icarusalsoflew | 003. and in every raindrop... // open post.

[ Waking up is slow and lazy, the sounds of the room gradually filtering in. He's had the chance to get accustomed to feeling comfortable in the chambers shared with his fiancee, so he recognizes the feel of the sheets that he's lying on, can pick up the familiar scent of Hikaru and himself. It's a strange sensation, how he doesn't really mind anymore that this place isn't home, because he's finding that he can think of it as that, even just a little. A safe place. A good place.

So even as he lies where he is, eyes closed and cheek pressed into the pillow tucked beneath his head, he smiles quietly to himself and curls his fingers so he can better feel the weight of his engagement ring on his skin.

In a year's time he's going to get married -- vows and all. Honest to Elaine, it's pretty mind-blowing if he actually thinks on it. Attraction to another person to the point of acting on it had never come easy for him. But then, there he was, a boy seven years younger and yet at the same time, infinitely older given the circumstance of Hikaru's functional immortality. Someone he couldn't quite get out of his head ( maybe if he hadn't felt so confused at the time, he would have seen it for what it was: desire, longing and need in another who seemed so unreachable ) but who somehow managed to end up his.

Yeah, that ring's a welcome weight, steadying and full of promise in spite of a lot of things. A thing to look forward to. A future they could probably live out, for however long they could. He's sinking back into that bed, muscles shifting, smile in place. There's no real reason to get up just yet, so. ]

[ In the meantime, the man that you're going to marry happens to be less than an arm's length away from you at the moment. Your boy is currently sitting up with his back against the headboard of his massive bed (it really IS massive, he did try to complain to Tala Vega about that already, but she had insisted as had his people) wearing nothing on his skin but his haori from last night over his shoulders, chin tilted up towards the gentle breeze wafting in from the windows. Perhaps you'll catch the familiar scent of the blend that he likes to smoke the most from his pipe, given where you're positioned.

Is he pleased with himself right now? Very. He's keenly aware of the warmth of you beside him, and of the way you smell. He can feel, deep inside of him, how amazing it had been, having himself sheathed deep within you and being drawn in and against your insides yet again. His ears still ring with the delicious sounds you had made as he had fucked you the other night, and his skin still tingles at the memory of your skin against it/your sweat and cum drying on its surface. He's smoking, but it's doing little to quell the lingering taste of you on his lips and in his mouth.

By Elaine, you were magnificent last night. And you had all been his, just as you had been the very first time he had taken you. You had writhed against his skin, and even when he had pushed you, time and again, past words, every sound that left your tongue had the syllables of his name on them each time you came.

...Thinking more on this is dangerous. Instead of dwelling on how he'd love to take you again several more times before you even get to leave this bed, he's taking another drag from that pipe and exhaling into the cool air. ]

[ He picks up the scent from that pipe of yours and turns his face to one side to slide a sleepy look your way. Godfuckingdammit. You're so beautiful like this, it cuts as surely as a knife to his insides. One he'd gladly help you slide in.

Closing his eyes again, the shift in his breathing close enough to a sigh that borders tentatively on the sound he swallows down. He can still remember the way you were above him, driving him on as you filled him up in a way he's wanted for some time now.

He doesn't bother to hide the way his fingers curl into the covers. With your heightened senses, you'd have already known that he was awake.

Face back into that pillow then. Lying on his stomach is going to get terribly uncomfortable real quick, but he would rather not move if it means making his sudden morning hard-on worse. ]

[ Well now. Hello, there. Give him a moment to take the sight of you in, at his leisure. Maybe you're sensitive enough to know that those are his eyes drinking your form up, nice and slow.

This is absolutely adorable. He does not fight the urge that he gets to reach down and let his fingers tangle themselves idly in your hair.

(He did that more than a few times last night, with varying degrees of intensity. In one of the more heavier rounds that the two of you had, in fact, he had gripped tight, fingers pressed against your scalp, pulling your head back so that you can moan against the side of his face, open mouthed and shameless, as he had finally let you cum in his hand.) ]

Good morning, love.

[ Give him a moment to tamp down the warm and fuzzy feelings in his chest so that he can look up at you properly.

Okay, there.

( Not that you wouldn't have been able to feel that, because you likely did. )

Turning his face your way now... and mustering up a smile in the hopes of actually hiding how warm his face feels. ]

Morning.

[ Forgive him, if he's not as glib as he usually is. You initiating a second round of taking him the way you wanted to has left him blissed out. He's also remembering exactly how your fingers had felt so solid against his scalp and how you holding him in place had made the release so amazing. ]

[ He does so love it every time he manages to get you like this. Also, it is absolutely sinful how you're blushing like that, how you're still spread out over his bed and he'll barely have to move in order to have your body sliding beneath his palm again. It's a good, solid reminder of how young you are compared to him, and how well you take to, ah, new and educational experiences.

Drag, exhale. The pipe can't conceal the crooked smile on his face, nor can the lingering smoke in the air obscure the look in his eyes. ]

I'm pretty sure that you've heard this before, but: you're gorgeous.

[ That cheek, Mr. LaRue, is probably one of the many reasons you fell in love with this one, for better or for worse. ]

[ It is, actually. Excuse him, if the only reply he can give you is to shift over so that he can rest his cheek to the side of your leg.

Just that. This bed and your presence feels too comfortable. ]

[ Watching you a moment, then setting that pipe down. Then he's moving, crawling over you, chuckling.

Then he's bending down, breathing in your scent from just behind your head, and whispering into your ear. ]

You look incredibly content.

[ Perhaps you noticed this already, but... your fiancee never bothered putting some clothes on. ]

[ What you'll get in return is a shudder that has nothing to do with the chill of the season and everything to do with the way you're so close but not nearly close enough.

You'll probably note that he's also gone incredibly still. First, because he can feel the way his cock is hard and pressed between his body and the bed, and second because he's remembering the weight of you over him from last night. ]

Hard not to be. [ It's a lame attempt at being glib, he knows. ] Especially after... well.

[ His eyes have slid shut and he's also making a deliberate point to breathe evenly. ]

Edited 2015-04-04 09:09 (UTC)

[ Well, indeed.

Noting all of that down, of course. Your boy, he a sharp and keen and perfectly balanced weapon of a man, and you've just given him a new thing to latch on to. To cut away at.

To your benefit and his, of course. Last night was proof of that.

Chuckling again (low and sharp, like a razor down your spine), and reaching out to stroke the back of your neck. He's still not getting close beyond those fingers, his lips against your ear. ]

Hot for me again, Josh? You just woke up.

[ There's a sharp intake of breath when you touch him, followed by the pliant way he sinks into those sheets as he feels the weight of your hand over his skin. His fingers are also curling onto the edge of that pillow and he's quietly hiding his face away as the muscles on his back flex with restrained anticipation.

You're like a drug he can't get enough of; a craving that he hadn't realized had sunk into the marrow of his bones.

Have a small sound from him. It's not a protest -- unless of course you decide to stop what you're doing. ]

[ Making a pleased noise at that, and massaging your neck nice and slow. He's also shifting so that he's straddling your body, knees set against the bed, framing your hips.

You have such a perfect ass. You know that now, don't you? He told you as much last night, and showed you as much several times over. ]

I could fuck you into the sheets again, you know. [ That sounds utterly, horribly thoughtful. ] But you haven't even had breakfast yet.

[ Unless, of course, you'd like to have him, or you'd like to let him have you and worry about food later.

Ball's in your court, honey. ]

[ There's a murmur muffled against that pillow now. You'll also feel the way his torso shifts beneath your touch so much that you get the nicest view of how tightly he's gripping that pillow, those sheets.

It's a tell as large as a billboard if there ever was one, but you're free to press what exactly he mumbled into the fabric he's used to hide his face in. ]

[ A thoughtful hum, deep in his throat. His fingers, still kneading gently at the skin of your neck. ]

What was that? You'd like me to get off of you so that you can start your day right?

[ He's teasing you, of course. It's tempered with that gentle undercurrent of tell me everything, I won't ever think less of you, I love you. ]

[ And he's arching up into your touch, turning his face back towards you so that his cheek is resting against that pillow. ]

Stay, please. [ Give him a bit to take a breath and reach backwards to caress your thigh with his fingers. ] I want you again.

[ Once upon a time he would have been a touched embarrassed to voice it, but recent events have had either of you baring your souls to each other; and as strange a concept as it might be to others, there's a comfort in knowing that you could shatter him with very little effort but choose not to. He's seen you fight, seen you take things apart if it so suited you and your cause, but he knows, deep in his bones that you'd never do that to him unless it was to his ( and your ) benefit.

There is a terrifying sense of security in knowing that you can put yourself in someone else's hands and know that they'll do right by you. ]

[ There's what he was hoping for: that look, that particular note in your voice. To keep teasing you would be a terrible thing to do, and it isn't as if he doesn't want you right now, spread around him and all over him, either.

Withdrawing his hand, pulling back, folding his legs beneath him. ]

Why don't you turn around so that I can get a look at you?

[ He does love to look at you. (He did something like this the other night too, only you were stretched out and spread out wide, wrists cuffed to the headboard, ankles cuffed to little rings on the floor, on either side of the bed. There had, as well, been a ring set right at the base of your cock. He had watched you, he had not touched you again once he had worked you up into a frenzy, not until you had started begging.) ]

[ He obeys without protest, even as the motions make him tremble. It's difficult to move with a sense of grace when he's as turned on as he is.

His eyes falter from yours only a moment and then he's lifting them back to look into yours.

No words, just the unspoken cues of anticipation in the way the muscles of his stomach flex, the sudden shallow quality of his breath, and the way his tongue chases the dryness on his lips. ]

[ Seeing you not being able to quite look at him sends a pang of need straight to his gut so sharp that he nearly forgets to breathe.

Nearly. He'll cut loose soon enough. He'll show you, yet again, how he can let go with you. The first step in that direction involves sinking a bit more, hovering just over your body, pressing his nose close to your ear and breathing you in. ]

I like the way you smell right now. [ He's moving back to face you now, and tipping your chin up with just two of his fingers. He's also looking straight in your eyes. ] It's a mix of you and me and the beginnings of this morning.

[ That's him swallowing in the hopes of getting his voice back and then parting his lips and finding that he needs a little bit more before he can actually be coherent. The sight of the way you're looking at him combined with what you've just said is a lance of lust straight to the gut. You've drawn in so close, made him so painfully aware of the way your body fits against his that when he takes in a breath, it does nothing for him except remind him how lightheaded he suddenly feels. ]

Babe... please.

[ Those are the muscles of his stomach flexing again, blood rushing all the way to his nether regions. ]

[ And he doesn't get any closer, not even to let you maybe kiss him. What you're getting, instead, is the soft glow of those rings in his eyes, and a crooked smile. ]

Turn around, go on your knees, and bend forward with your hands on the headboard, wrists together.

[ Everything else can wait. He'd like to fuck you several ways to Sunday all over again now. ]

[ Those words are bringing to mind several moments from last night and robbing him, once more, of speech.

Naturally, he'll obey, but before that, he's pushing himself up to steal a kiss from your mouth, fingers curling tight over that haori. It's quick and desperate, hungry and so full of need that has nothing to do with actual food. And then he's doing just as you've instructed and positioned himself with his wrists pressed together, fingers gripping that headboard.

You'll likely have noticed how his heartbeat has picked up; how every line of his body is taut with anticipation. ]

[ He indulges you in that: he even opens his mouth, all narrowed eyes and an amused noise in his throat, but he does not move any closer. He looks on as you spread yourself out again, following his wishes without a second thought.

He had a good view of the souvenirs he had left for you last night, on the front: your swollen and bruised lips, the hickeys on your neck, that bite mark on one shoulder, the rope burns around your wrists and ankles, and the bruises on your chest, your rib cage. There are more bruises along your back, and the diagonal scratch of his nails down your shoulder blades.

He really, really likes you this way. He also likes the fact that you took his words that he had growled out in your ear about this to hear, hours before, when there hadn't been anything else but the shadows in his room and his body to cover you as he had gotten you off with his fingers.

"Don't make any of these disappear. I don't care if anyone sees them. You're mine, love. mine." ]

Spread your legs a little wider, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

[ He sounds dreadfully, dangerously calm. He also hasn't moved an inch, hasn't gotten close to you. ]

[ There's only the minute hesitation before he shifts his weight between his knees to spread himself out a bit more at your request. His eyes have slid shut, his fingers have flexed over that headboard and he licked his lips before parting them.

Being in this position should make him feel utterly exposed, but there's something incredibly soothing about the calm in your voice, in the fact that he can't really say for certain beyond the obvious, what's going to happen next.

There's a slight tilt to his head though, as if he's trying to listen for you and whatever movements you make. It helps him keep his mind off the fact that the room feels suddenly warm, the way his heart is starting to hammer inside of his chest out of anticipation.

To think you haven't even touched him, much less come close. ]

[ If you ever bring yourself to ask him about why he does this, he'd tell you that it's because it often isn't the acts itself that kill you at the end of it: it's the anticipation. The anticipation, the expectation, makes everything that much better. Perhaps you already know this intrinsically, though. Perhaps he's threaded it deep into your bones already, and written it down on every blood cell in your body.

There will be nothing for about a minute, and that minute, he is certain, will feel like an eternity. Then there's the shift of his body over those sheets, the heat of the precise way he fills the air hovering closer. It's followed by the sensation of just the tips of his fingers ghosting along your jawline, shifting up, tracing your lips. Then he's hooking those fingers of his in your mouth, sliding over your tongue. ]

I don't need to fill this mouth of yours up for you to know when I want you to be quiet, do I?

[ These are the little things you'll pick up in that minute that you've left him to wait ( the same minute that stretches long enough that his thoughts start racing because he knows you're there, he's even turned his head just a fraction to listen better to the sound of you breathing because his skin is humming with the need of your hands on him ): the muscles beneath his flesh shift and flex, as if he's attempting to adjust the distribution of his weight on his knees without moving too much. Each intake of breath is also shallower than the last, as if with each second passing he's forgetting how to breathe at a steady pace, anticipation building.

It's not impatience. He knows -- he trusts -- that you'll touch him eventually, but the silence yawns all around and the room, given that he's closed his eyes, suddenly seems so large. In the last few seconds before you come close, you'll note how he's shifting his grip on that bedpost, as if the way he'd been holding it has only added to the tension along his arms.

When you finally come close, it will be impossible for him to hold back the exhale of relief to feel your warmth close to him. And he's leaning into your touch and parting his lips wider to let you hook your fingers over his tongue.

That's a failed attempt at him swallowing, by the way, because it feels like his throat has gone dry even as he is hyper-aware of the way his tongue moves just beneath the pads of your fingertips.

You could gag him, the way you did last night. But he'll obey. He'll do precisely as you've asked. ]

waking the dead 2.0 | arcadia : 28th of nollaig, dé haoine.

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