and on the surface that's true (Tokyo Babylon/X, Seishirou/Subaru)
So I didn't intend to write this, but -- well, Mith pointed out that she'd never seen a fic where Subaru sucked cock, I decided I'd do my best to make it work, and I wrote a decent chunk of this during my sister's high school graduation, which makes me a bad person.
I have also concluded that it is far easier for me to write fucked-up porn than normal porn.
and on the surface that's true. TB/X, Seishirou/Subaru. 2200 words, NC-17 (blood, blowjobs, D/s).
No. It isn't what it looks like. Not quite.
“I’m surprised you aren’t studying, Subaru-kun,” Seishirou says from the shadows. “Aren’t final exams this week?”
Subaru turns around and glares. Seishirou knows, of course, he has to, but-he’s making the two of them exchange small talk, pleasantries, as though they’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in a long time.
And on the surface, that’s true.
“I dropped out,” he says. His hands clench, ball up into fists; his nails bite into his palm almost deeply enough to draw blood. “Years ago.”
“You’ll never become a zookeeper if you don’t finish school,” Seishirou says. Chides. He’s chiding him. The color drains from his knuckles, rises to his cheeks. “Isn’t that what you want?” He steps out from the shadows of the tree (a tree, he should say, it’s not the tree), enough into the light that Subaru sees the slick redness coating his hand, his wrist. Subaru fights the urge to recoil. He doesn’t know how successful he is.
“No,” he says. “I don’t.” I don’t want anything anymore, he could add, and on the surface that’s true too.
Seishirou smirks. The moonlight glints off his sunglasses, shines right into Subaru’s eyes; he squints, blinks, but he still can’t see. “You used to be so well-suited for it,” he says. He chuckles, warm and soft. Subaru’s nails gouge his palms, but not deeply enough, still only enough to indent and not to cut.
“I’ve changed.”
The moon beams down on them, down on him. He blinks, and Seishirou moves. His hand closes around Subaru’s wrist, the tips of his fingers stroking the scars-he sees red after that, fire burning hot and bright behind his eyes; pain flares up his arm and he bites his lip hard as a counterpoint to that, so he won’t scream. He can’t. Seishirou lifts Subaru’s wrist and brings it to his mouth and licks the back of his hand, traces the mark with his tongue, and Subaru fights just to stay standing, leans back against Seishirou and reaches behind him and grabs a fistful of his jacket, holds on to it until his knuckles ache. The angle’s awkward and it’s straining his arm, his muscles complain, but that’s all right, that’s fine.
“You have,” Seishirou murmurs. “But are you still too kind for this world?”
Subaru wrenches free, or tries to, but Seishirou’s grip on his wrist remains steady. He twists, but he can’t break free. Seishirou yanks him back, pulls him around so that they’re face-to-face, inches apart. He wrenches Subaru’s arm behind his back, the one he broke, of course it’s that one-pain flares up, spikes along that fracture; it never really healed the way it should have. He grips Subaru’s chin with his other hand and Subaru tilts his head back almost on his own, exposes his neck. Seishirou chuckles in his ear.
“Not anymore,” Subaru says.
Seishirou wipes his thumb across Subaru’s lips-he can smell the blood on Seishirou’s hand, coppery and wet. Wet. It must have been recent, his kill. The word fills his throat with bile. It might even have been here, in this park, under another tree.
Then Seishirou jams his knuckles into Subaru’s mouth, past his teeth, and Subaru tastes it. He tastes-slickness and bitterness or maybe the bitterness is just him projecting but it’s wrong, metallic, cold. He gags, fights the urge to retch. Seishirou rubs his fingertips around in Subaru’s mouth, smears his tongue and the sides of his cheeks with blood. He can’t even spit, can’t get the taste out. Seishirou crushes his mouth against Subaru’s and the taste of blood thickens, almost chokes him-Seishirou’s hand closes around his throat, his fingers clenching…
Subaru has a hand free. He grips Seishirou’s wrist, pulls toward not away and Seishirou laughs at that, a low chuckle rising from the red mist. He pushes his nails in, and the laughter fades. He’s-making some noise between a sigh and a hum, Subaru only sees the outlines of his lips, sees the smile creep back onto his face, but it’s hazy. He blinks and the image is gone, the sunglasses hide everything from him again.
He runs a hand down Subaru’s back and darkness pulses out from it, spreads, tangles around him. Subaru lets go of Seishirou’s wrist and gropes around in his pockets for his ofuda but it’s too late, Seishirou releases his throat and the rush of air stops the blood from stagnating in his mouth and he’s too focused on that to register the darkness coalescing around his ankles until it gains form. Roots, thick and brown and smelling of graves.
“You-” he says. The phrase hangs in the air, unfinished. Incomplete.
The maboroshi splinters and spreads, fogs his senses. He still feels the weight of the ofuda in his pocket, an anchor. He could make a grab for them, call forth his shiki and break loose from this before the maboroshi settles.
He could.
Seishirou’s hands-and more than just his hands, there’s weight and pressure and intent behind them, it’s almost tangible, he can almost see it-bear down on Subaru’s shoulders. His knees buckle; he sinks to the ground, looking at the mirrored surfaces of Seishirou’s sunglasses. His hand shoots up, just to feel anything at all. Seishirou’s solid for now, tangible, there. His fingertips slide down Seishirou’s cheek as his arm falls, trail down his chest, down-past there, stop at the inside of his thigh. He tries to clean up some of the blood in his mouth with his tongue but he ends up spreading it around more, saturating his mouth with the taste.
“Who was it?” he asks, his throat tightening.
“A young woman,” he says. “She looked nothing like you.”
He wipes his hand over his mouth, but the taste lingers.
The roots snake up his calves, wrap around his knees, lock him into place. They creep higher, pulling at his clothes, his skin, tugging, dragging him down into the dirt-He’s going to pull me under, Subaru thinks. The roots twist tighter around him, coil around his torso and wind around his chest, squeeze it hard. His heart stutters.
The pulling stops.
Seishirou seizes Subaru’s chin, drags it up; the blood from his hands clings to Subaru’s jaw, sticks there. “You could break the maboroshi if you wanted to,” he says. Smiling. Amused.
Subaru grinds his teeth together until his jaw aches. The roots clench around his calves again, hard enough to cut off the circulation. He keeps his teeth clenched, sucks in air.
Seishirou breathes out slowly, more like a hiss than anything else. His fingers slide to the corners of Subaru’s mouth. The tang of blood fills his nostrils again-don’t close your eyes, he wills himself, don’t. The blood in his mouth sours even more, curdles. He tries to spit, but Seishirou holds his cheeks in place, keeps his face immobile.
“You’re so cute like this, Subaru-kun,” he says.
Subaru glares up at him again. It’s all he can do. Seishirou’s smirk widens, stretches.
This close, the cloth of Seishirou’s pants presses into his lips; they part, and the fabric rubs against his tongue. The cloth doesn’t mute the copper flooding his mouth but it dulls it, muffles it. He opens his mouth wider and sucks on more of the fabric. The fibers scratch his tongue and it’s strange to-to drink his own saliva this way, but the fabric’s a good filter, he wouldn’t say it purifies but it does-filter.
Seishirou’s breath’s nothing more than a whisper. Subaru has to strain to hear it, hear the hiss escaping his teeth. He closes his eyes.
He hears a low rustling sound, cloth shifting, metal unhooking, leather sliding free. His pants, Seishirou’s pants and belt, it takes him a moment to process that, which means-oh.
Oh.
His blood pounds, rises. Anger, humiliation, anticipation, he doesn’t know, they’re all churned together in his stomach and he chokes, coughs, gags. The blood that isn’t his heats up and burns. There’s a small sound rising from his throat, high, needy, and that gets wrung out of him, too. The roots draw tighter, dig in deeper.
“Is this what you want?” Seishirou asks, and Subaru works his jaw but nothing comes out.
Seishirou seizes his chin again, pries his teeth apart, slicks his mouth with blood again. Flakes of it, congealed flakes, drop onto his tongue. He coughs and Seishirou shoves his fingers in deeper, pulls them out, does it again and again until his fingers are coated with saliva and the spit’s dripping down Subaru’s chin. He opens his eyes in time to see Seishirou lick his fingertips clean, the way a cat would.
Then Seishirou’s thumb hooks around his waistband, and Subaru forces his eyes open this time, looks up instead of down, he can keep his balance that way. At the bottom of his vision, Seishirou tugs down his pants-Subaru sees a flash of briefs and then they’re down, too, everything’s-exposed now. He shivers, as much as the roots will let him. Tingling spreads up through his legs, sharp stabbing needles and then nothing, just a buzz where sensation should be.
Seishirou’s palm cups his cheek. Doesn’t push, doesn’t demand, just pillows. Blood clings to Subaru’s eyelashes now and he leans in anyway, rubs the side of his nose against Seishirou’s fingers, everything’s blood and copper and coldness-
He-he guides himself to-he guides himself to Subaru’s lips, presses, nudges, and Subaru’s lips open, round themselves, he’s not even thinking about it, and then Seishirou’s-Seishirou’s in his mouth.
He moans. It’s muffled, choked. Salt mingles with blood.
Seishirou’s hand knots in Subaru’s hair, pulls his head back. He can take in more this way. Not everything, not all of him, but more. It’s not like having Seishirou’s fingers in his mouth, it’s thicker. Heavier. Musk and salt and darkness and things he can’t name and doesn’t want to because naming them defines them, makes them real, gives them shape and form. Veins throb slow and steady on the underside of Seishirou’s shaft, and if Subaru rubs his tongue back and forth-it’s hard, he can’t move it much, but he can wriggle it just enough-if he does that, he can trace them, trace the flow of blood.
He hears Seishirou hiss that time, hears how the sound’s drawn out. That’s not illusory. Seishirou hissed because he-
His face heats up again, but this time the heat spreads, pools in his stomach and burns all the way down to his groin. Seishirou left him his hands free, so he fumbles with his zipper and draws himself out, curls his fist around himself and strokes. He tries to move his head like that, like how he's stroking. Seishirou-strange to think of Seishirou helping but that’s what he does, tugs Subaru’s hair and guides him and operates him, almost. Almost. He arches back as much as he can; the roots scrape his back through his shirt, rub his skin, chafe it.
Seishirou rolls his hips forward, thrusts, and Subaru chokes, chokes as the blood in his mouth gets drilled down his throat and he can’t breathe, red seeps behind his eyes again. Seishirou pulls out, not as sharply as he thrust in; Subaru’s teeth catch on something, skin, he didn’t mean to but it happened, he squeezes his eyes tighter, but Seishirou makes a soft sound almost like an “Oh” at that and the motion in Subaru’s mouth stills.
Seishirou’s still thrusting, but shallower, slower. He can almost-there are things he can do, when Seishirou’s pacing it like this, and he tries one of them. It’s not-he doesn’t bite, doesn’t use his teeth at all, really, just the suggestion of them, but-he could if he wanted.
Seishirou murmurs, not a name, not a word, even, just sound, and Subaru’s hand on himself moves faster than he’s used to, fast as Seishirou’s driving into his mouth now but the speed isn’t as even with him, as measured, he can’t control it as well. Subaru tries to-to suck, but he keeps coughing when Seishirou pushes in too deep. His cheeks ache, his throat throbs, his legs knot, the roots throttle his thighs and that’s how he comes, sore and bound and-no. It isn’t what it looks like. Not quite.
He reaches up and palms the base of Seishirou’s shaft-nothing like how he’d touch himself, not as hard, but it-it works, Seishirou drives in one, two, three times and stills and leaves Subaru with a mouthful of-that.
He swallows as much as he can, wills himself not to gag. It’s bitter, but it washes away the blood. Some of it leaks from the corner of his mouth, trails down his chin, and his stomach seizes again at the sensation.
The roots withdraw, slip back into the ground, and a slow burn starts to rise through Subaru’s legs. He stays kneeling. He can’t stand, not yet.
“You’ve grown, Subaru-kun,” Seishirou says.
Subaru looks up at him. “You haven’t.”
Seishirou smiles.
I have also concluded that it is far easier for me to write fucked-up porn than normal porn.
and on the surface that's true. TB/X, Seishirou/Subaru. 2200 words, NC-17 (blood, blowjobs, D/s).
No. It isn't what it looks like. Not quite.
“I’m surprised you aren’t studying, Subaru-kun,” Seishirou says from the shadows. “Aren’t final exams this week?”
Subaru turns around and glares. Seishirou knows, of course, he has to, but-he’s making the two of them exchange small talk, pleasantries, as though they’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in a long time.
And on the surface, that’s true.
“I dropped out,” he says. His hands clench, ball up into fists; his nails bite into his palm almost deeply enough to draw blood. “Years ago.”
“You’ll never become a zookeeper if you don’t finish school,” Seishirou says. Chides. He’s chiding him. The color drains from his knuckles, rises to his cheeks. “Isn’t that what you want?” He steps out from the shadows of the tree (a tree, he should say, it’s not the tree), enough into the light that Subaru sees the slick redness coating his hand, his wrist. Subaru fights the urge to recoil. He doesn’t know how successful he is.
“No,” he says. “I don’t.” I don’t want anything anymore, he could add, and on the surface that’s true too.
Seishirou smirks. The moonlight glints off his sunglasses, shines right into Subaru’s eyes; he squints, blinks, but he still can’t see. “You used to be so well-suited for it,” he says. He chuckles, warm and soft. Subaru’s nails gouge his palms, but not deeply enough, still only enough to indent and not to cut.
“I’ve changed.”
The moon beams down on them, down on him. He blinks, and Seishirou moves. His hand closes around Subaru’s wrist, the tips of his fingers stroking the scars-he sees red after that, fire burning hot and bright behind his eyes; pain flares up his arm and he bites his lip hard as a counterpoint to that, so he won’t scream. He can’t. Seishirou lifts Subaru’s wrist and brings it to his mouth and licks the back of his hand, traces the mark with his tongue, and Subaru fights just to stay standing, leans back against Seishirou and reaches behind him and grabs a fistful of his jacket, holds on to it until his knuckles ache. The angle’s awkward and it’s straining his arm, his muscles complain, but that’s all right, that’s fine.
“You have,” Seishirou murmurs. “But are you still too kind for this world?”
Subaru wrenches free, or tries to, but Seishirou’s grip on his wrist remains steady. He twists, but he can’t break free. Seishirou yanks him back, pulls him around so that they’re face-to-face, inches apart. He wrenches Subaru’s arm behind his back, the one he broke, of course it’s that one-pain flares up, spikes along that fracture; it never really healed the way it should have. He grips Subaru’s chin with his other hand and Subaru tilts his head back almost on his own, exposes his neck. Seishirou chuckles in his ear.
“Not anymore,” Subaru says.
Seishirou wipes his thumb across Subaru’s lips-he can smell the blood on Seishirou’s hand, coppery and wet. Wet. It must have been recent, his kill. The word fills his throat with bile. It might even have been here, in this park, under another tree.
Then Seishirou jams his knuckles into Subaru’s mouth, past his teeth, and Subaru tastes it. He tastes-slickness and bitterness or maybe the bitterness is just him projecting but it’s wrong, metallic, cold. He gags, fights the urge to retch. Seishirou rubs his fingertips around in Subaru’s mouth, smears his tongue and the sides of his cheeks with blood. He can’t even spit, can’t get the taste out. Seishirou crushes his mouth against Subaru’s and the taste of blood thickens, almost chokes him-Seishirou’s hand closes around his throat, his fingers clenching…
Subaru has a hand free. He grips Seishirou’s wrist, pulls toward not away and Seishirou laughs at that, a low chuckle rising from the red mist. He pushes his nails in, and the laughter fades. He’s-making some noise between a sigh and a hum, Subaru only sees the outlines of his lips, sees the smile creep back onto his face, but it’s hazy. He blinks and the image is gone, the sunglasses hide everything from him again.
He runs a hand down Subaru’s back and darkness pulses out from it, spreads, tangles around him. Subaru lets go of Seishirou’s wrist and gropes around in his pockets for his ofuda but it’s too late, Seishirou releases his throat and the rush of air stops the blood from stagnating in his mouth and he’s too focused on that to register the darkness coalescing around his ankles until it gains form. Roots, thick and brown and smelling of graves.
“You-” he says. The phrase hangs in the air, unfinished. Incomplete.
The maboroshi splinters and spreads, fogs his senses. He still feels the weight of the ofuda in his pocket, an anchor. He could make a grab for them, call forth his shiki and break loose from this before the maboroshi settles.
He could.
Seishirou’s hands-and more than just his hands, there’s weight and pressure and intent behind them, it’s almost tangible, he can almost see it-bear down on Subaru’s shoulders. His knees buckle; he sinks to the ground, looking at the mirrored surfaces of Seishirou’s sunglasses. His hand shoots up, just to feel anything at all. Seishirou’s solid for now, tangible, there. His fingertips slide down Seishirou’s cheek as his arm falls, trail down his chest, down-past there, stop at the inside of his thigh. He tries to clean up some of the blood in his mouth with his tongue but he ends up spreading it around more, saturating his mouth with the taste.
“Who was it?” he asks, his throat tightening.
“A young woman,” he says. “She looked nothing like you.”
He wipes his hand over his mouth, but the taste lingers.
The roots snake up his calves, wrap around his knees, lock him into place. They creep higher, pulling at his clothes, his skin, tugging, dragging him down into the dirt-He’s going to pull me under, Subaru thinks. The roots twist tighter around him, coil around his torso and wind around his chest, squeeze it hard. His heart stutters.
The pulling stops.
Seishirou seizes Subaru’s chin, drags it up; the blood from his hands clings to Subaru’s jaw, sticks there. “You could break the maboroshi if you wanted to,” he says. Smiling. Amused.
Subaru grinds his teeth together until his jaw aches. The roots clench around his calves again, hard enough to cut off the circulation. He keeps his teeth clenched, sucks in air.
Seishirou breathes out slowly, more like a hiss than anything else. His fingers slide to the corners of Subaru’s mouth. The tang of blood fills his nostrils again-don’t close your eyes, he wills himself, don’t. The blood in his mouth sours even more, curdles. He tries to spit, but Seishirou holds his cheeks in place, keeps his face immobile.
“You’re so cute like this, Subaru-kun,” he says.
Subaru glares up at him again. It’s all he can do. Seishirou’s smirk widens, stretches.
This close, the cloth of Seishirou’s pants presses into his lips; they part, and the fabric rubs against his tongue. The cloth doesn’t mute the copper flooding his mouth but it dulls it, muffles it. He opens his mouth wider and sucks on more of the fabric. The fibers scratch his tongue and it’s strange to-to drink his own saliva this way, but the fabric’s a good filter, he wouldn’t say it purifies but it does-filter.
Seishirou’s breath’s nothing more than a whisper. Subaru has to strain to hear it, hear the hiss escaping his teeth. He closes his eyes.
He hears a low rustling sound, cloth shifting, metal unhooking, leather sliding free. His pants, Seishirou’s pants and belt, it takes him a moment to process that, which means-oh.
Oh.
His blood pounds, rises. Anger, humiliation, anticipation, he doesn’t know, they’re all churned together in his stomach and he chokes, coughs, gags. The blood that isn’t his heats up and burns. There’s a small sound rising from his throat, high, needy, and that gets wrung out of him, too. The roots draw tighter, dig in deeper.
“Is this what you want?” Seishirou asks, and Subaru works his jaw but nothing comes out.
Seishirou seizes his chin again, pries his teeth apart, slicks his mouth with blood again. Flakes of it, congealed flakes, drop onto his tongue. He coughs and Seishirou shoves his fingers in deeper, pulls them out, does it again and again until his fingers are coated with saliva and the spit’s dripping down Subaru’s chin. He opens his eyes in time to see Seishirou lick his fingertips clean, the way a cat would.
Then Seishirou’s thumb hooks around his waistband, and Subaru forces his eyes open this time, looks up instead of down, he can keep his balance that way. At the bottom of his vision, Seishirou tugs down his pants-Subaru sees a flash of briefs and then they’re down, too, everything’s-exposed now. He shivers, as much as the roots will let him. Tingling spreads up through his legs, sharp stabbing needles and then nothing, just a buzz where sensation should be.
Seishirou’s palm cups his cheek. Doesn’t push, doesn’t demand, just pillows. Blood clings to Subaru’s eyelashes now and he leans in anyway, rubs the side of his nose against Seishirou’s fingers, everything’s blood and copper and coldness-
He-he guides himself to-he guides himself to Subaru’s lips, presses, nudges, and Subaru’s lips open, round themselves, he’s not even thinking about it, and then Seishirou’s-Seishirou’s in his mouth.
He moans. It’s muffled, choked. Salt mingles with blood.
Seishirou’s hand knots in Subaru’s hair, pulls his head back. He can take in more this way. Not everything, not all of him, but more. It’s not like having Seishirou’s fingers in his mouth, it’s thicker. Heavier. Musk and salt and darkness and things he can’t name and doesn’t want to because naming them defines them, makes them real, gives them shape and form. Veins throb slow and steady on the underside of Seishirou’s shaft, and if Subaru rubs his tongue back and forth-it’s hard, he can’t move it much, but he can wriggle it just enough-if he does that, he can trace them, trace the flow of blood.
He hears Seishirou hiss that time, hears how the sound’s drawn out. That’s not illusory. Seishirou hissed because he-
His face heats up again, but this time the heat spreads, pools in his stomach and burns all the way down to his groin. Seishirou left him his hands free, so he fumbles with his zipper and draws himself out, curls his fist around himself and strokes. He tries to move his head like that, like how he's stroking. Seishirou-strange to think of Seishirou helping but that’s what he does, tugs Subaru’s hair and guides him and operates him, almost. Almost. He arches back as much as he can; the roots scrape his back through his shirt, rub his skin, chafe it.
Seishirou rolls his hips forward, thrusts, and Subaru chokes, chokes as the blood in his mouth gets drilled down his throat and he can’t breathe, red seeps behind his eyes again. Seishirou pulls out, not as sharply as he thrust in; Subaru’s teeth catch on something, skin, he didn’t mean to but it happened, he squeezes his eyes tighter, but Seishirou makes a soft sound almost like an “Oh” at that and the motion in Subaru’s mouth stills.
Seishirou’s still thrusting, but shallower, slower. He can almost-there are things he can do, when Seishirou’s pacing it like this, and he tries one of them. It’s not-he doesn’t bite, doesn’t use his teeth at all, really, just the suggestion of them, but-he could if he wanted.
Seishirou murmurs, not a name, not a word, even, just sound, and Subaru’s hand on himself moves faster than he’s used to, fast as Seishirou’s driving into his mouth now but the speed isn’t as even with him, as measured, he can’t control it as well. Subaru tries to-to suck, but he keeps coughing when Seishirou pushes in too deep. His cheeks ache, his throat throbs, his legs knot, the roots throttle his thighs and that’s how he comes, sore and bound and-no. It isn’t what it looks like. Not quite.
He reaches up and palms the base of Seishirou’s shaft-nothing like how he’d touch himself, not as hard, but it-it works, Seishirou drives in one, two, three times and stills and leaves Subaru with a mouthful of-that.
He swallows as much as he can, wills himself not to gag. It’s bitter, but it washes away the blood. Some of it leaks from the corner of his mouth, trails down his chin, and his stomach seizes again at the sensation.
The roots withdraw, slip back into the ground, and a slow burn starts to rise through Subaru’s legs. He stays kneeling. He can’t stand, not yet.
“You’ve grown, Subaru-kun,” Seishirou says.
Subaru looks up at him. “You haven’t.”
Seishirou smiles.