Work Text:
The scent of oncoming rain is sweet; it makes the air heavy and damp.
Toboe lies on his back, staring up at the ruddy gray sky. A soft breeze ripples through the long grass; it tickles his chin. He smiles. "Tsume?"
A pause. "Hm."
"Do you think it rains in Paradise?"
The older man turns on his side, pinning him with a weighty stare. Toboe curls into him. Tsume does not push him away—not this time.
"It must," he says, just to fill up the silence, "so that the flowers can grow. Kiba said there are lots of flowers in heaven."
"Kiba is often wrong." Tsume’s head rests on his arm; suddenly, he reaches out and tangles his fingers through Toboe’s hair.
Toboe blushes. He’s wanted Tsume for so long now; without knowing what to call the wanting; without knowing what it is he’s supposed to want.
Closeness, perhaps. A sense of belonging. He wants . . . the feel of Tsume’s white hair across his cheek. The heat of Tsume’s skin. Tsume’s strength, all around him. He wants the alpha in Tsume.
He leans up and affectionately licks the corner of Tsume’s mouth—the older man freezes.
Toboe shivers. "Was that wrong?" he asks shyly.
Tsume frowns. His calloused thumb traces Toboe’s lower lip—back and forth, back and forth. "Yes," Tsume whispers, closing the gap.
The kiss makes him feverish. Tsume rolls on top of him and presses him down to the thick grass. He licks and nips at Toboe’s lips, until Toboe opens his mouth, and then his tongue sweeps inside, delving, mapping, and he can feel the older man’s hardness against his thigh.
He wraps his arms around Tsume and just holds on; Tsume grinds down and Toboe breaks away, panting.
"I don’t want you," Tsume breathes across his ear. "You’re complicated and I don’t like complications."
"Tsume . . ."
Long fingers ghost down his cheek, over his lips; Toboe kisses the pads.
"You’re just a pup," Tsume accuses.
Toboe refuses to whine. He simply looks at Tsume as he sucks the older man’s middle finger into his mouth.
Tsume grunts.
Toboe bites down carefully, and then pulls the finger out of the tight ring of his lips. "You taste salty," he murmurs.
Tsume’s eyes flash. He rips Toboe out of his clothes.
It happens quickly; it’s hot and hard and the air is so thick, now. Toboe arches up, offering his throat.
Lightning flashes overhead. Stray raindrops fall.
Tsume is not gentle. Toboe wishes he was; but it’s enough that the older man wants him; wants to touch him, maw at him, scratch, bite.
When he’s turned over, he clutches at clumps of grass and rakes the ground until there’s black dirt under his nails. It hurts and it feels wonderful at the same time.
Tsume growls, biting the back of Toboe’s neck; his hands are possessive, his body, demanding.
"Stop me. Stop me," Tsume begs, even as his hips thrust faster.
"Tsu . . . me . . ."
They fuck like dogs.
Toboe cries when he comes.
Tsume’s not far behind; his scent is pungent. Toboe feels like he’s been marked.
Afterward, Tsume clutches him close, pressing reverent kisses to his forehead. The older man is tender now, because Toboe is raw.
They lay there, drenched. Thunder rolls overhead.
Toboe decides that it only rains down here on Earth. In heaven, there’s no need to wash the stains away.
He smells like Tsume and sadness and rain. Toboe raises his chin from Tsume’s chest . . . and smiles . . . because it’s the end of the world, and what else is there to do?