He wakes hungry.

There is a line of ice down his arm that’s so cold it burns; when he opens his eyes it’s twisted under him, the fingers twisted into claws. In the back of his head, an angry voice is murmuring.

He’s hungry. His belly growls and when he breathes he can smell something impossibly good, something that even the restless voice pauses for. It takes effort to swallow. He moves and bumps against something small and warm and curled against his side, and his breath is sour with wanting. His arm aches, his belly aches, his head–

“Frau,” the small warm thing beside him says, in a voice that is slurred and rich with sleep.

And he remembers.


Even half-asleep and grumpy at being woken, Teito kisses like someone who still doesn’t understand life outside of fighting: hard and with teeth, leaning all his whipcord weight and strength into it, but he softens with certain touches–a hand threaded and petting through his hair, a mouth just under his ear, fingers sweeping a stroke against the tender skin of his inner elbow. He puts his arms around Frau’s shoulders and digs his nails in, makes startled, almost broken noises when Frau slides a broad hand under his back and pulls him up to a seated position, draped into Frau’s lap.

“Quiet,” he mumbles into Frau’s shoulder. “Capella’s …”

“I’m not the noisy one,” Frau says, which is true: Teito whines and yowls and mouths off, as if determined to take a more active part than his inexperience and impatience allow. He slides his thumbs into the waist of Teito’s pants and tugs them down easily; Teito squirms to help. “And that means if the kid wakes up, you’ll have to be the one to explain, brat.”

I’ll have to,” Teito says indignantly, and loses the rest of his protest in Frau’s kiss. He bites Frau’s bottom lip in retaliation, and Frau’s arm aches instead. He can feel pressure needling under his skin, so he kisses harder, more insistently, one hand on Teito’s back to brace him and the other wrapped around Teito’s cock, half-hard and quickly rising. The rest of Teito’s continued (muffled) diatribe melts into a strangled noise of pleasure, his back arching like a bow, bending further than really should be humanly possible. Frau works his fingers hard and fast and hard, Teito’s lower lip caught between his teeth, until Teito’s breath chokes and Frau’s fingers are damp and sticky.

He pulls away slowly, keeping his hand braced against Teito’s back, waiting until those huge green eyes blink into some semblance of focus. He smirks, and Teito goes red as a tomato.

“Wh–what was that for?! I thought you said we had to leave early tomorrow, you’re the one who said you wanted to sleep–”

“I changed my mind,” Frau lies. His fingers flex against Teito’s back, as if he could draw warmth out of that living skin. “Unless you’re done, brat, which I guess is understandable, someone like you–”

Teito growls and grabs his wrist. He spits into Frau’s palm, still damp and sticky, and he glares straight into Frau’s eyes and says, “Do it.”

Frau laughs, the sound low and thick, caught in his throat. He slides his hand down low on Teito’s back and presses to force him to tilt his hips up. “Maybe I should take it slow,” he says, as he brushes his damp thumb over Teito’s entrance, tightening his other fingers when Teito automatically flinches. “You’re young, aren’t you, brats like you could use it lots of times–”

“You’re a pervert,” Teito snaps, redfaced and trembling, his thin chest heaving. “Stupid pervert priest, always–this is–this is all you ever think about–”

Frau grins wide to show off all his teeth. “We could stop,” he offers. “Right here, right now, and go to sleep–”

“I’ll beat you up,” Teito growls, and his blush deepens. His skinny knees dig hard into Frau’s hips; his blunt nails draw red lines down Frau’s chest. With effort he lifts himself up, exhaling and trembling as Frau’s fingers work inside of him. His body is hot enough to begin easing the ache in Frau’s own. “Stupid–stupid perverted priest, what does anyone see in you, ever–”

“Ask yourself that question first, brat,” Frau says.

Teito growls again, digging in hard with his nails against Frau’s shoulder as he squirms and positions himself, and he stares straight into Frau’s eyes, unblinking, as he sinks down onto Frau’s cock. It is not the best prep job they’ve ever done–he sees the flinch that tightens the corners of Teito’s mouth, and he trembles a little too hard as he moves, but when Frau lets his hands simply hover over Teito’s hips, not touching, the brat continues shifting, relaxing in slow degrees until the movement is mostly smooth.

“Stupid,” he pants. “Stupid–pervert–ah–”

“As you see me,” Frau allows, though his own voice is strained; it feels good–it’s not enough to satisfy the full ache that gnaws at his belly, but it’s close enough to distract. When Teito’s eyes flutter closed, concentrating, Frau finally grasps his hips and holds on, not quite guiding or directing. He doesn’t not allow himself to close his own eyes–not completely–and the tiny, almost surprised gasps of Teito’s voice are almost enough to drown out that thing that’s murmuring to him the whole time.


Teito comes for a second time with a strangled noise, tossing his head back and exposing the line of his throat, distorted by his collar; only when he slumps does Frau let himself go, with a silence that he impresses himself with–for a few blessed moments, everything is quiet in his world.

Then Teito slumps forward against his chest, panting, warm, sticky, and Frau thinks about just rolling him off and over, but instead he puts an arm around Teito’s thin back and props him back up, using the sheet to clean them both off–in the cold, the inn’s provided them with two blankets, so at least there’ll be something left when they sleep. Teito makes a few grumpy noises, something along the lines of I can do it, and falls asleep before Frau’s halfway through. His breathing is soft and gentle on Frau’s shoulder.

His arm aches. He’s hungry.

Frau lifts his hand and alternates a few times between making a fist and relaxing. He frowns.

“That’s the most you get,” he says, refusing to acknowledge what he’s hearing, murmured soft and low–blood and seed and warm salty flesh and a crystal-pure soul–

Frau closes his eyes.


He wakes hungry.

The light through the windows is gray and pale and sometime during the night the small warm weight against his left was joined by another smaller, warmer presence. He feels both heavy and light; the only thing that is clear is the hunger in his stomach and the icy burn that traces through the veins of his arm.

He remembers. And he wishes the taste of blood on his tongue, made when it slices against his teeth, was not his own.

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