Title: At Your Command
A/N: For the springkink challenge. I chose a variation of karada shibari in which the hands and arms remain free. Prompt: Shibari (Japanese rope bondage); made to wear underneath clothing as a reminder of servitude. - "You'll be my leader; I pledge obedience"
You're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You're gonna have to serve somebody.
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord
But you're gonna have to serve somebody.
-- Bob Dylan
When he'd lost Mirei, Zenon had vowed that he would get his revenge. For a long time, he played the role of loyal soldier to a tee, until everyone else in Tenkai had forgotten that he'd committed the cardinal sin of begetting a heretic. After all, that little mistake had been rectified. Inside though, the fire of revenge had burned unabated, and, although he could never prove that the murders of his human wife and half-breed son had been at the command of the Jade Emperor, Zenon had needed no tangible evidence, in his heart he'd known with unerring veracity that his liege had been responsible. And so when Zenon had been given orders to keep the Emperor's cur of a nephew on a tight leash, the grin that had curled the soldier's lips had been one borne out of thoughts of sweet retribution.
But then he'd met the dazzling taishi. Zenon should have known that he would be bewitched by the demi-god; he'd always been hopelessly attracted to all things human. The ephemeral nature of their lives held a fragile beauty that all the greatness of heaven could not hold a candle to. And it was that part of Homura, the human part that burned as a bright flame, to which Zenon played the obedient moth.
"Join me, Zenon. Together we can right the wrongs that have been done to us, to Rinrei, to your wife, and to your son."
The plan was audacious, outlandish, and destined to fail. In his heart, Zenon knew that they could never destroy heaven. No, heaven would consume itself; it was rotting from the inside out, and someday would implode of its own accord like an over-ripened fruit. But still he'd found himself committing his loyalty to the lost cause and to its charismatic orchestrator. Was it really a surprise to anyone that they had found consolation in their shared tragic pasts?
Zenon had never believed that he could love anyone the way that he'd loved his Mirei, but when he'd thought about Homura dying, Zenon had cast his lot with the heretic; deciding that he would rather die beside his god in battle than look on helplessly as the heretic's life-force simply drained away.
"You'll be my leader; I pledge obedience." Zenon had replied, his head bowed, cigarette dangling from his lips.
They'd both blamed heaven for destroying their lives, but Zenon was enough of a pragmatist to realize that heaven's actions had also been what had brought them together. The love that they shared was masculine and rough; in war there was little time for tenderness, and neither man was terribly sentimental. Sometimes, though, Zenon wished that their couplings were more than a distraction from the grind of the mission, sometimes he wished he could lay down his arms and give in to their passion, to walk away from their futile calling. But Homura, despite the cynic's cape he wore, was ultimately an idealist; his vision of a perfect new world to replace the despotism of heaven was unshakable.
Zenon stared at the intricate crisscrosses of silken ropes drawn tight upon his lover's muscular body. The cords would leave a mark this time; he'd laced them a little too tight; perhaps a nod to his desire for revenge against the Jade Emperor that remained unsated. More likely, it was covert punishment for the look that Homura always got in his eyes whenever he talked about Son Goku. Zenon was possessive that way, though he was no longer jealous of Goku -- the monkey had thrown his fortune in with his youkai companions; sniffing after his cold-hearted sun's tight ass -- even though Homura had offered him a brand new universe in which to shine. Zenon really owed the kid.
Homura wasn't complaining, either. He met Zenon's good eye with his lust-filled bi-colored gaze, his hands greedily pulling at the various zippers and belts that were the complicated arrangement of the ginger-haired god's outfit, baring his battle-scarred flesh, inch by inch, an erotic striptease, complete with an arsenal. A war god's fantasy, come to life.
"Anxious, aren't we?" he whispered lowly against Homura's stubbled cheek; his calloused fingers ghosting over peaked nipples trapped between parallel ropes. The shibari bindings truly were a work of art; a skill that Zenon was proud to have mastered. He raised himself to his knees and casually discarded the rest of his clothes, then helped Homura out of his.
"I need you, Zenon," Homura's sultry voice had a note of strain in it, and that discomforted sound caused sparks of electricity to ignite along the spiky-haired god's spine.
"I'm not ready, boss," Zenon growled, his hands now roving over the taut cords and caressing the flesh pressed out between the diamond shapes. He knew that Homura would eventually make him pay for his insolence, and that thought turned Zenon on further.
"What is it that you require of me, my Lord?" his voice was anything but reverent; it could almost have been considered playful. His tongue traced a path down Homura's toned chest and over a peaked nub. Homura arched into Zenon's mouth, and suddenly the redhead was trapped against the other god's body, the chain that spanned Homura's wrists roughly coursing over the muscles of his back. Zenon liked the pain and strained against the links, his breath hissing out raggedly.
"We don't have that much time, Zenon." Homura murmured.
The statement stopped him cold; so simple and so profound at the same time. Zenon knew that what Homura had meant was that they were to be ready to mobilize at dawn, but he was also aware that Homura was carefully guarding a secret about his failing health. Not that he could hide his weakening heart from his second-in-command.
"I know," he answered finally, his lips pressed against Homura's throat. His teeth grazed over the brunet's Adam's apple and his actions took on a more perfunctory role; he reached for the lubricant to prepare himself. Homura snarled in impatience and Zenon found himself rolled over onto his back, the demi-god's knee spreading his legs, his hips grinding wantonly against Zenon's. The silk burned against the redhead's skin.
"Fuck!" he cried out.
"Yessss," Homura purred. One hand fisted spiky hair and held Zenon's head in a painful grasp and the redhead was devoured in a ravishing kiss. Homura tasted so good, so intoxicating, a fine rare cognac with exotic orange blossom undertones. Zenon was vaguely aware of the lubricant being extricated from his balled fist, his eye widening when slick fingers roughly prodded his entrance.
His fingers curled over the cords that wrapped around Homura's hips and he tugged at them; the effect tightening the binding that was buried between the demi-god's buttocks. Homura groaned, his teeth and tongue renewing their assault on Zenon's flesh, his fingers pumping into Zenon, probing for the bundle of nerves that would set his body aflame with need. The redhead writhed under Homura's frame, the tight coil in his belly loosening; a fuse lit to his release.
And then suddenly he was empty and hollow, Homura's fingers no longer tormenting him. Zenon mewled in frustration, his hands blindly reaching for his lover. Homura pushed Zenon's knees toward his chest, exposing him, leaving him vulnerable and hungry before Homura slammed into Zenon's sinewy body, his cock buried to the hilt in the redhead's tight, silken passage.
Both of his hands now pulled on the intricate bindings and Homura drove savagely into Zenon's pliant body. Homura's hands traced over muscular biceps as he dipped his head, his teeth latching onto first one, then the other of Zenon's erect nipples. The ginger-haired god arched into the rough play, moaning from the pleasurable pain, riding to the crest of his orgasm. His hot cum spattered between their bodies and Zenon's cry was swallowed by Homura's lips which covered his, the brunet's tongue plundering the redhead's mouth with impunity, drinking in his essence, memorizing every ridge and dip.
Zenon's muscles clenched against Homura's embedded organ and his hands fumbled at the single knot that kept the demi-god's body bound, finally loosening the cords as Homura came, deep inside Zenon's passage. The shibari was an elaborate play in which they engaged; Zenon was well aware that Homura submitted only on his terms; there was no doubt as to who was the servant in their relationship.
Homura collapsed upon Zenon's body, spent from his climax. He felt Homura's heart pounding against his chest, and Zenon thought about their mission and allowed himself to dare contemplate its success. If they did manage to create the new universe that Homura dreamed of, then they would have all the time in the world.
Go to || Home