'i'm not a miracle.' - [Aoi/Uruha] 1/1
Title: i'm not a miracle.
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha, implied past Aoi/Yune
Genre: Romance, drama
Warnings: ...blatant blasphemy xD
Notes: Inspired by DRIPPING INSANITY and GABRIEL ON THE GALLOWS.
Synopsis: It's like purple wine and old cigarettes burning their gums; like Yune slamming open the door and catching Uruha's heated, half-mast gaze over Aoi's naked shoulder; like walls against their backs and drumsticks stabbed through their spines.
Aoi doesn't believe in God --
hasn't since the first hail-mary cracked his lips apart, fingernails digging into the knothole-ridden pew while his mother clutched at the back of his neck as if the entire world was nestled into the baby-curls at his nape;
hasn't since his father carved a star-shaped bruise into the wall and Yune whispered forget-me-please into his aching gasps.
But when Uruha arches into his touch, slathers sinful creeds into his bare hipbones and snaps his teeth into the marrow of his collarbone -- when Uruha grabs the headboard with both hands and shakes them apart-apart -- Aoi prays to the ripped sheets and shattered wine glasses (and Uruha's broken eyes) that he'll be able to reach into God's jaw and steal a handful of flickering stars to push into their chests and make them fucking shine --
"God-god-god, please -- "
Uruha always kisses with his eyes open so he can see the crooked constellations on the backs of Aoi's eyelids. He makes wishes to each vein and maybe God is somewhere inside the scarlet-purple lines that crisscross their hearts as fiberglass slices their parted lips and Aoi croons and begs and please-god.
And Aoi wants to believe -- wants to believe in every single hymn his mother had pleaded for him to sing inside the desolate pews -- when Uruha's eyes finally flutter shut as he thrusts in slowly-slowly -- "God, Aoi, hurry the fuck up -- I feel like glass; I'm not glass, don't fucking make me glass" -- and pushes in deep so maybe he'll touch the other's rapid-breathless heart. Maybe reach-reach and paint their moans with crimson-confessions.
Little confessions that escape him when Uruha bares his neck -- confessions that edge along the memory of Yune's glare and backstage whispers and walls shaking and forgive me, Father, for I have sinned and sinned and --
"I'm not going anywhere," Aoi promises when Uruha's hand crushes his after the elder lifts up and out, thighs trembling and hips sore as fuck. But he needs to see this -- needs to see Uruha spread out like a million shards of scattered sun before him, shoulder blades like knives as he lays there with glazed amber eyes, panting maw, and shaking chest. Sweat makes him glow and glimmer like all the novas in God's lungs. He lolls his head towards Aoi with a low whimper, legs splayed lewdly and navy makeup smeared across his cheekbones.
"You're a fucking mess."
A fucking disaster.
And Uruha breathes in, shudders, laces his fingers between the bite of Aoi's rough callouses and hisses like he has sharp fangs and shredded wings, "You made me this way -- you fucking made me like this."
Aoi leans down, slams their chests together so he can feel the painful gasp against his flesh as his cock slips back inside Uruha's awaiting moans. It's like purple wine and old cigarettes burning their gums; like Yune slamming open the door and catching Uruha's heated half-mast gaze over Aoi's naked shoulder; like walls against their backs and drumsticks stabbed through their spines.
"You were always like this."
Uruha tries to curve into Aoi's disastrous touch, tries to unravel and fall apart and maybe touch his throbbing lips to Aoi's jugular. But Aoi is pushing him down, chest-to-chest, and sinks his teeth into the underside of his jaw as the other bucks and snaps and snarls. Little pink-blood bruises that Uruha will smirk at in the mirror tomorrow with Aoi's hand lingering on his hip, gnarled fingers hovering over each freckle and scar.
Uruha mewls wantonly, legs wrapping around Aoi's waist, and tries to crawl inside the other's chest -- and he reaches up-up-up until his hands brush against the hotel bed's headboard, fingertips finding the cross engraved into the wood, and he melts into the sharp grooves. And Aoi thrusts and pounds and tries to ignite them both so these nights don't feel so goddamn dark --
"I don't believe that." He breathes, hips meeting Aoi's in a chaste hello-goodbye. And Aoi smirks into his flesh, head hidden in the crook of his neck. He snakes his hands beneath the younger, presses his fingers into each knob and crack of Uruha's bones, each angle of his shoulder blades, and tries to pull out the skinny wings that lurk somewhere beneath -- he can almost taste the black feathers on his swollen tongue when Uruha groans low and grits his teeth tight. And he pushes, pushes -- pushes until Uruha's back lifts off the mattress and they are both weightless in the static-electric air for a breath --
"Then what do you believe in?"
And when Uruha whines, Aoi's cock hitting each needy plea of the little death inside him, Aoi almost believes -- almost sees God in the way Uruha's fingertips tangle in his black hair, the way he presses closer to make them collide and crash and maybe fucking die --
-- pray for us sinners
And he's kissing him so hard, so fucking hard like it's the last time and something slashes its claws across Aoi's ribs and he grabs the back of Uruha's head -- fingernails snagging in the mussed, dark-rooted locks -- and molds his mouth to the other's quaking gasps.
Because please-god-please --
Because this isn't the last but --
But if it is --
Uruha whispers hotly into Aoi's mouth, bottom lip wet and trembling, "Not this."
-- pray for us fucking sinners
And Aoi grips him tight, sinks in as much as he can and stays there, and watches the stars break in Uruha's copper eyes.
-- amen.
:.:.:
A/N: I was listening to Disc 2 and this sort of poured out - it's been awhile since I've written in a stream-of-conscious state, so it was a really nice change of pace :)
I hope all of you enjoyed! <3