( imagined you saw me ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
imaginedyou) wrote2007-02-26 12:08 am
imaginedyou) wrote2007-02-26 12:08 am
Gifts [Gravitation: Eiri/Touma, NC-17]
I didn't plan on writing Gravitation fic, I swear. I didn't even like the anime that much apart from Eiri and Touma.
title: Gifts
fandom: Gravitation :x
pairing: Eiri/Touma
prompt: 'flowers'
rating: NC-17
notes: Wherein there is smut! I wrote SMUT. A little anyway. Written in second person POV. 3412 words.
-
You shut the door a little too hard on purpose because you want him to know you are coming. He probably already knows, but the fiddling with the keys was not on purpose. It's hard to unlock a door when your hands are full.
He is slouched on the sofa, as usual, smoking a cigarette; also as usual. The TV is blank. First thing you do after you put down the bouquet is to switch it on, find the most offensively loud music show you can, and turn it up. Usually one of your bands is featuring. As the executive you have to show a little professional interest.
"Why do you always bring me flowers?" He mumbles around his cigarette. It would be so easy to pretend you hadn't heard him properly, but you've never been tempted to save his feelings. He would only hate you for it.
"I don't bring flowers for you," you insist, throwing a smile as you walk into the kitchen. Your apron is washed after last time, hung back on its peg ready and waiting. You slip it on and delve into the fridge. "I like them. I like having them around me when I'm here. You don't come into it."
"Whatever." He says, but he is up now, away from the sofa and watching you from the doorway. He frowns, but his shoulder presses into the frame of the door where he leans, and his hips jut out to support his weight. He would say he is just getting away from the TV. You know he just wants to watch you.
"You have no decent food, again!" You scold. You do this every time. He seems to subsist on take-aways when you are not there. That or nothing; air.
"I don't need to keep a stock," he protests. "There's only me. I buy what I need when I need it."
You know for a fact he hates cooking. You know he buys pre-made, ready-in-five junk meals, and he knows that you know.
"Anyway, are you sure there's nothing?" He asks, feigns innocence. "Why don't you check in the back?"
You smirk, away from his face, and oblige. Bending over and sticking your head further into the fridge, you can feel the chilled air on your cheeks as the fabric of your trousers pulls tight across the back. You know exactly what kind of look he has on his face right now. At least he is smiling.
"It's still there." You tell him.
"The TV shows you watch are utter crap," he says in response. You knew he would get defensive. "The bands you support and dole out so much money for are all talentless hacks."
You draw yourself out of the fridge and sit back on your heels. He knows he can't antagonise you, and yet he continues to try.
"The general public don't seem to think so," you tell him, and flash a wicked smile. "And I'm only concerned with how many times over I recoup my investment." This isn't entirely true, but it's truer than it used to be. Once upon a time the industry was exciting and passionate for you. A fairytale come true. You dive back into the script. "Besides," you say, "if you don't like it, you can always turn it off."
"It was off." He points out.
"Yes." You agree. "And now it's not. So turn it off, if you want to." If he dares to.
"Whatever." He shrugs in the end. Point to you. "I can tune it out anyway. And you'd only turn it back on to piss me off."
"And you could turn it off again, and I could turn it back on. And off again, and on again, until we blow up your precious flatscreen." He is looking less and less amused the longer you keep talking, which is precisely why you do it. You give up on the idea of finding anything edible in the apartment, and reach for the phone. "I'm ordering in," you say, and he opens his mouth to tell you what he wants. "But nothing greasy! It cannot have the words 'fried', 'chicken' or 'Mac' in it."
He shuts his mouth and a deep frown etches itself onto his face. You coil the phone wire around your finger as it rings. You don't need to ask what he will have; since it's health food he won't know the difference. You both end up sat down on the couch together not really watching the TV. He starts out sitting up straight, but he spends so long each day upright, back straight in his desk chair that when he has the chance to relax he takes it, and so he ends up laying down with his head almost in your lap. You can't resist running your fingers through his hair; it's so fine it's like gold silk.
"How's the writing going?" You ask idly. He sighs before he speaks; he is relaxing beneath your touch.
"It's fine, as always." He mumbles. "I can bang out a few general crowd pleasers when I need to, in between the intensive books."
"And how long between will it be this time?" You ask. You are treading a thin line, but he's relaxed, and you've always enjoyed living a little dangerously. It attracted you to New York after all.
"I don't know." He says. His voice sounds muted, as though he is talking through gritted teeth or attempting not to get mad. He knows you as much as you know him, he knows to expect a few button pushings while you are here. "Why do you care? You don't even read my books."
"I'm not exactly the romantic type." You laugh. You don't even know if that's truth anymore. And who knows whether he thinks it is or not; you don't plan on asking. Time to change the subject. "You're not going to ask after your sister?"
"I assume she's fine or else you wouldn't be here and be so calm."
"Ah, that's true." Why you brought the subject up, you don't know. There is no need, after all, to go creating more problems where there already are plenty. Small as they may be, little cracks can join up to become one huge one, and you have no desire to be broken apart just yet.
Maybe ever.
He is, for all his airs and sophistication, stuck in perpetual childhood in so many areas of his life and you've always known it, because you were there for his childhood. One day you started growing up and changing, and he did not. When the food comes he pulls faces, sulks and presses his lips tight together. You have to take a bite of everything first before holding it to his mouth and forcing it between his lips. He chews for far longer than he needs to, and can't keep up the act of pretending everything tastes awful. Especially not when you have a stick of celery poking out of your mouth; he leans up towards you and bites the end off.
Needless to say, you end up kissing. You smile into the kiss, while his grasp on you is minimal, desperate and needy. He has always been able to rely on you for love and comfort; when it first happened it was just natural progression. His fingers grope for you; the fabric of your shirt, but the sleeves are rolled up to your elbows. There is a whimpering noise he makes only for you when he cannot find what he wants, when he is not in control.
If he is forced to make it more than a couple of teasing times, then everything stops. He cannot handle things when they are out of his control. You reach for his hand, not to take it, but to make him aware of where your arm is. His fingers find your wrist, and yank your hand downward until you are curled right over him. It aches your lower back, but you force the dull pain out of your mind and concentrate on taking in some much-needed air through your nose.
He breaks the kiss, because you wait for him to. His eyes have not changed but somehow they seem red-rimmed, as though to match his kiss-swollen lips that make him look even sexier than he usually does. He has a predatory look about him, mixed with uncertainty. That he can be so capable of both attracts you to him; you've never seen such a contradiction. No-one else is constantly struggling between fear and desire, love and hate.
He sits up, leaning against the back of the couch. Your mouth is open, breathing deep because the air you managed to take in during the kiss was not sufficient. It is too much effort to say anything, to wonder if he has stopped for good, or if this is just a pause to get more comfortable.
Why you even wonder, you do not know; desire always overpowers. His fingers encircle your wrist again as though he sees himself imposing chains, or a leash to bring you as close to him as he wishes, and he pulls you across his lap. This time, your trousers strain across the front where your legs are spread over him.
His hands find your waist and slip up under the apron and the shirt both. His fingers are warm, splaying out over your skin to feels as much as possible in one place, and as he draws you towards him for a deeper kiss, your hands go behind your back to untie the apron knots. You let it fall away from you and pool between both your bodies, crumpling.
From inside your shirt his fingers tug at the fabric, his silent plea for you to get rid of it, get it out of his way. As you unbutton it he pulls away from the kiss to watch you. Your fingers are deft, but your movements slow as to really play up the way the shirt parts and slips away, revealing more of your chest each time. You leave it half undone and reach for his shirt instead; black against yours in white. He thinks of himself as a creature of darkness, but to you he is an angel in disguise. And if he thinks you are the holier of the two of you, you'll let him keep thinking it.
His shirt is completely open before yours, but you don't slide it off his shoulders. That little movement counts as taking control, and it is hard enough to make it through a night together without old memories coming back to haunt him. When it comes to him needing the control to keep his sanity, you give it to him, and more. No-one else matters to you like he does; not even your wife, his sister. You only wanted to be close to him permanently.
He leans forward so that he can shrug the shirt off his shoulders and let it pool around his hips. Then his fingers reach up to undo the rest of your buttons hastily, but he does not remove your shirt. Just lets his hands slide over your stomach and chest as though trying to recall if you're still the same as he remembers from the last time. Sometimes you think he tries too hard to forget. But you can't blame him for that.
His fingers brush idly at your neck, sweeping the same spot a few times in succession until it makes you shiver. You only tilt your head a little to shake the tingling, but he uses that as an excuse to fasten his lips to the skin. He pulls you closer to him, until your bodies are pressed completely together, and that is when he stands up and pulls your legs around his waist at the same time to keep you from falling.
He knows the way to his bedroom with his eyes shut; which is how they stay, just as his mouth stays firmly attached to your neck. With one hand clinging to the back of his neck you use the other to brush the walls as you are carried to the bedroom, just to be sure you won't walk into anything. Even though he knows the way, when he is this preoccupied who can say whether he will stay on target?
He's on target; his lips remove themselves only a moment before he is using one hand to unhook your legs and drop you backwards onto the bed. The sensation of falling doesn't have a chance to kick in before you're sinking into the mattress and he is crawling onto the bed over you. Everywhere there is exposed skin for him to touch, his lips touch it, beginning at your jaw and trailing down over your chest. At one point he brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the centre of your palm, then the inside of your wrist, before raising it over your head out of the way. He is reassuring himself that this is consensual even if he restricts your movement. It won't last; he simply wishes better access to your body right now.
When he reaches up to kiss you on the mouth again, you feel his whole body stretch over you; stomach muscles, leg muscles extending, and his crotch against you. He's only half-hard, but he has always liked to take things slow; hard and fast are not good things and bring back memories best left buried. Your wrists are your own again, and so you bring your hand down between the two of you and attempt to unbuckle your belt. One-handed it is not easy, and not with him pressed against you either, but you do it. You get the zip and push as much fabric away as you can before reaching for his hand and guiding it gently into your boxers. He needs to know how much you want this, every time, and you're willing to show him.
His strokes are firm and steady; he does not want it to end quickly. He is totally confident in this; for all the fear that crawls to the surface when he thinks about the act, when there is a cock in his hand he reacts without thinking. He can't deny this is what he wants or what he truly enjoys, because of that experience. Or feel that it is what caused him to be 'this way'.
You squirm beneath his touch and grope desperately for his belt to unbuckle and get his jeans the hell off of him. He smirks when he notices your fumbling, because you don't let yourself be seen thus so easily, and now he definitely feels in control. He feels in control as he lets you undo his jeans and tug at them from either side until they start to slip down his thighs. He has to get up to remove them fully, boxers too, and from his position at the end of the bed he tugs off your trousers too.
When he crawls back onto the bed he kisses you again, running his hands all over everywhere. He is very sensitive himself about where he can be touched, so you have always kept it to a minimum. Not to say he doesn't get any pleasure out of it, because he definitely does. Still kissing, he rolls you across the bed until he is on his back and you are on top, and you sit up over him. He reaches to the side and opens his top drawer, pulling out the familiar bottle as you lean yourself back a little, spread your legs as far as it is comfortable to go. Your hair falls into your eyes as he hands you the bottle and you look down. His eyes are watching too as you uncap the lid and cover your fingers before pushing one inside yourself. Your body always reacts as though it is an intrusion every time, no matter how often you do this, and so you focus on the pleasure of being watched instead. Your body thrums; you love to be watched. You love when he is watching with those endlessly deep eyes that usually show hardness or hurt.
You push a second finger inside and you feel him fidget beneath you in anticipation. He is getting restless and you are too composed, it will make him feel out of his depth, so you use your free hand to cover his cock. It is the only time he really lets you touch him that way, when he is wanting to get inside you. When he knows you are ready for it his hands come to your hips and you cover them with your own as you lower yourself down. You bite your lip in concentration more than anything; going slow is for his sake, not yours. He likes to feel it inch by inch whereas when it gets to this point you could just push down and mix the pain with pleasure.
Eventually your hands rest flat palmed on his chest, not touching his nipples which are another area he flinches to be reminded of. One of them still bears a scar. You tilt your head down and meet his eyes as you move your hips; he is inside you, but you dictate the rhythm. Whether he fears to, or whether he wishes for the person on the receiving end to have an allowance of control you don't know, and have never endeavoured to ask. You lift up almost completely, and slide back down a few times in succession, and then shift to change the angle. You aren't searching for the way to give yourself the most pleasure; you know the way to do that with the lights off and your hands tied behind your back. This is for him more, to maximise the sensations, the different feeling each time.
His eyes are falling shut, this is how you know how good it feels; he always tries to keep his eyes open and on you. He always wants to know what you are feeling from looking.
"Eiri," you say softly, and he opens them again. He looks lost, berating himself silently for losing sight of you. It makes you smile.
"Eiri," you say again, leaning down to capture his lips. You'll never call him by that name, whatever his reasons for carrying it are. And if the only part of his real name he keeps now is that, then that is all you call him by. You will not argue with his logic.
Even when you are close to coming you try not to speed yourself up or force it too hard; like an animal any sudden movements and he will run away. You just press your mouth to his as hard as you can, stroking yourself until you are so close he knows it and his hand joins yours. That tends to always be the thing that pushes you over the edge. You gasp and shout out when you come, but he makes a noise like crying. He always ends up with watery eyes. You only hope it is something good, and not overwhelming guilt that he can find pleasure in something that once gave him nightmares. You don't have any other ways to explain to him he's just behaving like any man.
Neither of you sleep afterwards; he lays for a while, letting you stroke his hair, sweaty as it is. When he gets up he goes into his study to turn on the computer and tap away at the keys. You go into the kitchen and find the instant hot chocolate and pour two cups worth. You sit at his elbow, placing the cup on the desk beside him as he types, and let your eyes glance over a few words.
"Another love scene?" You ask, holding your drink up to your mouth and smiling to let it in.
"I write them best at night." He replies. It isn't a stiff reply, just a short and honest one.
"Do you think that's what we do?" You press on softly. "Make love?"
He seems to actually consider the question for a moment, though he does not stop typing.
"I don't know." He says finally, but you narrow your eyes at him from the side, and think that really, he does.
-
title: Gifts
fandom: Gravitation :x
pairing: Eiri/Touma
prompt: 'flowers'
rating: NC-17
notes: Wherein there is smut! I wrote SMUT. A little anyway. Written in second person POV. 3412 words.
-
You shut the door a little too hard on purpose because you want him to know you are coming. He probably already knows, but the fiddling with the keys was not on purpose. It's hard to unlock a door when your hands are full.
He is slouched on the sofa, as usual, smoking a cigarette; also as usual. The TV is blank. First thing you do after you put down the bouquet is to switch it on, find the most offensively loud music show you can, and turn it up. Usually one of your bands is featuring. As the executive you have to show a little professional interest.
"Why do you always bring me flowers?" He mumbles around his cigarette. It would be so easy to pretend you hadn't heard him properly, but you've never been tempted to save his feelings. He would only hate you for it.
"I don't bring flowers for you," you insist, throwing a smile as you walk into the kitchen. Your apron is washed after last time, hung back on its peg ready and waiting. You slip it on and delve into the fridge. "I like them. I like having them around me when I'm here. You don't come into it."
"Whatever." He says, but he is up now, away from the sofa and watching you from the doorway. He frowns, but his shoulder presses into the frame of the door where he leans, and his hips jut out to support his weight. He would say he is just getting away from the TV. You know he just wants to watch you.
"You have no decent food, again!" You scold. You do this every time. He seems to subsist on take-aways when you are not there. That or nothing; air.
"I don't need to keep a stock," he protests. "There's only me. I buy what I need when I need it."
You know for a fact he hates cooking. You know he buys pre-made, ready-in-five junk meals, and he knows that you know.
"Anyway, are you sure there's nothing?" He asks, feigns innocence. "Why don't you check in the back?"
You smirk, away from his face, and oblige. Bending over and sticking your head further into the fridge, you can feel the chilled air on your cheeks as the fabric of your trousers pulls tight across the back. You know exactly what kind of look he has on his face right now. At least he is smiling.
"It's still there." You tell him.
"The TV shows you watch are utter crap," he says in response. You knew he would get defensive. "The bands you support and dole out so much money for are all talentless hacks."
You draw yourself out of the fridge and sit back on your heels. He knows he can't antagonise you, and yet he continues to try.
"The general public don't seem to think so," you tell him, and flash a wicked smile. "And I'm only concerned with how many times over I recoup my investment." This isn't entirely true, but it's truer than it used to be. Once upon a time the industry was exciting and passionate for you. A fairytale come true. You dive back into the script. "Besides," you say, "if you don't like it, you can always turn it off."
"It was off." He points out.
"Yes." You agree. "And now it's not. So turn it off, if you want to." If he dares to.
"Whatever." He shrugs in the end. Point to you. "I can tune it out anyway. And you'd only turn it back on to piss me off."
"And you could turn it off again, and I could turn it back on. And off again, and on again, until we blow up your precious flatscreen." He is looking less and less amused the longer you keep talking, which is precisely why you do it. You give up on the idea of finding anything edible in the apartment, and reach for the phone. "I'm ordering in," you say, and he opens his mouth to tell you what he wants. "But nothing greasy! It cannot have the words 'fried', 'chicken' or 'Mac' in it."
He shuts his mouth and a deep frown etches itself onto his face. You coil the phone wire around your finger as it rings. You don't need to ask what he will have; since it's health food he won't know the difference. You both end up sat down on the couch together not really watching the TV. He starts out sitting up straight, but he spends so long each day upright, back straight in his desk chair that when he has the chance to relax he takes it, and so he ends up laying down with his head almost in your lap. You can't resist running your fingers through his hair; it's so fine it's like gold silk.
"How's the writing going?" You ask idly. He sighs before he speaks; he is relaxing beneath your touch.
"It's fine, as always." He mumbles. "I can bang out a few general crowd pleasers when I need to, in between the intensive books."
"And how long between will it be this time?" You ask. You are treading a thin line, but he's relaxed, and you've always enjoyed living a little dangerously. It attracted you to New York after all.
"I don't know." He says. His voice sounds muted, as though he is talking through gritted teeth or attempting not to get mad. He knows you as much as you know him, he knows to expect a few button pushings while you are here. "Why do you care? You don't even read my books."
"I'm not exactly the romantic type." You laugh. You don't even know if that's truth anymore. And who knows whether he thinks it is or not; you don't plan on asking. Time to change the subject. "You're not going to ask after your sister?"
"I assume she's fine or else you wouldn't be here and be so calm."
"Ah, that's true." Why you brought the subject up, you don't know. There is no need, after all, to go creating more problems where there already are plenty. Small as they may be, little cracks can join up to become one huge one, and you have no desire to be broken apart just yet.
Maybe ever.
He is, for all his airs and sophistication, stuck in perpetual childhood in so many areas of his life and you've always known it, because you were there for his childhood. One day you started growing up and changing, and he did not. When the food comes he pulls faces, sulks and presses his lips tight together. You have to take a bite of everything first before holding it to his mouth and forcing it between his lips. He chews for far longer than he needs to, and can't keep up the act of pretending everything tastes awful. Especially not when you have a stick of celery poking out of your mouth; he leans up towards you and bites the end off.
Needless to say, you end up kissing. You smile into the kiss, while his grasp on you is minimal, desperate and needy. He has always been able to rely on you for love and comfort; when it first happened it was just natural progression. His fingers grope for you; the fabric of your shirt, but the sleeves are rolled up to your elbows. There is a whimpering noise he makes only for you when he cannot find what he wants, when he is not in control.
If he is forced to make it more than a couple of teasing times, then everything stops. He cannot handle things when they are out of his control. You reach for his hand, not to take it, but to make him aware of where your arm is. His fingers find your wrist, and yank your hand downward until you are curled right over him. It aches your lower back, but you force the dull pain out of your mind and concentrate on taking in some much-needed air through your nose.
He breaks the kiss, because you wait for him to. His eyes have not changed but somehow they seem red-rimmed, as though to match his kiss-swollen lips that make him look even sexier than he usually does. He has a predatory look about him, mixed with uncertainty. That he can be so capable of both attracts you to him; you've never seen such a contradiction. No-one else is constantly struggling between fear and desire, love and hate.
He sits up, leaning against the back of the couch. Your mouth is open, breathing deep because the air you managed to take in during the kiss was not sufficient. It is too much effort to say anything, to wonder if he has stopped for good, or if this is just a pause to get more comfortable.
Why you even wonder, you do not know; desire always overpowers. His fingers encircle your wrist again as though he sees himself imposing chains, or a leash to bring you as close to him as he wishes, and he pulls you across his lap. This time, your trousers strain across the front where your legs are spread over him.
His hands find your waist and slip up under the apron and the shirt both. His fingers are warm, splaying out over your skin to feels as much as possible in one place, and as he draws you towards him for a deeper kiss, your hands go behind your back to untie the apron knots. You let it fall away from you and pool between both your bodies, crumpling.
From inside your shirt his fingers tug at the fabric, his silent plea for you to get rid of it, get it out of his way. As you unbutton it he pulls away from the kiss to watch you. Your fingers are deft, but your movements slow as to really play up the way the shirt parts and slips away, revealing more of your chest each time. You leave it half undone and reach for his shirt instead; black against yours in white. He thinks of himself as a creature of darkness, but to you he is an angel in disguise. And if he thinks you are the holier of the two of you, you'll let him keep thinking it.
His shirt is completely open before yours, but you don't slide it off his shoulders. That little movement counts as taking control, and it is hard enough to make it through a night together without old memories coming back to haunt him. When it comes to him needing the control to keep his sanity, you give it to him, and more. No-one else matters to you like he does; not even your wife, his sister. You only wanted to be close to him permanently.
He leans forward so that he can shrug the shirt off his shoulders and let it pool around his hips. Then his fingers reach up to undo the rest of your buttons hastily, but he does not remove your shirt. Just lets his hands slide over your stomach and chest as though trying to recall if you're still the same as he remembers from the last time. Sometimes you think he tries too hard to forget. But you can't blame him for that.
His fingers brush idly at your neck, sweeping the same spot a few times in succession until it makes you shiver. You only tilt your head a little to shake the tingling, but he uses that as an excuse to fasten his lips to the skin. He pulls you closer to him, until your bodies are pressed completely together, and that is when he stands up and pulls your legs around his waist at the same time to keep you from falling.
He knows the way to his bedroom with his eyes shut; which is how they stay, just as his mouth stays firmly attached to your neck. With one hand clinging to the back of his neck you use the other to brush the walls as you are carried to the bedroom, just to be sure you won't walk into anything. Even though he knows the way, when he is this preoccupied who can say whether he will stay on target?
He's on target; his lips remove themselves only a moment before he is using one hand to unhook your legs and drop you backwards onto the bed. The sensation of falling doesn't have a chance to kick in before you're sinking into the mattress and he is crawling onto the bed over you. Everywhere there is exposed skin for him to touch, his lips touch it, beginning at your jaw and trailing down over your chest. At one point he brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the centre of your palm, then the inside of your wrist, before raising it over your head out of the way. He is reassuring himself that this is consensual even if he restricts your movement. It won't last; he simply wishes better access to your body right now.
When he reaches up to kiss you on the mouth again, you feel his whole body stretch over you; stomach muscles, leg muscles extending, and his crotch against you. He's only half-hard, but he has always liked to take things slow; hard and fast are not good things and bring back memories best left buried. Your wrists are your own again, and so you bring your hand down between the two of you and attempt to unbuckle your belt. One-handed it is not easy, and not with him pressed against you either, but you do it. You get the zip and push as much fabric away as you can before reaching for his hand and guiding it gently into your boxers. He needs to know how much you want this, every time, and you're willing to show him.
His strokes are firm and steady; he does not want it to end quickly. He is totally confident in this; for all the fear that crawls to the surface when he thinks about the act, when there is a cock in his hand he reacts without thinking. He can't deny this is what he wants or what he truly enjoys, because of that experience. Or feel that it is what caused him to be 'this way'.
You squirm beneath his touch and grope desperately for his belt to unbuckle and get his jeans the hell off of him. He smirks when he notices your fumbling, because you don't let yourself be seen thus so easily, and now he definitely feels in control. He feels in control as he lets you undo his jeans and tug at them from either side until they start to slip down his thighs. He has to get up to remove them fully, boxers too, and from his position at the end of the bed he tugs off your trousers too.
When he crawls back onto the bed he kisses you again, running his hands all over everywhere. He is very sensitive himself about where he can be touched, so you have always kept it to a minimum. Not to say he doesn't get any pleasure out of it, because he definitely does. Still kissing, he rolls you across the bed until he is on his back and you are on top, and you sit up over him. He reaches to the side and opens his top drawer, pulling out the familiar bottle as you lean yourself back a little, spread your legs as far as it is comfortable to go. Your hair falls into your eyes as he hands you the bottle and you look down. His eyes are watching too as you uncap the lid and cover your fingers before pushing one inside yourself. Your body always reacts as though it is an intrusion every time, no matter how often you do this, and so you focus on the pleasure of being watched instead. Your body thrums; you love to be watched. You love when he is watching with those endlessly deep eyes that usually show hardness or hurt.
You push a second finger inside and you feel him fidget beneath you in anticipation. He is getting restless and you are too composed, it will make him feel out of his depth, so you use your free hand to cover his cock. It is the only time he really lets you touch him that way, when he is wanting to get inside you. When he knows you are ready for it his hands come to your hips and you cover them with your own as you lower yourself down. You bite your lip in concentration more than anything; going slow is for his sake, not yours. He likes to feel it inch by inch whereas when it gets to this point you could just push down and mix the pain with pleasure.
Eventually your hands rest flat palmed on his chest, not touching his nipples which are another area he flinches to be reminded of. One of them still bears a scar. You tilt your head down and meet his eyes as you move your hips; he is inside you, but you dictate the rhythm. Whether he fears to, or whether he wishes for the person on the receiving end to have an allowance of control you don't know, and have never endeavoured to ask. You lift up almost completely, and slide back down a few times in succession, and then shift to change the angle. You aren't searching for the way to give yourself the most pleasure; you know the way to do that with the lights off and your hands tied behind your back. This is for him more, to maximise the sensations, the different feeling each time.
His eyes are falling shut, this is how you know how good it feels; he always tries to keep his eyes open and on you. He always wants to know what you are feeling from looking.
"Eiri," you say softly, and he opens them again. He looks lost, berating himself silently for losing sight of you. It makes you smile.
"Eiri," you say again, leaning down to capture his lips. You'll never call him by that name, whatever his reasons for carrying it are. And if the only part of his real name he keeps now is that, then that is all you call him by. You will not argue with his logic.
Even when you are close to coming you try not to speed yourself up or force it too hard; like an animal any sudden movements and he will run away. You just press your mouth to his as hard as you can, stroking yourself until you are so close he knows it and his hand joins yours. That tends to always be the thing that pushes you over the edge. You gasp and shout out when you come, but he makes a noise like crying. He always ends up with watery eyes. You only hope it is something good, and not overwhelming guilt that he can find pleasure in something that once gave him nightmares. You don't have any other ways to explain to him he's just behaving like any man.
Neither of you sleep afterwards; he lays for a while, letting you stroke his hair, sweaty as it is. When he gets up he goes into his study to turn on the computer and tap away at the keys. You go into the kitchen and find the instant hot chocolate and pour two cups worth. You sit at his elbow, placing the cup on the desk beside him as he types, and let your eyes glance over a few words.
"Another love scene?" You ask, holding your drink up to your mouth and smiling to let it in.
"I write them best at night." He replies. It isn't a stiff reply, just a short and honest one.
"Do you think that's what we do?" You press on softly. "Make love?"
He seems to actually consider the question for a moment, though he does not stop typing.
"I don't know." He says finally, but you narrow your eyes at him from the side, and think that really, he does.
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I'm coming back later to pick it apart, but for now, you get that. ;)
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"Why don't you check in the back?" He doesn't even try for subtle, does he? :p
"But nothing greasy! It cannot have the words 'fried', 'chicken' or 'Mac' in it." That line just cracked me up. I sat there giggling through the next couple of lines because of that one.
when he has the chance to relax he takes it, and so he ends up laying down with his head almost in your lap. I like this image. The two of them starting off distant but gradually growing closer, with Touma eventually playing with his hair. It's kind of fitting for their relationship, actually.
The conversation about the writing felt significant but it was like, something I didn't entirely get. So I will have to puzzle it over.
There is no need, after all, to go creating more problems where there already are plenty. Small as they may be, little cracks can join up to become one huge one, and you have no desire to be broken apart just yet. That line is so appropiate, so true, not just for this fic, but just... life in general. :D
He is, for all his airs and sophistication, stuck in perpetual childhood I like how you portray him; it's fitting, and the following incident just goes to show how he is a so like a child.
There is a whimpering noise he makes only for you when he cannot find what he wants, when he is not in control. I love how you point out his need for control and how he acts kind of lost without it. And it carries throughout the rest of it, in little things. Lovely. :D
a predatory look about him, mixed with uncertainty I just like that. It's kind of sexy.
He thinks of himself as a creature of darkness, but to you he is an angel in disguise I love the contrast; how Eiri sees himself, and how Touma sees him.
not even your wife, his sister The fact that he married the guy's sister is kind of hot, in my opinion; makes things a little kinkier. And shows his love, in this really weird way.
for all the fear that crawls to the surface when he thinks about the act, when there is a cock in his hand he reacts without thinking Another line I just like. :D Lots. Acting on instinct is something he probably fears too, but sex is one of those natural acts that just makes people forget things.
but he makes a noise like crying. He always ends up with watery eyes In this weird way (everything between them is kind of weird!) that's really pretty. Like, the fact that he is crying, and then Touma hoping it's for a good thing and not the guilt.