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Title: And the Roses Shook Their Thorns
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gojyo/Hakkai
Word Count: 838
Excerpt: You are not a ghost either, though you tried, once, to fade away with the moon. Your pale skin is translucent and thin, but the livid scar that marks it binds you to earth. This is your punishment for the blood that coats your hands, it says, this is the proof of all your sins.
His eyes are blood, as is his hair – a tide of crimson spilling across the sheets. He could be a ghost, a vengeful spirit, were it not for his expression which begs you with silent words: Stay. Please. An unfinished song, resonating through tears, through flesh, through bone. His arms encircle your waist like a fragile cage, begging, begging.
Coppery and scarlet, flooding through your veins – a drowning stench of blood. You reek of it. It's the stain of a thousand demons, and it will never be washed away.
He draws you to him, and you feel the desperation that flutters in his pulse. His body burns against yours, hot and sweat-slick, firm with muscle and bone. (He is not a ghost.) You shiver and pant, but say nothing. There are roses at your mouth which fasten your lips with brittle thorns.
"Hakkai . . ." Gojyo groans.
His mouth opens against your collarbone, teeth sharp, tongue wet and hot and desperate, and his hands press against your skin, trembling with blood. Every thud, every shudder of his heart, you feel within your marrow. His expression is at odds with itself, half-twisted with pleasure, half-wracked with despair. Mouth slack, eyes shut, he moans as he grinds his hips against yours. He is scared that he will lose the only person who has ever understood him, that you will leave forever. Don't go don't go, a mantra indistinguishable from his heartbeat.
You sigh, feeling his fingers within you, and draw your knees over his shoulders. You are not a ghost either, though you tried, once, to fade away with the moon. Your pale skin is translucent and thin, but the livid scar that marks it binds you to earth. This is your punishment for the blood that coats your hands, it says, this is the proof of all your sins. These roses will seal your lips forever.
He fucks you, cock thick and hot and thrust-thrust-thrusting. His hands are heavy against your shoulders, anchoring you further to the world; they are weighty, and they burn with blood. He bends to press his mouth to yours, but you turn away, and his red red lips smear across your cheek instead.
"No," you whisper, "don't." His hair veils the world in scarlet. What does he see through his blood-tinted eyes? You close your own, unwilling to look at the color of your sins.
His breathing is rough; he's struggling not to come, trying to stay with you. He grips your cock in one hand and claws at the bedsheets with the other, twisting them, gripping them spasmodically as if they are his lifeline to this earth. Stay, please.
Even if these roses loosened their grasp, what would you say? Nothing. Instead you whimper, and press your hand between his stomach and yours.
"Hakkai . . ." His voice is a strangled moan. "I'm gonna . . ."
This is the only way he knows to keep you. In his world, there is no use for the intangible, only the here-and-now-and-real, the things he can touch and feel. He begs you with his body because that's all he's ever learned.
You arch up, digging your heels into his back. He shivers like a wild thing, sweaty and gasping and shuddering and coming coming coming with your name on his tongue, Hakkai hakkai oh please, and he trembles, hips jerking into yours. Air tears itself from his lungs as he collapses, arms weak.
You squeeze your hand around his, fisting yourself to a climax. He crawls down to your lap and presses his mouth to your cock, sucking and licking. His tongue is red, like his hair, like his eyes, but his hands are bony and unsteady, still clumsy from pleasure.
He would give you his soul for nothing, if you asked. You could take it and put it in a jar and put it in your pocket and walk away with it, and he would still try and give you more. Anything to make you stay. Anything for you.
His lips are swollen and chafed against your cock. You thread your fingers through his hair, and thrust into his wet, pleading mouth. Anything? The blood on your hands will be your reminder for all of eternity. Do you need another?
Your orgasm is a searing shudder of pleasure. The semen dribbles from his mouth, white and sloppy and hot, and his throat bobs as he swallows, bared, needy, vulnerable. You want to hurt him, dig your nails into his face until his skull shatters and the blood runs burning down his cheeks. Why are you doing this, you want to ask. Why would you do this for me.
You say nothing, and turn over on your side. Gojyo's hand is a tentative touch on your shoulder. What will you do when morning comes? You wish you could burn away with the morning fog and sublimate into nothing. Vanish with the setting of the moon – a ghost, a spirit.
"Hakkai?" Gojyo whispers. "Hakkai?"
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gojyo/Hakkai
Word Count: 838
Excerpt: You are not a ghost either, though you tried, once, to fade away with the moon. Your pale skin is translucent and thin, but the livid scar that marks it binds you to earth. This is your punishment for the blood that coats your hands, it says, this is the proof of all your sins.
His eyes are blood, as is his hair – a tide of crimson spilling across the sheets. He could be a ghost, a vengeful spirit, were it not for his expression which begs you with silent words: Stay. Please. An unfinished song, resonating through tears, through flesh, through bone. His arms encircle your waist like a fragile cage, begging, begging.
Coppery and scarlet, flooding through your veins – a drowning stench of blood. You reek of it. It's the stain of a thousand demons, and it will never be washed away.
He draws you to him, and you feel the desperation that flutters in his pulse. His body burns against yours, hot and sweat-slick, firm with muscle and bone. (He is not a ghost.) You shiver and pant, but say nothing. There are roses at your mouth which fasten your lips with brittle thorns.
"Hakkai . . ." Gojyo groans.
His mouth opens against your collarbone, teeth sharp, tongue wet and hot and desperate, and his hands press against your skin, trembling with blood. Every thud, every shudder of his heart, you feel within your marrow. His expression is at odds with itself, half-twisted with pleasure, half-wracked with despair. Mouth slack, eyes shut, he moans as he grinds his hips against yours. He is scared that he will lose the only person who has ever understood him, that you will leave forever. Don't go don't go, a mantra indistinguishable from his heartbeat.
You sigh, feeling his fingers within you, and draw your knees over his shoulders. You are not a ghost either, though you tried, once, to fade away with the moon. Your pale skin is translucent and thin, but the livid scar that marks it binds you to earth. This is your punishment for the blood that coats your hands, it says, this is the proof of all your sins. These roses will seal your lips forever.
He fucks you, cock thick and hot and thrust-thrust-thrusting. His hands are heavy against your shoulders, anchoring you further to the world; they are weighty, and they burn with blood. He bends to press his mouth to yours, but you turn away, and his red red lips smear across your cheek instead.
"No," you whisper, "don't." His hair veils the world in scarlet. What does he see through his blood-tinted eyes? You close your own, unwilling to look at the color of your sins.
His breathing is rough; he's struggling not to come, trying to stay with you. He grips your cock in one hand and claws at the bedsheets with the other, twisting them, gripping them spasmodically as if they are his lifeline to this earth. Stay, please.
Even if these roses loosened their grasp, what would you say? Nothing. Instead you whimper, and press your hand between his stomach and yours.
"Hakkai . . ." His voice is a strangled moan. "I'm gonna . . ."
This is the only way he knows to keep you. In his world, there is no use for the intangible, only the here-and-now-and-real, the things he can touch and feel. He begs you with his body because that's all he's ever learned.
You arch up, digging your heels into his back. He shivers like a wild thing, sweaty and gasping and shuddering and coming coming coming with your name on his tongue, Hakkai hakkai oh please, and he trembles, hips jerking into yours. Air tears itself from his lungs as he collapses, arms weak.
You squeeze your hand around his, fisting yourself to a climax. He crawls down to your lap and presses his mouth to your cock, sucking and licking. His tongue is red, like his hair, like his eyes, but his hands are bony and unsteady, still clumsy from pleasure.
He would give you his soul for nothing, if you asked. You could take it and put it in a jar and put it in your pocket and walk away with it, and he would still try and give you more. Anything to make you stay. Anything for you.
His lips are swollen and chafed against your cock. You thread your fingers through his hair, and thrust into his wet, pleading mouth. Anything? The blood on your hands will be your reminder for all of eternity. Do you need another?
Your orgasm is a searing shudder of pleasure. The semen dribbles from his mouth, white and sloppy and hot, and his throat bobs as he swallows, bared, needy, vulnerable. You want to hurt him, dig your nails into his face until his skull shatters and the blood runs burning down his cheeks. Why are you doing this, you want to ask. Why would you do this for me.
You say nothing, and turn over on your side. Gojyo's hand is a tentative touch on your shoulder. What will you do when morning comes? You wish you could burn away with the morning fog and sublimate into nothing. Vanish with the setting of the moon – a ghost, a spirit.
"Hakkai?" Gojyo whispers. "Hakkai?"
42 footprints | you were here
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