(no subject)
Title: Delayed Gratification
Fandom: Loveless
Pairings: Ritsu/Soubi, Seimei/Soubi, Kio/Soubi (urgh!)
Rating: Not Worksafe
Word Count: 2050
Notes: Hmm. Again, attempting this crazy writing thing at 3am, so I dunno how I feel about this. It seemed like a good idea at the time?
His first time was against his will and perfect.
Ritsu-sensei had spent countless, thankless hours training him one night, reading aloud from a book in one hand, disciplining him with the whip in his other. His voice was even and strong. Soubi would repeat the words after him, careful to hit each inflection, to wrap his tongue around those difficult foreign words, to feel ashamed at the swell of triumph and familiar with each razored crack of the whip against his bleeding back.
When Sensei's hands had closed around his hips, it had been rough, rougher than he'd ever imagined it. His back had arched, his body had tried to escape - the first time. But Sensei had made sure there wasn't a second time, had put an end to that, as quickly as he'd put an end to Soubi's terrified reactions to the sight of a Sacrifice's pain. That's why we have them, Sensei had intoned, and the welts on Soubi's back had supported the logic, they want that. And, this too, this jerking, naked coupling, Sensei convinced him was the way it should be. Stop pulling away, came that same voice, cold and sure and right, you'll only make it worse.
So he had stayed there, palms pressed to the wall, back and body and trust offered completely, a delicate toy in the hands of an impassioned collector or a careless child, and he swallowed each strangled cry. It was...empowering, almost; Soubi could feel the strength within him grow each time his hips were pushed forward and his knees gave just a bit. This was Sensei's will and Sensei's will would make him better, would make him the perfect Fighter. No harm would come to his Sacrifice, Soubi knew that Ritsu-sensei would be sure of it.
He'd felt Sensei's hips press to his backside, felt Sensei's abdomen sweaty against his lower back, felt Sensei's breath on the back of his neck, clipped and measured and controlled as ever. By the end, Soubi held pride in not even a soft pant leaving his mouth, no sign of what had just transpired anywhere on him. Only the semen trickling down his legs gave it away.
When Sensei had left him, Soubi noticed that not a smudge of Soubi's blood had ended up on Ritsu's clean white shirt.
The night was long, naked and cold, curled on the floor in that room empty of all but lonely desks. But he didn't know where his clothes had gone and he couldn't go back to his room so naked and dirtied and bloodied. The floor had served him well, though; he'd learned that night how to lay so as not to open his wounds, how to fall asleep when everything that was his ached and throbbed and reminded him that he was alone.
When he awoke the next morning, sore from the cement and the cold, he found that his ears had wilted and withered and fallen off, ugly remnants of naive childhood on the floor. He'd kicked them into a corner and discovered a fresh change of clothes had been left for him on one of the desks. He had dressed and gone to class. Other Fighters had stared at him, at his naked, obscene head and had whispered behind their hands. Teacher's pet and the like, but Soubi's aching, gashed back held his head up straight and he went about his lesson.
***
His last time happens far too gently for his tastes and comes under the caring, artist's hands of his friend.
It happens, finally, years too late, after Soubi has had enough of the begging and the not-so-subtle hints and finally strips down for a nude portrait. He's prepared to be leered at, to feel Kio's hungry eyes on him, to hear those insinuations.
He is prepared for more flirting, now with extra ammunition and promise.
Instead, he hears a soft, embarrassed gasp and Kio's eyes find something interesting on the floor on which to focus their concentration. A breathy, high-pitched apology and some nervous glances later, Kio is at his side, one tentative finger reaching out to trace a scar on his back. Kio asks where it came from, or maybe Soubi just starts to tell him without being prompted; it's so hard to remember after a while.
Kio knows to keep quiet, to let this rare moment of honesty and disclosure extend until Soubi looks drained and shaky and needs to sit down. Kio falls with him, naked canvases forgotten in the corners in favor of the naked man bent and blemished on the hardwood floor.
Kio, Soubi notices when his friend's lips fall onto his cheek, his jaw, his neck, his shoulders, is nothing like Ritsu-sensei and it makes him uneasy. Sensei had never kissed him, not like this, not without teeth and force and control. Kio, it seems, is wanting Soubi to lead him, to show him what Soubi needs and wants. Does Soubi have wants? Neither man is sure as they fall onto the floor, Soubi's scars numbing most of his back and he can only feel the cool wood in very specific spots.
But he can feel Kio on top of him, can feel the nervous rise and fall of his chest, can feel his soft blond curls against his face, can feel Kio's thighs against his own. He feels Kio's hands move up his sides, far too gentle, far too asking, waiting for some sort of permission.
Just do it, Soubi wants to snap, just take what you want.
But he doesn't. He's not sure why. It's easier to lie there, letting Kio feel him out, find his sensitive spots and exploit them. Yes.
Except Kio doesn't exploit. Kio cherishes and it makes Soubi's skin crawl. Kio's fingers don't shove into him, instead stroking and pressing and slowing at any resistance, and Soubi misses that dry tug of flesh on stubborn flesh. But his hips remain stationary as Kio takes his time to figure things out, to overcome his thrill at the feel of Soubi beneath him.
Soubi lets his mind wander, wonders why Kio isn't hurrying the hell up. It should be over by now and they should be back to painting. When he finally looks back to Kio, he's surprised to find Kio dragging his tongue along Soubi's many scars, feeling their length and Soubi can't feel a thing. Except somewhere inside where he doesn't want to. It aches and he hates it and he wants it and god why won't Kio just get on with it?
When Kio finally slides into him, a breathy Sou-chan escaping his lips and landing somewhere in Soubi that makes him cringe, it all happens too slowly. Kio moves too slowly, in that tender way of his, in that artist's way. His hips move gracefully, forming this rhythm with Soubi's and it's so foreign. When Kio mumbles something about loving him, Soubi bristles and thinks of Ritsuka and wants to push Kio away but doesn't. He doesn't because it feels good, and that makes him even angrier.
Kio gasps when Soubi's fingers grip around his shoulders and he rolls them, straddling Kio's hips, Kio's eyes wide under foggy glasses, his brow knit in concern or pleasure or ache, Soubi can't really differentiate at the moment and he starts to move. Quick and jerking and he's pretty sure that Kio is wincing in pain this time and not in response to something else. Sou-chan, he hears again and he chokes once before crumpling forward on top of his friend and slowing his rhythm.
He waits for half a count for Kio to start moving again, then matches the movement with his own hips. They're moving together again and Soubi despises it and craves it and the first time Kio's fingernails press tentatively against the muscles flanking Soubi's ribs, Soubi tenses, catches his eyes and manages the smallest of smiles, and Kio digs in a bit more, disgust twisting his lips, his eyes sad and he whispers Soubi's name before burying his head against Soubi's shoulder and letting some tears slide out.
***
And in between these times is Seimei. His Sacrifice, his fuel. Seimei who would press him down, pull his cock out of his pants and stroke with a savagery and an attention that drove Soubi to madness, that made him hate the joy he was receiving from the simple touches. It was his job to care for his Sacrifice, to pleasure him. Why was Seimei touching him like this?
Soubi's head would fall back as he came, spilling thick saltiness over Seimei's fingers. Seimei would grab the towel they kept on the floor beside Soubi's bed and rub roughly at his long, pretty fingers, removing every last trace of Soubi.
Soubi wanted to see Seimei lick his semen from those fingers, wanted Seimei to take him in his mouth, to feel his tongue broad and flat and warm against him. But it was a ridiculous thing to ask for. If it was supposed to happen, Seimei would tell him to move closer to the edge of the bed, or to pull his pants off the rest of the way. Instead, Seimei stroked him with one hand, always the left one, always with a distance between them that spoke of formality and appeasement and Soubi would come harder than he ever had.
Still, there was more pleasure in the battles, more pleasure in feeling the force tear from his body and slam into their opponents, in seeing Seimei nod at him with those even eyes that Soubi took to convey approval. That was what Soubi's body was for; that was where he could best serve his Sacrifice, the only thing that mattered. Seimei didn't ask anything strange of him, had no desire to see Soubi flushed or to hear Soubi making those subtle quiet noises that betrayed his training, that exposed him as a mere student in all of this.
Seimei wanted a Fighter, a dog, a tool, and Soubi was more than happy to oblige this command, too.
***
Now there was Ritsuka. This boy with the drooping ears that didn't fill any of the roles that Soubi was familiar with. This boy who didn't discipline him or coddle him or order him. This boy who was simply content to let Soubi lay silently on the twin bed in the locked bedroom while Ritsuka worked on his algebra homework.
Ritsuka confuses Soubi, makes his head swim a little bit, because he doesn't know how to deal with this kid that he wants so much. He's never wanted before; it's always been more of a dull, aching need, a necessity that he's told is such. And he's not sure he should indulge this. It will certainly interfere with his servitude and so he learns the Fine Art of Distracting Ritsuka, changing the subject, pointing out fascinating things that they pass, making the kid react with that slight joy he has when he's really excited, and Soubi has to wonder which of them is benefitting the most from the distraction.
Once, when Ritsuka is older and leanly muscled and more sullen than usual, he asks Soubi to take his ears. Soubi hesitates, remembers a straw-colored pair kicked into the corner of a dark, rarely used classroom and thinks that Ritsuka looks awfully cute the way they are plastered backward on his head, the only betrayal of his youth in that strong, young male Sacrifice's body.
Ritsuka's kept those perky, childish things longer than any of his friends, taking some pride that Seimei never lost his, that Shinonome-sensei still has hers, so why should he get rid of his? Soubi wonders what caused this sudden change in opinion. But Ritsuka pushes him back down onto the mattress and climbs over his hips and sits on him.
Well, he asks in that surly way he has, but turns away a few degrees to disguise the blush swelling on his still-round cheeks.
Soubi sighs once and reaches out to ruffle Ritsuka's hair, suggesting that maybe they go to the botanical gardens when he finishes with finals in a week.
Fandom: Loveless
Pairings: Ritsu/Soubi, Seimei/Soubi, Kio/Soubi (urgh!)
Rating: Not Worksafe
Word Count: 2050
Notes: Hmm. Again, attempting this crazy writing thing at 3am, so I dunno how I feel about this. It seemed like a good idea at the time?
His first time was against his will and perfect.
Ritsu-sensei had spent countless, thankless hours training him one night, reading aloud from a book in one hand, disciplining him with the whip in his other. His voice was even and strong. Soubi would repeat the words after him, careful to hit each inflection, to wrap his tongue around those difficult foreign words, to feel ashamed at the swell of triumph and familiar with each razored crack of the whip against his bleeding back.
When Sensei's hands had closed around his hips, it had been rough, rougher than he'd ever imagined it. His back had arched, his body had tried to escape - the first time. But Sensei had made sure there wasn't a second time, had put an end to that, as quickly as he'd put an end to Soubi's terrified reactions to the sight of a Sacrifice's pain. That's why we have them, Sensei had intoned, and the welts on Soubi's back had supported the logic, they want that. And, this too, this jerking, naked coupling, Sensei convinced him was the way it should be. Stop pulling away, came that same voice, cold and sure and right, you'll only make it worse.
So he had stayed there, palms pressed to the wall, back and body and trust offered completely, a delicate toy in the hands of an impassioned collector or a careless child, and he swallowed each strangled cry. It was...empowering, almost; Soubi could feel the strength within him grow each time his hips were pushed forward and his knees gave just a bit. This was Sensei's will and Sensei's will would make him better, would make him the perfect Fighter. No harm would come to his Sacrifice, Soubi knew that Ritsu-sensei would be sure of it.
He'd felt Sensei's hips press to his backside, felt Sensei's abdomen sweaty against his lower back, felt Sensei's breath on the back of his neck, clipped and measured and controlled as ever. By the end, Soubi held pride in not even a soft pant leaving his mouth, no sign of what had just transpired anywhere on him. Only the semen trickling down his legs gave it away.
When Sensei had left him, Soubi noticed that not a smudge of Soubi's blood had ended up on Ritsu's clean white shirt.
The night was long, naked and cold, curled on the floor in that room empty of all but lonely desks. But he didn't know where his clothes had gone and he couldn't go back to his room so naked and dirtied and bloodied. The floor had served him well, though; he'd learned that night how to lay so as not to open his wounds, how to fall asleep when everything that was his ached and throbbed and reminded him that he was alone.
When he awoke the next morning, sore from the cement and the cold, he found that his ears had wilted and withered and fallen off, ugly remnants of naive childhood on the floor. He'd kicked them into a corner and discovered a fresh change of clothes had been left for him on one of the desks. He had dressed and gone to class. Other Fighters had stared at him, at his naked, obscene head and had whispered behind their hands. Teacher's pet and the like, but Soubi's aching, gashed back held his head up straight and he went about his lesson.
***
His last time happens far too gently for his tastes and comes under the caring, artist's hands of his friend.
It happens, finally, years too late, after Soubi has had enough of the begging and the not-so-subtle hints and finally strips down for a nude portrait. He's prepared to be leered at, to feel Kio's hungry eyes on him, to hear those insinuations.
He is prepared for more flirting, now with extra ammunition and promise.
Instead, he hears a soft, embarrassed gasp and Kio's eyes find something interesting on the floor on which to focus their concentration. A breathy, high-pitched apology and some nervous glances later, Kio is at his side, one tentative finger reaching out to trace a scar on his back. Kio asks where it came from, or maybe Soubi just starts to tell him without being prompted; it's so hard to remember after a while.
Kio knows to keep quiet, to let this rare moment of honesty and disclosure extend until Soubi looks drained and shaky and needs to sit down. Kio falls with him, naked canvases forgotten in the corners in favor of the naked man bent and blemished on the hardwood floor.
Kio, Soubi notices when his friend's lips fall onto his cheek, his jaw, his neck, his shoulders, is nothing like Ritsu-sensei and it makes him uneasy. Sensei had never kissed him, not like this, not without teeth and force and control. Kio, it seems, is wanting Soubi to lead him, to show him what Soubi needs and wants. Does Soubi have wants? Neither man is sure as they fall onto the floor, Soubi's scars numbing most of his back and he can only feel the cool wood in very specific spots.
But he can feel Kio on top of him, can feel the nervous rise and fall of his chest, can feel his soft blond curls against his face, can feel Kio's thighs against his own. He feels Kio's hands move up his sides, far too gentle, far too asking, waiting for some sort of permission.
Just do it, Soubi wants to snap, just take what you want.
But he doesn't. He's not sure why. It's easier to lie there, letting Kio feel him out, find his sensitive spots and exploit them. Yes.
Except Kio doesn't exploit. Kio cherishes and it makes Soubi's skin crawl. Kio's fingers don't shove into him, instead stroking and pressing and slowing at any resistance, and Soubi misses that dry tug of flesh on stubborn flesh. But his hips remain stationary as Kio takes his time to figure things out, to overcome his thrill at the feel of Soubi beneath him.
Soubi lets his mind wander, wonders why Kio isn't hurrying the hell up. It should be over by now and they should be back to painting. When he finally looks back to Kio, he's surprised to find Kio dragging his tongue along Soubi's many scars, feeling their length and Soubi can't feel a thing. Except somewhere inside where he doesn't want to. It aches and he hates it and he wants it and god why won't Kio just get on with it?
When Kio finally slides into him, a breathy Sou-chan escaping his lips and landing somewhere in Soubi that makes him cringe, it all happens too slowly. Kio moves too slowly, in that tender way of his, in that artist's way. His hips move gracefully, forming this rhythm with Soubi's and it's so foreign. When Kio mumbles something about loving him, Soubi bristles and thinks of Ritsuka and wants to push Kio away but doesn't. He doesn't because it feels good, and that makes him even angrier.
Kio gasps when Soubi's fingers grip around his shoulders and he rolls them, straddling Kio's hips, Kio's eyes wide under foggy glasses, his brow knit in concern or pleasure or ache, Soubi can't really differentiate at the moment and he starts to move. Quick and jerking and he's pretty sure that Kio is wincing in pain this time and not in response to something else. Sou-chan, he hears again and he chokes once before crumpling forward on top of his friend and slowing his rhythm.
He waits for half a count for Kio to start moving again, then matches the movement with his own hips. They're moving together again and Soubi despises it and craves it and the first time Kio's fingernails press tentatively against the muscles flanking Soubi's ribs, Soubi tenses, catches his eyes and manages the smallest of smiles, and Kio digs in a bit more, disgust twisting his lips, his eyes sad and he whispers Soubi's name before burying his head against Soubi's shoulder and letting some tears slide out.
***
And in between these times is Seimei. His Sacrifice, his fuel. Seimei who would press him down, pull his cock out of his pants and stroke with a savagery and an attention that drove Soubi to madness, that made him hate the joy he was receiving from the simple touches. It was his job to care for his Sacrifice, to pleasure him. Why was Seimei touching him like this?
Soubi's head would fall back as he came, spilling thick saltiness over Seimei's fingers. Seimei would grab the towel they kept on the floor beside Soubi's bed and rub roughly at his long, pretty fingers, removing every last trace of Soubi.
Soubi wanted to see Seimei lick his semen from those fingers, wanted Seimei to take him in his mouth, to feel his tongue broad and flat and warm against him. But it was a ridiculous thing to ask for. If it was supposed to happen, Seimei would tell him to move closer to the edge of the bed, or to pull his pants off the rest of the way. Instead, Seimei stroked him with one hand, always the left one, always with a distance between them that spoke of formality and appeasement and Soubi would come harder than he ever had.
Still, there was more pleasure in the battles, more pleasure in feeling the force tear from his body and slam into their opponents, in seeing Seimei nod at him with those even eyes that Soubi took to convey approval. That was what Soubi's body was for; that was where he could best serve his Sacrifice, the only thing that mattered. Seimei didn't ask anything strange of him, had no desire to see Soubi flushed or to hear Soubi making those subtle quiet noises that betrayed his training, that exposed him as a mere student in all of this.
Seimei wanted a Fighter, a dog, a tool, and Soubi was more than happy to oblige this command, too.
***
Now there was Ritsuka. This boy with the drooping ears that didn't fill any of the roles that Soubi was familiar with. This boy who didn't discipline him or coddle him or order him. This boy who was simply content to let Soubi lay silently on the twin bed in the locked bedroom while Ritsuka worked on his algebra homework.
Ritsuka confuses Soubi, makes his head swim a little bit, because he doesn't know how to deal with this kid that he wants so much. He's never wanted before; it's always been more of a dull, aching need, a necessity that he's told is such. And he's not sure he should indulge this. It will certainly interfere with his servitude and so he learns the Fine Art of Distracting Ritsuka, changing the subject, pointing out fascinating things that they pass, making the kid react with that slight joy he has when he's really excited, and Soubi has to wonder which of them is benefitting the most from the distraction.
Once, when Ritsuka is older and leanly muscled and more sullen than usual, he asks Soubi to take his ears. Soubi hesitates, remembers a straw-colored pair kicked into the corner of a dark, rarely used classroom and thinks that Ritsuka looks awfully cute the way they are plastered backward on his head, the only betrayal of his youth in that strong, young male Sacrifice's body.
Ritsuka's kept those perky, childish things longer than any of his friends, taking some pride that Seimei never lost his, that Shinonome-sensei still has hers, so why should he get rid of his? Soubi wonders what caused this sudden change in opinion. But Ritsuka pushes him back down onto the mattress and climbs over his hips and sits on him.
Well, he asks in that surly way he has, but turns away a few degrees to disguise the blush swelling on his still-round cheeks.
Soubi sighs once and reaches out to ruffle Ritsuka's hair, suggesting that maybe they go to the botanical gardens when he finishes with finals in a week.