icarusalsoflew | Waking the Dead 2.0 || August 27, 2063 || Saturday

[ He feels the hot spill of you in his mouth and he drinks you down, laps it all up because fuck you taste so good and you're so tight around his fingers.

No, he isn't done. Far from it. ]

Ask.

[ There's a difference in the way he utters that syllable. Its not a request nor a plea, but a command. He wants to hear it straight from you. Over and over again.

He's withdrawing his fingers now and curling that hand around where you're not nearly done. His grip is firmer than you've ever felt it before, and he's not the least bit shaken the way he normally would be. ]

Tell me what you want, babe. [ There is his mouth, sucking at your hip, teeth more evident this time because the flesh there isn't nearly as thin as everywhere else. He said that he'd mark you as his and you know him: he makes good on his word. ]

Tell me that you need me as much as I need you.

Edited 2014-05-29 03:54 (UTC)

[It's terrible and maybe a bit frightening how his cock immediately stirs against your hand in an uncomfortable reminder of the fact that he's effectively still his skin rather than himself, and still off-balance and hot and wanting yet completely incapable of doing anything about it on his own. There's a small, broken noise at your words and a vehement shake of his head, gestures that make him look far younger than he actually is. Involuntary resistance, borne mostly out of the fact that this has wrung him out even if he's far from spent.

Fucked up as he is, the words that come to mind through the haze of his desire are ones that he's still afraid to say out loud, because saying them will make it real, and it's always a difficult exercise, confronting the full breadth and depth of the way you love/how far you're want to go for it beneath someone else's hands.

That, and you're so different right now. You're completely in control, completely capable of being as dark, as perfect, and as intense as he wants you to be, or maybe you could be even more than that. You could destroy him, and he wouldn't care. Maybe he really does need to be broken down, because once you've put him back together, he'll be able to deal with whatever tomorrow chooses to bring to him.]

Hikaru... [ You'll hear the warning in his voice and feel the tremor in his hands as he works you up, the desperate edge to the way he clamps down on your hip, feeling the resistance of bone buffered by muscle. He's also shifting, and you're in the near-perfect angle to see the way the muscles beneath the flesh of his shoulders have tensed.

You're still holding back and he wants -- needs -- you so badly to let go. So alright, he won't play fair in this, he'll slide his fingers away, thumb tracing firmly, the vein beneath the length of your cock as he slips two fingers into you.

And then softly, in complete contrast to everything else, his voice strangled with a plea of his own: ] Ask, goddamnit.

[That is more than enough, at this point, to make him sob. He's flinching under your touch, and squirming from the slow burn of the heat that's building right back up in his gut. The nerves you've only recently set on fire are coming alive again, and shuddering just beneath his sweat-slicked skin. When he finally manages to turn his gaze towards you, you'll note how dark his eyes have gone and how the look in them has shattered, trapped as he is in his love for you and the frustration that comes with being tormented this way.

It's hard to speak over the dryness and tightness in his throat, the static in his brain. He tries to anyway.]

P-please... please don't make me.

[Yes, he is begging now. Ruin him as much as you like, but don't hold him down and make him say, for himself, just how far he's willing to break down for you, and all of the other things that he wants you to do to him.

(Granted, if you push him hard enough, he will. He'll fold and he'll break and he'll give, because it's you. He believes in you so perfectly, trusts you so completely, that the mere possibility of you failing to take him where you both need to go or for you to rebuild his world in exactly your liking for his benefit is the furthest from his mind.)]

[ One day, he might just tell you how impossible you try to be: you ask him to take you to the edge, to make you forget everything but him, and yet you refuse to yield, you cling to the edge like the fall might kill you, as if he isn't right there offering to catch you on the other side.

He's pulling those fingers out now and lifting you ( albeit roughly ) off that bed and back onto is lap, crushing his mouth to yours and hands skimming feather-like over skin that he's kissed and caressed and pretty much worshiped. ]

Tell me. [ That's spoken between kisses that demand instead of ask, plunder instead of coax. He's learning, you see, to play with contrasts. Yes, the memories will overlap and nothing he can do to you is truly 'new', but he is greedy enough to do his best to make sure that when it's you and him in this bed or wherever else you two decide to fuck, you'll think only of the weight of his hands on you, of the way he kisses you the way he chooses to, and the way you will eventually give over because he won't stop until you do.

The blood is his head is pounding because this has become a thing between you two, tied in so tightly with the way your dynamic works: you run, he gives chase; you push away in all the senses of the word and he pulls you back because god fucking dammit the middle ground it is.

That belt is loosening just a bit so that he can slip one of your hands out of it's loop so that he can guide it down the length of his body so you can feel for yourself what you do to him. Those are his fingers over yours, curling your hand around where he's hard, aching and ready. And all this time his eyes, dark and turbulent as they are with need, are fixed unblinking on yours.

He's trembling as he fists his free hand in what he can of your hair, as he whispers, right at that spot where he'd really like to mark you best ( because he's heard you whimper in his arms when he'd lapped with his tongue at that spot and if he did leave a bruise on that tender flesh right where your jaw bleeds into the slope of your neck, the fact that you're his now, in this life, would be visible for anyone to see. ) ] You've already ruined me for anyone else. When the hell will you see that.

[Distressed as he sounds over what you're doing to him now, it's impossible for him to deny the fact that this is actually a turn on. And yes, he can feel you, perfectly and intimately, just as much as all it takes is a single glance into your eyes for him to reel back, overwhelmed by the amount of devotion and desire he can see in there, because he knows full well that he is, indeed, the cause of it.

Your fingers are tight and unrelenting in his hair, just as hard and solid as your body is against his own. The leather still bites around his wrist, markedly different from the humming of the rest of his skin. The air's too short and too hot in his lungs, and it stutters past his lips, which are bruised and swollen from your kisses. And then, there is your tongue on him, and the echo of your voice growling close to his ear.

His voice is a small, hushed, and desperate thing when he finally uses it, and it matches how broken he looks now. That would be your doing, and yours alone.]

I want you to keep pushing me like this. I don't care if it's rough. I don't care what you decide to take from me, or what you keep me from doing. I want you to bind me, hold me down, and fuck me until all I can do is cry out or say your name.

[And yes, as he feared, this little confession is ruining him, just like how every touch and gesture on your part has stripped him down completely.]

Edited 2014-05-29 07:44 (UTC)

Good. [ Strange how relief can sound like triumph, how that barely whispered syllable is him breaking down and taking what you've just said as permission.

You'll end up on your back again, Blade King, that belt is getting taken off and tossed aside without so much of another thought, and he'll be happy to show you why.

Your hands are getting pinned above your head, and perhaps this is the first time you'll realize just how large Josh's are because he only needs one to keep those wrists together. His fingers are firm, and maybe it's the weight of that which will make you feel how they're callused in that way an athlete's hands are, given that grip is important in his chosen sport. The top of his palm where his fingers begin is callused, too, a direct contrast to the way that your palms are not. When he goes back to getting you off, it'll be more prominent because he's not holding back as much as he has when you've previously taken him into your bed.

He's pushing one leg aside now, his touch is yes, rough, but still oddly careful as he pins that knee down into the mattress so that he can push the length of him into you. It's his other leg that's heavy on yours, keeping you still, weighing you down so that you don't squirm as he takes it slow.

( If this kills the two of you before morning, that's fine. He belongs to you anyway, it's a good way to go. ) ]

[The air rushes out of him the moment his back hits the mattress, and tapers out into a quiet whimper once you have his wrists in your grip. The skin is a little raw there, chafed, as it has been, by the belt. There's no time to think of that for him, though, not with the way you're moving him --

-- and then there's a strangled cry right into your ear once you've entered him. You'll see, perhaps, the way discomfort writes itself out on the Blade King's features even as it's tempered with an amount of pleasure so great that it's absolutely terrifying. It hurts him, really, to feel this good.

He does try to struggle against you, if only because he wants your cock buried that much deeper inside of him. The deeper you go, the less uncomfortable it'll feel. But you're the one deciding how the two of you will come together, aren't you? All he can do now is tremble in your grip, feel his lungs and throat sob for a bit more air (there isn't enough in here: it's been thinned out by the heat, the powerful scent of your bodies mixing together, by your presence making this room feel that much smaller), and feel his insides resist, then give, then press around the glorious length of you pushing further into him.

Edited 2014-05-29 08:19 (UTC)

[ He's going to push himself into you all the way to the hilt, as close as he can get you two because the press of you around him is overwhelming. When he dips his head so that he can drink from your lips, you'll feel how hot his breath is, how shallow his breathing has become. There should be no room for tenderness here, but he will always try, because he looks at you in the times that you let him have you this way and you look so impossibly young it's so jarring to juxtapose the image of how beautiful you are out there, on the field.

He'll start slow, because his hands are heavy on you, and he needs to press up close as if to blur the lines that keep you apart. And then he's sucking on the bruise beneath your collarbone again, because twice now, as he's thrusting into you, losing himself in you, has he caught his teeth catching close to your jaw, tongue trailing over your pulse as if prepping the skin there for the onslaught of his mouth.

His arms are trembling from keeping you down, from keeping you still, muscles corded from his forearms to his shoulders from the effort. He's trying to think above the haze in his head, the fog in his brain as he holds onto you, because he wants to tie you up, drag you close and make you ask for more.

It's terrifying, really, to realize how he wants to go there, to dark places he can't imagine going with anyone else, where he can picture clear enough the shape of you arched in pleasure with his name stuttered from your lips. How did you get into his bloodstream, pulsing past each nerve and seeping into the very marrow of his bones. ]

[It might be difficult to tell which one of you is quivering between the two of you, at least until your cock hits his prostrate for the first time and he moans in a way that he's never moaned before. A new tremor wracks his spine at that point, making him writhe anew, making him press his bruised skin closer to your mouth and try to bring the rest of him as close to your body as he can possibly go given the way that you're pinning him in place.

You've smudged everything out of his eyes but the image/thought/feel of you: that much will become obvious every time he actually manages to keep his eyes open long enough for you to look into them. All distress and discomfort has left his voice, and the only thing you'll hear now is how each breath he draws is a sob with your name on it, and a whining, wordless plea for you to go harder and deeper into him. It's matched by how he strains in your grip, and how the jerk of his hips matches the twitch of his hardening cock.]

God, Josh... please...!

[You've pushed him back into using his country's native tongue, because it's the one closest to his heart and wound together with his instincts. This moment is all about heart and instinct now, isn't it?]

[ And for all his earlier talk, there is nothing for you to hear but the sounds of his breathing, of the kisses he's pressing against your skin, of the rustle of sheets beneath you both as he picks up the pace and the slap of your bodies as you come together. His grip is tightening over your wrists ( he swears, he'll kiss the bruises that he leaves later ), his body bearing down on you because there is nothing and no one else but you in the moment: the scent of sweat, skin and sex as he pushes into you.

The sound of your voice saying his name, pleading in a tongue that he's had to learn -- those are anchors that drag him further into the depth of you. Hold onto him, please, he never wants to stray far from you, because the dark can come to swallow you both and the odds might be stacked against the years he'd gladly lay down at your feet, but he'll be there, right beside you, if you just tell him that you need him.

No, there is no room for tenderness when want and desire are all-consuming. You asked, he will give until the whole of him has emptied into you. ]

[And when you do let go, when all of you starts spilling into him, it's enough to set the rest of him off, to drag out that particular whine past his lips that only ever comes when he's been completely taken over the edge. This is yet another first for you, and maybe that, in itself, is fucking amazing. You've fucked him before, but you've never fucked him to a point where he could sound and look and feel quite like this.

The crest of his own pleasure comes out in the way he's emptying himself between the two of you, and it dies down in the most agonizing way for him possible: in shakes and tremors, in heat that's more than capable of shredding his will and his thoughts apart as it spreads all over his body and right down to the smallest ends of him. Everything has blended together in that moment, regardless of whether it was nothing but good (i.e. you close, you here, you pushing him over), nothing but painful (i.e. the tight grip you have on his wrists and the press of your other hand and leg on his body, as if those things are the only things keeping you steady), or an odd mix of both (i.e. how the two of you got here in the first place, the way you've marked his skin), and when all of that finally starts to fade...

There's no thought, because you're still inside of him and the rest of you has sunk down past his skin and into his soul, keeping him under. He's the boneless, shuddering heap of muscle and nerves and need beneath your body, because he's only beginning to figure out, yet again, how to breathe right/how to keep himself together in his own body without you holding on to him. (It isn't quite working out the way it ought to.)]

[ There's a part of him that wants to curl up beside you and hold you close, to gather you up and tuck your head right under his chin because there are only so many ways to say that he sleeps better these days with you warm at his side.

Instead, you'll feel him let your wrists go as he eases himself out of you and maybe you'll catch it: the slightly veiled look in his eyes as he pushes himself off the bed to walk away from you.

You might wonder where exactly he's going. Because the tension hasn't left his shoulders in the least. ]

[He does notice, at least partially: it's hard to latch on to much of anything when your body is out to betray you, and the sex-stained moments that occurred only seconds ago are still way too fresh.

The room is quiet save for the shudder of his breath in his lungs, and whatever quiet noises you're making on your own end. His gaze is following your progress as best as he can, but he isn't even wondering what you're doing - you've worn him down far too much for him to care. What thoughts there are in his head, they're only of you and that small, desperate hope that you'll come back down to where you've left him soon.

Whatever you do next doesn't matter. He's yours.]

[ He won't leave you waiting long. He was originally planning to just grab his cigarettes when his foot catches on the belt he'd discarded. e's staring down at that for a long, long while, before his hands come to press on the shelf that has little on it ( he hasn't bought enough for his room, there hasn't been time, really, in spite of the shore leave ) and he's attempting to breathe in deep because there's not enough oxygen in his head just yet.

( Terrible, isn't it? To uncover desires you never had, dark as they are. )

There's a shy slant to his shoulders now, you'll recognize it. There's something that he wants but he's a little afraid to want it. ]

[And of course those collection of gestures and the possible meanings behind it are enough to draw him back a little more. He watches you a moment, though, as he lets his own breathing even out enough for him to speak. When he does, it's quiet and a little weak from the way you've just dragged him down and fucked him.]

What is it?

[English again, because he's at least recovered enough to speak to you on a level that the both of you won't have difficulty with, outside of the way that your bodies have been speaking to each other.]

[ He says nothing in response to that, because articulating the thoughts in his head are a mess right now. He is, however, bending down to pick up that belt, hesitating only for several heartbeats before he rounds back to you and drags you close for a near-scalding kiss. When he does break away, his lips find their way back to your neck, and his arms are coming around you before he lashes your wrists together at the small of your back. ]

We're not done.

[ He can't quite meet your gaze when he pulls back to say that. Give him a moment, he's trying to calibrate these new wants and needs with all the other things that ring familiar. ]

Edited 2014-05-29 13:58 (UTC)

Mm...

[The force of your need doesn't bother him in the slightest. In fact, the sound he makes against your mouth and the way he parts his lips to let you taste him might show you how, in light of the number that you've done on him, he's still perfectly attuned towards letting you take whatever you want from him. (He can, it seems, find pleasure in submitting to you after all.)

Later, though, when you've gone back to enjoying the arch and taste of his neck, once he feels you draw his wrists back together again and he registers the heavy, biting certainty of the leather against his skin (bruised and raw as it is in the wake of your touch), he's going still under the weight of your grip and your gaze.

This is how he looks to you now: head bowed, slick with sweat and smelling of both himself and of you, lips bruised from all of your kisses, skin mottled by the marks of your affection and still flushed from the afterglow of how you've started to completely break him down, body tense with anticipation, eyes dark and begging as they turn up towards your face. ]

[ This shouldn't be too much of a surprise for him: he'd glimpsed that memory planted in his head by Makoto, and he knows what he saw to be true. You've done more, had allowed more to be done to you with your express permission than the simple act of your wrists lashed together by a belt. He knows it turns you on. He understands as well, that this is rooted in trust. And isn't that what the two of you have been all about.

He's tipping your face up to his now and looking down on you with a mix of apprehension and want as his hands drift down over the planes and angles that make up your torso.

He's still so deathly quiet even if he looks like he wants to speak. Overwhelmed doesn't cut it in this case. ]

[He's pliant in your grip, and very firmly fixes his gaze on your face against his better instincts. Your hands have always felt good on him, and the fact that his body's still humming from your latest fuck only aggravates that for him. As such, what he can't stop is the raggedness of his breath, nor the subtle shiver of muscle under the skin beneath your fingertips.

You've robbed him of his voice, it seems, because he's hanging on your every movement and every word. That includes, of course, waiting on everything in between.]

[ What you're getting next, at that point, is his mouth fitting itself over yours, his tongue sneaking past your lips to coax yours out; his hand coming to rest over your heart before it moves lower and lower. He stops, however, just inches before his hand wanders too close because you're still so sensitive and he suspects that touching you now will leave you spent before either of you are actually, truly satisfied.

So he's drawing you close instead, knee braced on that mattress as he draws your hips right up against his; the length of you brushing up against him. ]

I want, [ that's him breathing over your lips now. ] I want things from you.

[ You can probably tell that this is difficult for him, by the way his eyes close and the crease forms between his brows. Asking's difficult for him as well. You giving him this much control over what goes on between you both frightens him. ]

[The sound he makes at the contact of your cock against his is a mix of a choked breath and a shuddering sigh. Give him a moment: he has to figure out how to talk over the dryness in his throat. It's back again, together with the heat building up in his gut.

He could spent an inordinate amount of time, it seems, reflecting on the effect you have on him.]

Then take what you will.

[Weakened as he has been by his own desire, it would be impossible for you not to notice how earnest he's being. He means every word, and he wants you to do what you like to him, and for the both of you.

Since you've effectively kept him from reaching out to you, he's settling for shifting in, and bringing his lips back to yours. The kiss he gives you is open-mouthed and gentle, meant more to lure you in than anything else.]

[ He sighs into that kiss, hands coming up to frame your face. ]

Are you sure?

[ Lips gentle over yours as he draws you close. ]

Yes.

[That comes out a touch breathless and incredibly reverent. He's still trying to keep his eyes right on yours, even if his lips look like they want nothing more than to have yours back on them.]

[ There's a faint tremor in this one's hands when you utter that single word of assent and a shift in his eyes when your gaze doesn't so much as move from his.

It's a little jarring, really, realizing that the most powerful ibdividual in the vigil shares your bed, readily hands you control and likes it. It's frightening in its own way, being handed so much and coming to the conclusion as well that the pleasure Hikaru feels over this turns him on immensely.

Hands falling now to your hips, Blade King, and a barely there whisper as he brushes his lips to yours. ]

I... I want your mouth on me.

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