[ Erik rarely allows control to be taken from him, for another to take the dominant place because he's just not built that way (these are his trust issues talking). But Arthur has proved, throughout a course of many, many years, to be a crucial exception in many things.
Most of all in this.
Erik pushes back, unwilling to go without a fight as fingers more suited to wielding and manipulating metal threads through his hair. The kiss is hungry, absolutely ravenous, and he cannot help but put truth in the adage that absence really did indeed make the heart grow fonder.
Or, in their case -- absence makes one desperately, dangerously itching to fuck the other into the mattress. Or insert appropriately flat surface of choice.
Erik is all angles against the slightly shorter man, sinking into the kiss but wresting control, irrevocably warm and heated with searing kisses like he could brand them on Arthur, mark him as his own for as long as he wants because that's what Erik does, right?
Bite and lick and suck and tattoo and demand and fuck and kill and Arthur will fucking tolerate it, every damn time. His lungs burn from lack of air, sucks in a sharp breath before he's pulling Arthur down with him onto the carpet -- he's not going down without you, you know that. ]
he fights for control because he wouldn't be himself if he didn't, because he likes the press of two bodies together and the taste of blood in his mouth, the way saliva the sticks between them. he likes being in control, whether he's being fucked or doing the fucking, whether he has erik's dick in his mouth or erik dragging him to the fucking carpet in the middle of some dark, cramped room with barely enough space for the two of them. arthur falls like dead weight to his knees, his fingers inching beneath the fabric of his shirt to pull it up and over his head until he can drag his hands down the smooth expanse of his chest, thumbing over years old scars.
sometimes arthur wants so much he swears to god it'll kill him. erik's going to fucking kill him, and he probably doesn't care, but it probably doesn't matter, and all arthur can do is possessively curl his fingers into his belt and kiss him again, tonguing at his bottom lip, at the fresh cut across his jaw.
( a cut caused by him and flying fists and angry, spitting words, and this is how it always ends between them, no matter how hard they fight
and they fight fucking hard )
arthur fumbles blindly with erik's belt, jerking his arm once to send the leather slithering from the belt loops of his pants. ]
He wants him to fight, fight and claw and resist and shove because Erik doesn't want to be bored with him the way a lion would be quickly tired of a wildebeest that rolls over on command. He likes the challenge, the violence, the anger that sparks him off time after time -- as does the passion that burns in his veins.
And perhaps this is why Erik is so warm; because Arthur makes him so angry with his stubbornness, his pride and that unbreakable desire for control, too -- so much so that his anger burns like a living thing, hot in his chest and looking to raze the next unfortunate target into nothing.
Erik thinks that he will kill him; one day, he really will kill him for this maybe; his one lifeline to this world aside from the white-hot vengeance that commands his every move. Erik gives, tossing the shirt he'd just tugged off over his shoulder, pressing up against a tailor-made designer vest, and it gives him a grim sense of pleasure when he tugs, pops the first two buttons and that should teach Arthur to order him about.
He gives the control and he takes it back, kissing and kissing as if he can swallow those angry words and the blood and the way it angers and hurts and arouses them all at the same time.
Fucking and fighting and this is how it always ends because neither one of them know the difference, anymore; and neither one could bring himself to care.
He grinds up against him, shameless because he is rock hard in his pants and can't you go any quicker? He breathes when Arthur laves at the cut, breathes hard and pants as he yanks the last button free, the sound of it pinging on the floor an accompaniment to the leather snapped off the belt loops of his pants.
He's shoving that vest off his shoulders, thinks that the shirt will go next even as he growls ragged and low and mocking. ]
[ if arthur weren't so lost in the sensation of erik against him, or the buzzing in his own head, he'd shove at him for ruining his vest until erik pinned his wrists above his head and squeezed. but the most he does now is hiss sharply and slap erik's hand away like he's reprimanding a child, turning his attention away from his pants to pluck open the buttons on his shirt and shrug it off. the white pinstriped material billows to the floor, and arthur's already pushing erik back, his thighs squeezing tight around his hips as he moves to straddle his waist.
god, he doesn't fucking have anything, and he wants to tell erik that, but they've already mucked up the moment enough with the few words they've spoken so far. in the dark, arthur can't make out the marks he's already left on erik's neck, on his back and shoulders, but they're there. deep, dark bruises and long, thin cuts, and if they weren't so angry, so wound up and pissed off, arthur would run his fingers over them and mouth soft kisses across erik's jaw in a silent apology.
but he's sure as hell not sorry now.
erik can handle arthur's bruising comments and his quick temper, his tendency to fly off the handle when he's short on fucking patience. erik can handle anything that arthur throws at him, and that's why arthur likes him, that's why arthur's still here, letting erik kiss him until he's dizzy, until erik is the only person he fucking wants. and maybe that's why they fight so much.
arthur jerks open erik's pants and pulls down his fly, his fingers slipping down to rub teasingly against him through the soft cotton fabric of his underwear. ]
Most of all in this.
Erik pushes back, unwilling to go without a fight as fingers more suited to wielding and manipulating metal threads through his hair. The kiss is hungry, absolutely ravenous, and he cannot help but put truth in the adage that absence really did indeed make the heart grow fonder.
Or, in their case -- absence makes one desperately, dangerously itching to fuck the other into the mattress. Or insert appropriately flat surface of choice.
Erik is all angles against the slightly shorter man, sinking into the kiss but wresting control, irrevocably warm and heated with searing kisses like he could brand them on Arthur, mark him as his own for as long as he wants because that's what Erik does, right?
Bite and lick and suck and tattoo and demand and fuck and kill and Arthur will fucking tolerate it, every damn time. His lungs burn from lack of air, sucks in a sharp breath before he's pulling Arthur down with him onto the carpet -- he's not going down without you, you know that. ]
Reply
he fights for control because he wouldn't be himself if he didn't, because he likes the press of two bodies together and the taste of blood in his mouth, the way saliva the sticks between them. he likes being in control, whether he's being fucked or doing the fucking, whether he has erik's dick in his mouth or erik dragging him to the fucking carpet in the middle of some dark, cramped room with barely enough space for the two of them. arthur falls like dead weight to his knees, his fingers inching beneath the fabric of his shirt to pull it up and over his head until he can drag his hands down the smooth expanse of his chest, thumbing over years old scars.
sometimes arthur wants so much he swears to god it'll kill him. erik's going to fucking kill him, and he probably doesn't care, but it probably doesn't matter, and all arthur can do is possessively curl his fingers into his belt and kiss him again, tonguing at his bottom lip, at the fresh cut across his jaw.
( a cut caused by him and flying fists and angry, spitting words, and this is how it always ends between them, no matter how hard they fight
and they fight fucking hard )
arthur fumbles blindly with erik's belt, jerking his arm once to send the leather slithering from the belt loops of his pants. ]
Take off your fucking pants, Erik.
Reply
He wants him to fight, fight and claw and resist and shove because Erik doesn't want to be bored with him the way a lion would be quickly tired of a wildebeest that rolls over on command. He likes the challenge, the violence, the anger that sparks him off time after time -- as does the passion that burns in his veins.
And perhaps this is why Erik is so warm; because Arthur makes him so angry with his stubbornness, his pride and that unbreakable desire for control, too -- so much so that his anger burns like a living thing, hot in his chest and looking to raze the next unfortunate target into nothing.
Erik thinks that he will kill him; one day, he really will kill him for this maybe; his one lifeline to this world aside from the white-hot vengeance that commands his every move. Erik gives, tossing the shirt he'd just tugged off over his shoulder, pressing up against a tailor-made designer vest, and it gives him a grim sense of pleasure when he tugs, pops the first two buttons and that should teach Arthur to order him about.
He gives the control and he takes it back, kissing and kissing as if he can swallow those angry words and the blood and the way it angers and hurts and arouses them all at the same time.
Fucking and fighting and this is how it always ends because neither one of them know the difference, anymore; and neither one could bring himself to care.
He grinds up against him, shameless because he is rock hard in his pants and can't you go any quicker? He breathes when Arthur laves at the cut, breathes hard and pants as he yanks the last button free, the sound of it pinging on the floor an accompaniment to the leather snapped off the belt loops of his pants.
He's shoving that vest off his shoulders, thinks that the shirt will go next even as he growls ragged and low and mocking. ]
Can't even take them off without my help?
Reply
god, he doesn't fucking have anything, and he wants to tell erik that, but they've already mucked up the moment enough with the few words they've spoken so far. in the dark, arthur can't make out the marks he's already left on erik's neck, on his back and shoulders, but they're there. deep, dark bruises and long, thin cuts, and if they weren't so angry, so wound up and pissed off, arthur would run his fingers over them and mouth soft kisses across erik's jaw in a silent apology.
but he's sure as hell not sorry now.
erik can handle arthur's bruising comments and his quick temper, his tendency to fly off the handle when he's short on fucking patience. erik can handle anything that arthur throws at him, and that's why arthur likes him, that's why arthur's still here, letting erik kiss him until he's dizzy, until erik is the only person he fucking wants. and maybe that's why they fight so much.
arthur jerks open erik's pants and pulls down his fly, his fingers slipping down to rub teasingly against him through the soft cotton fabric of his underwear. ]
Reply
Leave a comment