* X/1999 - Seishirou/Subaru - collar – “Good Dog” Good Dog tokyo babylon / x/1999 Mithrigil Galtirglin
1999.06.02 23:37
Every light in the park blacks out at once.
“You’ll have to be my eyes for a bit,” Seishirou says, the way he might have used to. “I’m just fumbling around in the dark here.”
Fumbling’s not the word, there’s no motion. But he’s only a voice over Subaru’s shoulder, a whisper in his ear. Subaru takes a decisive step backward and finds himself trapped, spun, snared in hard arms, a fist in his hair and his face smothered in black cloth. Subaru stammers against it, wetly, “You lost your chance for that,” and pushes him away.
He hears Seishirou—not fall, but the scrape of shoes on concrete is erratic and sudden. It’s almost worse not knowing where he is. He glares into the void anyway, flings an ofuda out of his sleeve and calls its light. The darkness must be supernatural, illusory, personal—the paper glows with a firm white halo like the marks on Subaru’s hands, but Seishirou’s still no more than sound—
A hand juts out of nowhere, crushes the paper and Subaru’s fingers with it. More than sound—touch and scent and pain, and Subaru bites back a cry or a moan at all three, at the sharp slicing ache of his knuckles jammed into each other, the papercuts slitting his fingertips. At the body that’s aligned with his back now, warmer than blood in the dark, trapping his shoulder and raising Subaru’s throbbing hand over it—
“Careless,” Seishirou says with his tongue stinging the cuts.
Subaru’s eyes roll back in his head.
“What if I told you that the smell of you, the taste of you, the feel of you make it easier to see? Would you take pity on a poor, blind man then?” The mocking words wind through Subaru’s hair, the smooth frames of sunglasses slide down Subaru’s jaw to his neck—his throat’s bared, his collar is tight—collar—collar, since when does he wear a— A faint, appreciating hum pulses through the throat that’s curled over his shoulder, nuzzles at the leather, tightens it. “Oh, for me?” he asks, grips tightening, blood leaking, voice raising. “You really are too kind, Subaru-kun.”
Again he pushes Seishirou away—again it just entangles him more. His heels scrape, his back doubles—his arms are twisted behind him and they’re pressed groin-to-groin, and Seishirou has a silhouette, black and monstrous and close. Blood-slicked teeth close around the buckle at Subaru’s throat. All edge, like a bone knife, steady and sharp. His tongue traces the sounds that Subaru’s holding back.
“I can hold this, and you’ll guide me,” he says around kisses, works of his tongue behind the leather band—in the voice that’s not his, not really, words that Subaru wished he’d hear. “Such a good dog. I’ll need your eyes once mine are gone, won’t I?”
The seething anger that spreads through Subaru’s body reddens the black—
-
Light’s an assault, gnawing at him like garbage rats. Subaru’s head aches, high and pounding like sakanagi—he falls to his knees and his right hand itches with concrete, grit and blood, the ofuda still in it smeared red around the edges. Proof that some of this was not illusion sticks to Subaru’s neck; spit and sweat and the raised edge of cutting leather, of metal that’s still warm.
He runs his cut fingertips under the collar, replays all those words from the dark in his head.