Saiyuki, Nii/Kou, Five Stages of Physical Intimacy
Title: Untitled
Author/Artist: Tad Coast
Theme: Nudging/Patting/Brushing
Rating: PG
Author's Note: Vague spoilers for Saiyuki manga vol. 8
"Ah ah, sweet Prince. It will never do if you keep trying to run away." He smiles with cruel lips, and steps closer, close enough to touch, and is pleased when his kneeling rabbit doesn't pull away.
"Get away from me you bastard!" He glares with fierce eyes, but not so fiery as they once were. He knows what's happening, knows he's helpless to stop it, and hates it. He hates him for it.
"My, what a temper. What would your precious mother say if she heard such language from you?" His fingers trace over long slender ears, and along the jaw, and slower still across supple lips, but not for fear. He knows he will not be bitten.
"Don't you talk about my mother..." He warns, but it is futile, undeniably so to them both. Even his voice has wavered, for the man's skin is soft, so much softer than it should be, and his touch is as soothing as it is vile.
"Oh, of course, dear Prince. Mothers should not be mentioned in moments such as these." And he moves closer, guiding the rabbit to rest against his thigh, cheek pressed to rough cloth, to the warmth beneath. He sings a song he learned for another of his toys, a song of comfort, and tenderly strokes brilliant red hair in time to the tune.
"You bastard." He whispers, and knows it is all he can do. His hands come up on their own, and hold to the man's waist, allowing him to linger, to listen. And when the song ends, he shudders against the man, no longer knowing the difference between disgust and delight.
Author/Artist: Tad Coast
Theme: Nudging/Patting/Brushing
Rating: PG
Author's Note: Vague spoilers for Saiyuki manga vol. 8
"Ah ah, sweet Prince. It will never do if you keep trying to run away." He smiles with cruel lips, and steps closer, close enough to touch, and is pleased when his kneeling rabbit doesn't pull away.
"Get away from me you bastard!" He glares with fierce eyes, but not so fiery as they once were. He knows what's happening, knows he's helpless to stop it, and hates it. He hates him for it.
"My, what a temper. What would your precious mother say if she heard such language from you?" His fingers trace over long slender ears, and along the jaw, and slower still across supple lips, but not for fear. He knows he will not be bitten.
"Don't you talk about my mother..." He warns, but it is futile, undeniably so to them both. Even his voice has wavered, for the man's skin is soft, so much softer than it should be, and his touch is as soothing as it is vile.
"Oh, of course, dear Prince. Mothers should not be mentioned in moments such as these." And he moves closer, guiding the rabbit to rest against his thigh, cheek pressed to rough cloth, to the warmth beneath. He sings a song he learned for another of his toys, a song of comfort, and tenderly strokes brilliant red hair in time to the tune.
"You bastard." He whispers, and knows it is all he can do. His hands come up on their own, and hold to the man's waist, allowing him to linger, to listen. And when the song ends, he shudders against the man, no longer knowing the difference between disgust and delight.