#bloody and/or shirtless Rin??? what's not to get!!

[makkoskafanfic]

WIP fic release

In which one Madara is the manager of the black metal band called the Akatsuki and shares a History with the Mayor of Konoha. 

@enquiringangel this might be slightly cheating as this one’s fairly recent and I might actually continue it if my brain cooperates. 

Madara wakes to a harrowing headache. He squints against the light, doing his best not to be sick and wishes he remembered to draw the curtains closed last night. It takes him some time to realise the pounding doesn’t only come from inside his skull - someone is knocking on the door of his hotel room as well.

He lurches to his feet and stumbles to the door to jerk it open.

“What,” he barks “is so urgent?”

“Wow, boss. You look like hell,” Obito takes a long look at him as he stands there in nothing but his boxers. “I could have lived without this sight.”

“Then go and bother someone else,” he tries to slam the door in the younger man’s face, but Obito holds it open with a hand. Madara feels too sick to fight, so he just wanders back to the bed and slumps down on it. “Let me die in peace.”

“Can’t do,” Obito says cheerfully. “It’s 10 already, we need to check out in an hour and we have to discuss the next steps of the tour before.”

Madara groans and pushes a pillow against his face. He then remembers it’s a hotel pillow, and who knows when it had been properly washed, so throws it away.

“Aren’t you supposed to be my assistant? Do something on your own for a change. I’m dying.”

“Are you hungover?”

“I wish I was. I hardly got to drink anything last night, as Kakuzu and Kisame got into a fight at the bar and I had to smooth things over.”

“A migraine then.”

“You don’t say.”

“Where are your meds?”

“Small bag in the big bag.”

Obito fishes the pills out and pours him a glass of water. He also wets a towel and handles it over to Madara, to lay it on his face. Madara likes him a bit more than he usually does in that moment. 

He approached Madara about half a year ago, asking him to hire him. He was family - which was a good enough reason in itself to decline him in Madara’s opinion. But he had that kicked puppy look in his eyes when the older man told him to get lost. He just couldn’t go back home, he said. Not after all that happened. 

He would have been a handsome guy, if not for the ugly scar on the right side of his face. There was some tragic love story in the background. In the end Madara was weak and offered him a job if he promised he would never again bore him with the details. He doesn’t want to be involved in the woes of a twenty-two years old. He has never really gotten over his own heartbreak from his early twenties, so he was hardly a suitable person to give any advice. 

“You will get over it,” he told him. “Or maybe you won’t. Either way, I couldn’t care less about this Rin and Kakashi, so never mention them again. Here’s your contract. Money is shit, but then, I don’t really have anything for you to do.” 

Obito signed without any questions and here he was now, giving Madara his painkillers, proving to be useful in the end. 

“Are the circus freaks awake yet?” me mutters from under his wet towel.

“I heard Hidan’s yelling, so probably they are.”

“Go and check on them, won’t you? It would be great to keep the schedule for once.”

“I’m more concerned about you. Have you considered you are too old for this life?”

Madara pulls the towel off his face and raises his head with an effort to glare at Obito.

“I’m forty-seven you disrespectful little shit. I’m not old.”

“Whatever you say, gramps. Do I need to help to get you into the shower?”

Madara scrunches the towel into a ball and throws it at Obito. It hits him on the neck with a satisfying wet smack. 

“Keep your hands to yourself and run me through the schedule.” 

He gets to his feet, feeling marginally better as the painkillers start to kick in. He definitely feels the age in his back and he stretches, but he is careful not to wince as Obito is watching. He leaves the bathroom door slightly ajar, allowing the voice of his so-called assistant to carry through. He doesn’t listen as he knows everything by heart, but he might as well let him play being important. Madara, as the meticulous person he is, doesn’t forget the details of the tour plan. It’s a useful trait to have for the manager of the band, although it probably would come as a surprise to the fans who remember Madara as a chaotic rock star.

He used to be quite famous, being on the stage for a good fifteen years. He had a carefully built image, with everything in the book - the sometimes sensual, sometimes rude and shocking lyrics, the wild guitar riffs, a voice that had a classical education but was put to the best use when screaming into the mic. He used to have the looks, with his long mane of hair, the wiry muscles on his chest and arms that made him look good shirtless on the stage.

The rumours, the gossip and scandals that came with that lifestyle never bothered him. They had very little foundation - outside his stage persona, Madara has always been a reserved man, but that wasn’t what the fans wanted to see and in his opinion everybody was entitled to the illusions they preferred.

Madara has always been a smart man, too. As he passed fourty, all that came with the show, the tours, the gigs, the albums, the photo shoots started to get too much. So he just quit it, without any plan in place with what he wanted to do with his life. 

He didn’t enjoy retirement, but then, it lasted about two months. He was approached by Yahiko, or as he became known on his stage name, by Pain, offering him the role of the manager for his newly formed black metal band, The Akatsuki. He already had the members, he explained, just needed someone with experience in the industry to help them break through.

Madara agreed to meet the band and realised that Yahiko-Pain, with his numerous piercings, spikey carrot-red hair and well formed messiah-complex was the least weird of them all still. He thought they wouldn’t last a month, but out of boredom he agreed to be their manager. It would be a laugh, he considered, some trash band with a manager who had no idea what he was doing.

Almost seven years have passed since. The Akatsuki have become surprisingly successful within their genre and Madara is still managing them. He didn’t even like them - on some days, like today, he outright loathes them - but he couldn’t figure out what else to do with the rest of his life.

By the time he checks out in the lobby, he feels mostly human again. The horrible migraine quilted down to an annoying, but bearable headache. He has his jacket zipped up to his chin, his hair up in a ponytail and large sunglasses covering most of his face, and nobody spares him a second glance. 

“Madara, you fucking bastard,” Hidan, the guitarist shrieks at him when he approaches their bus. Madara doesn’t even wince - he has accepted years ago that Hidan is incapable of speaking in a normal tone or without unnecessary swear words. While his skills on the guitar are mediocre at best, he is a vital part of the show.  One can always count on him to be shocking, offensive and obscene. He’s a considerable contributor to the spotlight the band gets on the media. “Last night was fucking awesome, man! The crowd just ate it all up! Where are we up next? Iwa? We will rock them! Haha! Kakuzu, you limp dick, do you get it? Rock them, as Iwa is…”

“Actually we’ve been in Iwa half a year ago,” Obito interrupts, as he still didn’t learn to just ignore Hidan. “That’s where we started the tour, remember. Our next stop is… Konoha,” he looks sour and Madara makes a mental note not to sit next to him on the drive. It’s going to 

be a long one and he can’t bear listening to him go off about Rin-Kakashi-Rin-Kakashi-Rin-Kakashi again.

Especially as he’s not the only one upset by going back to Konoha. It’s not the first time Madara will be back of course - he has left over twenty years ago, and the town has become too prominent to miss out on tours. He was a nervous wreck on all occasions before and he’s not sure this time will be different. Well over two decades have passed, but Madara is not very good at moving on.

They all climb into the bus, which is getting rather small or rather, their team is getting too big. The four members of the band, Madara, Obito, Pain’s lethargic girlfriend slash occasional keyboardist and the “arts” team who are responsible for everything that happens on the stage that’s not music, from pyrotechnics to setting up equipment.

Kakuzu, their bassist, is behind the wheels as he claimed a driver is just a waste of money and the others couldn’t care less about who was driving. Madara sits down next to him on the front seat as the man at least doesn’t talk much. They all settle slowly, Pain and Konan in the back, so they can make out as they usually do, Hidan bickering with the blond arts kid, Kisame, the drummer, grumbling something about ergonomy as he tries to fold his tall frame into the seat. Obito sits next to him, seeming ready to start off his tirade about his bloody annoying love triangle. 

Madara puts in some music so he doesn’t have to listen to any of them and decides on feigning sleep on the majority of the trip. He can already feel anxiety setting down inside his very bones. Going home isn’t something he looks forward to.

[idealistsinc]

better off

content warning: arguing, some nsfw dialogue, then tooth-rotting adorable

When it came to matters of presentation, reining in Rin Weise was as futile as laveering a schooner in a storm.

Rin had swathed the sofa in every last tunic and pair of trousers Vhox owned. Vhox languished in a nearby armchair as he watched Rin gnaw a hangnail, pacing from one rumpled, sun-bleached shirt to another with a brow so furrowed it looked like it was trying to migrate to his chin. He had only agreed to let Rin choose his outfit because Rin had already bitten his fingernails to the quick over this whole Maelstrom business; letting Rin expend his nervous energy on something productive tended to go far better than the alternative. Anyway, thought Vhox, draping himself over the arm of the chair, at least he had an excuse to lounge about shirtless without Rin accusing him of being deliberately provocative. If he could just get Rin to stop fretting for long enough to look at him…

Rin paused from wearing a hole in the rug to hand Vhox a sedate white shirt, miraculously unblemished by seawater, sweat, or other unmentionable substances. “Try this one.”

Vhox held it up for inspection with a suggestive flex of his bicep. “Y’know,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I think this is th’ one I wore on that Lower Decks tavern crawl, when you dragged me off be’ind the dumpsters an’—”

“Thank you,” said Rin. “I recall. Please put on the shirt, Vhox.”

Sighing theatrically, Vhox navigated his arms through the sleeves. “Never thought I’d see the day where y’wanted me to put on more clothes.”

That didn’t elicit even the ghost of a smile. The moment Vhox had his head through, Rin attacked him with all the deadly focus of a predator, tugging out wrinkles, straightening sleeves, and tightening the collar so that it near strangled him (“You tryin’ t’kill me?” Vhox griped. Rin, rolling his eyes, graciously undid one more button than his sense of propriety demanded). Then, Rin stepped back and looked Vhox over with such a critical gaze that Vhox resisted a childish urge to squirm.

“The sleeves are rather billowy,” Rin remarked, finally. “A bit too high seas.”

“The Maelstrom’s an armada. High seas’s what they’re goin’ for.”

“Point taken.” Rin frowned, then reached to brush Vhox’s bangs out of his face, a gesture Vhox mistook for affectionate until he added, “We ought to do something with your hair.”

Vhox’s stomach wrenched like a rudder grinding against a rock. “Nothin’ wrong with it,” he said. He caught Rin’s wrist; Rin pulled out of his grip in a huff, his tail twitching.

“Perhaps not, if what you’re going for is ‘lawless rogue.’ I’m only going to tie it back—”

Yeah, thought Vhox, because that fuckin’ tattoo will go over so well. He could imagine the sight he would be, a beaten-down, washed-up wharf rat parading himself in front of a Maelstrom lieutenant with a godsdamned cult brand on his cheek. He moved out of Rin’s range, hurt sharpening his voice. “Hell no. It’s one thing to pick out somethin’ nice, but I ain’t gonna start puttin’ on airs.”

“It’s not about ‘putting on airs.’ It’s about getting your foot in the door,” Rin said, with the infuriating patience of a parent for a tantruming child. “The Maelstrom administers to eight other squadrons. You’re going to need to show more than your usual bureaucratic finesse; I expect their standards aren’t exactly lax.”

If before the rudder had merely scraped on a rock, now Vhox felt the jolt of the whole bloody ship beaching on the shore, splintering the hull like matchsticks and throwing half the crew in the bay to drown. He’d been standing there for all of five minutes. If Rin judged that he didn’t pass muster, what the hell was Vhox even doing, thinking he might have a shot at making something more of himself than a lawless rogue?

“You think I can’t get in.”

Rin, reading the change in Vhox’s face, stilled. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t need to.” Vhox swung an arm at the tangle of tunics and jackets sprawled on the sofa. A prickling heat burned beneath his collar. “That’s what all this is, ain’t it? You don’t think they’ll take me ‘less I’m somethin’ I’m not—”

“That isn’t what I—”

“—so I’ll save us both th’ godsdamned time. Why go?”

“Because they might pay you,” said Rin. His voice went pitchy in his attempt not to raise it, cracking like a prepubescent kid whose balls had just dropped. “I’m sorry you feel that’s encroaching on your bloody gods-given right to do whatever you want, but what do you want me to say? That appearances don’t matter? That nothing you do will make a difference so that you have an excuse not to try? Because they do matter, and it does make a difference. Here in the adult world, sometimes you have to play the part just long enough to get hired.”

“Yeah?” Vhox said, before he could think better of it. “How’s that workin’ out for you, Rin? Tell me all about how good you're doin' at your job."

Rin’s expression blanked. Just like that, like closing a window, and just like that the air was crushed from Vhox’s lungs in a horrible vice of regret.

A fortnight past, Vhox came home from hauling nets at the docks to find Rin frozen in the grips of a panic attack so severe he couldn’t catch his breath to tell him what was wrong. Vhox had held him for nearly an hour, feeling the pounding staccato of Rin’s heart against his sternum and his shallow gasps on his neck, before Rin calmed down enough to give a disjointed and dissociative explanation: Rin had made a calculation error on a shipment through Maelvann’s Gate. It was a minor error, but such a taxing and expensive fix that Rin’s boss had called Rin into her office to suffer a formal reprimand, which utterly convinced Rin he was as good as fired—without an income, Kallu couldn’t go to school, Luma would never forgive him, and Rin would lose the flat and everything in it—without the flat, Rin would have to move back in with Isha’a, they would argue because Rin had never learned how to keep his damnable mouth shut, and Vhox would be turned out on the streets and maybe starve, maybe wind up stabbed to death in the gutter—

There were other inevitabilities that whirled in Rin’s head, Vhox was sure, but Vhox didn’t get to hear about them. By the time he got to the part where Vhox would clearly die without him, Rin was sobbing too hard to finish.

That was the funny thing about Rin. When Rin believed he needed to play a part, he played it so well that not even Vhox had seen the burden on Rin’s shoulders until Rin had already collapsed beneath it. Vhox realized that day he had no idea when Rin had begun to take on Vhox’s well-being as his responsibility—and it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that Vhox had sought out employment with the Maelstrom, determined to relieve Rin at once of that weight.

In the present, Rin forged doggedly through the silence. “I am trying to help you.”

“An’ I didn’t ask for your help!” If taking that burden off Rin’s shoulders was Vhox’s aim, his failure was already writ in the stress-carved canyons on Rin’s forehead and the heavy bruises under his eyes. Rin was trying to help him, and how did Vhox repay him? By shouting at him. By pissing away the last twenty-odd years of his life, time from which Vhox might never be able to recover into the kind of person who could hold a steady job, the kind of person who might actually be deserving of— “I never asked for you to feed me or put a roof o’er my head. I ain’t a godsdamned charity case, some beggin’ starveling needin’ you to play benefactor—”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then maybe don’t act like you’re doin’ me such a favor, dolin’ out gil to stroke your own dick—”

“By the bloody fucking Twelve, Vhox!” said Rin, very loud. His frustration trembled in his legs; he strode up to Vhox and took him firmly by the shoulders, but...even upset as Rin was, his touch was gentle. “Is this what we’re doing now? Being vulgar for the sake of it, hoping I’ll storm out in disgust so you can tell yourself what a terrible person you are? Because you’re not, and I won’t. You can’t push me away—shockingly, I take care of you because I love you, you brainless twit—”

Vhox heard nothing else Rin said. It was as if the floor had pitched beneath him and dropped him to his knees, knocking the breath and the anger out of him in one fell swoop.

“What?” said Vhox.

Rin paused. Vhox saw him mentally backtrack through his tirade, saw the moment Rin realized what he’d said cross his face. All at once, the tension between them sagged like an empty sail. Rin’s fingers clenched in Vhox’s shirt, his chest deflating in a long, defeated sigh. “I love you,” he said again. “That’s—that’s not how I imagined I would say that, but…”

Vhox didn’t know what Rin meant to say next, and somehow, he didn’t care. An eddy of warmth had washed through him, a feeling like the heat in his stomach on the first sip of ale, like sun-warmed skin on a summer afternoon; and he noticed for the first time the flush in Rin’s cheekbones that made his markings pop, the curl of his hair over the rims of his glasses, those wide eyes behind them. Gods, but he really did have the prettiest fucking eyes Vhox ever saw. The color reminded him of the sky right at sunset, when the sun seemed to douse itself out in the sea in a final burst of violet—

Before Vhox could think about what he was doing in the slightest, he was already kissing Rin.

To be fair, Rin kissed him back. Then, as though Rin suddenly remembered he was supposed to be upset with Vhox, he pulled away, bewildered. “Wait. What are you…?”

“I’m a fuckin’ blockhead,” said Vhox. His hands settled in the familiar and well-tracked groove at the small of Rin’s back, and Vhox tugged him closer, enjoying the shiver that quailed up Rin’s spine. “Why would I wanna argue with you when there’s so many other things I can do wi’ my mouth—”

“Are you seriously—you’re flirting with me?” Rin barked a short, baffled laugh. “We were just in a row. I legitimately thought I was going to strangle you. Perhaps we should, I don’t know, talk about that?”

“Later. I wanna make it up to you.”

“And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?”

“I was thinkin’ I’d start with a blowjob,” Vhox said. He considered, then added, “The stranglin’ can be negotiated.”

Rin stared at Vhox long enough that Vhox almost let him go, suddenly anxious he had come on too strong after an argument the caliber of the one they’d just had. But then something in Rin’s face thawed, and Rin twined his arms about Vhox’s neck with the kind of laughter that always buoyed Vhox’s heart to hear—his real laugh, soft and somehow shy.

“Far be it from me to turn down such a compelling offer,” Rin said. Then, his smile turned suggestive, a promise that often led to future orgasms for Vhox—which was to say, if Vhox had at all been thinking before, he certainly wasn’t now. “With ever so much to make up for—well, you’d best get started.”

And Vhox, indeed, got started.

. . .

Some bells and several orgasms later, Vhox and Rin lay entwined beneath the sheets. The light ebbed through the window, leaving shadows in its wake as the sea leaves shells. Vhox fought against a sated, comfortable sleepiness by staring up at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the plaster. Over the years, he’d seen many ceilings, usually while a buxom woman rode his cock—smoke-yellowed ceilings, ceilings splotched with mold, cobwebbed and fissured and sometimes falling in. But Vhox already knew this ceiling. Rin led a furious crusade against the spider infestations with a broom for this ceiling, mopped the walls when the seaspray made the room too damp, and already talked about whitewashing over the lone crack—

Llymlaen’s tits, Vhox thought, catching himself. It’s just a godsdamned ceiling.

It wasn’t just a godsdamned ceiling, though. It was Rin’s ceiling. Vhox didn’t know why, but that seemed like an important distinction to make.

The problem was that the warm, steady weight of Rin’s head on his chest kept dredging up all manner of complicated and incoherent feelings. Vhox knew he would have to wade through them sometime, plumb down to the bottom of the muck where Rin’s confession rested like a small, glimmering gem and take it in his palm, see if its facets would cut. Maybe, though, for only a moment, he could just…

Rin moved away from Vhox to prop himself up on his elbows, his tail weaving in restless sweeps against the mattress. Vhox was a little disappointed, but not surprised; Rin’s post-nut clarity always came in the form of anxious tidying. “I should iron that shirt if you’re to wear it tomorrow,” Rin said, proving the point. “As I recall, it was rather unceremoniously discarded in the hallway.”

“Leave it,” said Vhox. “I’ll take care of it later.”

“Vhox, you’ve never ironed a shirt in your life.”

No, he hadn’t. But if it was important to Rin to iron that shirt, goddammit, Vhox would iron the bloody shirt. “It’s a metal bit an’ some heat. What could go wrong?”

“You could burn the flat down.” Rin sat up and shifted his legs over the side of the bed. “I won’t be very long. I’ll just—”

Vhox grabbed his hand. He hadn’t expected to do that, and so for a blank string of seconds he just limply held it, forgetting everything he might have wanted to say. “Rin,” he finally managed, his name soft in his mouth. “Stay here a while.”

Rin hesitated. Then, crossing his legs beneath him, he stayed.

Vhox didn’t believe in that gooey bullshite about two bodies fitting perfectly together. He had seen enough bodies to know that, whether they were lithe or bulky, gangling or lumbering, bodies were awkward. They shat, smelled, vomited, leaked out snot or tears, came too soon or not soon enough, fumbled, choked, and sometimes jabbed him way too hard in the side with those bony fucking elbows, Rin. But...as Vhox folded Rin into his arms, tracing the delicate skin that hardly clothed the cage of his ribs, Vhox found himself staggered beneath a surge of protectiveness for this particular body, a built-up flood with nowhere to go. It would be one thing if Vhox had to protect Rin from the pirates, bandits, and thieves that nested in the dark corners of Limsa Lominsa—Vhox could throw a punch like nobody’s business—but that wasn’t the threat Rin faced, day after day after day.

The most dangerous person in Rin’s life was, and had always been, Vhox himself.

“Sorry we fought,” said Vhox. “I didn’t mean that shite about the…I just…”

I, what?

But Rin spoke before Vhox could name that shipwrecked feeling. “No, you were right to be upset. I was much too critical,” he said, drawing idle lines between the freckles on Vhox’s forearms with a ragged fingernail, his ears folding back. In Rin’s words, Vhox heard the blistering echo of a man Rin tried so hard not to be—for that alone, Vhox would’ve decked Senan fucking Weise in the goddamned teeth. “It’s not that I think there’s something wrong with you, only that…people are judgmental. I—I wanted the Maelstrom to give you a chance.”

“You didn’t need me t’fix my hair or any o’that to give me a chance.”

Rin scoffed. “The way I remember it, you hardly gave me a choice in the matter. I couldn’t have avoided you even if I wanted to.”

Vhox remembered, too: Rin’s dull, stringy hair. The sharp, hollowed angles of his face. The preternatural stillness with which Rin had held himself, a living ghost of a person. Rin had bitched the whole walk to the Bismarck, of course, but what Vhox remembered best was how his eyes came alive at that first taste of Bianaq bream. Gods, how Vhox had craved him. How badly he’d wanted to see how he might come alive at the tang of a malty Limsan old ale, or the flavor of Vhox’s tongue in his mouth—

“Did y’want to avoid me?” Vhox asked.

“…No,” he said, as though it were some kind of confession. “But I wouldn’t have admitted it on pain of death—I suppose I had my biases, too.” Rin faltered, his voice falling. “You don’t have to wear that shirt tomorrow, you know. I didn’t intend to be quite so forceful about it—”

“It wasn’t about that. I was—” What was it Rin had said earlier? “I was bein’ vulgar for th’ sake of it. Pickin’ a fight.”

When Vhox didn’t continue, Rin prompted, “What for?”

“I dunno. ‘Cus...” Vhox drew an uncertain breath, something in him quavering like a loose sail in a hurricane. “‘Cus I’m scared, I guess.”

Rin turned his head as though to look at him. Vhox squeezed Rin tight to keep him still, already more exposed and vulnerable than he would have liked to be, and so was surprised when Rin nudged his face into the soft space under Vhox’s chin and, very faintly, began to purr—a gentle rumble against Vhox’s pulse that evoked not so much a memory as a primal bond, something that soothed even as it bound, something that growled, Mine. Vhox closed his eyes and let himself, for a moment, be comforted.

“I don’t have a handle on this ‘steady job’ thing,” said Vhox, when he was again capable of speech. “Even if the Maelstrom takes me…I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’. I’ve been runnin’ from th’ law my whole life, not bein’ its bloody arm. An’—th’ job’s dangerous.”

Even as Vhox said it, though, he knew that wasn’t what he meant. When he dug down to the rotting root of it, every fear was really one fear: What if I hurt someone?

It wouldn’t be hard. One stab, one shot, one punch too many and Vhox would slaughter someone he hadn’t meant to kill, waking up again with pooled ichor squelching beneath his nails, waking up again to the fear like drowning of not knowing whose blood it was. And Rin. Rin would come for him even if Vhox got thrown in gaol. Rin would come even if Vhox was hurt, even if Vhox was the kind of hurt that made him do worse—

Vhox had never harmed Rin so far, and by the good graces of the entire pantheon of the Twelve, even motherfucking Azeyma, Vhox prayed he never would. But that didn’t stop Vhox from thinking about the flintlock pistol he made Rin keep in the bedside drawer, ostensibly for security reasons but really for Vhox’s own peace of mind. That didn’t stop Vhox from trying and failing to scrape together the courage to tell Rin outright what he wanted him to do with that gun if Vhox ever went feral in Rin’s presence again.

That small, glimmering gem had a sharp edge, after all. Even if Vhox was killing him, Rin would refuse to shoot.

“I’m dangerous.” Vhox swallowed. Though Rin already knew, admitting it still felt like opening up bleeding wounds in his throat. “An’ I think sometimes you’d be be’er off with some Sharlayan milksop whose job doesn’t come wi’ a risk of killin’ him, somebody who ain’t got a chance in hell of layin’ a finger on you—”

“Vhox—” said Rin, twisting to face him.

“Hang on. I’m not finished talkin’ yet.”

Rin’s tail flicked uneasily against his thigh. Vhox's gaze dropped to the clean line of Rin’s collarbone, his narrow chest that rose and fell with each quiet breath—and then a soft hand cupped his jaw, a thumb gliding over that scarred tattoo Vhox always hid beneath his mop of reddish hair until, finally, Vhox lifted his eyes to Rin’s. He didn’t know how he felt about what he saw there except that it ached in an inarticulable way, like prodding fingers into a healing bruise. The lesson Vhox had learned in his twenty-odd years of life: the people in his life didn’t come back. The people in his life didn’t stay.

But Rin did.

“It’d be for the best if you left,” Vhox said, an echo of something he told Rin once in a cave in bumfuck nowhere, Gyr Abania, and something he still in his heart of hearts believed, “but I...I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want you to run off with some struttin’ prick from Sharlayan. I want you to be wi’ me—an’ that? That scares the everlovin’ shite out of me.”

Because Vhox had never felt like that before. Because Vhox had drifted unanchored through his life until that day Rin had gored a ravenous, insatiable hole inside of him as he left, ripping away that which Vhox hadn’t even known he had to lose. Because when Rin left, Vhox wouldn’t just lose Rin. Vhox would lose the screams of Rin’s violin as he practiced, a barrage of tuneless notes like a streetcat’s mating call that, when Vhox least expected it, resolved into a chord so full it raised the gooseflesh on his arms. Vhox would lose the sweet familiarity of tossing his jacket over the same chair every evening, falling into the same warm bed with freshly-laundered sheets, never worrying he might get shanked in his sleep, his money stolen halfway to Ul’dah before his corpse was even stiff. Vhox would lose that little hiccup in his chest he got every time he washed up into Bloodshore after dark and saw that Rin had hung a lantern for him, though Vhox hadn’t told him he would be coming by that night—or any night, because Vhox refused to take a key to the flat on the grounds that he couldn’t bear to love this place and then be forced to leave it.

But, somewhere in him, Vhox also knew that there wouldn’t be a when. There were words for that knowing, and they were...

Rin kissed him before he could speak, lips brushing just long enough to pull the air from Vhox’s lungs. “I am a strutting prick from Sharlayan,” he said softly. “So if that’s what you want, I’m not going anywhere.”

If that’s what you want. As though there might actually be a fucking time when Vhox didn’t want him. As though Vhox’s wanting Rin wasn’t built into the fabric of the universe like death, taxes, and people jacking off.

“I love you.”

Rin obviously hadn’t been expecting Vhox to say it. Neither had Vhox—but now that Vhox had said it, he felt that warm, gentle wash through his chest again, like the calm waters of a tidepool. Instead, it was Rin who seemed stripped of his armor, small and unsure in his arms. “Are you certain?”

“I’d swear it on my honor, if I had any o’that,” said Vhox. Rin’s face wavered, so that Vhox felt compelled to keep talking in the hopes he might stumble on something stupid enough to make him smile. “What else do people swear on? Fresh out of mothers' graves, uh. I’ve got my life, for whatever that’s worth, an’—”

“Vhox?”

“What?”

Rin did smile, then. He also made a strangled little coughing sound in the back of his throat, because Rin was, in fact, heroically trying not to cry. “Your life will do,” he said. “Now, for Thaliak’s sake, stop talking and kiss me.”

And who would Vhox be to say no?

vhox still somehow belongs to @mimiorzea maybe we share custody by now, who knows

[cielpansyhive]

(smut)

I wrote some SebaCiel smut while drunk. I know I’ll probably re-write it later. It’s so terrible haha! So thank you for reading and I’m sorry. NSFW! Warning blood, specifically demon blood.

He wasn’t sure when or how it started as Sebastian rarely let himself get bloodied or injured. One night Sebastian stumbled in with blood dripping from various wounds. Ciel’s initial reaction was panic. He was woken by the sound of guns being shot. Usually nights were quiet, he feared the worst could have happened to Sebastian or even any of the other servants.

“What happened? Sebastian are you okay?” he ran to his butler’s side, immediately hands searching for wounds.

“Don’t worry Master, I was distracted by a group of thugs and a sniper got a few shots in,” he chuckled. “I’d say he reviled Mey-Rin’s talent, but she wouldn’t be so easy to kill,” he smiled and shuffled off to his room. Ciel followed still concerned for his butler’s well being. “It was a miscalculation, nothing more.”

“But you’re, you’re okay right?” Sebastian coughed hard into his hand and spat out a few bullets. Dark red splotches decorated his otherwise pristine white gloves.

“Yes,” he threw the bullets onto his dresser. “I’m healing already, thank you for your concern Master. But shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I’m not a child, I don’t have a bed time,” he grumbled.

“Indeed, but it is late even for an adult. Do you wish for me to tuck you into bed like old times?” he teased.

“I most certainly do not! Just clean yourself up, you’re making a mess,” he turned away and walked back to his room. Once he was back in his bed and under the heavy blankets he let out a sigh of relief. Sebastian was okay, everyone was okay. He closed his eyes, the image of Sebastian, blood covering his white button down shirt, flashed in his mind. Now knowing Sebastian wasn’t in any danger, his reaction to the sight was very different. His skin tingled, buzzed, at the thought. He visualized in his mind’s eye Sebastian shirtless with lazy rivets of blood running down this toned torso, some dripped out of his mouth as he smirked. Ciel opened his eyes, heart racing. What is wrong with me? He felt his cock twitch against his thigh with interest. Ever since Ciel turned eighteen they had been sleeping with each other whenever the mood would strike. Ciel appreciated the form he chose; it always was enough to spike lust in him. However the sight of him shirtless wasn’t what turned him on, it was the blood. He found himself wanting to smear it around his chiseled abdomen, to taste it even, he shuddered. Just don’t think about it. It’s the lack of sleep, that’s all. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as he drifted asleep.

A month later Ciel found himself in the kitchen with Sebastian and Bard. He was once again scolding Bard for using explosives.

“If anyone else hired you, you would have been fired within a week!” he stomped his low heeled shoe against the floor. “I give you so many second chances! This dinner can’t be ruined! There will be very important representatives from all over the world coming in two days! I can’t be missing half the manor because of your damn explosions!” As if on cue a massive explosion went off. Sebastian knocked Ciel out of the blast’s path. Sebastian had landed on top of Ciel, lanky body shielding him.

“I’m sorry Master! I should have stored that further away from the oven!” Bard frantically began opening windows and the back door to let the smoke out. “Are you okay? Mister Sebastian?” Sebastian sat up slowly and assessed Ciel’s condition. Other than his sour expression he appeared fine. Ciel’s eyes widened as he stared at Sebastian’s arm. The blast had catapulted all the knives he was using to chop various veggies and meat with into is arm.

“Quite alright, I just have to tend to the Young Master, nothing serious” he relayed quickly and scooped Ciel up into his arms. Once in Ciel’s room he dropped him onto the bed and locked the door. “I’m sorry I had to do that. I didn’t want Bard to see,” he gestured at his injured arm, blood flowing down his hand. “It would be hard to explain sustaining an injury like this and having it heal itself without leaving so much as a scar the next day,” he smirked. Ciel watched the blood drip from his hand, unblinking. He motioned for Sebastian to step closer. “My lord?” Once close enough Ciel quickly pulled out the knives one by one, enjoying each splatter of crimson, crimson so dark it was nearly black. He held onto the arm, pressing by each wound, making them spill more blood. His heart was hammering fast in his chest and he was nearly hyperventilating. Sebastian’s chuckle broke him out of his trance. “My, how dark of you…how perverted.” Ciel dropped the arm he was holding.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he turned his head away and blushed. He folded his legs to his chest to try to hide the tenting fabric of his pants. Sebastian started unbuttoning his vest, followed by his shirt.

“You forget, I know your body,” he leaned in and sniffed Ciel’s neck lewdly. “I can sense your arousal.” He kissed up his pale neck and bit playfully at his ear. “I don’t mind, if you don’t mind.” He stepped back and finished unbuttoning his shirt. He threw it and his vest to the ground before climbing onto the bed next to Ciel. Ciel bit his lip and gazed at Sebastian’s arm, still wounded.

“Aren’t you going to fix that?” he grabbed Sebastian’s wrist, pulling him closer.

“I don’t have to, right away at least,” he eyes were soft, smile genuine. “Like I said I don’t mind, if you want to experiment some.”

“It’s wrong,” Ciel said automatically. “It’s sick, I’m sick!”

“Says who?” Sebastian tilted his head. “You’ve already slept with a demon, is this really that bad?” Ciel brought the arm to his lips and hesitantly licked at one of the wounds. He was shocked it was so different from his own blood. He looked at Sebastian questioningly. “Go on,” he nodded. He grasped the arm firmer and this time sucked hard at the cut. The blood was thick and syrupy yet bubbled like champagne on his tongue. It burned his throat like bile, but he didn’t want to stop. The bitterness had an underlying sweet flavor, not unlike dark chocolate. His eyes fluttered shut as he moaned into the flesh. His clothes felt restrictive, the room was too hot, and he was suffocating. Sebastian pulled him off his arm and he fell back into the bed, body completely relaxed. Sebastian laughed and shook his head. “Maybe I should have warned you, demon blood tends to have an intoxicating effect on humans.” He started to undress Ciel, who was miserably failing at unbuttoning his own shirt.

“You-you’ve done this before?” his pupils dilated with lust. Sebastian tore the shirt from him and started unbuttoning his pants.

“No,” he ran his hand against the bulge and Ciel arched up to find more friction. “I’ve heard about it, other demons and their contracts.” He yanked down the pants, Ciel’s stiff cock slapped against his thin belly. Ciel pulled Sebastian on top of him, grinding against the scratchy fabric of his trousers. He crashed his lips into his and forced his tongue in. Ciel groped at Sebastian’s ass as he bucked harder against him. Sebastian’s own pants started to feel uncomfortably tight.

“So I’m your first?” he mumbled against Sebastian’s lips, wanting to remain as close as possible. “I’m finally your first for something?”

“My lord, you’re my first for a lot of things,” he sat up. “But that is for later, I’m sure you wouldn’t remember anyways,” he slid his trousers off and threw them on the floor.

“Really? Like what-fuck!” Sebastian took Ciel’s length into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the head before taking him down his throat as far as he could. Ciel grabbed at his hair, thrusting into the wonderful heat around him. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, he was more aware of everything. Every bob of Sebastian’s head, every harder suck, was torture. Sebastian pulled off him with a pop.

“What do you desire Young Master?” he purred. Ciel dug his fingers deep into Sebastian’s wounds. Blood poured onto the bed and Ciel’s torso. “Aha-ha always so cruel.” Ciel pouted and looked away.

“Mh sorry,” he slurred and eased his grip on Sebastian’s arm. “I didn’ mean to hurt you.”

“I’m only joking,” he smirked. He brought Ciel’s hand to their erections and fisted them together. “See? I’m- oh fuck! I’m enjoying this too.” His fangs peaked out over his lower lip, piercing the delicate flesh. Little drops of blood flowed down his chin and fell onto Ciel’s chest. “Besides, maybe I like pain,” he flipped them so he was below Ciel. He wiped up some of the slick blood with his hand and brought it to Ciel’s entrance. He ran a finger between the round cheeks and slowly pushed in.

“Seb!” he was already panting, dick dripping, as he ground against the finger. “Fuck me already!” He added another finger and scissored them. Ciel leaned forward and licked at any blood that was on Sebastian’s chest. “Please Seb!” Ciel pressed into the wounds again and collected as much blood as he could and slathered it on Sebastian’s cock before lining himself up and sitting down on it. “Oh my god! S-Seb don-don’t move!” he trembled. He felt that same warming, fizzy feeling that he had when he was drinking his blood, inside of him and against his prostate. Sebastian moaned, feeling the constant tightening of Ciel’s walls around him like a vice.

“I’m not planning on it,” he grit out. They waited a few minutes before Ciel started slowly moving, legs shaking.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” placed Sebastian’s hands on his hips. “Too much!”

“I’ll help you,” he dug his fingers into Ciel’s fat little rump. He pumped in and out of him fast and hard. Ciel whined and threw his head back, his toes gripped the blankets as they curled, trying to hang onto something. He felt like his body was floating away, astral projecting. He came with a scream, feeling of bliss in every cell of his body, and collapsed against Sebastian. He was vaguely aware of Sebastian growling in his ear and filling him at some point.

“Hey? How are you?” Ciel blinked and looked around. The room was darker than he remembered just minutes ago. He was lying snuggled on top of Sebastian. He looked at Sebastian’s arm.

“You healed yourself? When?” Sebastian laughed.

“My lord, you’ve been passed out for a few hours. I’m sure you needed the rest.”

“So what, you just watched me sleep like a creep?”

“I wanted to be sure you were okay. Things were, well rather intense.”

“Yeah, could you imagine losing your meal because you decided to fuck it?”

“That’s not why-never mind,” he sighed. Before Ciel could question it he added, “I do enjoy this dalliance, however you really do need to work on your stamina.” Ciel slapped him hard in the face.

“You bastard! You should be grateful to even be in bed with a noble. These sheets need to be changed servant.”

“Yes my lord.” My love.