Shuuhei is a Slut

A/N: Thank you very much to all reviewers.

Title: Siren's Song
Pairing: Gin/Shuuhei
Warnings: pseudo-non-con, maybe

It began, as so many stories begin, with a song.

A song sung by a siren to lure away and tempt the young always has had an enchanting quality to it, by the very nature of its being. The whirls and twirls of melody, perhaps, endear it to our very souls.

It may not have fit any technical definition as such, but it was song enough to’ve worked.

—just put your lips together, and blow—

Such a sexual sound it was that echoed through the redolent forest, between the trees, above and around the rocks. It filled all the empty places, this sound, and drove all who heard it to find the source—Ichimaru Gin.

He was yet a boy then, so many years ago—was it fifty? one hundred? There is no knowing.

But he was young, and he thirsted. From where he sat, at the foot of his tree, the forest was bereft of any interesting life. That never lasted, though; nothing ever lasts.

The footsteps came only a short while before the face, this time. It was young, the face, and that of itself was exciting.

Words were unnecessary things, superfluous. They could only detract from the beauty of it in his mind. And that would never do.

The scene was thus:

A young Shuuhei, wandering aimlessly through the woods of an afternoon, had, upon hearing an odd, melodious sound, sought out the source of it—through the trees, above the rocks—and all he wanted was to find whoever it was and. . . and then, of course, there was the ever-smiling Gin, and he was waiting, and that was enough.

Out of common courtesy, he always allowed his prey the first move; they always did take it, you know. Shuuhei was no different in that respect. He approached as you might approach a coiled snake, with an amalgamation of fear and wonder. Then he took a seat right by him.

And that was the first day.

The second day heard no song, but did find an actively searching Shuuhei. He searched all day for the boy. Gin was nowhere.

The third day passed much the same as the second, and then the fourth, and then the fifth.

On the sixth day, the song resumed.

Shuuhei approached cautiously this time, with no fear, and he said, “Where. . .?”

“Busy.” And Gin said nothing more.

The sixth day passed much as the first, afterwards.

And then there was the seventh. . .

This day had a different song—they were always different, but this was more subtle, more insidious. It did not swirl; it flowed—flowed like soft cream foam, outwards from the epicenter, trapping everything that heard it. Shuuhei followed shortly.

Clouds hung like shadows above; the winds stilled.

No words—there never were to begin with, except the two.

It began with a kiss. Shuuhei couldn’t tell you why, if you asked him, except to say it felt the right thing at the time. And it might have been. It did not stop with a kiss.

One of them, no telling which, used his hands on the other, fingers dancing and exploring. It was likely Gin. Who knows.

Shuuhei’s shirt was the first off, followed by his pants. He was naked. And he wanted more—he did not know of what.

Gin was more than happy to teach, though, always.

A hand and a tongue was all, at first—the hand to steady, the tongue to tease. Flickering in and out and tasting only lightly the flesh before him, his tongue worked. He always liked this part, seeing the sudden loss of control, prefaced by a shudder in the knees, a whimper at the back of the throat, and concluded as always by a shout or a scream. But no words.

Then began the unpleasantness.

Gin removed his own shirt, and lay atop the other—a kiss again, and more touching. Shuuhei’s lips formed the outlines of words that never left his throat, the beginnings of a name he didn’t know.

It was his first time ever touching another man’s penis, on his back beneath the tree. He felt it, first, the soft heat pulsing just beneath the surface, just behind the cold hardness, then began a gentle stroking motion.

But Gin wanted more, and nothing less than what he wanted would satisfy him. He removed his pants entirely. Kneeling there, atop this other, he was in control, as he always was. As he wanted. He picked Shuuhei up by his legs, almost his butt, and explored further the lower regions he had previously neglected.

Shuuhei reacted unkindly to the sensation, but grew to like it, or to pretend as much. The tongue prodded and poked and maneuvered itself in ways a tongue shouldn’t be able. Perhaps he had no need to pretend, after all.

The tongue was only the first, of course, a prelude of what was to come. Or maybe who.

However unkindly he reacted to the tongue paled in comparison to feeling the shaft pressing there in all its hardness. It rocked back and forth, a while—to soothe, perhaps. Who knows. Other than Gin, at least, and likely not even that.

There was nothing to use for lubrication other than saliva, and that is hardly a satisfactory solution for all parties. This is where Shuuhei first felt the stirrings of the unpleasantness. It was still to grow much more, though, to uncoil and unfurl.

The pressure Gin applied increased with each moment, but they were slow moments. Gin has always been nothing if not patient. Then it pierced through, and Shuuhei almost shouted. But the true shout, the true scream waited till he was all the way inside and pounding away. Not yet.

Suddenly Gin towered over Shuuhei like never before; his lithe frame grew in size to dominate everything Shuuhei saw, and always the same smiling face peered down at him.

When he first started moving, a gradual slide out, then back in, the screaming came naturally to Shuuhei, like the calls one makes to a cat or a baby. Frictional heat inundated his insides from all around, it seemed, but there was no stopping it, no stopping Gin. He supposed this was just how it was.

It did, eventually, after some minutes, become tolerable. He almost even took some pleasure from it, if only a little, every now and then when he hit just that right spot. But not often.

Gin made no sound when he came. For a moment he just lay there atop his prey, basking in the loveliness of it all. Another innocent soul deflowered.

He rose without making a sound, and he was gone before Shuuhei could even blink.

There was no eighth day.

Unknown years ago, this happened. Unknown, not for the length of time, but just that it had been forgotten. People forget time, every now and then. It fades away to memory, then to dust, only to be remembered in flashes of sweat in the night, the form of a name he never knew at the tip of his lips.

It ended with a song, of a different sort. But that will be left to your imagining, I think.