Author/Artist: Tad Coast
Theme: Hand/Blow Job
Rating: NC-17. Yaoi.
Author's Note: Vague spoilers for Saiyuki manga vol. 8
Previous Posts: Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3
“I wonder…have you heard of muichimotsu?” His fingers are as thoughtful as his voice as he curls them around hardened flesh, tightens his grip. He can feel its pulse against his palm, and smiles as it quickens.
The rabbit shivers, his body spilled nude across a white chair. His head rolls back, and he parts his lips not to answer, but to accept, with neither word nor question.
“To hold nothing,” He murmurs, his lips against his pet’s dark stomach, over the navel. His tongue dips down, tasting only for a moment, teasing itself with the flavor of flesh.
His groans grow more insistent, as do his hips, writhing in their imprisonment. Yet the hand does not move, not yet, and the lips do not travel near quickly enough.
“Patience, dear Prince.” He grins, gives himself a moment to watch his rabbit dance, to enjoy it, and resumes his lesson. “If you meet the Buddha, kill him.”
He gasps, for the fingers are no longer idle, sliding to the slow rhythm of his words. He raises his back, up, up to the touch, and strains further as it threatens to pull away before snaking back down again. But this only happens once, the hand moving solely to taunt before firming its hold.
“If you…meet…the patriarchs…kill them.” His words are broken, interrupted by flicks of the tongue and teeth over sensitive flesh. Each pause is rewarded with a moan, or a cry, a more desperate urging of the body weeping for his mouth.
He thrusts hard against the stubbly face, leaking salty streaks over it as he moves. He sees the trails glisten, sees his need spilled over a smug grin, and growls low in his throat, enough. So he moves quickly, carelessly, carves his hunger into soft flesh as he takes what he wants.
Soft laughter replaces words as his mouth is filled with something far more physical, more demanding than wisdom. The rabbit at last grows impatient, he thinks, and notes the time, notes the taste, notes the way blood tickles when it flows down his neck.
The rabbit, the Prince licks the red from his nails, and smirks, drives himself deeper until he can’t, then again, and again. And the man submits, easily, so willing now, with a mouth so hot and so tight, sucking so tight that it burns his nerves, burns his lungs and he can’t breathe, can’t think anymore, can only fuck, fuck, fuck, and scream, scream when he comes.
He swallows quickly, licks his smile when he is released, and watches. This is the most important time now, when the rabbit is gasping and content, and carelessly honest. He studies hard, searches half-lidded eyes, and sees it, the ever-pesky attachment, an unwilled adoration flecked in the irises.
“Oh my. The lesson doesn’t seem to have taken.” He laughs lowly and bows his head, makes the rabbit whimper when sharp teeth cut into his thigh.
“I suppose we’ll simply have to review it again.”