Categories > Anime/Manga > Gravitation
Notes: After a hellish week, the brain dredged this out. Bad language, shota, rough sex, and other sorts of unpleasantness fit into 500 words. Sorry. Enjoy.
"Wrong"
Eiri knows he's a sick fuck. Known it since before he pulled that trigger. Was aware of it the whole time he was sobbing his own brains out, Tohma trying to comfort him and failing miserably. He sure as hell knew it when he came home and Tatsuha crept into his futon, complaining over yet another nightmare where men with weird hair and no eyes came to take Eiri away from him again. His baby brother's body was far too young and too willing and Eiri was too hard to stop. He didn't have any misconceptions about his twisted fantasies then and later it wasn't like the shrink was going to be of any use except for refilling his prescriptions.
It was a week before the boy could look up at his brother without a funny feeling in his stomach and two before he let the nightmares drive him back into Eiri's bed. First the nightmares stopped, and then he stopped trying to make-up excuses, bare feet padding down the hall to the big brother that needed him and thought he was special the way no one else did. And he never cried but those grey eyes haunted Eiri who couldn't admit that the reason he wanted to rip down that damn rock star's poster was because he couldn't stand to see that look being directed at anyone who wasn't him.
That's why it didn't matter much when Tatsuha came pounding on the door after that man decided it wasn't enough to fuck with Shuichi's head, he and that damn pink rabbit of his had to have his body too. No chit-chat but he clutched and grabbed and carried his hips with a harsh arch. There was a plea but it wasn't polite; it was demanding and crude and right then he didn't give a damn that it was going to hurt because that was the whole point to this sadistic little exercise, wasn't it? Everything else hurt anyways but never quite enough to win him some sort of redemption out of this repetitive hell and so he'd take this, yanking on blond hair until the fabric of his t-shirt was forcibly ripped away from his body.
Eiri knew exactly what his little brother wanted and gave it to him, foot slamming the door closed right before the dark haired boy's torn shirt hit the floor. When they moved to his bed and Tatsuha clawed at his back he didn't care, except for to thrust harder into writhing sin. And he didn't give a damn that he was a sick fuck and that he'd made Tatsuha into one too and that it was probably - definitely - too late for the both of them. Sakuma Ryuichi could go to hell, Seguchi could join him, and Shuichi could go to America. He wasn't going to let Tatsuha look away from him again. Because when all the shit in his life started to go wrong, this was the one thing that still felt right.
"Wrong"
Eiri knows he's a sick fuck. Known it since before he pulled that trigger. Was aware of it the whole time he was sobbing his own brains out, Tohma trying to comfort him and failing miserably. He sure as hell knew it when he came home and Tatsuha crept into his futon, complaining over yet another nightmare where men with weird hair and no eyes came to take Eiri away from him again. His baby brother's body was far too young and too willing and Eiri was too hard to stop. He didn't have any misconceptions about his twisted fantasies then and later it wasn't like the shrink was going to be of any use except for refilling his prescriptions.
It was a week before the boy could look up at his brother without a funny feeling in his stomach and two before he let the nightmares drive him back into Eiri's bed. First the nightmares stopped, and then he stopped trying to make-up excuses, bare feet padding down the hall to the big brother that needed him and thought he was special the way no one else did. And he never cried but those grey eyes haunted Eiri who couldn't admit that the reason he wanted to rip down that damn rock star's poster was because he couldn't stand to see that look being directed at anyone who wasn't him.
That's why it didn't matter much when Tatsuha came pounding on the door after that man decided it wasn't enough to fuck with Shuichi's head, he and that damn pink rabbit of his had to have his body too. No chit-chat but he clutched and grabbed and carried his hips with a harsh arch. There was a plea but it wasn't polite; it was demanding and crude and right then he didn't give a damn that it was going to hurt because that was the whole point to this sadistic little exercise, wasn't it? Everything else hurt anyways but never quite enough to win him some sort of redemption out of this repetitive hell and so he'd take this, yanking on blond hair until the fabric of his t-shirt was forcibly ripped away from his body.
Eiri knew exactly what his little brother wanted and gave it to him, foot slamming the door closed right before the dark haired boy's torn shirt hit the floor. When they moved to his bed and Tatsuha clawed at his back he didn't care, except for to thrust harder into writhing sin. And he didn't give a damn that he was a sick fuck and that he'd made Tatsuha into one too and that it was probably - definitely - too late for the both of them. Sakuma Ryuichi could go to hell, Seguchi could join him, and Shuichi could go to America. He wasn't going to let Tatsuha look away from him again. Because when all the shit in his life started to go wrong, this was the one thing that still felt right.
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