[Guilty Gear] Interlude
Title: Interlude
Fandom: Guilty Gear
Pairing: Sol/Ky
Rating: R
Warning: Sex
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Characterization porn. I have no excuse.
Interlude
Somehow, learning to touch things again never involved this. Not that there would've been time for it, or sense, but it might have helped a little.
Tools and equipment stopped feeling fragile long ago, but human bodies never did; an ounce of pressure in the wrong place and they would break irrevocably. He's no longer quite sure how bird bones felt when he was still human, but he thinks it must've been something like this.
A spine curving beneath his hands, the movement of a jaw between his fingers. All of them familiar places in a brawl, and yet they couldn't feel more unfamiliar now. In many ways, fighting would be preferable because he's more than used to that-they both are, and there, the kid has his reflexes to save him, his experience, can anticipate the moves and, as a last resort, fry him to kingdom come.
People rarely anticipate violence in the bedroom-or what amounts to the bedroom in their case; a space piled high with paperwork, half an inch of cloth between them and the rest of the world. A leak in the corner, rainwater dripping inside.
It's pretty ironic that he's minding all of that more than the kid. Ky was supposed to be the one with the problems, the one with the protests, the admonitions and the goddamn insecurity. Instead, it's all in his own head, and Ky's kissing him within an inch of his life.
What he's lacking in the finesse department he certainly makes up for with enthusiasm, tasting and probing, pushing back against Sol's tongue and trailing his lips to the corner of his mouth. He's fascinated by how a kiss works, too, and that's just another thing that's wrong with this entire scenario, that he's not just supposed not to kill his partner by accident, but also not to do anything to traumatize him into never approaching anyone for sex ever again. Off the bat, Sol can think of about twenty local prostitutes who'd do a better job at this just by not being him, but the kid has moral hang-ups about paying someone to screw him.
"Something wrong?"
The question really means "is there something wrong with me", Ky under some ridiculous delusions of inadequacy. Sol thinks they actually make quite a pair-a kid who's somehow oblivious to the fact that half the army is wanking to his ass and the stick shoved up there, and him, almost two hundred years old and trying to remember how this stuff is supposed to go without breaking anything important. Like ribs. That'd be one hell of a memento for a first night.
"No."
"Oh. Then-"
Sol bridges the gap again. Talking is something he's even less adept at than sex, and to say he doesn't want this wouldn't only be the lie of the century, but also just about the biggest hypocrisy. After all, he's the one who started it, with the needling and the innuendo, because the kid was too damn straight-laced and it was fun to watch him blush and squawk indignantly.
And because you've been getting off on the thought of him riding you like a goddamn pony for the past three months, so don't you dare pretend this is some kind of noble sacrifice.
"Shut up."
Belatedly, he realizes that he's said the last bit out loud, Ky pausing in mid-kiss, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he blinks.
"Pardon?"
Half-mumbled against his temple, and there's really nothing he can say to that, so he just drags his mouth down that pretty white throat, feeling the beat of the pulse against his lips. He swipes his tongue over it-once, twice, three times-feeling Ky's breath hitch, fingers curling against his biceps. Part of him, the stupid part, wants to bite down there, sink his teeth in and persuade Ky to do the same, but that's entirely too much like what he's trying to avoid. Instead, he ignores the pathetic whine from the other side of his consciousness and contents himself with sucking at the spot, leaving a purple bruise. Ky'll try to break his kneecaps for that in the morning, no doubt.
Now, though, he just tilts his head back, giving easier access, when Sol was so sure he'd protest all the way through. One of his hands is fisting in Sol's hair, guiding him over to the other side, and that's way hotter than it has any right to be.
He could spend the evening like this, he realizes, just necking like a horny teenager, and he snorts out a laugh because the thought is utterly absurd. The zipper going down isn't, but Ky pauses regardless, fingers frozen in pushing off his shirt, and pulls back to give him a cross look.
"I don't know the etiquette for this."
"Trust me, kid, I'll be the last person to be watching etiquette."
The glare doesn't abate, Ky so certain that he's being mocked, but he goes back to undoing the shirt with ruthless efficiency, slipping his hands up Sol's back, damp and cool.
Heightened senses are another side effect of the whole Gear thing, and he's become used to tuning them out, shutting them off whenever he doesn't have specific use for them so he doesn't turn blind or deaf or crazy. Now, though, it's another thing entirely, his brain ready to break down the feel of skin on skin into its tiniest components-the small changes in pressure, the scrape of calluses, and the weight of that gaze, observing his reactions to everything.
A challenge.
That's certainly familiar enough. Makes it easier to worm a hand up Ky's shirt, run a tongue along his collarbone, and not think. Eventually, he gets the blasted shirt out of the way to run a palm across his chest, and Ky stiffens in all the good ways, fingers digging into his sides, head bowing to muffle a gasp against Sol's shoulder.
"Hey. Hey," he says, or tries to because it's suddenly hard to talk, and that's not entirely due to his face buried in Ky's hair. "How about-"
A jerky nod.
Trying to maneuver both of them over to the cot in the dark should be easier, he thinks, or at least go over with fewer pratfalls, like bumping into the desk and knocking over his sword, or getting knees and elbows in the wrong places trying to fit together.
The kid's gotten a good hold of his hair again and drags him in for another round of spit-swapping, but there's that goddamn feeling of vulnerability again, covering Ky's body with his own and feeling his frantic heartbeat, the fine thrill that's raising the hairs on his body. The kid's more nervous about this than he's letting on.
Well, duh.
"…I'll be careful."
There's a number of responses one could expect to this, but not a moment of wide-eyed incredulity, before the kid bites his own fist to stifle a guffaw.
"So glad to be amusing."
"I just-" A snort. "You-" More snickering. "We just killed half a mountainside full-of things that kept trying to rip me in half. And two days ago-you happily knocked me into a wall. And now you think you can hurt me-with this."
"Fuck you."
"I think-that was the plan," Ky says wryly, and pulls him back down.
After that, they seriously get to work, pushing clothes out of the way, a hissed curse here and there when something gets stuck. Whoever's designed the uniforms should get an award for being a stuck-up Catholic prick, since the sheer number of buckles and zips is more effective than any chastity belt. Admittedly, it's made a bit more complicated than it already is by the fact that he is rather busy moving, but Ky's just as much to blame, squirming and forcing him to interrupt the task for some more groping.
Hilarious, really, that he ever expected the kid to play the part of the virginal altar boy.
It's almost a relief to finally get the fucking pants open, and when he wraps a hand around both their cocks, Ky grabs onto him like a vise. Having him like this should be some kind of victory, sweaty and disheveled without that iron command, but all Sol can think about is how good it feels, the best damn thing, and for once, the inner critics are mercifully quiet.
Keeping it down's kind of hard, though he thought the kid would have more problems with that than him-but Ky gives his cues silently, a twist of his fingers, a gasp against his ear. He'd love to pay more attention, actually, to commit to memory exactly what it is that's making Ky shiver, what brings out that staccato burst of breath, but right now, it's kind of difficult to parse anything more complex than those things, and what they do to him. So he just keeps going, lost in skin and scent and rhythm, knowing that this isn't going to last long.
Still, it's almost a surprise when the kid arcs against him, entire body going taut like a bowstring, and bites out a strangled groan-
"Sol."
-and then the tension just spills over, leaving him to shudder to a breathless halt.
Catching his breath takes longer than it should, afterwards, a languid satisfaction spreading through him. It's kind of funny that a good fuck does the same no matter what you are, or where, and he sees no reason not to indulge in that pleasant tiredness for a while, lying with his face pressed against Ky's shoulder, inhaling. Eventually, a hand comes to rest on his neck, stroking slowly back and forth.
Huh.
He wasn't expecting fringe benefits here, but that's certainly nothing to complain about. Part of him is trying to remember the last time he got a neck rub, but the rest can't be assed to think about much of anything. It's just nice to enjoy this without the predicted post-coital guilt trip. Sol was willing to bet that the kid would claim temporary insanity and rush off to the nearest confessional to crucify himself.
Speaking of crucifixion… he shifts, feeling metal digging into his sternum, quite certain that there's an elaborate imprint on both of them. The hand on his neck freezes in mid-motion, Ky tensing up beneath him.
"Is that… alright?"
"Hm?"
His brain isn't quite ready to resume normal operation just yet. The kid's looking at him like he got caught sneaking cookies from the jar, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks that makes him more attractive than is fair.
"I mean… that's normal, right?"
Well, damn. There's the anvil of responsibility, dropping on him again.
There's a word for what you are. I'll give you a hint. Starts with a "c".
"Yeah. Yeah, sure. Just-trinket." He peels the cross off his chest, handing it back to Ky.
"Oh. Sorry about that." Ky shrugs, the pendant sliding off his shoulder and onto the pillow. "Better?"
"Sure." He stretches out again, blatantly ignoring the idea that he's probably rather heavy. If Ky wants him off, he'll complain. "Pet away."
- Fin -
-----
A/N: I can't even blame this on anyone. *cough* C&C is welcome, as always. Here is the continuation of that little thing.
<< Return to Guilty Gear Index | Return to Fanfiction Index >>
Fandom: Guilty Gear
Pairing: Sol/Ky
Rating: R
Warning: Sex
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Characterization porn. I have no excuse.
Interlude
Somehow, learning to touch things again never involved this. Not that there would've been time for it, or sense, but it might have helped a little.
Tools and equipment stopped feeling fragile long ago, but human bodies never did; an ounce of pressure in the wrong place and they would break irrevocably. He's no longer quite sure how bird bones felt when he was still human, but he thinks it must've been something like this.
A spine curving beneath his hands, the movement of a jaw between his fingers. All of them familiar places in a brawl, and yet they couldn't feel more unfamiliar now. In many ways, fighting would be preferable because he's more than used to that-they both are, and there, the kid has his reflexes to save him, his experience, can anticipate the moves and, as a last resort, fry him to kingdom come.
People rarely anticipate violence in the bedroom-or what amounts to the bedroom in their case; a space piled high with paperwork, half an inch of cloth between them and the rest of the world. A leak in the corner, rainwater dripping inside.
It's pretty ironic that he's minding all of that more than the kid. Ky was supposed to be the one with the problems, the one with the protests, the admonitions and the goddamn insecurity. Instead, it's all in his own head, and Ky's kissing him within an inch of his life.
What he's lacking in the finesse department he certainly makes up for with enthusiasm, tasting and probing, pushing back against Sol's tongue and trailing his lips to the corner of his mouth. He's fascinated by how a kiss works, too, and that's just another thing that's wrong with this entire scenario, that he's not just supposed not to kill his partner by accident, but also not to do anything to traumatize him into never approaching anyone for sex ever again. Off the bat, Sol can think of about twenty local prostitutes who'd do a better job at this just by not being him, but the kid has moral hang-ups about paying someone to screw him.
"Something wrong?"
The question really means "is there something wrong with me", Ky under some ridiculous delusions of inadequacy. Sol thinks they actually make quite a pair-a kid who's somehow oblivious to the fact that half the army is wanking to his ass and the stick shoved up there, and him, almost two hundred years old and trying to remember how this stuff is supposed to go without breaking anything important. Like ribs. That'd be one hell of a memento for a first night.
"No."
"Oh. Then-"
Sol bridges the gap again. Talking is something he's even less adept at than sex, and to say he doesn't want this wouldn't only be the lie of the century, but also just about the biggest hypocrisy. After all, he's the one who started it, with the needling and the innuendo, because the kid was too damn straight-laced and it was fun to watch him blush and squawk indignantly.
And because you've been getting off on the thought of him riding you like a goddamn pony for the past three months, so don't you dare pretend this is some kind of noble sacrifice.
"Shut up."
Belatedly, he realizes that he's said the last bit out loud, Ky pausing in mid-kiss, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as he blinks.
"Pardon?"
Half-mumbled against his temple, and there's really nothing he can say to that, so he just drags his mouth down that pretty white throat, feeling the beat of the pulse against his lips. He swipes his tongue over it-once, twice, three times-feeling Ky's breath hitch, fingers curling against his biceps. Part of him, the stupid part, wants to bite down there, sink his teeth in and persuade Ky to do the same, but that's entirely too much like what he's trying to avoid. Instead, he ignores the pathetic whine from the other side of his consciousness and contents himself with sucking at the spot, leaving a purple bruise. Ky'll try to break his kneecaps for that in the morning, no doubt.
Now, though, he just tilts his head back, giving easier access, when Sol was so sure he'd protest all the way through. One of his hands is fisting in Sol's hair, guiding him over to the other side, and that's way hotter than it has any right to be.
He could spend the evening like this, he realizes, just necking like a horny teenager, and he snorts out a laugh because the thought is utterly absurd. The zipper going down isn't, but Ky pauses regardless, fingers frozen in pushing off his shirt, and pulls back to give him a cross look.
"I don't know the etiquette for this."
"Trust me, kid, I'll be the last person to be watching etiquette."
The glare doesn't abate, Ky so certain that he's being mocked, but he goes back to undoing the shirt with ruthless efficiency, slipping his hands up Sol's back, damp and cool.
Heightened senses are another side effect of the whole Gear thing, and he's become used to tuning them out, shutting them off whenever he doesn't have specific use for them so he doesn't turn blind or deaf or crazy. Now, though, it's another thing entirely, his brain ready to break down the feel of skin on skin into its tiniest components-the small changes in pressure, the scrape of calluses, and the weight of that gaze, observing his reactions to everything.
A challenge.
That's certainly familiar enough. Makes it easier to worm a hand up Ky's shirt, run a tongue along his collarbone, and not think. Eventually, he gets the blasted shirt out of the way to run a palm across his chest, and Ky stiffens in all the good ways, fingers digging into his sides, head bowing to muffle a gasp against Sol's shoulder.
"Hey. Hey," he says, or tries to because it's suddenly hard to talk, and that's not entirely due to his face buried in Ky's hair. "How about-"
A jerky nod.
Trying to maneuver both of them over to the cot in the dark should be easier, he thinks, or at least go over with fewer pratfalls, like bumping into the desk and knocking over his sword, or getting knees and elbows in the wrong places trying to fit together.
The kid's gotten a good hold of his hair again and drags him in for another round of spit-swapping, but there's that goddamn feeling of vulnerability again, covering Ky's body with his own and feeling his frantic heartbeat, the fine thrill that's raising the hairs on his body. The kid's more nervous about this than he's letting on.
Well, duh.
"…I'll be careful."
There's a number of responses one could expect to this, but not a moment of wide-eyed incredulity, before the kid bites his own fist to stifle a guffaw.
"So glad to be amusing."
"I just-" A snort. "You-" More snickering. "We just killed half a mountainside full-of things that kept trying to rip me in half. And two days ago-you happily knocked me into a wall. And now you think you can hurt me-with this."
"Fuck you."
"I think-that was the plan," Ky says wryly, and pulls him back down.
After that, they seriously get to work, pushing clothes out of the way, a hissed curse here and there when something gets stuck. Whoever's designed the uniforms should get an award for being a stuck-up Catholic prick, since the sheer number of buckles and zips is more effective than any chastity belt. Admittedly, it's made a bit more complicated than it already is by the fact that he is rather busy moving, but Ky's just as much to blame, squirming and forcing him to interrupt the task for some more groping.
Hilarious, really, that he ever expected the kid to play the part of the virginal altar boy.
It's almost a relief to finally get the fucking pants open, and when he wraps a hand around both their cocks, Ky grabs onto him like a vise. Having him like this should be some kind of victory, sweaty and disheveled without that iron command, but all Sol can think about is how good it feels, the best damn thing, and for once, the inner critics are mercifully quiet.
Keeping it down's kind of hard, though he thought the kid would have more problems with that than him-but Ky gives his cues silently, a twist of his fingers, a gasp against his ear. He'd love to pay more attention, actually, to commit to memory exactly what it is that's making Ky shiver, what brings out that staccato burst of breath, but right now, it's kind of difficult to parse anything more complex than those things, and what they do to him. So he just keeps going, lost in skin and scent and rhythm, knowing that this isn't going to last long.
Still, it's almost a surprise when the kid arcs against him, entire body going taut like a bowstring, and bites out a strangled groan-
"Sol."
-and then the tension just spills over, leaving him to shudder to a breathless halt.
Catching his breath takes longer than it should, afterwards, a languid satisfaction spreading through him. It's kind of funny that a good fuck does the same no matter what you are, or where, and he sees no reason not to indulge in that pleasant tiredness for a while, lying with his face pressed against Ky's shoulder, inhaling. Eventually, a hand comes to rest on his neck, stroking slowly back and forth.
Huh.
He wasn't expecting fringe benefits here, but that's certainly nothing to complain about. Part of him is trying to remember the last time he got a neck rub, but the rest can't be assed to think about much of anything. It's just nice to enjoy this without the predicted post-coital guilt trip. Sol was willing to bet that the kid would claim temporary insanity and rush off to the nearest confessional to crucify himself.
Speaking of crucifixion… he shifts, feeling metal digging into his sternum, quite certain that there's an elaborate imprint on both of them. The hand on his neck freezes in mid-motion, Ky tensing up beneath him.
"Is that… alright?"
"Hm?"
His brain isn't quite ready to resume normal operation just yet. The kid's looking at him like he got caught sneaking cookies from the jar, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks that makes him more attractive than is fair.
"I mean… that's normal, right?"
Well, damn. There's the anvil of responsibility, dropping on him again.
There's a word for what you are. I'll give you a hint. Starts with a "c".
"Yeah. Yeah, sure. Just-trinket." He peels the cross off his chest, handing it back to Ky.
"Oh. Sorry about that." Ky shrugs, the pendant sliding off his shoulder and onto the pillow. "Better?"
"Sure." He stretches out again, blatantly ignoring the idea that he's probably rather heavy. If Ky wants him off, he'll complain. "Pet away."
- Fin -
-----
A/N: I can't even blame this on anyone. *cough* C&C is welcome, as always. Here is the continuation of that little thing.
<< Return to Guilty Gear Index | Return to Fanfiction Index >>