again and again

Yuuta throws a book at him, but he cleanly dodges it—He knew it was coming. It happens like this every time. He says some dumb shit, Yuuta gets pissed, same old, same old.

As Yuuta recoils from lobbing the priceless, ancient tome halfway across the room, Rinne slides an arm around his waist and pulls him in right up close to his face despite all of Yuuta’s protesting. When he can see every pore on Yuuta’s face, every tiny twinkle in his eyes, Rinne’s lips tug into a lazy, mischievous grin. And when he exhales booze and smoke, Yuuta coughs and sputters and pushes at him, thrashing every which way in a desperate attempt at freedom.

“Let me go!” Yuuta demands, and his hair sticks to his lips with sweat and spit. Rinne almost complies, the thought of Yuuta falling back in a crumpled heap on the floor too delicious to bear.

Instead he blows out another beer-scented breath and keeps his mouth open until it’s pressed to Yuuta’s cheek. He drags his tongue up, up, right over his left eye and into his hairline as—

“Eugh?! What th—Get off of me!”

—as Yuuta throws a little temper tantrum over it. It’s hilarious, it’s cute, it’s arousing because goddamn this guy likes to play rough. Yuuta grabs at Rinne’s hair and pulls so hard it comes out in clumps, and as a shout is ripped involuntarily from Rinne’s throat he’s wrestled back into the wall, shoved against the shelves so hard that it rattles the entire bookcase and sends countless other priceless, ancient tomes crashing to the floor.

His head knocks against a sharp edge and blooms with crimson heat and—yep, that one hurt a bit.

This time, Yuuta shoves his face into Rinne’s entirely of his own volition. “I told you to get off of me.”

Rinne’s vision spins even as he tries to concentrate on Yuuta, cute Yuuta, standing in front of him—no, around him. There’s smoke on his breath too, and when Rinne takes a deep breath he coughs, the smoke strangling him from inside.

Yuuta still has Rinne’s hair captive, and he’s careful to stand very, very still even as the world teeters and totters around him. Yuuta repositions so that he’s pressed against Rinne, their bodies flush against each other in some grotesque mockery of the missionary position. Or at least Rinne thinks so, all of his thoughts coming straight out of his dick pressed hard against Yuuta’s leg.

“Aw, but you’re so cute, Yuta,” he slurs, letting his head fall forward onto Yuuta’s shoulder. It jostles his brain and splits his head with pain—that recedes almost instantly with his wound. He turns his head and nibbles a bit at the skin exposed there to celebrate.

And Yuuta almost lets him have this, until the nibbles turn into a forceful chomp, his teeth sinking into the flesh until the coppery taste of blood hits Rinne’s tongue.

Yuuta cries out.

Rinne licks away the blood before pulling away with a trail of spit. Then it pops and spatters across Yuuta’s shoulder and Rinne’s cheek, and Yuuta shoves him back again.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” Yuuta says. Rinne grins as his eyes trail down to his clean, unbloodied neck. Even the taste in his mouth is gone now, only a ghost of it left behind.

“And you’re a freak of nature,” Rinne retorts. “What else is new?”

“Like you aren’t.”

“This ain’t about me, baby.” Rinne reaches out and caresses Yuuta’s cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly over the skin he’s torn apart all too often. And yet it’s still flawless, perfect porcelain, a blank canvas he can paint again and again.

Yuuta slaps the hand away, and the look in his eyes reminds Rinne that he’s been the canvas many, many more times. “Don’t call me that. It’s gross.”

“I dunno, Yuta. Most people find pet names—” Rinne says, grabbing onto Yuuta’s wrist. He pulls it up to his mouth and kisses the tips of his fingers softly, one small peck, then jams the fingers into his mouth. He speaks around them, garbled with spit and flesh and bone, “—sweet.”

And then he bites down just to hear Yuuta scream.

Yuuta wrenches his fingers back, clawing his nails across the roof of Rinne’s mouth—Rinne sucks in a sharp breath, the pain fresh and new in all the right ways. He wants more, needs more, and he runs his tongue against the gashes just to preserve that feeling, make it last just a little bit longer before the valleys close up and the hurt disappears.

“C’mon, Yuta,” he breathes, each syllable punctuated with desire. He thrusts his hips into Yuuta’s, makes damn sure Yuuta knows exactly what he’s doing to him. “Gimme more. You know you want to.”

Yuuta scoffs and turns away, but he’s not a good liar. The truth runs down his spine like a shiver, coats him in sweat and pulses in his veins like the blood that should have stayed crusted on his skin.

Y’know, if they weren’t freaks of nature, that is.

Yuuta’s hair splays out as he whips back around and lunges for Rinne’s hand, and Rinne jumps in his shock, knocking against the bookcase again. The books stay firmly in place this time, though, but a little whine tugs its pathetic way out as Yuuta sinks his nails into Rinne’s wrist and pulls—pulls him closer, away from the bookshelf and right into his arms.

A moment of peace follows as Rinne processes everything. Yuuta is holding him, really holding him, orange hair tickling his nose as he’s tucked into the crook of Yuuta’s neck. His grip on Rinne’s wrist is firm, tight, but reassuring in a way, as if staking a claim over him. And with the way Yuuta rubs small circles into his back, Rinne wants to succumb to that claim, simply lie there in shocked silence as Yuuta has his gentle way with him.

Rinne allows his eyes to drift closed as Yuuta lifts his arm up, and—

“Gaah!”

—he cries out when Yuuta bites down hard on his index finger, snapping the bone clean in half. Heat rushes to his hand, a searing blaze that blinds him and pulls his legs out from under him. But Yuuta catches him, keeps him in his arms, keeps him watching as Rinne’s blood dribbles like a creek out of Yuuta’s mouth and down his chin, drip drip dripping onto his nice white shirt.

Rinne blinks away the black dots swimming in his vision and tries to take in a breath—It hitches, leaving him choking as he pulls his shaky hand back from Yuuta’s mouth. One, two, three, four… yeah, four fingers. Four, and the fifth is in—

Yuuta turns his head to the side and spits, the finger spewing out of his mouth and dropping to the floor. For a moment it seems to writhe in its own kind of agony, an agony Rinne pretends he can feel if only to keep himself from emptying his dinner onto Yuuta.

His breath un-hitches, and he drops his head onto Yuuta’s chest with a heavy gasp, his forehead smearing with sticky wet blood—his sticky wet blood.

“Happy now?” Yuuta breathes right into Rinne’s ear. He shivers.

And then his blood trembles and shakes and the pain recedes as everything reverts. The finger inches across the floor, moved by some monstrous, preternatural force, and when it springs up and reattaches itself to Rinne’s hand, it comes with relief, and an absence of pain—as if nothing had ever happened.

Together they look down and examine his hand: not even a scar left behind. His skin is flawless, perfect porcelain, a blank canvas Yuuta could paint again and again.

Rinne looks up at Yuuta’s clean face, no blood anywhere to be seen. The only evidence that remains is the way he’s a little breathless when he responds, “Thrilled, actually.”

Yuuta rolls his eyes and Rinne takes him in his hands, mashing their lips together. He can’t taste any blood when he flicks his tongue across Yuuta’s skin, shoves it into his mouth, runs it along his teeth. Nothing there at all, he realizes, except Yuuta, only Yuuta.

Freaks of nature, he repeats to himself as he buries his hand in Yuuta’s sweat-soaked hair and pulls him close. They both are.