Theme: Panic


"How many times has this been, now?"

Don't know. He doesn't know. He feels his body being slammed into, muscles flexing and squeezing, the heat and stickiness on the back of his thighs. Sweat and cum and spit.

The body presses flush, and continues in paced intervals inside of him. His hole is used to this by now, open and used and ready, stretched and spread and accommodating. Many times enough that it is easy to wiggle a finger inside of him—

There is a small pool of his drool on the floor from when Natori has forced his head to stay.

"I don't know. I don't know. I feel sick." Breathless. Lost, sad. Fast.

Natsume groans, stomach then feeling incredibly heavy. The man behind him holds onto his body as he shudders, reaching his orgasm inside of Natsume.

Nothing flows out this time. Not like the first time. No red or white or pink. Clean and clear, but still pink-raw and glistening in mild use.

Sick.

Now without someone to hold him up, Natsume's body slumps to the floor, joining the mess of his earlier orgasm and dropped sweat. His heart thuds, slams against the wooden flooring. It's hard to set focus on anything—dulled eyes flicker around the room. It's hard to see, yet it's always easy to feel.

Sick. He feels that a lot nowadays, and cracks a grin.


Tired, sore, disorientated. Nearly every day, Natsume often feels like he's floating. Sometimes he is not even sure of his surroundings, of his consciousness. He wakes to an empty room, undoubtedly cleansed with the remains of sandalwood incense. Sometimes Matoba is there, sliding open a door to the outside, a breeze rolling in to take out the room's excessive scent and magic. Perhaps it's too stuffy, too strong a spell.

Rising from the bed, a sharp pang shoots up his back and butt. Smarting, but tolerable. When deciding to get up, a different pain persuades him otherwise. He winces and stays put. Sore and tight and hot. Natsume sweats a little.

Matoba looks to him, indifferent, but still inquiring.

It could have been from before. Or he must have pulled something. The sensation remains, just lesser and more faint. The exorcist lets Natsume move at his own pace.

For the times the blond requests help, Matoba always refuses. In his own pseudo-polite way, of course. He won't listen to the strange hurt, just gives him pain medication and a wish of restfulness. He doesn't touch him anymore.

Natsume knows he has done something wrong to warrant this sort of response. But he never follows up on it. Stupidly, he returns to complete tasks and lessons and never inquires. He is dismissed easily and, consequently, is hurt by the detachment.

"You have made your decision," is all that Matoba says.

"Don't listen to him. He is stupid and stubborn, too," Nanase comments once to Natsume in passing.

Natsume disregards Nanase's tack-on of 'too'. (She also thought the same?) "What do you mean?"

"..." Nanase stops, sparing a quick moment to the teen. "He thinks you can understand him. Of course, he isn't clear and direct. Always careful gestures and pauses and layered meanings. It isn't you, boy. He is a coward and needs to realize that others are not mind readers."


Spring melts in early this year. The ground and grass are still a little harsh, but the snow flows into the rivers and lakes, embedding the soil with its life.

When the lotuses begin to form in the garden's pond, Matoba finds himself inspecting them nearly everyday. They're still young buds, petals enclosed for its own growth. He watches them, wanting them to bloom much sooner like the other early season flora.

Nanase has a small smile when regarding the Matoba head. She taps his arm, an indication to follow. Matoba doesn't move, but recalls their task before he stopped at the garden. Another exorcism today. Natsume with Nyanko-sensei had already made way to the vehicle that will bring the group to the site.

"It comes in cycles. You'll see the lotus come summer." Nanase then departs, giving the man a few more peaceful moments.

That summer, Matoba ceases willing the lotus to bloom, and instead watches it gradually open with bitter patience.


He thought he would be better by now. Natsume regards the thermometer before him, the reading above a body's healthy temperature.

Calling Matoba, he informs him of his summer cold. There's a small silence before Matoba follows up with, "May I schedule you for next week?"

It isn't an order. It's a request. Natsume glances at Sensei snoozing on his favorite red cushion.

"What is more important to you? Humans or youkai?"

(Natsume notices his scent nowadays is heavily coated with smoke and dust and sandalwood. At least most of the wind carries it off.

Along with the youkai that often come to bother him.

Natsume is used to the unexpectedly nightly visits, from pleas of names being returned to demands of obtaining the heirloom book. The visits have been decreasing. It was slight at first, just unfamiliar spirits that would happen by for their name. Now he hardly receives such requests. The youkai that often pay visits have been scarce, a twitch in their noses or squint in their eyes when visiting.

Natsume lifts his arm to smell it. Sandalwood smoke. He eyes Nyanko-sensei dozing on the seat cushion. He drags himself across the floor to address the cat-youkai.

"Youkai haven't been bothering me lately about the Book of Friends. Even the middle-class youkai have been distant."

Nyanko-sensei snorts, a little smug and knowing. "Don't you know? You smell like spells and exorcists."

"..."

Natsume pulls away to return to his studies. He never mentions the security breach to Sensei. There is no need to. After all, he wasn't there—Matoba was.)

Perhaps now is the time (the chance) to break this off.

(Before he loses too much.)

"I think… I want to stop coming." Natsume chews on his bottom lip. Doesn't Matoba consider him a burden now anyway?

But the clan head advises against it. A bad idea. "You're vulnerable now." There's a small strain in the other's voice; Natsume feels a little guilty and bothered. "Don't worry. I will send shiki."

"... All right." Natsume catches Nyanko's head-turn and small glare. (Not at him, but at Matoba…) "Next Sunday."

Matoba confirms with a gracious voice before disconnecting. It seems that he will have to now make a tedious call himself. As the newly pressed number rings, the exorcist relaxes his voice, letting it rumble smoothly when the other end picks up.

"I have the pleasure to inform you that you won't be needing to come by today. Let's reschedule for next Sunday."

Exasperated and frustrated, Natori sighs heavily into his cellphone. No doubt Matoba is smirking widely, knowing what an inconvenience this has caused him, both business and personally. "Tell him to come anyway."

At that, Matoba laughs, a little bristled. Such an irritable man. "I'm not going to request my student when he is sick. Is your problem that bad, Shuuichi? Would you like something different?"

Natori doesn't like Matoba's tone—too playful, too inviting. But what else is there? He remains quiet, a sign that he accepts Matoba's suggestion.

"I could let you fuck me instead." Natori finds himself a little flustered when such a robust voice answers, "I can lie there, compliant and obedient, just like Natsume," enchanting and menacing like a trickster fox.

Regaining quickly, Natori seethes through the phone, "Disgusting! You're nothing like Natsume," as Matoba laughs loudly.

Disgusting and hilarious. That is exactly what Natsume is right now—nothing. "He is rather sick now, Shuuichi, and he did imply about leaving my care." A startled silence. Natori is now deathly quiet, holding his breath, palms sweaty holding the cellphone. Loyal attention back on him, Matoba smiles sweetly and pronounces clearly and solemnly, "If you flirt with the idea of visiting him, you will either find yourself occupied by my shiki, or incapacitated by the boy's beast."

There are no such things as empty threats or warnings from the Matoba clan.


Can't. Can't. He can't. He can't see straight, think straight, or breathe right. He blinks and it's blurry, clouded by tears and fog. He swallows, keeps sweaty hot-cold hands on the wet chest below him, trying to bounce his hips onto the dick. Slamming hips down, he regards his arms—clammy and pasty and prickly. He shuts his eyes, tears dripping freely, trying to regain a steady breath. It's hot and labored and scattered and difficult.

Impatient hips move up, dick still hot and hard inside of the teen. Natsume groans, shakes his head. He can't ride anymore.

The monster doesn't care.

Hands find his scarred hips, raising them so the man could thrust inside of Natsume. The blond whimpers, hands slipping to hold on. The haze doubles in his eyes and mind. He has no balance, head swimming and swirling.

The thrusting is sloppy and difficult. Natori stays inside Natsume when he lies the other on his back. The faded amber eyes flutter in confused pleasure. The breathy whines continue until Natori stops his thrusting. He rips off the condom and poises his dick above the teen's face (who still tries for a steady breath) and ejaculates. Natsume flinches and scrunches his face, a hot mess suddenly there.

Natori doesn't bother to clean the mess, still frustrated by Matoba's meddling.

Natsume has no energy to wipe it off.

The only clean-up the exorcist does is light the purifying incense. Slamming open the shoji, he shouts to Matoba that he has finished.

Not pleased with how he was addressed, Matoba quickly appears from a nearby room. He doesn't have a chance to scold Natori. The musky-scented man passes him without intention to stop. He calls for Natori to stop, but the sound of wheezing garners his utmost attention.

Hurried, pounding footsteps make it to the room. Being met with both the mess and Natsume's poor condition, Matoba growls out another 'Shuuichi!' but the action does nothing to amend the situation before him.

Natsume is limp, pale and sickly and sweaty, but at least he's breathing.

Matoba retrieves the water basin and cloth (left in the room for clean-ups like this), and wipes Natsume's face of Natori's cum. Carefully he pulls the teen onto the wooden floor for him to cool off, wiping him down with more wet and cool cloths. Once the breathing stabilizes, he lifts Natsume to drink some water. A hand shakily reaches out to tip the glass. His eyes are bloodshot and lips cracked and dry.

It takes a lot out of Matoba to watch and address this with composure. But he couldn't train his heart to stop racing or the frustrated burn in his eyes or the tightness in his throat.

It was a bad dose.

A hand runs through the blond locks, petting them into place. At first Natsume shivers, but then registers the hand as harmless. He dozes off after the disjointed breathing evens out.

Waking, Natsume feels more exhausted and winded. Exorcisms take energy from him, but never to this extent.

(He ignores the dullness in his lower back and strain of his leg muscles.)

Youkai poison. Supposedly. Matoba, displaced and closed-off, hands him a small antidote vial, wishing him a restful leave.

A couple weeks rest, but even more symptoms, related and not, appear.

Natsume hasn't been doing well in lessons and missions. Forgetfulness and fumbling and difficulty. But most important of all—his power is lacking. It's strained and weak and trying. Thankfully the teen is still able to see the spirits and creatures, yet the natural skill is decreasing.

Matoba folds his arms, curious of the aura now emanating from Natsume.

When placing a hand on the younger's shoulder, Natsume jolts, fumbling with the ink brush in hand. A small relief in the muscles, a clearer mind for a moment. Natsume finishes writing the sutra, tracing back to review the errors that Matoba usually announces. "I'm sorry about that." The hand leaves and Natsume breathes in clearer. "I will correct those mistakes."

Matoba blinks, eyebrows furrowing so slightly as he watches Natsume create a new sutra—more clear and enchanted. "Better," he breathes out (relieved). Natsume's skill has been lacking, and now he understands why.

Natori is not nourishing like him.

But he will not revive that connection.

Amber eyes gaze up at him, curious and delighted by the praise (the reassurance). Matoba keeps his face stoic, glancing once more to the creative sutra before leaving. No tampering, no acknowledgment.

That betrayed trust should have influenced him to leave. Instead, he continues coming back, looking for praise and belonging where there isn't any.

And Natsume still doesn't feel well.


The session lasts longer than what is permitted. Matoba doesn't chase it. Instead, when Natori finishes and follows up with the clan head in another room for next time's exchange, more is requested. More discoveries and scrolls and bounties—all to be handed over to the Matoba clan. The corner of Natori's mouth twitches, suspecting this may be due to the over allotted time. Matoba inches closer, seemingly to corner the other. His irritation isn't solely from the prior activity (heat and adrenaline and blood pounding), the younger exorcist surely moves and speaks in a way to inflame Natori's emotions.

And he can't help but to lash out. Natori shoves at the black-haired man, too close for his comfort or state of mind to handle. Oh, and Matoba knows that. Sees the knowing smirk, more damning words spilling out.

"It was you who decided to do this. I invited you to see him. What happened afterward was your doing. I only request payment for the trouble and hard work."

Natori grits his teeth, "You tempted me," and snarls back.

But those aren't the right words, not strong enough to combat the knowledge and power Matoba always has.

And, without missing a beat, the exorcist reciprocates the hostility with a smile. "Do you have any self-restraint?"

"You wanted me to mess up." The sandy-blond man is surprised by how quickly he responds. Even with this knowledge, he followed along. It was too good to be true. But why follow along? He still ached, and needed. Stupid and selfish and single-minded. The bait was too precious to dismiss then, and he is still being dragged along now. He doesn't know where, but it's still too good, too delicious to release his fangs. What is at the end of the game when there is nothing left, or it is fully reeled in? Natori swallows, carnelian eyes never leaving Matoba's.

"You knew that, but you still came." His voice spreads a little smoother, teasing.

What a dangerous man, willingly letting Matoba assess and press buttons, fiddling and testing the strings.


One snaps unintentionally, too taut and used. The whole puppet remains intact, so it goes without notice. The neck is a little loose, mind now a bit more free to assess and scheme.

Matoba has softened his demeanor to Natsume—guiding and patient and careful. (Something he once was.)

No more listening or rescheduling or waiting or exchanges.

The arm strings snap.

Even with Matoba closed off, he is still closer emotionally with Natsume. (Something he also once had.)

Snip. Both legs free.

No more. He was supposed to have that.

The envy and impatience inflame him. Before leaving after another invitation, he finds the container too easily, and takes it. He knows what it does, why Natsume acts the way he does and doesn't remember, how both the exorcists can get away with all that they are doing.

Natsume is already making his way to the manor. (He looks so tired, so sick, slow and half-hearted.) A gust of wind blows some dirt into his eyes and face. He shuts his eyes and rubs them, trying to rid of the specks and burning.

Suddenly hands are on him, and Natsume falls back, being pulled onto the side of the path. (No no no, hands, not those hands—) Heart racing, breathing in sharply, Natsume is finally faced with the one he would least want to see (ever again). He doesn't have much time to breath or scream or move away. Back shoved against a tree, a hand presses against his mouth and one two three small pills are lodged inside. He tries to spit them out, but the hand is there to prevent that. Hot tears have long since pricked at his eyes, and Natsume still refuses to open them to acknowledge what is happening now, who is here in front of him.

"Swallow." The voice is terrifying (but shaky).

With both his mouth and nose closed off, Natsume knows that swallowing whatever is in his mouth will allow him that necessity. He tries to push the tablets to the side of his cheek, but notices the coating is dissolving, the powder inside soaking into his tongue. It is useless. The hand on his mouth tilts the teen's head back, a signal to do as you're told.

It burns and scratches down his throat. When the hands pulls away, Natsume still keeps his mouth pursed and eyes shut.

Even now, especially now, he won't look.

The assailant grabs Natsume's arms, pulling him from the tree (bits of bark embedded in the back of the teen's arms). The man doesn't say anything, but Natsume knows it is Natori. Shaking his head, the blond pulls back, eyes now open but cast onto the forest ground. Another pair of shoes in front of his. Tears flood his vision. A hiccup dislodges from his throat, and his arms are violently yanked forward.

No no no, what was he fed?

Scared and lost at what to do, Natsume tries to pull back again, slamming himself into the tree. The hands grip harder into his arms, burning. Twisting to the side, he tries to rid of them, but they're so much stronger (he's much stronger).

He shouts. He knows he does. 'Stop!' But he couldn't hear it. He really can't hear anything right now. …Why can't he?

Natsume's head shoots up, face red and wet with tears, now facing the assailant.

Wavy, sandy-blond hair tucked beneath a black bucket hat, red eyes demanding and fierce and imposing. The monster. It says something. Something. Its lips moved, right? His eyes flicker over the face, not understanding, not remembering.

Natsume is easily taken from the tree, an arm wrapped around him. No struggling or shouting or crying, just… calm. Exhaustion, drowsiness, and surreality. With feet half-dragging half-accommodating, Natsume finds himself guided out of the forest and the path to a nearby road.

It's hard to tell where he is. The focus dilates in and out. Natsume repositions his hand to cling and drag on the man supporting him. There is no dispute, just a stronger hold.

Natsume chokes on the dry scent of ink and paper and sweat. (He hates that smell.) He will fall if he lets go. Cold sweat gathers on the back of his neck. It feels like his mouth pools with saliva, but it's dry.

(Hate him. Does he hate him?)

Natori helps him into the passenger seat of a car. Natsume's head lolls across the headrest. The door is shut with a quick thud. The other door opens, the man seating himself there. He hates how warm the inside of the car is, how the leather makes his arms itch. Too stuffy-warm in here.

"...t… ...place… ...q… ...kay…"

He's saying more things, Natsume realizes. Trying to listen, the blond tilts his head, eyes still fluttering crazily.

"Buckle," somehow comes out clear and strong.

Natsume faintly groans, arms much heavier to move than usual. His arm reaches over to the left, feeling the smooth polyester strap and pulls it over his chest. Snapping the buckle in place, the simple order washes relief over him.

Ah, it's too hot. This is too tiring.

Already situated, Natori starts the car's engine. Before setting the vehicle into drive, he looks over Natsume. He is slumped further into the seat, eyes hardly open but quivering wildly beneath the eyelids, and face moist and red.

(This has happened before, but it's all right—)

Natori leans over, tilting up the teen's head to rest against the headrest. Natsume whines, low and weak and dying out. His neck is red and clammy. Tracing down, Natori rests a hand on the chest. The heartbeat is erratic and harsh.

"Natsume, please speak."

Thump thump thumpthumptthumptthumpt

Natsume only breathes, wheezy and rattled and lacking.

"Speak."

"...kk… ...hot…" Panting for a moment, swallowing dry, Natsume 'speaks' again. "St… m'f- c'nt do..." When the blond shakes his head, it wavers backwards and then snaps forward to hang.

"Natsume. ...Natsume."

No response.

The man rests the back of his hand on the teen's burning forehead and then eyes glance down to the perspiring neck and chest. The AC is quickly adjusted to its coldest and highest setting.

There's so much sweat.

(—...right?)


Here we go. Beginning of the end.