Excess and Ohs (Tsuzuku/Koichi, Oneshot)
Title: Excess and Ohs
Author: sciencesaves
Genre: Drama, Romance, Angst
Rating: R
Warnings: Adult situations, manxman sex, language, implied infidelity, implied violence, implied emotional abuse
Pairing: Tsuzuku/Koichi
Summary: “fuck” tastes so god damned pretty when you say it.
AN: Happy second anniversary to my gorgeous gf life_giver
Black bed with white stripes.
A streak of lambent gold from the slatted blinds covering the window lashes your neck
another bands pale thighs.
Loose wrists just kiss the the shifting skin of rolling shoulder blades
when you press your lips to my chest,
stomach,
breath heavy against encaustic scar tissue in the shape of an ancient alphabet.
The drag of teeth and tongue precede a curtain fall of hair that rips rib from ribbon
with every gasp
with every aching hour.
“What did you do?”
Bittersweet spit coats your tongue with the taste of someone else’s kiss as you wrap your battered limbs around me and press your palm to my chest.
“You only fuck Ryoga because he reminds you of yourself.”
Stomach to mattress, fingers writhe across fabric.
Mouth of a jackal, “that’s a fucked up thing to say,” you state simply, smiling against a string of curses and spare ohs
oh please oh please oh
“Let me hate you,” I plead against your swaying pulse as my eyes stutter across drowsy lips, bruised and swollen.
“Is this your hate?” you groan with eager broken breath, dredging words like floating corpses, “then hate me.”
My eyes roll like your hips when I scream your unchosen name into
the stifling summer heat, the August nothingness, into the urgent buzzing of cicadas.
I scream it like it’s a confession
like it’s the only truth I know.
“Were you trying to make me jealous? Mia’d fuck anything with a pulse,” your breath is shockingly hot against my ear, “and if I wanted you last night, there were two bitches in the front row who looked just like you.”
My hand is still stinging when you grab my wrists and shove me against the fridge.
Knee between my thighs, I shudder violently when you drop your joint to the floor and a hemorrhage of smoke pours from the corners of your mouth, “sloppy seconds are trashy, there are easier ways to get my attention.”
A plastic magnet clatters to the floor at my feet somewhere in the struggle.
Panic blossoms from my cheeks, and I hiss against your mongrel mouth, “Let. Go.”
Your lips hover over mine and I…
I am still convinced when you release my wrists
that there is no real difference between kneeling and falling,
both an inelegant and graceless stumble.
Either way, this, fingers tangled in hair, is the body in prayer,
stripping its shuddering self of excess and ohs
oh fuck oh fuck oh.
Finally, shaking inside, you pull me off the floor,
and I feel regret like warm honey splashed across my chin
it coats my lips and throat.
And I have the same salty taste in my mouth
every time I close my eyes
and listen you lie.
Fingers and breath slipping against your angular animal.
Your whole body is sharp, hipbones and ribs as memorable as rows of tombstones
and Oh! Siris, how your cemetery spine curves like a question
when I whisper
that I see the apocalypse in you.
It’s half past midnight and I’m walking down the middle of an empty street, arms spread, choking on too many tequila shots and
unexpected tears.
After we clawed at the headboard and at each other
instead of saying sorry,
I scrubbed my skin raw
in an attempt
to rid me of you.
And I still don’t know why I cried, and now...
I still don’t know why I’m here.
Why I’m knocking
and why you answer.
You unzip a thin smile, “what are you doing here? It’s twelve-thirty in the morning.”
Don’t you know? Your stygian eyes say, I’ll ruin you again.
You know I’ve been crying, I don’t try to hide it.
When your fingers brush my heated skin
I breathe into the unexpected tenderness.
“Don’t cry. It’s ugly. You’ll get lines.”
I'll ruin you.
Trembling and precise, your vengeful lips slice mine and
my blood is the color of want.
A mess of dead red that stains your skin, fills your mouth
like Nero’s roses.
Mouth full of moths,
mouth like a myth I could sleep inside.
“Fuck” tastes so goddamned pretty when you say it.
***
(Part Two: Wait, In Gold)
( Archive )