Ryxen: Between Us Here
It's called victiory; a scene from the future. NC-17.
Between Us Here
And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away
-- Possession, Sarah McLachlan
He slams the door. Not because he’s angry; not it entirely. Sure, there’s some underlying anger there - he had to fight to get home, because people where drunk or dead, rioting in the streets, screaming about how terrible or how wonderful and he’d like to say he had the presence of mind to mark who was saying what but that’d be a lie. He’s tired and he’s short of breath and the adrenaline is pounding in his ears along with, over and over, the king is dead, long live the king, and that it’s Anon scares him so there’s that but it’s not enough, it’s not important and so the door slams shut because he’s too out of it to shut it gently.
There’s a rustle of sound from - where? The library? And he shouts a half-assed “I’m sorry” in case Aryn was reading or something, though he has no idea how could manage that if Vincent is this excited.
Aryn comes into sight a few seconds after Vincent’s pulled his muddy boots off and his breath catches in his throat because he has never, never in these past three years seen Aryn smile like that and suddenly there’s arousal on top of his exhilaration and he can’t breathe. “The streets are a fucking m-”
He doesn’t remember if Aryn said anything or not - he might’ve, but then again he probably didn’t. He doesn’t remember Aryn walking forward, but he must’ve. He doesn’t remember much of the lead-up, not really. It’s there, it happened, it’s gone. What he does remember is getting slammed into the door; Aryn’s mouth on his; feeling like - he can’t even put it into words. So fucking hard, so fucking in love and Aryn pressed up against him -
Saying it’s the best thing he’s ever felt - that’d be cliché and trite and stupid but it’s the best thing he’s got. He moans into Aryn’s mouth, sags into his grip. Aryn’s clutching his arms so tight that he can barely manage to rest his hands on Aryn’s waist let alone anywhere else and it’s so fucking good it almost hurts and - whatever he did to deserve this - oh christ. Aryn’s tongue is in his mouth and Vincent doesn’t want him to ever stop, doesn’t want to ever lose this and Aryn is pressed into him, there’s no distance between the two of them and Vincent moans again. His fingers convulse into fists and Aryn’s waist. He loves this man. Loves him. Oh fuck.
“It’s done,” Aryn murmurs, only pulling away an inch, just enough to breathe, but it’s cold and he’d do anything for Aryn to be back, against him, and he pulls forward, breathless, to capture Aryn’s lips in his own.
He breaks the kiss next time, drawing quick, harsh breaths fast as he can because, fuck, who needs to breath, and Aryn takes the chance to whisper “we’ve done it,” breath hot against Vincent’s face.
We - like electricity, and if he wasn’t already that fucking hard he is now. He shivers under Aryn’s hands - wishes that Aryn would fucking do something with them other than just clutch his arms. Then Aryn’s kissing him again and it doesn’t matter. “I’ve done it,” he says, words almost part of the kiss and then Aryn’s sliding one hand up, burying it in his hair and Vincent pulls Aryn closer - is that possible - closer and he wants to feel Aryn up against him, not through two layers of cotton each.
“You want to fuck me,” but he doesn’t give Aryn a chance to respond. Doesn’t. “I need you to fuck me,” and he’s surprised at how true it comes out sounding. He does.
Aryn tightens the hand in his hair but doesn’t say anything but smiles - smirks, and Vincent, voice rough and raw says, “I need you to fuck me. I need you in me. I - I want this, fuck it Aryn, I want it so - fuck. Did you make me beg? You bastard,” and there’s wonder and he laughs a little, as much as he can.
His expression widens into a smile and Vincent - Vincent’s going to fucking come in his jeans if he doesn’t get fucked soon. “Now,” but by the time he grinds it out Aryn is pulling him to the bedroom and there’s a flurry of movement during which Vincent finds himself pressed up against the wall and kissed raw again - he thinks he’s got everything but his boxers off by then. But that’s a blur. It only goes clear when Aryn is pushing him down on the bed.
“Yes,” he can’t help but gasp, and bites his lip when Aryn pulls away. Without any words Vincent hooks his legs up around Aryn’s shoulders. “Fucking do it.”
And he’s saying, and he’s saying, “remember the Anderson murders,” sliding one lubed finger up his ass and through the haze yeah, fuck yeah he does but what’s this got to do - what’s this got to do with fucking any of it, fucking anything ohshit that felt good but he’s saying, “I liked it - a lot I - ” a second finger. Vincent moans again Jesus why is Aryn this fucking good?
“There was blood everywhere,” he says, “but you - you - ” A third finger, and Vincent wants him to just fuck him already. Doesn’t matter if it hurts a little bit, probably won’t notice but of course Aryn’s going to do it right fuck him and then he’s realized exactly what Aryn says and - it’s so - he remembers the exhilaration and the sex afterwards and he doesn’t have the words - he doesn’t.
When Aryn pulls out, for a second “N-not as,” and then Aryn pushes his cock in and he gasps. He’s this close to coming then and there but fuck it. Not so goddamn soon. “Not as fucking hot - gorgeous as you were. That one time. When you stopped this bulljesuschristshit. Oh fuck Aryn, yes. Shit. Harder. Fuck you harder,” and he’s going to - he can feel it building like a force behind his eyes and he wants it to just keep it building but at the same time - that release. “It was - you, with your hands covered in blood fuck, I wanted you - fuck!” And then Aryn’s coming inside of him and Vincent’s coming too, breathing, “Aryn.” I love you, I love you. He bites his lip. Keeps it back. So fucking perfect.
Aryn falls forward, almost naturally into a kiss and there’s a kind of power behind it and Vincent gives in, let’s Aryn kiss his mouth, his jaw, his neck while he runs his hands over the smooth muscles of Aryn’s back, pulls him closer because he wants every fucking centimeter he can get.
Eventually Aryn stills, sliding off to his side, trapping Vincent’s arm under him. The silence is slow and sweet, but Vincent can’t help but fill it. “You,” he says, voice still hoarse with sex, “you’re the best - I - you’re so fucking amazing - ”
“Aren’t I?” He murmurs, breath brushing Vincent’s ear, and though Vincent can’t see him he can hear the smirk in his voice. Vincent turns his head, touches his lips to Aryn’s more than he actually kisses him.
“Yes.” And he’s falling asleep, might be imagining it, but he could swear Aryn closes the millimeter left between them.
Between Us Here
And I would be the one
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard,
I'll take your breath away
-- Possession, Sarah McLachlan
He slams the door. Not because he’s angry; not it entirely. Sure, there’s some underlying anger there - he had to fight to get home, because people where drunk or dead, rioting in the streets, screaming about how terrible or how wonderful and he’d like to say he had the presence of mind to mark who was saying what but that’d be a lie. He’s tired and he’s short of breath and the adrenaline is pounding in his ears along with, over and over, the king is dead, long live the king, and that it’s Anon scares him so there’s that but it’s not enough, it’s not important and so the door slams shut because he’s too out of it to shut it gently.
There’s a rustle of sound from - where? The library? And he shouts a half-assed “I’m sorry” in case Aryn was reading or something, though he has no idea how could manage that if Vincent is this excited.
Aryn comes into sight a few seconds after Vincent’s pulled his muddy boots off and his breath catches in his throat because he has never, never in these past three years seen Aryn smile like that and suddenly there’s arousal on top of his exhilaration and he can’t breathe. “The streets are a fucking m-”
He doesn’t remember if Aryn said anything or not - he might’ve, but then again he probably didn’t. He doesn’t remember Aryn walking forward, but he must’ve. He doesn’t remember much of the lead-up, not really. It’s there, it happened, it’s gone. What he does remember is getting slammed into the door; Aryn’s mouth on his; feeling like - he can’t even put it into words. So fucking hard, so fucking in love and Aryn pressed up against him -
Saying it’s the best thing he’s ever felt - that’d be cliché and trite and stupid but it’s the best thing he’s got. He moans into Aryn’s mouth, sags into his grip. Aryn’s clutching his arms so tight that he can barely manage to rest his hands on Aryn’s waist let alone anywhere else and it’s so fucking good it almost hurts and - whatever he did to deserve this - oh christ. Aryn’s tongue is in his mouth and Vincent doesn’t want him to ever stop, doesn’t want to ever lose this and Aryn is pressed into him, there’s no distance between the two of them and Vincent moans again. His fingers convulse into fists and Aryn’s waist. He loves this man. Loves him. Oh fuck.
“It’s done,” Aryn murmurs, only pulling away an inch, just enough to breathe, but it’s cold and he’d do anything for Aryn to be back, against him, and he pulls forward, breathless, to capture Aryn’s lips in his own.
He breaks the kiss next time, drawing quick, harsh breaths fast as he can because, fuck, who needs to breath, and Aryn takes the chance to whisper “we’ve done it,” breath hot against Vincent’s face.
We - like electricity, and if he wasn’t already that fucking hard he is now. He shivers under Aryn’s hands - wishes that Aryn would fucking do something with them other than just clutch his arms. Then Aryn’s kissing him again and it doesn’t matter. “I’ve done it,” he says, words almost part of the kiss and then Aryn’s sliding one hand up, burying it in his hair and Vincent pulls Aryn closer - is that possible - closer and he wants to feel Aryn up against him, not through two layers of cotton each.
“You want to fuck me,” but he doesn’t give Aryn a chance to respond. Doesn’t. “I need you to fuck me,” and he’s surprised at how true it comes out sounding. He does.
Aryn tightens the hand in his hair but doesn’t say anything but smiles - smirks, and Vincent, voice rough and raw says, “I need you to fuck me. I need you in me. I - I want this, fuck it Aryn, I want it so - fuck. Did you make me beg? You bastard,” and there’s wonder and he laughs a little, as much as he can.
His expression widens into a smile and Vincent - Vincent’s going to fucking come in his jeans if he doesn’t get fucked soon. “Now,” but by the time he grinds it out Aryn is pulling him to the bedroom and there’s a flurry of movement during which Vincent finds himself pressed up against the wall and kissed raw again - he thinks he’s got everything but his boxers off by then. But that’s a blur. It only goes clear when Aryn is pushing him down on the bed.
“Yes,” he can’t help but gasp, and bites his lip when Aryn pulls away. Without any words Vincent hooks his legs up around Aryn’s shoulders. “Fucking do it.”
And he’s saying, and he’s saying, “remember the Anderson murders,” sliding one lubed finger up his ass and through the haze yeah, fuck yeah he does but what’s this got to do - what’s this got to do with fucking any of it, fucking anything ohshit that felt good but he’s saying, “I liked it - a lot I - ” a second finger. Vincent moans again Jesus why is Aryn this fucking good?
“There was blood everywhere,” he says, “but you - you - ” A third finger, and Vincent wants him to just fuck him already. Doesn’t matter if it hurts a little bit, probably won’t notice but of course Aryn’s going to do it right fuck him and then he’s realized exactly what Aryn says and - it’s so - he remembers the exhilaration and the sex afterwards and he doesn’t have the words - he doesn’t.
When Aryn pulls out, for a second “N-not as,” and then Aryn pushes his cock in and he gasps. He’s this close to coming then and there but fuck it. Not so goddamn soon. “Not as fucking hot - gorgeous as you were. That one time. When you stopped this bulljesuschristshit. Oh fuck Aryn, yes. Shit. Harder. Fuck you harder,” and he’s going to - he can feel it building like a force behind his eyes and he wants it to just keep it building but at the same time - that release. “It was - you, with your hands covered in blood fuck, I wanted you - fuck!” And then Aryn’s coming inside of him and Vincent’s coming too, breathing, “Aryn.” I love you, I love you. He bites his lip. Keeps it back. So fucking perfect.
Aryn falls forward, almost naturally into a kiss and there’s a kind of power behind it and Vincent gives in, let’s Aryn kiss his mouth, his jaw, his neck while he runs his hands over the smooth muscles of Aryn’s back, pulls him closer because he wants every fucking centimeter he can get.
Eventually Aryn stills, sliding off to his side, trapping Vincent’s arm under him. The silence is slow and sweet, but Vincent can’t help but fill it. “You,” he says, voice still hoarse with sex, “you’re the best - I - you’re so fucking amazing - ”
“Aren’t I?” He murmurs, breath brushing Vincent’s ear, and though Vincent can’t see him he can hear the smirk in his voice. Vincent turns his head, touches his lips to Aryn’s more than he actually kisses him.
“Yes.” And he’s falling asleep, might be imagining it, but he could swear Aryn closes the millimeter left between them.