Abacomancy (Tsuzuku/Koichi, Oneshot)
Title: Abacomancy
Author: sciencesaves
Genre: Drama, romance, angst
Rating: R
Warnings: language, suggestiveness, light drug use
Pairing: Tsuzuku/Koichi
Summary: I’m gagging on something that tastes like fireball whiskey on your breath
along with your words ghosting along my quivering lips that admit,
“you’re killing me.”
“What time did you get home?” you ask in barely veiled annoyance, kicking the door closed and stepping out of your shoes, leaving them like vacant footprints on the hardwood
(and I pretend not to care enough to bend over
to turn quarter neatly to wood
to make your inevitable escape that much easier).
Your hair hangs loose over heavily shadowed eyes. A mask of charcoal and mascara smudges, along with the bloody murder made of your lipstick, are the only remnants of makeup on your high-cheekboned face.
“You were too busy getting fucked to give a shit where I went.”
You laugh and mouth the word, “pretty” towards me. Your eyes wander towards the broken wineglass on the table, and the coffee cup full of wine in my hand. “Pretty,” you repeat, pushing my acrylic fingernails out of your face with a sigh when I reach for the dark blue bruising snaking along your neck and jawline. Your features blur when you step unsteadily into the living room, run your hands through your hair, pulling away loose strands, drop your keys and cell on the coffee table next to the still shimmering shards of glass and make your way to the open window.
“How much did you drink?” I ask your retreating back. I know I shouldn’t, that I’m being difficult and you’re too fucked up to care, but you have a habit of mixing dexedrine and alcohol on nights like…
nights like...
the one when you gripped my elbow and told me, the sting of a slap still blooming on your cheek, “don’t make a fucking scene.”
Nights like the one when you passed out, legs bent lazily over the arm of my sofa after telling me, kissing the tips of my fingers like you were searching for the evidence of spindle-pricks, head rolling to the left in a motion that looked something like hunger, “you’ve lost weight again.”
Like the one when I bit your earlobe and whispered, “come inside me,” while you had one hand tightening on my throat leaving purple punctuations on my skin, the other fisting my hair until my eyes stung. Desperate in our fucking, you kissed me with a hot, angry mouth and held me tighter.
Nights like this one.
You shake your head and then murmur, “not enough. What the fuck happened to your knee?”
I absently blot my fingers against the congealed blood there, as if I can somehow fingertip erase it, and shrug.
Placing your joint on the windowsill, you try to fish out the cherry. The smoke curls thickly around you, twisting and scrawling like calligraphy in the air and your arm stays bent upwards, poised prettily in the air after your first drag. The smoke, painted black against the wild sherbert sky reminds me of the morning
you called me ink stain.
“You’re afraid of this.”
“I’m not--”
You turned your head to kiss my naked thighs, ran your tongue around the tender, trembling skin of a new tattoo. “Ink stain…” you let your words fall away, but the implication remained-- you’re scared of the permanence.
What could I say, when you slid your fingers along jutting ribs
counted them like sheep,
like drops of moonlight,
pressed your lips to the small of my back, eyelashes fluttering against skin.
I stretched my body and pushed your hair out of your face,
laughed when you caught my hand in yours and murmured, “coward” against my knuckles with an easy smile on your face.
How could I say then, that I knew all I could ever be was a fleeting fragment of late light
trembling on the neck of a beautiful boy.
I kiss you, full lipped, drinking in your dark bloodstain of a mouth, inhaling your lung smoke. You flinch at the contact and I try to distract myself by running my hands through your hair
the color of a wasp.
Between cracked lips you whisper something that sounds enough like an apology for me to press my salted lips against your skin again.
For me to run my tongue along your pulse
to feel it beating
to feel your neck throb.
For me to swallow air in shuddering, soundless, gasps
gulping like I’m swallowing your luminosity
when really… I’m gagging on something that tastes like fireball whiskey on your breath
along with your words ghosting along my quivering lips that admit,
“you’re killing me.”
And I still can’t stop inhaling you.
Even when you spin me around, pressing me roughly against the window so I can see the vague shadows of fashionable outlines below.
Those who breathe without thinking,
models and mimes hailing taxis and catching the first train home.
I can touch the ghost of your brimstone breath, fog on glass,
as it falls from your throat
as it gathers on the pane
like ash
like honey.
Your phone is buzzing dejectedly on the coffee table when we stumble past. I imagine it’s still buzzing when you push me to the mattress with a sacral growl
and I sink to my knees in the sheets
all white
like walls
like lies.
When you pull my hair from behind, I call you a slut.
It makes you grin and murmur, “I love you” against my exposed throat, sound like a spoken gun, before sliding to my lips, already painted in a fuck you smile.
“You have a fucked up way of showing it.”
“Breathe,” you whisper, knees between my ankles and one hand against my shoulder blades,
skin sighs in the slipping of sheets, and soft hums and groans slink across bloody cracks in faultline skin when you push
deeper, harder, until my shoulders burn beneath your fingers.
And I want to beg you
to sear me to blisters
to make me like everyone else
if it will stop the wild ache.
Flesh against flesh, you press your mouth to my hair and say my name softly.
Softly so the sound doesn’t die.
And I… I want feel your bones between my teeth, to ask you, nostrils flaring with fire,
whether you’ll call my name,
the next time you’re inescapably spinning
in each other's gravity.
***
Part three of life_giver bae's requested slutty koichi fics.
(Part One)
(Part Two)
(Archive)
Author: sciencesaves
Genre: Drama, romance, angst
Rating: R
Warnings: language, suggestiveness, light drug use
Pairing: Tsuzuku/Koichi
Summary: I’m gagging on something that tastes like fireball whiskey on your breath
along with your words ghosting along my quivering lips that admit,
“you’re killing me.”
“What time did you get home?” you ask in barely veiled annoyance, kicking the door closed and stepping out of your shoes, leaving them like vacant footprints on the hardwood
(and I pretend not to care enough to bend over
to turn quarter neatly to wood
to make your inevitable escape that much easier).
Your hair hangs loose over heavily shadowed eyes. A mask of charcoal and mascara smudges, along with the bloody murder made of your lipstick, are the only remnants of makeup on your high-cheekboned face.
“You were too busy getting fucked to give a shit where I went.”
You laugh and mouth the word, “pretty” towards me. Your eyes wander towards the broken wineglass on the table, and the coffee cup full of wine in my hand. “Pretty,” you repeat, pushing my acrylic fingernails out of your face with a sigh when I reach for the dark blue bruising snaking along your neck and jawline. Your features blur when you step unsteadily into the living room, run your hands through your hair, pulling away loose strands, drop your keys and cell on the coffee table next to the still shimmering shards of glass and make your way to the open window.
“How much did you drink?” I ask your retreating back. I know I shouldn’t, that I’m being difficult and you’re too fucked up to care, but you have a habit of mixing dexedrine and alcohol on nights like…
nights like...
the one when you gripped my elbow and told me, the sting of a slap still blooming on your cheek, “don’t make a fucking scene.”
Nights like the one when you passed out, legs bent lazily over the arm of my sofa after telling me, kissing the tips of my fingers like you were searching for the evidence of spindle-pricks, head rolling to the left in a motion that looked something like hunger, “you’ve lost weight again.”
Like the one when I bit your earlobe and whispered, “come inside me,” while you had one hand tightening on my throat leaving purple punctuations on my skin, the other fisting my hair until my eyes stung. Desperate in our fucking, you kissed me with a hot, angry mouth and held me tighter.
Nights like this one.
You shake your head and then murmur, “not enough. What the fuck happened to your knee?”
I absently blot my fingers against the congealed blood there, as if I can somehow fingertip erase it, and shrug.
Placing your joint on the windowsill, you try to fish out the cherry. The smoke curls thickly around you, twisting and scrawling like calligraphy in the air and your arm stays bent upwards, poised prettily in the air after your first drag. The smoke, painted black against the wild sherbert sky reminds me of the morning
you called me ink stain.
“You’re afraid of this.”
“I’m not--”
You turned your head to kiss my naked thighs, ran your tongue around the tender, trembling skin of a new tattoo. “Ink stain…” you let your words fall away, but the implication remained-- you’re scared of the permanence.
What could I say, when you slid your fingers along jutting ribs
counted them like sheep,
like drops of moonlight,
pressed your lips to the small of my back, eyelashes fluttering against skin.
I stretched my body and pushed your hair out of your face,
laughed when you caught my hand in yours and murmured, “coward” against my knuckles with an easy smile on your face.
How could I say then, that I knew all I could ever be was a fleeting fragment of late light
trembling on the neck of a beautiful boy.
I kiss you, full lipped, drinking in your dark bloodstain of a mouth, inhaling your lung smoke. You flinch at the contact and I try to distract myself by running my hands through your hair
the color of a wasp.
Between cracked lips you whisper something that sounds enough like an apology for me to press my salted lips against your skin again.
For me to run my tongue along your pulse
to feel it beating
to feel your neck throb.
For me to swallow air in shuddering, soundless, gasps
gulping like I’m swallowing your luminosity
when really… I’m gagging on something that tastes like fireball whiskey on your breath
along with your words ghosting along my quivering lips that admit,
“you’re killing me.”
And I still can’t stop inhaling you.
Even when you spin me around, pressing me roughly against the window so I can see the vague shadows of fashionable outlines below.
Those who breathe without thinking,
models and mimes hailing taxis and catching the first train home.
I can touch the ghost of your brimstone breath, fog on glass,
as it falls from your throat
as it gathers on the pane
like ash
like honey.
Your phone is buzzing dejectedly on the coffee table when we stumble past. I imagine it’s still buzzing when you push me to the mattress with a sacral growl
and I sink to my knees in the sheets
all white
like walls
like lies.
When you pull my hair from behind, I call you a slut.
It makes you grin and murmur, “I love you” against my exposed throat, sound like a spoken gun, before sliding to my lips, already painted in a fuck you smile.
“You have a fucked up way of showing it.”
“Breathe,” you whisper, knees between my ankles and one hand against my shoulder blades,
skin sighs in the slipping of sheets, and soft hums and groans slink across bloody cracks in faultline skin when you push
deeper, harder, until my shoulders burn beneath your fingers.
And I want to beg you
to sear me to blisters
to make me like everyone else
if it will stop the wild ache.
Flesh against flesh, you press your mouth to my hair and say my name softly.
Softly so the sound doesn’t die.
And I… I want feel your bones between my teeth, to ask you, nostrils flaring with fire,
whether you’ll call my name,
the next time you’re inescapably spinning
in each other's gravity.
***
Part three of life_giver bae's requested slutty koichi fics.
(Part One)
(Part Two)
(Archive)