, pushing into your hand, and he yells your name. He reaches out for you, grabs your hand that's been holding onto his hip.

Then he guides to fingers safely to be enclosed in his mouth. He sucks and licks them, his lips securely fastened around them, and you're so turned on by that scene! Your cock is twitching, your breathing is labored, more labored than it already was, and you just can't hold back anymore. You pull away from his mouth and you press those two fingers into him, caring as much about ease as he does, which is little. He hisses, and he pushes down on your hand, trying to feel as much as he can, the pain, the pleasure, the overpowering ecstasy as you push your digits in and out of him, stretching and coaxing him to relax.

When he looks at you through lust glazed eyes, his face that perfect pink of that extraordinary flush, and his lips parted so wantonly, that's when you withdraw your fingers out of him, when you slick yourself up with whatever liquids that have already begun leaking from your cock in anticipation of this one moment. Yes, that's when you press into him, as far as he will take you in one, less-than-fluid stroke. His mouth his open now, his head tilted up and sharing with all of Radiant Garden how fucking great this is, how good you feel inside him…

You don't reply. Right now, you don't give a damn, you just feel him around you; you feel how tight he is, how hot…you feel how inanely right this feels for something so god damn wrong. He's barely sixteen and you're twenty-three for god's sake. You should tell him no; he should tell you no. You shouldn't let him get this drunk. You shouldn't let him arouse you this easily. You just shouldn't…

But you do, especially when he looks up at you with his dark blue eyes and his says in a small whimper:

"Leon…just move!"

You nod once, and then you're pulling out just a fraction of a hair, watching as his legs spread even further for you, and you're pushing in harder. You pull one of his legs up to hang off of your shoulder so you can penetrate him further, and after that, lust takes over. You take him however you want and he lets you, crying out in pleasure and tossing his head this way and that as his hands roam his own body. You take him hard and fast, pounding into his yielding body like it was made for you to desecrate. You 

bruise his hips with how hard you're holding him. You hurt his back with the abandon in which you're thrusting into him.

You don't notice what he's doing, whether it be to himself or to you until he reaches up to you and scratches down you chest in an attempt to pull you closer, until he hooks onto your biceps and yanks you down, breaking the rhythm you had. He latches onto you, his leg still over your shoulder and thusly pinned between you, and you realize you can't see his face anymore, but you can still feel his breathing against your chest. You pretend you don't notice, and you pick up where you left off, at the same speed, and the same intensity.

His breaths are coming faster; his chest is heaving against yours. He leaves scratches down your back and arms as he moans for you to go harder—and harder and harder—in a raw voice that isn't only from lust. You work to satisfy his urges as best you can and you're almost there, but you're not sure if he is, so you grab his cock again, balancing easily on one hand, and rubbing him firmly in time with your strokes.

Just like that, it's over. You climax and thrust inside of him at just the right angle to make him see fireworks, pulling him over the edge with you. You're both screaming, and he's pulling more blood out of you as he makes a few more scratches down your chest, arms and shoulders. You pump into him those last few times, letting his body milk you of everything you have, then you pull out of him, shove off of him, and fall beside him to bask in those always too short moments of afterglow.

That's when he starts to cry, or, at least, when he stops caring if you see him or not. It's always been like this. You don't know why he can't do it beforehand. He's told you several times that it's not you that causes his tears. He says it's himself. He says it's stress. He says it's the feeling of uselessness. But somehow, deep down you know that it really is you. You take advantage of him—your so fucking good at taking advantage of him—and he hates himself for how easy he thinks he makes it for you. And you hate how easily you make him feel that way.

You never comfort him. You don't hold him, or cuddle him, or kiss him—you've never even kissed him in that odd game of foreplay you two always play. When he cries, you don't reach for him, not because you don't want to (you aren't that cold), but because you wouldn't know how to comfort him. You don't know how to deal with your own emotions! How the hell are you supposed to calm him through his? You'd lead him straight into a mental instatution. So you can't help him, and he thinks it's because this is all just a drunken affair. That you're using him because he's there, that's what he thinks. You can't correct it, either. You don't know how to say the words he needs to hear. You don't even know how to think the words he needs to hear.

Therefore, when he says:

"I don't want to do this anymore, Leon."

You say 'okay,' because it's for the better, so you think. You have no idea how much he had been wishing you would argue with him. How could you? He sounded so broken when he told you that and you thought, and still think that it's because you're an emotionless bastard. You think he's tired of being 

used even though in reality he's not being used. You think he wants something more, which he does, just not from anyone but you. It's for the better, you keep telling yourself…

You'll find out how wrong you are in the future, but you don't know that yet.

A/N: So…uh, I don't know what this is. I wanted angst. I wanted smut. Thusly, I made angsty smut.

Please review. I don't care what you say in the review, if you tell me this was crap, if you yell at me for the pairing (Though…hellooo…summary folks), if you tell me that your car got a flat tire. I ain't picky.

InnocentGuilt