PWDR Fic: Drowning In Berlin
Word Count:: 872
Rating: 15/R for themes
Warnings: Slash
Characters: Kristoph Gavin and Miles Edgeworth (AU)
Author: llamaramauk
Epilogue to this thread.
It's dawn when he wakes, the light from the window tinged blue, frost spider-webbing the glass, and his skin chilled where the quilt has half-slipped from the bed during the night.
He yawns, stretching cramped muscles and rubbing his left elbow almost absently, the bruise smarting under his fingers. He smiles at that, pulling the quilt back over his shoulders and rolling onto his stomach.
He knows exactly when it happened - his elbow cracking against the wall as Kristoph's shoulder pressed against his, pushing him against it with no warning, teeth and tongue on his throat and expert fingers working at the buttons on his shirt.
He'd laughed, returned the favour with interest, Kristoph hissing in protest as he unzipped his pants, and the duel had continued for the length of the hallway, both already half-undressed by the time they reached the balcony. And then mouth and hands on him, teasing, smiling, bringing him to the brink several times over. Kris scolding him not to look down - to look at the view - laughing when he disobeyed or swore back at him in German, fingernails digging into his thigh as a punishment for it.
Then, Kristoph kneeling over him, face and torso framed by an impossibly blue sky; afternoon sunlight turning now-unruly hair into spun gold and shadowing his face as he laughs. Kristoph, leaning in to kiss him, biting his lip softly while cool fingers and manicured nails trace across every inch of his skin and linger around his throat, leaving goose bumps in their wake. And the feel of Kristoph's skin under his own hands, the taste of him on his lips, the heat of that body against his own.
The sun-warmed balcony almost burning the soles of his feet as Kristoph's weight pushes onto him and he's pinned back on the bench; Kristoph's hands gripping the back of it on either side of his head, hair falling forwards onto his face and neck. He nearly comes then, in that instant - the effort not to almost a physical pain as he slips his hands under Kristoph's arms and cups his shoulder blades, holding him still, trying to breathe.
"Stop." The word is almost a gasp, and Kris laughs again, but this time it's hoarse, and he can feel the answering tension of the other man's body under his hands.
He doesn't know how long they had stayed like that - only that they did, Kristoph's head bowed, their foreheads pressed together, neither able to speak and their breath ragged. And then Kristoph had begun to move - a painfully slow rhythm that dragged out every sensation into long moments of agony - the effort of it reflected in the tautness of muscle in Kristoph's arms where they rested against his shoulders and in the concentration on his face. And his hands on Kristoph's hips, thumbs against his stomach and fingers in the arch of his back, conspiring willingly in the slow, interminable torture of it all.
Suddenly, time speeds up again - Kristoph's fingers on his throat and in his hair, less gentle now, pulling him into a kiss that is predatory and rough. When he's released, his head is yanked back, exposing his throat to long fingers that close around it almost hungrily, thumbs pressing against his windpipe, the back of the bench digging into his neck in response to the pressure.
And then he feels the panic, the same feeling that is always there, just below the surface. Waiting for his nightmares or the feeling of the ground moving under his feet until it bubbles up into a desperate and uncontrollable fear that reduces him to less than a man; stripping away rational thought and what he knows to be true until there's nothing left but a nine-year-old boy, the terror, the darkness, and the shame.
But now he's awake, and the ground is perfectly still. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears and he can feel his pulse spiralling rapidly as the panic tries to take hold. It becomes a struggle between mind and body for control as he wills himself to remain still while his lungs burn for air; to resist the instinct to fight those hands that are choking the life out of him. He can't even cry out as he comes, the intensity of it wiping away his control as pinpoints of light sparkle in the sun and the blackness seeps into the edges of his vision. And then he feels those fingers spasm and tighten, and rational thought slips away. He knows he struggled then, the panic finally winning out in that long moment before the hands go slack at last and he desperately gulps air into his lungs as Kristoph collapses against him, breathing hard.
And then the shower. The steam easing the soreness in his throat and the tension in his muscles; Kristoph's hair cascading down over the spider tattoo as he washed it; and soft laughter as Kristoph traced the marks of his fingers on his neck.
He smiles again, pulling the quilt closer around him, and closing his eyes against the cold sunlight. For tonight, he's not afraid of the nightmares, and for once, he wills sleep to come.
Rating: 15/R for themes
Warnings: Slash
Characters: Kristoph Gavin and Miles Edgeworth (AU)
Author: llamaramauk
Epilogue to this thread.
It's dawn when he wakes, the light from the window tinged blue, frost spider-webbing the glass, and his skin chilled where the quilt has half-slipped from the bed during the night.
He yawns, stretching cramped muscles and rubbing his left elbow almost absently, the bruise smarting under his fingers. He smiles at that, pulling the quilt back over his shoulders and rolling onto his stomach.
He knows exactly when it happened - his elbow cracking against the wall as Kristoph's shoulder pressed against his, pushing him against it with no warning, teeth and tongue on his throat and expert fingers working at the buttons on his shirt.
He'd laughed, returned the favour with interest, Kristoph hissing in protest as he unzipped his pants, and the duel had continued for the length of the hallway, both already half-undressed by the time they reached the balcony. And then mouth and hands on him, teasing, smiling, bringing him to the brink several times over. Kris scolding him not to look down - to look at the view - laughing when he disobeyed or swore back at him in German, fingernails digging into his thigh as a punishment for it.
Then, Kristoph kneeling over him, face and torso framed by an impossibly blue sky; afternoon sunlight turning now-unruly hair into spun gold and shadowing his face as he laughs. Kristoph, leaning in to kiss him, biting his lip softly while cool fingers and manicured nails trace across every inch of his skin and linger around his throat, leaving goose bumps in their wake. And the feel of Kristoph's skin under his own hands, the taste of him on his lips, the heat of that body against his own.
The sun-warmed balcony almost burning the soles of his feet as Kristoph's weight pushes onto him and he's pinned back on the bench; Kristoph's hands gripping the back of it on either side of his head, hair falling forwards onto his face and neck. He nearly comes then, in that instant - the effort not to almost a physical pain as he slips his hands under Kristoph's arms and cups his shoulder blades, holding him still, trying to breathe.
"Stop." The word is almost a gasp, and Kris laughs again, but this time it's hoarse, and he can feel the answering tension of the other man's body under his hands.
He doesn't know how long they had stayed like that - only that they did, Kristoph's head bowed, their foreheads pressed together, neither able to speak and their breath ragged. And then Kristoph had begun to move - a painfully slow rhythm that dragged out every sensation into long moments of agony - the effort of it reflected in the tautness of muscle in Kristoph's arms where they rested against his shoulders and in the concentration on his face. And his hands on Kristoph's hips, thumbs against his stomach and fingers in the arch of his back, conspiring willingly in the slow, interminable torture of it all.
Suddenly, time speeds up again - Kristoph's fingers on his throat and in his hair, less gentle now, pulling him into a kiss that is predatory and rough. When he's released, his head is yanked back, exposing his throat to long fingers that close around it almost hungrily, thumbs pressing against his windpipe, the back of the bench digging into his neck in response to the pressure.
And then he feels the panic, the same feeling that is always there, just below the surface. Waiting for his nightmares or the feeling of the ground moving under his feet until it bubbles up into a desperate and uncontrollable fear that reduces him to less than a man; stripping away rational thought and what he knows to be true until there's nothing left but a nine-year-old boy, the terror, the darkness, and the shame.
But now he's awake, and the ground is perfectly still. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears and he can feel his pulse spiralling rapidly as the panic tries to take hold. It becomes a struggle between mind and body for control as he wills himself to remain still while his lungs burn for air; to resist the instinct to fight those hands that are choking the life out of him. He can't even cry out as he comes, the intensity of it wiping away his control as pinpoints of light sparkle in the sun and the blackness seeps into the edges of his vision. And then he feels those fingers spasm and tighten, and rational thought slips away. He knows he struggled then, the panic finally winning out in that long moment before the hands go slack at last and he desperately gulps air into his lungs as Kristoph collapses against him, breathing hard.
And then the shower. The steam easing the soreness in his throat and the tension in his muscles; Kristoph's hair cascading down over the spider tattoo as he washed it; and soft laughter as Kristoph traced the marks of his fingers on his neck.
He smiles again, pulling the quilt closer around him, and closing his eyes against the cold sunlight. For tonight, he's not afraid of the nightmares, and for once, he wills sleep to come.