(no subject)
Title: Frenzy
Author: elaborationlove
Fandom: RPF
Characters/Pairings: Keanu Reeves/Sandra Bullock
Rating: PG-13, could be R
Summary: Um. No plot.
Author's Notes: Uhm...Keandra is win aaaaand...this is my first RPF not involving a band.
Warning: Hotness.
He’s not sure when the switch happens or how; he just knows that it does. One minute, he’s comforting her, smoothing back her hair, whispering words that clash with her sobs, and the next, he is resting his head against her breast and she’s combing her fingers through his hair, making it stand up like the goose bumps have already done with his arms.
He shudders in her arms, amazed that this woman can affect him as she does. Arms limp at his sides now, he realizes this beautiful woman in front of him, cradling him, has made him undone. Before, he never would have thought it possible--even though he never had been the cocky sonofabitch type. Had he been asked before, he would’ve said that he was a man, for God’s sake. Men don’t become undone because of one woman.
Continuing to comb through his hair, raking his head with her nails, she sighs. Her sigh says, “I don’t know what to do with you.” Neither can fix the other while they are broken themselves. One’s revival is the other’s healing. It is a circle-just like the song that never ends. He presses his forehead against her sternum.
She tugs on his hair a little and he tilts his head backward, responding to her touch. For a moment, she searches his eyes, waits for some indication that he’ll be okay. The problem is, neither of them knows what’s wrong. It’s just this outpour of sadness. And it feels good, in some ways. A nice release. A thunderstorm after a drought.
But Keanu doesn’t cry. His only reply to her searching eyes is a slight pout of the lips-a request for a kiss.
It’s sweet. He’s not pushing her, just requesting. And she can’t help but oblige. While she leans down to kiss him, she threads her fingers into his hair again, leaving behind a trail of tingling on his scalp with her nails. He runs his hands up and down her lower back, squeezing now and then, memorizing her shape in this moment. Then he opens his mouth against hers, letting the heat flow between their bodies, the moisture mingle between their mouths before he closes in and sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip.
It isn’t long before he’s crushed her to him, clawing for that comfort and calm he had been feeling only moments before. He realizes it was only the calm before the storm. The cool breeze-his namesake. His fingers tighten into fists behind her back, gathering the fabric of her tank top and he pulls away to breathe, just a little. He steals short, small breaths of air before pulling her back to him, lips and tongue and teeth still hungry for her, her, her. She is a goddess. A savior.
As he rises from his knees, he struggles to keep his lips pressed against hers. When he stands at full height, however, he cradles her head in his arms, hunching his shoulders as if shielding her from a blast. Keanu has never felt more protective of anything in his life.
He brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek, feeling the warm wetness there. His lips follow his fingers when he realizes the warm wetness is tears. A frantic indecision ensues. He wants to pull away, tell her to stop crying, shush her, whisper her name over and over and over. But he can’t. It feels too good. Too good to stop. His whole God damned life he doesn’t think he’s felt anything quite like it. It is perfect. It is a miracle.
Still, he mumbles her name against her jaw line, her neck, wherever his lips roam to. It’s a compromise. She presses her hands-so much smaller than his, he notices-against his chest. As she applies a slight pressure, he wonders if she’s trying to push him away. Push him off. It kills him to lean away from her. But he does. Only for her. When he has moved back enough to see her, search her eyes like she already has done his, he sees she is surprised-disappointed. He almost expects a whimper to come from her mouth-that perfect, beautiful mouth. He sweeps in before she can, though, because it kills him to see her wanting so much. At that moment, he vows to give her whatever it is she will ever need or want for the rest of her life.
While he’s swearing to himself, she replaces her hands in the same spots on his chest, pressing just so, less than before. He reacts, feeling his hips jut out just a little, his back arch. Her hands slide over the roundness of his shoulders, coming to rest against his shoulder blades. Again, he hunches, allowing her hands to reach lower down his back. She grips the hem of his shirts-a white undershirt and a green sweater-and pulls them up together, over those shoulder blades. He has to take a step back and adjust his arms so she can drag it off all the way. It ends up on the floor, next to her feet.
He spins her one-hundred-eighty degrees, so they are now in each other’s spots. She finds, conveniently, that the back of her knees almost touch the edge of the bed behind her. He presses forward, encouraging her to lie down and they lose balance. She falls backward, onto the soft mattress, the old comforter she loves. It is woven with her smells-the smell of her parents house, her friends’ cigarettes, the cat. She hopes it comes to smell like he does. Of nothing particular she’s smelled before, just like Keanu. Of that individual scent she has noticed every individual human being has-the one she or anyone else smells upon entering another’s home, the one that jolts her backward, reminding her she does not live here, but someone else does. But Keanu has, like everyone else, his own scent. And it is intoxicating.
Again, he pulls away. He watches her eyes with a small smirk as he runs his hand down her leg. Ending at her shoe, he toys with the small buckle at the bump of her ankle bone for a moment before sliding the shoe off and then repeating everything with her left leg.
“Precious,” he whispers. It is not a name. He says it as an adjective. She is precious.
Then he is standing. He grabs her around the waist, draws her up to him. There is nothing he adores more than the proportion of their true heights. Without those silly shoes she always wears, they are the perfect fraction. He hugs her in a way that is so…so…he can’t think of any other way to describe it besides “G-rated” that nothing could be more perfect. He pours all of that adoration into the hug before brushing his nose against her hair and remembering the earlier frenzy. They return to the bed.
“Kiki.”
He groans. Who ever would have thought that a name he had previously hated would sound so alluring? He wants to pin her down, and “have his way with her.” Really, he couldn’t call it anything else at that moment. This new name she’s given him has really done him in. It’s a girl’s name, for God’s sake. Why is he getting all worked up? He hated this name-all throughout elementary school, middle school, high school. Even now, people call it out on the street. But it’s totally different when she says it.
It is all he can do to not pin her down.
No matter how much she may say she wants it, he won’t have it. He won’t give it to her. It isn’t what she’ll want tomorrow. Or at least in two days or next week. No. He’ll give it to her eventually-when he knows he’s secured himself in her life, fully, forever. Forever is so relative. But he’ll know when it’s time. And it will be perfect. Like her.
Meanwhile, she repeats it. “Kiki. Kiki. Kiki. Kikikikikikikiki.” It seems that saying his full name-“Keanu. Key. Awn. Oo.”-is too much for her. Her senses overwhelmed with his hands seemingly everywhere it isn’t hard to imagine. He doubts he could say her full name if he tried. It would probably result in just a hiss. He laughs softly. At her beautiful “Kikikikikikikiki,” at his lack of ability to say her name, at the way she pouted when he slid her shoes off, at the world. With her, everything is funny. Everything is beautiful.
Keanu crawls over her, feeling his pants slung low on his hips. His boxers peek over the top of his khakis, a light blue plaid like the ocean meeting the sand. While he looks down at her, who stares up at him with this beautifully innocent expression of want and slight confusion, books of lyrics flood his head. Lyrics that describe this very moment, when the heart pounds, the lungs struggle, the body shakes, the mind goes blank. No matter how cliché the lyrics are, he knows, they’re all true.
He smiles at this and lowers his eyes to her collar bone where he proceeds to run his nose along the skin there, up to behind her ear. She laughs. The sound shoots down his body into every nerve, causing a jolt of satisfaction. His hips jerk.
“Kiki.” Again, her hands are behind his back, roaming everywhere and anywhere she can reach. He settles over her, letting his legs rest on either side, the khaki material touching her bare legs. It’s becoming too much. He’ll have to do something soon, he knows it. This yellow light isn’t working any more. He needs a green or a red. None of this in-between bullshit.
He rolls his shoulders, stretching. Then he reaches down, pushes her loose shirt off her shoulder. She looks at it for a moment, biting her lip. His hand moves to her chin, encourages her to look at him. Still, her eyes stay down.
“Look at me,” he whispers. “Please.”
She does, reluctantly, embarrassed, and a million other things. He offers a sweet smile and gestures between the two of them.
“We don’t have to do this. Not now.”
She thinks this is better than taffy. Stretchy and sweet, sticking to your teeth and the roof of your mouth. He kisses her fully, his tongue warmer and sweeter than any taffy she’s ever tasted. And then he moves off of her, lays next to her, thumbing her jaw bone, her chin, her cheek. Her eyes flutter shut and he knows she’s tired so he tells her, “Sleep.”
Author: elaborationlove
Fandom: RPF
Characters/Pairings: Keanu Reeves/Sandra Bullock
Rating: PG-13, could be R
Summary: Um. No plot.
Author's Notes: Uhm...Keandra is win aaaaand...this is my first RPF not involving a band.
Warning: Hotness.
He’s not sure when the switch happens or how; he just knows that it does. One minute, he’s comforting her, smoothing back her hair, whispering words that clash with her sobs, and the next, he is resting his head against her breast and she’s combing her fingers through his hair, making it stand up like the goose bumps have already done with his arms.
He shudders in her arms, amazed that this woman can affect him as she does. Arms limp at his sides now, he realizes this beautiful woman in front of him, cradling him, has made him undone. Before, he never would have thought it possible--even though he never had been the cocky sonofabitch type. Had he been asked before, he would’ve said that he was a man, for God’s sake. Men don’t become undone because of one woman.
Continuing to comb through his hair, raking his head with her nails, she sighs. Her sigh says, “I don’t know what to do with you.” Neither can fix the other while they are broken themselves. One’s revival is the other’s healing. It is a circle-just like the song that never ends. He presses his forehead against her sternum.
She tugs on his hair a little and he tilts his head backward, responding to her touch. For a moment, she searches his eyes, waits for some indication that he’ll be okay. The problem is, neither of them knows what’s wrong. It’s just this outpour of sadness. And it feels good, in some ways. A nice release. A thunderstorm after a drought.
But Keanu doesn’t cry. His only reply to her searching eyes is a slight pout of the lips-a request for a kiss.
It’s sweet. He’s not pushing her, just requesting. And she can’t help but oblige. While she leans down to kiss him, she threads her fingers into his hair again, leaving behind a trail of tingling on his scalp with her nails. He runs his hands up and down her lower back, squeezing now and then, memorizing her shape in this moment. Then he opens his mouth against hers, letting the heat flow between their bodies, the moisture mingle between their mouths before he closes in and sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip.
It isn’t long before he’s crushed her to him, clawing for that comfort and calm he had been feeling only moments before. He realizes it was only the calm before the storm. The cool breeze-his namesake. His fingers tighten into fists behind her back, gathering the fabric of her tank top and he pulls away to breathe, just a little. He steals short, small breaths of air before pulling her back to him, lips and tongue and teeth still hungry for her, her, her. She is a goddess. A savior.
As he rises from his knees, he struggles to keep his lips pressed against hers. When he stands at full height, however, he cradles her head in his arms, hunching his shoulders as if shielding her from a blast. Keanu has never felt more protective of anything in his life.
He brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek, feeling the warm wetness there. His lips follow his fingers when he realizes the warm wetness is tears. A frantic indecision ensues. He wants to pull away, tell her to stop crying, shush her, whisper her name over and over and over. But he can’t. It feels too good. Too good to stop. His whole God damned life he doesn’t think he’s felt anything quite like it. It is perfect. It is a miracle.
Still, he mumbles her name against her jaw line, her neck, wherever his lips roam to. It’s a compromise. She presses her hands-so much smaller than his, he notices-against his chest. As she applies a slight pressure, he wonders if she’s trying to push him away. Push him off. It kills him to lean away from her. But he does. Only for her. When he has moved back enough to see her, search her eyes like she already has done his, he sees she is surprised-disappointed. He almost expects a whimper to come from her mouth-that perfect, beautiful mouth. He sweeps in before she can, though, because it kills him to see her wanting so much. At that moment, he vows to give her whatever it is she will ever need or want for the rest of her life.
While he’s swearing to himself, she replaces her hands in the same spots on his chest, pressing just so, less than before. He reacts, feeling his hips jut out just a little, his back arch. Her hands slide over the roundness of his shoulders, coming to rest against his shoulder blades. Again, he hunches, allowing her hands to reach lower down his back. She grips the hem of his shirts-a white undershirt and a green sweater-and pulls them up together, over those shoulder blades. He has to take a step back and adjust his arms so she can drag it off all the way. It ends up on the floor, next to her feet.
He spins her one-hundred-eighty degrees, so they are now in each other’s spots. She finds, conveniently, that the back of her knees almost touch the edge of the bed behind her. He presses forward, encouraging her to lie down and they lose balance. She falls backward, onto the soft mattress, the old comforter she loves. It is woven with her smells-the smell of her parents house, her friends’ cigarettes, the cat. She hopes it comes to smell like he does. Of nothing particular she’s smelled before, just like Keanu. Of that individual scent she has noticed every individual human being has-the one she or anyone else smells upon entering another’s home, the one that jolts her backward, reminding her she does not live here, but someone else does. But Keanu has, like everyone else, his own scent. And it is intoxicating.
Again, he pulls away. He watches her eyes with a small smirk as he runs his hand down her leg. Ending at her shoe, he toys with the small buckle at the bump of her ankle bone for a moment before sliding the shoe off and then repeating everything with her left leg.
“Precious,” he whispers. It is not a name. He says it as an adjective. She is precious.
Then he is standing. He grabs her around the waist, draws her up to him. There is nothing he adores more than the proportion of their true heights. Without those silly shoes she always wears, they are the perfect fraction. He hugs her in a way that is so…so…he can’t think of any other way to describe it besides “G-rated” that nothing could be more perfect. He pours all of that adoration into the hug before brushing his nose against her hair and remembering the earlier frenzy. They return to the bed.
“Kiki.”
He groans. Who ever would have thought that a name he had previously hated would sound so alluring? He wants to pin her down, and “have his way with her.” Really, he couldn’t call it anything else at that moment. This new name she’s given him has really done him in. It’s a girl’s name, for God’s sake. Why is he getting all worked up? He hated this name-all throughout elementary school, middle school, high school. Even now, people call it out on the street. But it’s totally different when she says it.
It is all he can do to not pin her down.
No matter how much she may say she wants it, he won’t have it. He won’t give it to her. It isn’t what she’ll want tomorrow. Or at least in two days or next week. No. He’ll give it to her eventually-when he knows he’s secured himself in her life, fully, forever. Forever is so relative. But he’ll know when it’s time. And it will be perfect. Like her.
Meanwhile, she repeats it. “Kiki. Kiki. Kiki. Kikikikikikikiki.” It seems that saying his full name-“Keanu. Key. Awn. Oo.”-is too much for her. Her senses overwhelmed with his hands seemingly everywhere it isn’t hard to imagine. He doubts he could say her full name if he tried. It would probably result in just a hiss. He laughs softly. At her beautiful “Kikikikikikikiki,” at his lack of ability to say her name, at the way she pouted when he slid her shoes off, at the world. With her, everything is funny. Everything is beautiful.
Keanu crawls over her, feeling his pants slung low on his hips. His boxers peek over the top of his khakis, a light blue plaid like the ocean meeting the sand. While he looks down at her, who stares up at him with this beautifully innocent expression of want and slight confusion, books of lyrics flood his head. Lyrics that describe this very moment, when the heart pounds, the lungs struggle, the body shakes, the mind goes blank. No matter how cliché the lyrics are, he knows, they’re all true.
He smiles at this and lowers his eyes to her collar bone where he proceeds to run his nose along the skin there, up to behind her ear. She laughs. The sound shoots down his body into every nerve, causing a jolt of satisfaction. His hips jerk.
“Kiki.” Again, her hands are behind his back, roaming everywhere and anywhere she can reach. He settles over her, letting his legs rest on either side, the khaki material touching her bare legs. It’s becoming too much. He’ll have to do something soon, he knows it. This yellow light isn’t working any more. He needs a green or a red. None of this in-between bullshit.
He rolls his shoulders, stretching. Then he reaches down, pushes her loose shirt off her shoulder. She looks at it for a moment, biting her lip. His hand moves to her chin, encourages her to look at him. Still, her eyes stay down.
“Look at me,” he whispers. “Please.”
She does, reluctantly, embarrassed, and a million other things. He offers a sweet smile and gestures between the two of them.
“We don’t have to do this. Not now.”
She thinks this is better than taffy. Stretchy and sweet, sticking to your teeth and the roof of your mouth. He kisses her fully, his tongue warmer and sweeter than any taffy she’s ever tasted. And then he moves off of her, lays next to her, thumbing her jaw bone, her chin, her cheek. Her eyes flutter shut and he knows she’s tired so he tells her, “Sleep.”