Heine/Ishida Lemonfic whee.
His hands, Ishida considers, are those of an artist.
They are not only graceful; poised and refined, holding a cup in perfect stillness with the slightest necessary exertion of force. They are not only strong; a hand to hold on, squeezing a shoulder in reassurance.
They have a certain unique dexterity Ishida has often remarked on, that if he so chose he might draw the bowstrings with the elegance of a master archer, perhaps, or engage in the more delicate crafts he himself favored, in the moments of calm.
But those are merely pieces, variations of what his gift has to offer, he realizes.
Now, they trace intricate patterns over bare skin, marking the pale canvas with feather-light brushstrokes of a finger, running symmetrical lines along his ribs in a gentle caress. He quivers slightly, feeling his own slender digits smooth over his back, tensing as a faint, deliberate flick of moistness over a nipple elicits a shuddering breath from him.
“H…Heine…” he manages to whisper.
The brush pauses. The artist raises his eyes from his work, a deep green in the moonlight.
“….Uryuu?”
There is no one else who calls him by that name. Whom he allows.
He meets his gaze. A brief hesitation, before lifting a hand to touch smooth strands of hair, falling in a concealing wave over his face.
He still hides a part of himself, Ishida knows.
And as always, that knowledge brings with it a brief pang of frustration, that even after all this time he has yet to fully open up to him.
Heine lowers his head, lightly moving his lips over a hard nub.
“We don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to…”
He touches a finger to those lips, silencing him, and shakes his head.
“…it’s alright. I…” A quivering breath. “…I want this.”
And like the dutiful soldier he is, he complies, covering skin with heated skin, layering kisses on a path down to the boy’s slim waist, feeling the indents and contours of finely toned muscle with his tongue. Clenching hands crease the sheets, a quiet gasp escaping him even as he feels himself divested of his remaining clothing, the cool night air whispering against the newly exposed, his legs spread apart by gentle hands.
The first touch is exquisite. He jerks upward and moans low in his throat, the brush drawing a slow line round the base of his erection, teasing the strained flesh with the lightest of strokes. Fingers encircle the hard shaft, kneading and molding and sculpting, those artist’s fingers, and with every deliberate pressure his body spasms and his voice breaks the silence in wordless pleading. Heine takes the glistening tip within his mouth and suddenly the previous work pales in comparison, becomes insignificant to this present masterpiece, unfolding under his tongue and between his lips and the gentle suction pulling at his very being. The boy cries out into the darkness, his hands fisting in the other’s hair, whimpering as he feels more of himself being taken in, something hard scraping lightly against the taut skin, his hips bucking with every touch, every stroke---
--and something within him lets go with a jolt of sensation. He shudders and screams, his body trembling with the final stroke that completes the work, completes himself for the artist, and for a brief moment there is nothing but blinding ecstasy, paralyzing rapture.
He awakens to Heine’s arms around him.
“…Uryuu?”
He clings to the other man and buries his face in his shoulder, shaking his head. His words are barely audible even in the silence.
“….the work can never understand his creator, can it.”
Heine watches him quietly, a hint of sadness gleaming in those eyes, before covering themselves with the discarded sheets.
...even that can change somday, Uryuu.
They are not only graceful; poised and refined, holding a cup in perfect stillness with the slightest necessary exertion of force. They are not only strong; a hand to hold on, squeezing a shoulder in reassurance.
They have a certain unique dexterity Ishida has often remarked on, that if he so chose he might draw the bowstrings with the elegance of a master archer, perhaps, or engage in the more delicate crafts he himself favored, in the moments of calm.
But those are merely pieces, variations of what his gift has to offer, he realizes.
Now, they trace intricate patterns over bare skin, marking the pale canvas with feather-light brushstrokes of a finger, running symmetrical lines along his ribs in a gentle caress. He quivers slightly, feeling his own slender digits smooth over his back, tensing as a faint, deliberate flick of moistness over a nipple elicits a shuddering breath from him.
“H…Heine…” he manages to whisper.
The brush pauses. The artist raises his eyes from his work, a deep green in the moonlight.
“….Uryuu?”
There is no one else who calls him by that name. Whom he allows.
He meets his gaze. A brief hesitation, before lifting a hand to touch smooth strands of hair, falling in a concealing wave over his face.
He still hides a part of himself, Ishida knows.
And as always, that knowledge brings with it a brief pang of frustration, that even after all this time he has yet to fully open up to him.
Heine lowers his head, lightly moving his lips over a hard nub.
“We don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to…”
He touches a finger to those lips, silencing him, and shakes his head.
“…it’s alright. I…” A quivering breath. “…I want this.”
And like the dutiful soldier he is, he complies, covering skin with heated skin, layering kisses on a path down to the boy’s slim waist, feeling the indents and contours of finely toned muscle with his tongue. Clenching hands crease the sheets, a quiet gasp escaping him even as he feels himself divested of his remaining clothing, the cool night air whispering against the newly exposed, his legs spread apart by gentle hands.
The first touch is exquisite. He jerks upward and moans low in his throat, the brush drawing a slow line round the base of his erection, teasing the strained flesh with the lightest of strokes. Fingers encircle the hard shaft, kneading and molding and sculpting, those artist’s fingers, and with every deliberate pressure his body spasms and his voice breaks the silence in wordless pleading. Heine takes the glistening tip within his mouth and suddenly the previous work pales in comparison, becomes insignificant to this present masterpiece, unfolding under his tongue and between his lips and the gentle suction pulling at his very being. The boy cries out into the darkness, his hands fisting in the other’s hair, whimpering as he feels more of himself being taken in, something hard scraping lightly against the taut skin, his hips bucking with every touch, every stroke---
--and something within him lets go with a jolt of sensation. He shudders and screams, his body trembling with the final stroke that completes the work, completes himself for the artist, and for a brief moment there is nothing but blinding ecstasy, paralyzing rapture.
He awakens to Heine’s arms around him.
“…Uryuu?”
He clings to the other man and buries his face in his shoulder, shaking his head. His words are barely audible even in the silence.
“….the work can never understand his creator, can it.”
Heine watches him quietly, a hint of sadness gleaming in those eyes, before covering themselves with the discarded sheets.
...even that can change somday, Uryuu.