TITLE: This Hell
DISCLAIMER: Belongs to Team Get Backers, etc.
NOTES: Ban/Akabane. Yes, Ban/Akabane. Mentions of Ban/Ginji. Hate!Sex. Ultra dark, very angsty.
SUMMARY: Ban uses Dr. Jackal, and Dr. Jackal uses Ban. 640 words.

This Hell

Ban bears his teeth. He tries not to think of how he must look like this—his lips red and twisted, his eyes fierce, his skin covered with a mist of fine sweat and blossoming bruises, one hand clenched relentlessly in longish hair. He tries not to think of how Akabane looks—his eyes slitted in fury, his skin raw and marked by lacerations, fingers twisting to reach around—

A knife slices into Ban, and he gasps, throwing his head back.

Beneath him, Akabane's face allows a small, satisfied smile.

Ban's eyes narrow in fury, and in retaliation, he tightens his grip on one slender, sweaty hip.

A grunt—of pain, of pleasure, Ban doesn't know, doesn't care.

Ginji is gone.

Ginji has been gone so long that Ban can no longer think straight, can no longer function. There's nothing left. Nothing but—

Akabane bucks upward, hips thrusting, forcing Ban deeper, and Ban is absurdly grateful, rutting mindlessly into the pale body.

—nothing but distraction.

Ginji is gone. It isn't even Akabane's fault. Ban knows Dr. Jackal will, in a twisted way, miss Ginji as well, knowing that he will never be able to test himself against the full power of the Raitei.

It isn't mutual grief that binds them, though. Ban doubts Kuroudo Akabane has ever grieved for anything. To grieve is simply too human. It isn't lust that brings them together, either—lust is just a side effect. Ban isn't sure what it is.

Akabane's legs twine around Ban's, pulling him closer. This isn't intimacy—not like Ban knew with Ginji—not when Dr. Jackal is sinking his teeth into the juncture of neck and shoulder. Ban growls, driving in harder, harsher, his chest heaving. The hand in Akabane's hair tightens, rips away, taking a fistful of dark hair.

It is Akabane's turn to bear his teeth. Ban does not always end up on top, and he knows the next time he fails, there will be extra pain. They do not bother with lubricant. They do not bother with stretching. They merely take. This is not love—it is something closer to punishment, something closer to predation. Ban isn't quite sure what this is.

There is always blood, accusation and absolution for whomever manages to spill it. There are teeth and fingernails and hate and hate and hate and—for Ban—penitence. Maybe that's what this is.

Or perhaps despair.

But Ban isn't about to die, yet. What would be the point? Ginji has gone somewhere better—if there is any justice—he must be somewhere better—please let there be justice—and Ban knows, in his heart of hearts, that he won't be able to follow. There is a special hell reserved for Midou Ban. It comes in the form of a thin man with violet eyes and a homicidal drive, in the form of bed sheets stained with blood, in the form of a world without Ginji.

That's what this is.

This is hell.

When he climaxes, when he collapses, when there isn't any fight left, Ban lets his head fall to Akabane's chest, lets his eyes fall shut, shedding a few heated drops of liquid on the good doctor's skin. When Akabane reaches completion, he makes no noise. The first few times it happened, Ban didn't even realize it. And then there are fingers fluttering over his hair, sick and frightening and unsettlingly sweet.

Ban's breath shudders, something like a sob.

"Shhh," Akabane tells him quietly. "We'll try again tomorrow night, hmm? And maybe you'll be serious."

Ban considers this. Maybe they will fight again tomorrow. Maybe he will be serious. Maybe it won't turn into sex—into this.

Maybe Akabane will kill him. Or he will kill Akabane.

Ban rolls onto his side, and thinks of dark eyes, wide with innocence, and he hopes.