dgray_man | (no subject)

Title: Iniquity and Angels
Author:

the_throwaway

Characters: Cyril/Tyki

Rating: I'm going with soft M.
Warnings: Pft carefully vague sex, Cyril being a creeper, swearing. Incest, obviously eheheh.
Disclaimer: D.Gray-Man does not belong to me.

Summary: (And he’s back down from the high of giving up and back on the floor with his brother bent over him and stains around them from the blood and the sex and marks on his throat from those hands and he’s rather glad because Cyril looks happy and he hasn’t the slightest idea why.)

Explanation time. A while after the War ends, Tyki got stabbed AGAIN, ow, so Joyd is in there in his head, locked away and screaming at him incessantly. This is why he seems so... almost helpless? Everyone's a bit crazier.

They’re in the back room, and it’s late. Late enough for things to be quiet and for Tyki to be a little-a lot drunk. He’s just sitting there on the floor, leaning on a bookcase

(he decided to teach himself to read properly after the war, the unpredictable bastard)

all rumpled black clothes and black hair all over the place and unfitting pale skin, and Cyril just can’t help but stare, because damn he looks good when he’s like this. He looks so good that sometimes Cyril thinks about him alone.

(and occasionally at night when he thinks he’s the only one awake)

Thinks about him twisted up in the sheets, thinks about him coughing up the blood. Spitting it out. Playing cards and smoking and fighting and screwing…

So now he’s shoving Tyki hard up against the wall, ignoring the muffled gasp of pain, the slurred protests, and kissing him hot and heavy and fuck he wants this. For Tyki, it’s impossible to understand. He’s forced all the way up against the wall now, with Cyril’s weight against him. Arms twisted awkwardly behind him, his brother’s hands at his throat, his pulse quickening. It hurts a little, but then of course it would. The fact that it hurts almost gets him to smile, along with the fact that he’s

(only a little-a lot, hey)

drunk. But then the hurt gets so much worse, and he- he can’t- and. Ah…

It gets him breathless

(so dizzy, like asphyxiation, like sleeping, want to sleep)

for a moment, and he would fall to his knees if not for Cyril. He’s only dimly aware of his head resting on a slightly broader shoulder, of a hand stroking through dark curls, of shifting fabric-

It passes. It always does, and he glances up after a while, not feeling quite up to this at the moment. His head hurts a bit, and it’s not just the Crown of Thorns this time. He’s felt worse. It’s nothing, nothing at all.

(não me toque)

Tyki is an excellant liar, even to himself, but this time there’s no need. So he only hisses out an agonized little murmur as fingers press heavily across those scars, those fucking goddamn scars. He’s shaking a little, but it doesn’t last. He’ll deal.

But the awful thing of it all is... he almost likes it. He almost gets off on it, the feeling of Cyril’s vicious control, the pain of being pressed far too inconsiderately against the wall. This is familiar, in a way words can't describe. Cyril feels a little thrill at the hazing of the other’s eyes, the erratic hitches in his breath. He shouldn’t. He does. He truly, deeply does. The first coils of heat settle themselves in Tyki at his brother’s slow, teasing touches and he mouthes a slurred ‘what the fuck’. Which is, of course, ignored. He tries to feel threatened or disgusted,

(as if)

tries to feel something, but it’s difficult even to think properly with those fingers touching him like that. Fingers that brush lower. He stifles an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, and that stuff must have been stronger than he thought. Finally it’s skin against skin, and he’s honestly really trying to keep absolutely. Dead. Quiet. He’s failing.

(because why won’t brother let him touch)

Nails. Teeth. Ow, he thinks with some kind of hopeless, hysterical humor. It’s all somewhere in the back of his mind, though. Outside, he’s not feeling the humor. Any concentration he has left goes into not shuddering like a leaf and fucking this up even more. It's shameful, to be this weak.

“…don’t-!” Finally the abuse

(loving abuse, there should be a word for it)

rips a shaky plea from him. It’s only the end of the sentance that’s even audible, but it will do for now. He breathes unevenly.

“Oh… do the scars still ache?” Cyril sounds concerned, the bastard. What does he mean, ‘still?’ It’s not like it’s centuries after, right? Or maybe. Probably not. Doesn’t he already know? And- and isn’t it- and, and…

And.

Isn’t it incredibly fucking obvious? He wants to kill something.

He closes his eyes. “Yes. Yes, they do, so stop-” ...and then. Then.

(-oh god GOD goddamn hate this hate him hate that boy- make it- and now)

Tyki can't suppress the choked gasp that escapes from between gritted teeth. Because Cyril scratched, even though he knows how much Noah wants to make his little brother hurt. He… he scratched. Hard. What’s wrong with him today?

No no no no no no no yes. “H-ahhh. Stop.” Tyki hisses and twists and swears feverishly to whoever’s listening that he’s going to murder Cyril the next time he gets the chance. God, they shouldn’t hurt. They shouldn’t, not still. The boy’s not even really alive anymore.

But it ends as soon as it starts.

(…what was his name? allen… allen something. something with a ‘w’… none of them are alive, anyway, except for thirteen immortals and a fourteenth who doesn’t belong)

A long, long rest, where it’s nearly the two of them alone with themselves, and then more touching. Lighter now. My god, he's crazier than me, is the only thing that runs through Tyki's mind. “Hmm… Quanto tempo tem sido?” Since the end of the war, Cyril means. He finally trails a hand down Tyki’s body, pausing at buttons and clasps, undoing them.

“Not quite sure. A while now.” The younger brother laughs shakily, nerves settling impossibly quickly. Maybe it’s just that he recovers fast. “A long while.” It’s ridiculous. “It doesn’t… mmh, no, hey. Stop it… doesn’t matter.”

But Cyril doesn’t stop, so Tyki just tips his head back and reluctantly moans, quietly, the alcohol and stress turning everything hotter, and minutes pass, and the world just stops turning.

He’s being a little rough now.

(oh, again)

Wait. “These clothes were expensive as hell, don’t… mmmh, goddamn. Cy… ril, that’s…” He hisses a little at the feeling of warm-dry friction, arching into the touch despite himself.

“Hm? What?” Cyril pauses, expecting an answer.

“…Jesus Cristo, don’t make me say it. Do not. You just- why can’t you just-?” It’s difficult to think of anything to say with Cyril’s hands and lips and what the fuck does he think he’s… it doesn’t make a difference. “O-oh.” That feels like-

“Damn- I’m, m’gonna… if you don’t stop-“

He pulls away, and Tyki breathes out a whimper of relief and almost-disappointment. He goes dizzy again and slides to the ground, eyes closed.

(mikk you are pathetic says joyd and he agrees with all his soul)

Cyril tilts his head to the side, expression thoughtful. His little brother shouldn’t be that… that… he doesn’t know. But it’s wrong. That boy was wrong, to have done this.

“Irmão. Você está bem?”

Like he cares. Which he does. It’s utterly unfathomable.

A second passes before his brother’s vision clears enough to answer. “Sim. Fine, I’m fine. Have you got… a lighter or something? Matches?” He’s found a half-empty pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his disgarded jacket.

“No, sorry.”

“Ah. It’s alright.” Tyki lets his head fall back against the wall with a hollow thunk. He winces, more because of the fact that he really needs a smoke than because of his skull’s newly formed aquaintance with the flimsy plaster.

Oh, what would Road think? Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she does, and she doesn’t care… yes, it’s probably the latter option. She always was a strange child,

(child?)

and she’s been giggling at him lot more lately.

Awkward silence. Almost fucking and killing your brother all at same goddamn time

(still odd even after they’ve done it before)

tends to do that. “…Say, where’s Lulu? Haven’t seen her ‘round.” Tyki’s speech is degenerating into what Cyril sees as ‘common inelegance’ again, even though he hasn’t been near those mining friends of his recently. More than just recently, in fact. It seems like forever. The little boy with the mask probably feels abandoned.

“She’s off to recover the twins. It seems they’ve discovered an opium den in their free time, of all things. As if they could get past the door, with their appearance.” Cyril sounds disapproving, despite the fact that there’s pretty much nothing drugs can do to a Noah.

The very idea of Jasdero, loyally deranged Jasdero, on anything illicit is so absurd that Tyki snickers helplessly for a minute or so, aware of how pathetic this all is. From pain to pleasure to smalltalk.

Cyril breaks the not-quite-silence with a falsely apathetic, “So. Do we intend to keep going?” Oh, what a question.

Tyki considers. He considers the way Cyril’s eyes look when he’s happy, the way he always knocks before entering a room, the way he complains about arrogant foreign dignitaries at dinner.

“…No. Not in the mood.” He shouldn’t be guarded.

It’s an unexpected answer, but not as unexpected as the reply that eventually cuts at the air, harsh and sharp: “That’s really too bad.” And before he can look up and ask, Cyril’s practically stalking towards him with a predatory smirk, looking like he wants a fight.

(or maybe something else, something better)

He almost-shoves him, holding him down. It wouldn’t happen like that normally, not without a bit of effort and quite a bit of complaining, but this somehow doesn’t feel at all like normally.

It feels like violence, and his breath catches. “You- ah, careful, idiota. I’m not some- too bad? Too…? You’re going to…” Resigned isn’t the word for his tone. Neither is unhappy. It’s more like indifferent. He doesn’t mind; he knows Cyril loves him. Or something. But he won’t like it, he thinks. “Awful,” he breathes against the other’s neck as he leans forward for a kiss. His lips are chapped, dry.

“Mmm, yes. Sure. Anything, as long as I can do this with you.”

That’s new. “How crude. I wouldn’t have… thought. Maybe- you…” The semicoherant words Tyki mumbles out aren’t typical at all. Cyril’s going faster this time, like he wants it over, or maybe he just wants it more. The pace is new, it’s good, it’s… it’s-

Desperate, frantic. It’s in the way they touch, the way Cyril just keeps on pressing at him, the involuntary little sounds they make. They’re entwined in each other’s arms, and Tyki doesn’t want it, he doesn’t, it’s just that-

Oh.

They’re going faster faster faster, he can’t keep himself together. Cyril’s lost his smirk, and everything tastes like cheap cigarettes and red wine and sex. “...Irmão. I’m- ah, I…” He shudders and stifles some sweet nothing he wants to say, some little remnant of human, and Tyki can feel it, and he can’t find it in himself to cringe.

It’s a contrast: quickened breaths to slowing, wordless desire to fulfilled. It’s such a contrast, in fact, that there’s a need to comment, almost.

"Damn, brother, you don’t- you don’t last, do you?” He’d laugh, but that would be stupid. Dangerous.

A moment passes, and it’s really a bit of a wonder that he can manage snarky at all with his hair fucked up and his eyes bright with lust and his legs spread like that.

“Oh, quiet. You were teasing,” Cyril says dryly, completely unsure of what on Earth he’s talking about. He savors the disconnected pause, but he still wonders if-

(tyki feels a little more sober and a lot colder suddenly)

“Maybe. Just get off me.”

Why is it always ‘no’ now? It’s obvious Tyki can’t think straight, and surely pride isn’t worth denying the fact that it feels good, that he’s biting his lip now, eyes closed, with Cyril’s hands absently roaming there.

(he’s patient now that he’s had his fun)

“Come now, just let me take care of you.”

“Taking care of me… ah, nnnh. That… has nothing to do with this-” And he’s only lasted because it’s so hard to enjoy when it hurts and it's wrong and-

Cyril drags his fingernails hard across the scars near Tyki’s collarbone again.

(and again again and again breaking skin is he using those puppet strings of his again again)

and his head snaps back and the pain tears an broken, tangled-up sob from him and the floor is hard and cold-

He loses himself for roughly an eternity

(three seconds, in fact)

of red, of seeing Joyd reach for him in the mirror.

“FUCKING HELL stop it, stop. Please.” He’s shaking for more than only a second, he’s shaking, and oh god, oh god. He thought this part was over.

He hates this hates it hate hate hate goddamn why. “It… hurts, fucker… stop.” And then he breaks, in a quiet little way.

“You’re hurting me, brother. It hurts.” So Cyril feels like a monster, even though it’s all for a reason, because Tyki’s actually started to cry a little now, pathetic bitter salt just barely threatening to spill over and make them-

“Just a little more, I’m sorry, sorry.” What the hell is wrong with him, saying he’s sorry when he’s doing this? If he really was, he’d- he would-

stopstopstopstopstopstopSTOP.

Cyril almost has him. There are going to be bruises around his throat tomorrow, the marks are going to be black, and the air that never reaches his lungs burns. He manages another choked ‘please’ before he can breathe again and-

Cyril lets him go for a whole minute. It feels like heaven, or maybe that’s just because the stupid man won’t stop touching him, even now. Even for the Noah, that is a more than a little unbalanced. Unhinged. Deranged. This is ridiculous. This is impossible.

A shaky exhale; he gives up. “…Mmmh, god. Just finish it already, I don’t care.” The words feel like sandpaper.

This is wrong, it feels wrong, he honestly doesn’t care so much, he really doesn’t give a fuck about-

He’s forgotten how good Cyril is at this, and he’s forgotten how-

(they are lovers. near the end. but only for a moment.)

He keens softly and tries not to beg, not any more than he must. Cyril doesn’t care, Cyril has what he wants now, Cyril goes faster. Tyki’s back arches and-

And he’s back down from the high of giving up and back on the floor with his brother bent over him and stains around them from the blood and the sex and marks on his throat from those hands and he’s rather glad because Cyril looks happy and he hasn’t the slightest idea why.

He really, truly doesn’t know why.

He doesn’t need to.

Because now he feels used and abused and loved, all at the same fucking time.

“Why?” So tired.

“Why what?” Very innocent.

“Why all that?” Mildly annoyed.

“Because.” A little wistful.

“Oh. I knew it anyway.” The truth.

Sometime, but not now:

“You’re going to have to kill me.” Cautious.

“Eu não. Jamais, Tyki.” Serene.

“…Mesmo assim, não me salve.” Still so very, very tired.