[Fic] crystalfilm - III
Title: crystalfilm (III)
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Hayasaka Natsuhiko, Yomohiro Tomoe | Natsuhiko/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,586 (III); 5,483 (total)
Rating: M
Warning/s: student-teacher relationship, graphic sexual content between an adult and a minor
Summary: It's a very different feeling to be wanted. | natsuhiko, tomoe, and the tragedy of a stop-motion picture
Disclaimer: Natsuhiko belongs to Telle and Ayyah!
Notes: natsuhiko is the son of aoi and akira in a different au. watch me build something up just so i can pornify it. THERE ARE NO LIMITS #30DaysofErotica telle this is for u. happy birthday and i sincerely wish you all, all, all the best! :* title and lj-cut are from crystalfilm by little dragon
I. | II. | III.
III.
She shouldn't be doing this, she shouldn't for a myriad of reasons that all spread out like stars in her mind, so far she can't grasp them, faint echoes that fade to stardust when he kisses her with a bravado that belies the trembling of his fingers as he cups her cheek. No, she must tell him, threading her fingers through the bright flame of his hair. No, she must say, as she parts her lips and runs her tongue along his bottom lip.
Natsuhiko stutters on an exhale and opens his mouth, and this time her thoughts scatter to silence.
His eyes flutter shut, so young, his lashes fanning across the top of his cheekbones, so innocent, his hand tentatively settling on her shoulder. She leans back and he follows her, tipping his head when she places a finger to his lips, and watches his expression shift to a wide-eyed look of awe when she undoes her hair and lets it fall to her shoulders.
"Y-You're beautiful," he says, hushed and reverent, blushing at the way he stammers, looking to one side and scratching the back of his head. "I mean, you've always b-been beautiful."
She smiles at this, irrevocably touched, her chest slowly filling with a warm curl of affection which prompts her to take his chin and bring him close for another kiss. His fingertips are warm against the hollow of her throat, skimming with an experimental brush against her collarbones. She hums against his mouth, a quiet sound of approval that emboldens him to tug on the collar of her blouse, his grip faltering for a second before it gives a more sedate pull.
She wraps her fingers around his and directs them to the first button. He hesitates, drawing back slightly, but she feels him swallow and then he is fumbling with her collar, struggling to undo the button, gritting his teeth when his nails catch at a stray thread.
She huffs a small smile, pressing her lips against his temple, his cheek, the base of his jaw. His Adam's apple bobs when she kisses his pulse point, and he finally undoes the button with a victorious "ha!", flushing when he realizes he's said it out loud.
He begins unfastening the rest of her buttons with such a determined expression marred only by the flush that travels across the bridge of his nose and stains his cheeks. It's endearing, she allows herself to think, and she looks at the tip of his tongue poking out of his teeth, his eyebrows crinkled in concentration like it would be wont to do during a particularly complicated lesson.
For all his determination, his hands begin trembling more and more as he reaches the last of her buttons and when both flaps of her blouse fall open, he is staring at her with such ardent admiration that heats the back of her neck and crawls down her spine in a slow roil.
The way he looks at her makes her feel as if she is coveted, a jewel to be adored and cherished, his tongue running along his full lower lip, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
He meets her gaze, eyes dark, and when she lifts up a hand to brush strands of hair from his forehead, he grips her wrist and presses a chaste kiss against the ridge of bone, his lips parting and skimming an open-mouthed caress up the side of her thumb, her palm.
No, she must say, because she is taking his childhood away from him and peeling it with a selfish desire to have something that will only be hers, owning this first time an expression of such want has crossed his face as she shrugs her blouse off and lets it pool by her waist.
There is a heat in his gaze that spreads to her belly, between her thighs, an unfurling ache which she alleviates by shifting her legs, his gaze drawn to her skirt, her stockinged feet, head shooting up when she takes his hand and places it on her breast above the cloth of the brassiere. He sends her an uncertain glance and she nods, his breath catching when he runs his thumb over the fabric, her back arching into his touch as it sears across her nipple, her eyelashes fluttering. He repeats the motion with more pressure, and she sighs a soft moan.
When she leans back to the center of her bed, he follows her, his hand splaying tentatively over her stomach, curling to a loose fist and skimming along her side. He tugs on the strap of her brassiere with a forefinger, more forceful than necessary and it flicks back with a snap. He opens his mouth for a hasty apology but she captures her lips in his, an ardent kiss he immediately responds to - a tad to the right of unmethodical and messy but entirely too genuine, too real, and she reaches behind her to undo her clasps and toss the brassiere to the side of the bed. His hand comes up to cup her breast, his palm curving around warm and naked flesh, and he moans into her mouth, uninhibited and reckless.
"Take off your clothes," she breathes, and he scrambles back to shrug off his shirt and throw it away, tottering unsteadily when he pulls off his pants. His arms are warm when he rejoins her on the bed, the side of his thigh pressed against hers when he glides his hand over the top of her breasts. His breath is warm on her sternum, his lips light, and when she cards her fingers through his hair and holds him closer, he runs his lips down the valley of her breasts in such an artless, hasty manner that becomes him.
He takes her nipple in his mouth, a too-strong tug which sends a splinter of pain that gradually melts into the beginnings of pleasure.
She groans, and he passes his lips over the underside of her breast, bearing down on it with a sharp nip of teeth when her hand finds his inner thigh, coasting up to his length. His voice breaks in the middle of a strained gasp, a "Sensei" that is lost in a helpless moan, and she wants to tell him No, as she takes his cock in her hand, my name is Tomoe, as she runs her thumb over his head, spreading the pre-come to his shaft and pumping - my name is Tomoe.
He bucks against her, his lips finding her shoulder and pressing heedless kisses more tongue and teeth, his hand dropping to her thigh and gripping, finding purchase as he thrusts into her fingers with a reckless abandon that she quells with an abrupt stop of her hand.
He groans, nosing her collarbones, her neck, and she flicks her thumb against the underside of his shaft before releasing it, pushing him back on the bed and fitting her knees on either side of his hips.
There is a wild, hungry look in his eyes, and it lights an inferno in her, his haste somehow tracing up the points where they meet: an electric surge thrumming through her skin urging her to lift her skirt and to pull her stockings halfway down her thighs, the garter stretching tight and painful against her, keeping her grounded as she slides her panties down and spreads herself open to him.
He gulps; she sees the shift of his throat and the vein in his jaw, and she reaches for one of his hands, smoothing over his knuckles with her thumb until his fist unclenches, catching his forefinger in her grasp to rest it between her folds. He trails it down her slit, sliding across her slippery flesh because she is drenched, sopping, arching her back when he circles her clit, bucking against his finger when he slips it to the first knuckle inside her.
She takes his cock and slaps his hand away, looking at his face to catch every shift of expression that she can selfishly claim for herself. His eyes widen when she yanks her stockings and panties aside so she can guide him to her, lining him against her entrance.
He falters, his hand trembling on her arm.
"I-I've never done this before," he admits in one breath, quick, hushed, like it is a shameful secret to be telling her.
No, she thinks, and she smiles, reaching forward to cup his cheek almost tenderly as she sinks into him. This is mine.
He opens his mouth in a soundless moan, his eyes clinched tight, knuckles white where he grips her arm. She stills, letting herself adjust to his length and the way he fills the aching emptiness in her, stroking a gasp of pleasure when he thrusts with a jerk of his hips. She bears down on his chest with her palm flat on his sternum, drawing a staggered rhythm that she rides; there, the mindful pleasure on his face; there, the wild beat of his heart.
It doesn't take him long to reach his climax, his thighs tensing beneath before he comes with a hoarse cry. He arches beneath her palms, his red hair messy and untamed, his eyes half-lidded - watching her like she will always be the right thing in a wrong world.
"Yes," she whispers, and though she aches with an unfulfilled yearning, with Natsuhiko she feels patched-up complete.
previous.
- note - p.s. the goal was not to write something that would be commented on with "WELL THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY" but to write a fic that will make the reader say "WELL THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY…after 4k words of build-up"
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/13868.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Crossroads
Characters: Hayasaka Natsuhiko, Yomohiro Tomoe | Natsuhiko/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,586 (III); 5,483 (total)
Rating: M
Warning/s: student-teacher relationship, graphic sexual content between an adult and a minor
Summary: It's a very different feeling to be wanted. | natsuhiko, tomoe, and the tragedy of a stop-motion picture
Disclaimer: Natsuhiko belongs to Telle and Ayyah!
Notes: natsuhiko is the son of aoi and akira in a different au. watch me build something up just so i can pornify it. THERE ARE NO LIMITS #30DaysofErotica telle this is for u. happy birthday and i sincerely wish you all, all, all the best! :* title and lj-cut are from crystalfilm by little dragon
I. | II. | III.
III.
She shouldn't be doing this, she shouldn't for a myriad of reasons that all spread out like stars in her mind, so far she can't grasp them, faint echoes that fade to stardust when he kisses her with a bravado that belies the trembling of his fingers as he cups her cheek. No, she must tell him, threading her fingers through the bright flame of his hair. No, she must say, as she parts her lips and runs her tongue along his bottom lip.
Natsuhiko stutters on an exhale and opens his mouth, and this time her thoughts scatter to silence.
His eyes flutter shut, so young, his lashes fanning across the top of his cheekbones, so innocent, his hand tentatively settling on her shoulder. She leans back and he follows her, tipping his head when she places a finger to his lips, and watches his expression shift to a wide-eyed look of awe when she undoes her hair and lets it fall to her shoulders.
"Y-You're beautiful," he says, hushed and reverent, blushing at the way he stammers, looking to one side and scratching the back of his head. "I mean, you've always b-been beautiful."
She smiles at this, irrevocably touched, her chest slowly filling with a warm curl of affection which prompts her to take his chin and bring him close for another kiss. His fingertips are warm against the hollow of her throat, skimming with an experimental brush against her collarbones. She hums against his mouth, a quiet sound of approval that emboldens him to tug on the collar of her blouse, his grip faltering for a second before it gives a more sedate pull.
She wraps her fingers around his and directs them to the first button. He hesitates, drawing back slightly, but she feels him swallow and then he is fumbling with her collar, struggling to undo the button, gritting his teeth when his nails catch at a stray thread.
She huffs a small smile, pressing her lips against his temple, his cheek, the base of his jaw. His Adam's apple bobs when she kisses his pulse point, and he finally undoes the button with a victorious "ha!", flushing when he realizes he's said it out loud.
He begins unfastening the rest of her buttons with such a determined expression marred only by the flush that travels across the bridge of his nose and stains his cheeks. It's endearing, she allows herself to think, and she looks at the tip of his tongue poking out of his teeth, his eyebrows crinkled in concentration like it would be wont to do during a particularly complicated lesson.
For all his determination, his hands begin trembling more and more as he reaches the last of her buttons and when both flaps of her blouse fall open, he is staring at her with such ardent admiration that heats the back of her neck and crawls down her spine in a slow roil.
The way he looks at her makes her feel as if she is coveted, a jewel to be adored and cherished, his tongue running along his full lower lip, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.
He meets her gaze, eyes dark, and when she lifts up a hand to brush strands of hair from his forehead, he grips her wrist and presses a chaste kiss against the ridge of bone, his lips parting and skimming an open-mouthed caress up the side of her thumb, her palm.
No, she must say, because she is taking his childhood away from him and peeling it with a selfish desire to have something that will only be hers, owning this first time an expression of such want has crossed his face as she shrugs her blouse off and lets it pool by her waist.
There is a heat in his gaze that spreads to her belly, between her thighs, an unfurling ache which she alleviates by shifting her legs, his gaze drawn to her skirt, her stockinged feet, head shooting up when she takes his hand and places it on her breast above the cloth of the brassiere. He sends her an uncertain glance and she nods, his breath catching when he runs his thumb over the fabric, her back arching into his touch as it sears across her nipple, her eyelashes fluttering. He repeats the motion with more pressure, and she sighs a soft moan.
When she leans back to the center of her bed, he follows her, his hand splaying tentatively over her stomach, curling to a loose fist and skimming along her side. He tugs on the strap of her brassiere with a forefinger, more forceful than necessary and it flicks back with a snap. He opens his mouth for a hasty apology but she captures her lips in his, an ardent kiss he immediately responds to - a tad to the right of unmethodical and messy but entirely too genuine, too real, and she reaches behind her to undo her clasps and toss the brassiere to the side of the bed. His hand comes up to cup her breast, his palm curving around warm and naked flesh, and he moans into her mouth, uninhibited and reckless.
"Take off your clothes," she breathes, and he scrambles back to shrug off his shirt and throw it away, tottering unsteadily when he pulls off his pants. His arms are warm when he rejoins her on the bed, the side of his thigh pressed against hers when he glides his hand over the top of her breasts. His breath is warm on her sternum, his lips light, and when she cards her fingers through his hair and holds him closer, he runs his lips down the valley of her breasts in such an artless, hasty manner that becomes him.
He takes her nipple in his mouth, a too-strong tug which sends a splinter of pain that gradually melts into the beginnings of pleasure.
She groans, and he passes his lips over the underside of her breast, bearing down on it with a sharp nip of teeth when her hand finds his inner thigh, coasting up to his length. His voice breaks in the middle of a strained gasp, a "Sensei" that is lost in a helpless moan, and she wants to tell him No, as she takes his cock in her hand, my name is Tomoe, as she runs her thumb over his head, spreading the pre-come to his shaft and pumping - my name is Tomoe.
He bucks against her, his lips finding her shoulder and pressing heedless kisses more tongue and teeth, his hand dropping to her thigh and gripping, finding purchase as he thrusts into her fingers with a reckless abandon that she quells with an abrupt stop of her hand.
He groans, nosing her collarbones, her neck, and she flicks her thumb against the underside of his shaft before releasing it, pushing him back on the bed and fitting her knees on either side of his hips.
There is a wild, hungry look in his eyes, and it lights an inferno in her, his haste somehow tracing up the points where they meet: an electric surge thrumming through her skin urging her to lift her skirt and to pull her stockings halfway down her thighs, the garter stretching tight and painful against her, keeping her grounded as she slides her panties down and spreads herself open to him.
He gulps; she sees the shift of his throat and the vein in his jaw, and she reaches for one of his hands, smoothing over his knuckles with her thumb until his fist unclenches, catching his forefinger in her grasp to rest it between her folds. He trails it down her slit, sliding across her slippery flesh because she is drenched, sopping, arching her back when he circles her clit, bucking against his finger when he slips it to the first knuckle inside her.
She takes his cock and slaps his hand away, looking at his face to catch every shift of expression that she can selfishly claim for herself. His eyes widen when she yanks her stockings and panties aside so she can guide him to her, lining him against her entrance.
He falters, his hand trembling on her arm.
"I-I've never done this before," he admits in one breath, quick, hushed, like it is a shameful secret to be telling her.
No, she thinks, and she smiles, reaching forward to cup his cheek almost tenderly as she sinks into him. This is mine.
He opens his mouth in a soundless moan, his eyes clinched tight, knuckles white where he grips her arm. She stills, letting herself adjust to his length and the way he fills the aching emptiness in her, stroking a gasp of pleasure when he thrusts with a jerk of his hips. She bears down on his chest with her palm flat on his sternum, drawing a staggered rhythm that she rides; there, the mindful pleasure on his face; there, the wild beat of his heart.
It doesn't take him long to reach his climax, his thighs tensing beneath before he comes with a hoarse cry. He arches beneath her palms, his red hair messy and untamed, his eyes half-lidded - watching her like she will always be the right thing in a wrong world.
"Yes," she whispers, and though she aches with an unfulfilled yearning, with Natsuhiko she feels patched-up complete.
previous.
- note - p.s. the goal was not to write something that would be commented on with "WELL THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY" but to write a fic that will make the reader say "WELL THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY…after 4k words of build-up"
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/13868.html. Please comment there using OpenID.