[hakuouki] like knives
I kind of fell in love with this prompt/pairing, ngl. Gonna blame a lot of this on City and Colour, whose discography I am working through for the first time -- and incidentally where I stole the title from. Thank you, anon requester; hope I can deliver the goods despite being pretty rusty with the smut. Prompt is pretty basic; um, Saitou, Amagiri, porn. Which there is. In spades.
like knives
(we will dirty our hands till they're clean)
Kyoto summer: while the city shifts restlessly in the sticky heat, it's blessedly cool by the river, in the shadows near the edge of Tadasu.
Saitou cares nothing for this fact. While he is wary as always, his attention is more immediately focused on the scrape of flesh where his arm is hooked around the low branch of an elder Zelkova tree; the clinging weight of his hair, sweat-matted and spread against the moon-dappled arc of his neck; and the hot, centering presence of the oni clutched between his bare thighs.
(Amagiri growls low as he pushes in once more, his mouth finding the wiry line of Saitou's neck, biting, tasting the salt tang of sweat there. His hands seem obscenely large against Saitou's slender body, one curled in a punishing hold against the sharp blade of a pale hip, the other splayed against the milk-white leg hitched over his shoulder -- but it feels proper, a merging as right as it is pleasurable. Of course the samurai is no oni, but unlike Kazama Amagiri is not looking to breed; neither is he prone to fits of impatient fancy like young Shiranui, and so he cannot help but be bemused by his own growing interest in this human man. Amagiri appreciates beauty, he supposes, as much as that pure warrior spirit, those deep-water eyes as fierce and proud as any wolf's.)
Saitou bites back a groan, his other leg curling tighter around Amagiri's waist, hidden beneath the rough-spun cotton of the oni's open yukata. There's danger in this, lurking in the knots of people along the riverbank, officers patrolling as the city prepares for Daimonji. He dares not close his eyes; he of all people knows that a soft voice and placid eyes can hide a wealth of intent, and he is bound to the code of the Shinsengumi -- his swords rest against the trunk of this tree, even now within easy reach.
A cheer goes up along the riverbank as in the southeast, the first line of the great fires sputters to life, a wave of flame painted bold across the flank of Nyoigatake. Saitou watches the amber glow spread in the sweat-sheened curve of Amagiri's broad shoulder, reflected in the oni's pale eyes as he turns his head to graze Saitou's jaw with fine white teeth.
"You don't smell like them." That deep voice washes against Saitou's skin, tugging at his fraying control; the samurai shivers beneath it, feeling his own arousal twitch against his belly. "That's good." Amagiri punctuates that with a lazy snap of his hips that makes Saitou see white for a brief moment, sends his free hand clawing outwards, twisting into the long tail gathered at the nape of Amagiri's neck.
The oni does not need to elaborate. "I don't -- ah," he's cut off by another flash of pleasure as Amagiri shifts and finds a new, better angle, and his face flushes hot with instinctive embarrassment. "I have no need." I never did. Saitou grinds the words out from behind gritted teeth, and he doesn't think that he's imagining the quiet amusement in Amagiri's expression, the curve of those full lips a contrast to his solemn, oddly careworn eyes.
Indeed, Saitou learns something new about Amagiri every time they encounter one another. He wonders, sometimes, if the inverse is also true.
He shifts, unable to ignore the nagging ache in his arm any longer, the tender spot where bark is gnawing at the bend of his elbow; without asking, Amagiri is there, accommodating, pressing a faint smile into the hollow of his neck, all damp lips and the scratch of wiry, neatly trimmed hair. "I've got you," he says, and he does, strong enough to take the entirety of Saitou's weight without missing a beat, still buried inside. For a moment it's unsteady, instinct widening dark eyes, slender fingers digging into Amagiri's scalp, clutching at that thin tail like a lifeline.
Bonfires erupt neatly along the faces of Nishi and Higashi; Saitou catches faint strains of festival songs as he's maneuvered, not unlike some overgrown child (and that's definitely not a connection he wants to make, not right now, not while Amagiri is slipping his shoulder from beneath Saitou's leg and there's this wet, absolutely filthy sound as his cock slips free of Saitou's body, tracing a thick, wet line along the juncture of his thigh and and he is so tightly strung, so achingly hard he could howl). "What are you doing?" He growls into the oni's ear, and dignity may have forced him loosen his hold on Amagiri's hair, but the other arm now snaked around his neck isn't exactly helping his case.
Amagiri doesn't answer, content to instead run his tongue along the sharp line of Saitou's jaw, sucking at the tender skin beneath his chin, lazy and unperturbed. Unlike Saitou, he seems to feel no compunction about keeping his silence; the sounds that he makes are greedy, and Saitou can't tell if the spike of heat that races down his spine in response is lust, horror, or some insane mix of both. Now it's the oni with his back pressed against the Zelkova, bark scrubbing at the back of his yukata as he lowers them both to the ground.
"It's fine, isn't it?" That bass rumble is intoxicating; Amagiri's hands are curious against the smooth planes of Saitou's chest, thumb brushing the tight peak of a nipple even as the samurai settles, knees to either side of Amagiri's narrow hips. That exploration continues, a moment of almost exaggerated slowness as blunt, wide-tipped fingers skirt the slender wings of collar bones, sliding over the fine, clean lines of shoulders and arms. He takes one of Saitou's hands, lifting it to his mouth, nipping at the sword-calluses and scars and Saitou's breath hitches, shuddering like his skin is trying to flee his bones. Amagiri smiles against his palm, inhaling the faint hint of senko. "I've been gentle with you," he murmurs, and those cornflower eyes narrow in speculation -- or perhaps warning.
Saitou's eyes glitter in the darkness, hazy, soft-focused. "If you don't touch me soon, I will skewer you and leave you for the crows, oni." It's little more than an exhale, brimming with threat and tension, and something feral crosses his face when Amagiri's head tips back in what seems dangerously close to (blessedly) quiet laughter.
"Well, then." And this time, the hands on Saitou's body aren't promising sweetness. They skim Saitou's sides, along the cradle of his hips where bruises are already beginning to surface. Further down, to Amagiri's own flagging arousal, and then, finally finally finally, the sensation of those thick, rough fingers against hypersensitive flesh, the oni attending them both with firm, deliberate strokes. Saitou hisses, rocking into that warm, tight fist, forehead pressed into the warm bend of Amagiri's shoulder.
That soft, sibilant sound almost becomes a whimper as Amagiri's other hand traces the curve of his ass, gentle fingers slipping down the cleft, probing the edges of that tender, fucked-open hole before slipping inside, stroking and stretching, as if it somehow wasn't enough the first time. A moment later they're gone -- the delicious friction of Amagiri's hand, as well -- and Saitou tenses, lifting his head as the oni lines himself up once more.
The sky over Kyoto brightens as bonfires race along the faces of two more of the mountains that cradle the city. Neither Saitou nor Amagiri pay any attention to it; they are focused on each other entirely, eyes locked as Amagiri lifts his hips and Saitou grinds down, meeting him half-way, gasping as his body works to accommodate the girth of him.
They hold that way for a moment; Saitou trembles in the silence, feeling raw and strangely exposed beneath Amagiri's steady gaze.
(Despite his earlier words, there's a gentleness, a softness intrinsic to Amagiri that even the heat of lust cannot burn away. Besides, it is enough to have a moment to study this human, to admire that pale, heaving chest, those half-lidded eyes, proof of his own handiwork. Here, he thinks, is something to take pride in.)
Amagiri's hand finds Saitou's hip, nails dragging over and up, tracing the delicate curve of his spine, curling those blunt fingers into fine hair -- leverage as he tugs Saitou forward, and the samurai makes a quiet sound of surprise as his mouth meets Amagiri's, acquiescing to the pressure and slick wet heat of a curious tongue against his bottom lip. It's messy, but Saitou finds that at the moment, he doesn't really mind, not when he can taste the faint hint of sake and aromatic tobacco on Amagiri's tongue, when he reaches down to take him in hand once more.
And then Amagiri digs his heels into the soft loam of the forest floor and rocks upwards, and Saitou has a hard time caring about much else at all. It's a brutal pace the oni sets, but Saitou is there to match it, breaking away from Amagiri's mouth to tip his head backwards, breathing hard, biting his lip to hold in the hungry sounds trying to claw their way out of his throat. That seems to suit Amagiri just fine; he leans in, sucking wet, open-mouthed kisses along the slender bow of Saitou's collar bones, squeezing the base of Saitou's cock and twisting just so on each upstroke, until Saitou loses all sense of rhythm, desperately chasing his own release. It doesn't take long, caught as he is between the angle of Amagiri's pistoning hips and his rough fist; just a few beats later his own hips stutter as he bows forward, burying his face in the crook of Amagiri's neck to muffle the strangled sounds threatening to escape him, spattering thick, sticky seed against the oni's hand and belly.
Amagiri's answering growl is appreciative, his breath coming in heavy, measured grunts as he edges toward his own climax, nosing the shell of Saitou's ear. "Next time I'm going to make you howl, wolf," he rumbles, and the immediate, absolutely perfect way Saitou's body clenches around him is more than enough to send him over. He thrusts two, three more times, finally stilling as release washes through his limbs, emptying himself into the shivering body arched above his own.
In the east, the first bonfire winks to life on the face of Mandara. Boneless, sated, half-draped across the oni's broad shoulder, Saitou watches the ancient depiction of the torii manifested in flame, for the first time in recent memory approaching a feeling much like peace.
.
Saitou's fingers are still trembling, fumbling with his obi as the first of the lanterns appear, drifting along the river's lazy current. For a moment he holds his breath, the muscles of his jaw bunching; that silent procession feels endless, a silent testament to the bloody, tortured fall of the shogunate he and his comrades defended with their lives.
If Shinpachi has gathered lanterns for Hijikata and the others, Saitou does not know of it. He has mourned these last several months in his own quiet way, and yet something about this seems --
"It's not disrespectful," Amagiri's gravelly voice sinks into the dark spaces surrounding Saitou's thoughts. The oni is half-sprawled in the shadows, still leaning against the tree, his yukata loose around his shoulders, wide open to expose what seems to Saitou like miles of surprisingly smooth skin to the humid night air. His hands are loosely folded over his belly, entirely at ease, as if his pose is completely natural. His lips quirk briefly in response to the samurai's sharp look. "It cannot be, to celebrate life so."
Saitou is silent, his gaze drifting back to the river where the lanterns float by like unanchored stars. Perhaps Amagiri is right; either way, it isn't of much concern to Saitou. Many things change, after all, even him, even the world he has always known.
In the stillness of the evening, in the mournful glow of countless lanterns, he offers a silent prayer to whichever gods might be watching tonight to guide those wayward souls home.
fin 07.29.11
-
Aaaaand holy what, I did way too much research for a smut flash-fic. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW. .___. Shinto shrines, piles of Kyoto maps, festivals, the biological makeup of Kyoto native forests, tree bark and which is least likely to grate off human skin to shreds during sex ... what is my life. /)_(\
I suppose this is probably AU-ish depending on the circumstances. Since I've seen canon images of Saitou as rasetsu. Fuck it, animu canon is what I know and he was fine then.
Now watch me ruin whatever goodwill I've managed to earn here with this one thought: That's not a scarf, that's someone's spare fundoshi.
Just try to unthink it now, go on. >3
Alternately, you're welcome to speculate on whether it's his or not.
like knives
(we will dirty our hands till they're clean)
Kyoto summer: while the city shifts restlessly in the sticky heat, it's blessedly cool by the river, in the shadows near the edge of Tadasu.
Saitou cares nothing for this fact. While he is wary as always, his attention is more immediately focused on the scrape of flesh where his arm is hooked around the low branch of an elder Zelkova tree; the clinging weight of his hair, sweat-matted and spread against the moon-dappled arc of his neck; and the hot, centering presence of the oni clutched between his bare thighs.
(Amagiri growls low as he pushes in once more, his mouth finding the wiry line of Saitou's neck, biting, tasting the salt tang of sweat there. His hands seem obscenely large against Saitou's slender body, one curled in a punishing hold against the sharp blade of a pale hip, the other splayed against the milk-white leg hitched over his shoulder -- but it feels proper, a merging as right as it is pleasurable. Of course the samurai is no oni, but unlike Kazama Amagiri is not looking to breed; neither is he prone to fits of impatient fancy like young Shiranui, and so he cannot help but be bemused by his own growing interest in this human man. Amagiri appreciates beauty, he supposes, as much as that pure warrior spirit, those deep-water eyes as fierce and proud as any wolf's.)
Saitou bites back a groan, his other leg curling tighter around Amagiri's waist, hidden beneath the rough-spun cotton of the oni's open yukata. There's danger in this, lurking in the knots of people along the riverbank, officers patrolling as the city prepares for Daimonji. He dares not close his eyes; he of all people knows that a soft voice and placid eyes can hide a wealth of intent, and he is bound to the code of the Shinsengumi -- his swords rest against the trunk of this tree, even now within easy reach.
A cheer goes up along the riverbank as in the southeast, the first line of the great fires sputters to life, a wave of flame painted bold across the flank of Nyoigatake. Saitou watches the amber glow spread in the sweat-sheened curve of Amagiri's broad shoulder, reflected in the oni's pale eyes as he turns his head to graze Saitou's jaw with fine white teeth.
"You don't smell like them." That deep voice washes against Saitou's skin, tugging at his fraying control; the samurai shivers beneath it, feeling his own arousal twitch against his belly. "That's good." Amagiri punctuates that with a lazy snap of his hips that makes Saitou see white for a brief moment, sends his free hand clawing outwards, twisting into the long tail gathered at the nape of Amagiri's neck.
The oni does not need to elaborate. "I don't -- ah," he's cut off by another flash of pleasure as Amagiri shifts and finds a new, better angle, and his face flushes hot with instinctive embarrassment. "I have no need." I never did. Saitou grinds the words out from behind gritted teeth, and he doesn't think that he's imagining the quiet amusement in Amagiri's expression, the curve of those full lips a contrast to his solemn, oddly careworn eyes.
Indeed, Saitou learns something new about Amagiri every time they encounter one another. He wonders, sometimes, if the inverse is also true.
He shifts, unable to ignore the nagging ache in his arm any longer, the tender spot where bark is gnawing at the bend of his elbow; without asking, Amagiri is there, accommodating, pressing a faint smile into the hollow of his neck, all damp lips and the scratch of wiry, neatly trimmed hair. "I've got you," he says, and he does, strong enough to take the entirety of Saitou's weight without missing a beat, still buried inside. For a moment it's unsteady, instinct widening dark eyes, slender fingers digging into Amagiri's scalp, clutching at that thin tail like a lifeline.
Bonfires erupt neatly along the faces of Nishi and Higashi; Saitou catches faint strains of festival songs as he's maneuvered, not unlike some overgrown child (and that's definitely not a connection he wants to make, not right now, not while Amagiri is slipping his shoulder from beneath Saitou's leg and there's this wet, absolutely filthy sound as his cock slips free of Saitou's body, tracing a thick, wet line along the juncture of his thigh and and he is so tightly strung, so achingly hard he could howl). "What are you doing?" He growls into the oni's ear, and dignity may have forced him loosen his hold on Amagiri's hair, but the other arm now snaked around his neck isn't exactly helping his case.
Amagiri doesn't answer, content to instead run his tongue along the sharp line of Saitou's jaw, sucking at the tender skin beneath his chin, lazy and unperturbed. Unlike Saitou, he seems to feel no compunction about keeping his silence; the sounds that he makes are greedy, and Saitou can't tell if the spike of heat that races down his spine in response is lust, horror, or some insane mix of both. Now it's the oni with his back pressed against the Zelkova, bark scrubbing at the back of his yukata as he lowers them both to the ground.
"It's fine, isn't it?" That bass rumble is intoxicating; Amagiri's hands are curious against the smooth planes of Saitou's chest, thumb brushing the tight peak of a nipple even as the samurai settles, knees to either side of Amagiri's narrow hips. That exploration continues, a moment of almost exaggerated slowness as blunt, wide-tipped fingers skirt the slender wings of collar bones, sliding over the fine, clean lines of shoulders and arms. He takes one of Saitou's hands, lifting it to his mouth, nipping at the sword-calluses and scars and Saitou's breath hitches, shuddering like his skin is trying to flee his bones. Amagiri smiles against his palm, inhaling the faint hint of senko. "I've been gentle with you," he murmurs, and those cornflower eyes narrow in speculation -- or perhaps warning.
Saitou's eyes glitter in the darkness, hazy, soft-focused. "If you don't touch me soon, I will skewer you and leave you for the crows, oni." It's little more than an exhale, brimming with threat and tension, and something feral crosses his face when Amagiri's head tips back in what seems dangerously close to (blessedly) quiet laughter.
"Well, then." And this time, the hands on Saitou's body aren't promising sweetness. They skim Saitou's sides, along the cradle of his hips where bruises are already beginning to surface. Further down, to Amagiri's own flagging arousal, and then, finally finally finally, the sensation of those thick, rough fingers against hypersensitive flesh, the oni attending them both with firm, deliberate strokes. Saitou hisses, rocking into that warm, tight fist, forehead pressed into the warm bend of Amagiri's shoulder.
That soft, sibilant sound almost becomes a whimper as Amagiri's other hand traces the curve of his ass, gentle fingers slipping down the cleft, probing the edges of that tender, fucked-open hole before slipping inside, stroking and stretching, as if it somehow wasn't enough the first time. A moment later they're gone -- the delicious friction of Amagiri's hand, as well -- and Saitou tenses, lifting his head as the oni lines himself up once more.
The sky over Kyoto brightens as bonfires race along the faces of two more of the mountains that cradle the city. Neither Saitou nor Amagiri pay any attention to it; they are focused on each other entirely, eyes locked as Amagiri lifts his hips and Saitou grinds down, meeting him half-way, gasping as his body works to accommodate the girth of him.
They hold that way for a moment; Saitou trembles in the silence, feeling raw and strangely exposed beneath Amagiri's steady gaze.
(Despite his earlier words, there's a gentleness, a softness intrinsic to Amagiri that even the heat of lust cannot burn away. Besides, it is enough to have a moment to study this human, to admire that pale, heaving chest, those half-lidded eyes, proof of his own handiwork. Here, he thinks, is something to take pride in.)
Amagiri's hand finds Saitou's hip, nails dragging over and up, tracing the delicate curve of his spine, curling those blunt fingers into fine hair -- leverage as he tugs Saitou forward, and the samurai makes a quiet sound of surprise as his mouth meets Amagiri's, acquiescing to the pressure and slick wet heat of a curious tongue against his bottom lip. It's messy, but Saitou finds that at the moment, he doesn't really mind, not when he can taste the faint hint of sake and aromatic tobacco on Amagiri's tongue, when he reaches down to take him in hand once more.
And then Amagiri digs his heels into the soft loam of the forest floor and rocks upwards, and Saitou has a hard time caring about much else at all. It's a brutal pace the oni sets, but Saitou is there to match it, breaking away from Amagiri's mouth to tip his head backwards, breathing hard, biting his lip to hold in the hungry sounds trying to claw their way out of his throat. That seems to suit Amagiri just fine; he leans in, sucking wet, open-mouthed kisses along the slender bow of Saitou's collar bones, squeezing the base of Saitou's cock and twisting just so on each upstroke, until Saitou loses all sense of rhythm, desperately chasing his own release. It doesn't take long, caught as he is between the angle of Amagiri's pistoning hips and his rough fist; just a few beats later his own hips stutter as he bows forward, burying his face in the crook of Amagiri's neck to muffle the strangled sounds threatening to escape him, spattering thick, sticky seed against the oni's hand and belly.
Amagiri's answering growl is appreciative, his breath coming in heavy, measured grunts as he edges toward his own climax, nosing the shell of Saitou's ear. "Next time I'm going to make you howl, wolf," he rumbles, and the immediate, absolutely perfect way Saitou's body clenches around him is more than enough to send him over. He thrusts two, three more times, finally stilling as release washes through his limbs, emptying himself into the shivering body arched above his own.
In the east, the first bonfire winks to life on the face of Mandara. Boneless, sated, half-draped across the oni's broad shoulder, Saitou watches the ancient depiction of the torii manifested in flame, for the first time in recent memory approaching a feeling much like peace.
.
Saitou's fingers are still trembling, fumbling with his obi as the first of the lanterns appear, drifting along the river's lazy current. For a moment he holds his breath, the muscles of his jaw bunching; that silent procession feels endless, a silent testament to the bloody, tortured fall of the shogunate he and his comrades defended with their lives.
If Shinpachi has gathered lanterns for Hijikata and the others, Saitou does not know of it. He has mourned these last several months in his own quiet way, and yet something about this seems --
"It's not disrespectful," Amagiri's gravelly voice sinks into the dark spaces surrounding Saitou's thoughts. The oni is half-sprawled in the shadows, still leaning against the tree, his yukata loose around his shoulders, wide open to expose what seems to Saitou like miles of surprisingly smooth skin to the humid night air. His hands are loosely folded over his belly, entirely at ease, as if his pose is completely natural. His lips quirk briefly in response to the samurai's sharp look. "It cannot be, to celebrate life so."
Saitou is silent, his gaze drifting back to the river where the lanterns float by like unanchored stars. Perhaps Amagiri is right; either way, it isn't of much concern to Saitou. Many things change, after all, even him, even the world he has always known.
In the stillness of the evening, in the mournful glow of countless lanterns, he offers a silent prayer to whichever gods might be watching tonight to guide those wayward souls home.
fin 07.29.11
-
Aaaaand holy what, I did way too much research for a smut flash-fic. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW. .___. Shinto shrines, piles of Kyoto maps, festivals, the biological makeup of Kyoto native forests, tree bark and which is least likely to grate off human skin to shreds during sex ... what is my life. /)_(\
I suppose this is probably AU-ish depending on the circumstances. Since I've seen canon images of Saitou as rasetsu. Fuck it, animu canon is what I know and he was fine then.
Now watch me ruin whatever goodwill I've managed to earn here with this one thought: That's not a scarf, that's someone's spare fundoshi.
Just try to unthink it now, go on. >3
Alternately, you're welcome to speculate on whether it's his or not.