[Fic] come take a look through my telescope
Title: come take a look through my telescope
Fandom: Crossroads (post-The Way Back)
Characters: Fujioka Midori, Yomohiro Tomoe | Midori/Tomoe
Word Count: ~1555
Rating: M
Warning/s: consensual sex, fingering, run-on sentences
Summary: They never seem to finish this particular movie. | Midori and Tomoe watch When Harry Met Sally redux
Disclaimer: Crossroads is the brainchild of the the wonderful mods at I:U. Midori is Arah’s character and I’m just borrowing him for a bit of dirty filthy porn.
Notes: HAPPY NEW YEAR FIC HAHAHA! Also a milestone because dirty words have been used which I have never used before and I literally had to look away to type those. Been too long since I wrote a fic. Anyway, Ayyah you know that prompt is a song that’s inherently nsfw so the resulting answer is also nsfw. Arah-- I’m sorry. HUHUHU
Her theater room isn’t as technologically fortified as Hiroaki’s is, but for the purposes of their movie-watching activity it would suit just fine. She slides the disc into the player as Midori shuts the door behind him with a soft click.
“You didn’t have trouble putting Haruka and Selene to sleep?” She glances at him and pushes herself off the floor to one of the couches. He shakes his head and takes the seat next to her.
She allows herself a sigh of relief before pressing the ‘play’ button.
He’s quiet for several seconds as the first few minutes of the movie flash in the screen.
“When Harry Met Sally?” From the periphery of her vision, he turns his head slightly towards her direction. She hides the subtle upward tilt of her lips with the back of her palm.
“We never finished it. Unless you want to watch another movie?” She meets his eyes, lips pressed tight together, one brow raised.
He looks at her intently, a minute wrinkle creasing his forehead, before he seems to find what he is looking for. He hums thoughtfully and shakes his head, reaching for a can of root beer from the ones placed precariously on the arm of his chair.
They watch the movie in companionable silence.
They are down to their last two cans of root beer, one for each of them, when Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan start conversing inside the sandwich shop.
Midori flicks the lid of his drink and they listen to Billy Crystal’s affronted: “Yeah, well, they haven’t faked it with me, okay?”
Tomoe swirls the can in her hand and mouths the lines along with Meg Ryan’s smug “How do you know?”
He tips his can back, downing the rest of the beverage. “So- have you ever?”
“Mmhmm?” She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen.
“Have you ever faked it? You never answered before.” He sets his can on the junction of their armrests.
She takes a dainty sip and Meg Ryan’s moans echo against the walls of the room, a dirty chorus of sighs and groans cresting higher and higher in pitch until it reaches its peak. But he isn’t paying attention to the movie and instead looks at her with an intensity he would normally accord to his journal articles or book manuscripts.
It gives her a thrill.
She raises her can towards his direction in an approximation of a toast. “What do you think, Fujioka?”
She tilts her head slightly so he would see the shadows from the television screen playing across the small, smug quirk of her lips.
Much of the movie is lost, pushed to the background of her memory and replaced by different sensations:
the noise of the cans knocked against the floor
the heady scent of him as she leans over her armrest
the heat of his mouth against hers
the residual taste of root beer lingering on the tip of his tongue
the darkness behind her eyelids as she closes her eyes and surrenders.
He kisses with a ferocity that leaves her breathless and wanting, tugging on the lapel of his button-up shirt to convey what she wants without having to disentangle herself from him. He huffs out a breathy laugh and she could’ve brought herself to resent it but he slides an arm around her waist and a hand beneath her shirt, and it’s too warm by a mile to be sidetracked from what was her original intention all along.
Somehow, she finds herself off her couch and onto his lap in a maneuver that would’ve been difficult to recreate in any other circumstance, but she’s too distracted to even give it a lingering thought. Especially as he runs his palms over the dip of her back, and rational thought turns into mist completely.
She presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss by the base of his ear. He tugs on the hem of her shirt impatiently.
“Do you think I’m faking now, Fujioka?” She breathes, taking one of his hands and guiding it past the waistband of her underwear, to the wet heat between her thighs. “Do you?”
He brushes his index finger against her clit and her breath stutters.
She presses her mouth against his jaw and he turns his head to kiss her again. From behind them, Meg Ryan says something, the screen flaring bright for an instant that when she pulls back to tug on his shirt, he is thrown in bright relief against the red weaving pattern of the couch. His cheeks are flushed and he is looking at her intently.
She pauses and raises one hand to ruffle his hair; he takes her wrist and presses a kiss against her palm and it would’ve been affectionate-
But then he slides one finger inside her and her world blazes into bright heat and desire.
She likes it, she thinks, or he just knows how to touch her- He adds another finger and it slides much, much too easily: a half-fulfillment in the heat of their yearning. When he curls his fingers just so, she can’t help but stutter his name in a malformed whisper; when he runs his lips against the fluttering pulse of her neck, she pushes herself against his hand, seeking the friction which makes her skin thrum and burn.
She holds onto his shoulder and moves her hips in the rhythm he sets, so needy that the “Please”s and “More”s and “Yes”s gasp out from her mouth like a wanton prayer he answers with a hard thrust in a new angle.
The wave crests and hovers on the precipice of a climax that she can almost taste the euphoria at the tip of her tongue echoing within her body, but he pulls back before she can spiral into a fall.
He fumbles with the button of his trousers and she swats his hand away to take over the job of undoing his zipper. Too slow, she says brusquely, let me- He sits back and watches her with pupils so dilated the brown irises of his eyes is a thin line circling the rim, looking so breathless and wanting that it begins the tide within her anew.
When he lifts his hips to slide his pants and briefs down, she almost falls off the seat but manages to loop an arm around his shoulder. He eases her back against him with a hand to her thigh, sliding to cup the back of her knee and hitch her legs wider. It takes a bit of awkward fumbling and careful positioning to push her underwear to one side and guide the tip of his cock against her entrance, but it’s heat and want and moremore that she cannot be bothered to give a damn, not when his hands are on her hips and he’s tugging her down as he thrusts up.
His eyelids flutter, lips parting in a soundless moan. The desire molds his expression into a portrait of ecstasy on the point of attainment, close but not quite there. She presses her mouth against his, sharing his gasps as she shifts up and sinks down, wresting a guttural moan from him that she strokes with another push-pull, up-down, rise-fall, a circuit connecting until his breath hitches and the hand against her knee tightens its grip fractionally.
She keeps silent but for a low, drawn-out murmur when he rocks his pelvis against hers, with hers, frantic and out-of-rhythm but just the perfect angle and the perfect pressure and Yes, yes there-
His fingers dig into her skin as she grinds against him and the tidal wave rises into a crescendo brought impossibly higher when he slides his hand between them and presses his thumb against her clit. She feels empowered and feverish and complete, hovering on the brink of falling with his cock deep inside her and his mouth against her throat, their orgasm within reach.
There, yes-
He snaps his hips with a forceful thrust and the wave finally crashes, her fingers curling around the electric edge of her climax, as he follows her just as he always had.
The blank screen of the television signals the end of the movie but she feels too languid to get up and turn the machinery off. He seems to be in accordance with her because he lazily runs his hand up and down her back, beneath the shirt they never bothered to take off. Her knee digs into a button by the side of the couch and his shirt is missing a button; but the thoughts stop there and refuse to connect. She doesn’t mind.
“Verdict?” She murmurs against the side of his neck, where her cheek is tucked in a gesture of fatigued affection.
He presses a kiss to the top of her head.
“Not faked and very satisfying.”
She laughs softly and shifts closer to him. “You give yourself too much credit.”
“But you liked it.” His hand skims down her leg and pauses to throw the offending button away.
She hums noncommittally because he knows her too well that she doesn’t need to voice out her answer, and cups her palm against his wrist, tracing a lemniscate against the beating pulse under his skin.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/6097.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Crossroads (post-The Way Back)
Characters: Fujioka Midori, Yomohiro Tomoe | Midori/Tomoe
Word Count: ~1555
Rating: M
Warning/s: consensual sex, fingering, run-on sentences
Summary: They never seem to finish this particular movie. | Midori and Tomoe watch When Harry Met Sally redux
Disclaimer: Crossroads is the brainchild of the the wonderful mods at I:U. Midori is Arah’s character and I’m just borrowing him for a bit of dirty filthy porn.
Notes: HAPPY NEW YEAR FIC HAHAHA! Also a milestone because dirty words have been used which I have never used before and I literally had to look away to type those. Been too long since I wrote a fic. Anyway, Ayyah you know that prompt is a song that’s inherently nsfw so the resulting answer is also nsfw. Arah-- I’m sorry. HUHUHU
Her theater room isn’t as technologically fortified as Hiroaki’s is, but for the purposes of their movie-watching activity it would suit just fine. She slides the disc into the player as Midori shuts the door behind him with a soft click.
“You didn’t have trouble putting Haruka and Selene to sleep?” She glances at him and pushes herself off the floor to one of the couches. He shakes his head and takes the seat next to her.
She allows herself a sigh of relief before pressing the ‘play’ button.
He’s quiet for several seconds as the first few minutes of the movie flash in the screen.
“When Harry Met Sally?” From the periphery of her vision, he turns his head slightly towards her direction. She hides the subtle upward tilt of her lips with the back of her palm.
“We never finished it. Unless you want to watch another movie?” She meets his eyes, lips pressed tight together, one brow raised.
He looks at her intently, a minute wrinkle creasing his forehead, before he seems to find what he is looking for. He hums thoughtfully and shakes his head, reaching for a can of root beer from the ones placed precariously on the arm of his chair.
They watch the movie in companionable silence.
They are down to their last two cans of root beer, one for each of them, when Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan start conversing inside the sandwich shop.
Midori flicks the lid of his drink and they listen to Billy Crystal’s affronted: “Yeah, well, they haven’t faked it with me, okay?”
Tomoe swirls the can in her hand and mouths the lines along with Meg Ryan’s smug “How do you know?”
He tips his can back, downing the rest of the beverage. “So- have you ever?”
“Mmhmm?” She doesn’t take her eyes off the screen.
“Have you ever faked it? You never answered before.” He sets his can on the junction of their armrests.
She takes a dainty sip and Meg Ryan’s moans echo against the walls of the room, a dirty chorus of sighs and groans cresting higher and higher in pitch until it reaches its peak. But he isn’t paying attention to the movie and instead looks at her with an intensity he would normally accord to his journal articles or book manuscripts.
It gives her a thrill.
She raises her can towards his direction in an approximation of a toast. “What do you think, Fujioka?”
She tilts her head slightly so he would see the shadows from the television screen playing across the small, smug quirk of her lips.
Much of the movie is lost, pushed to the background of her memory and replaced by different sensations:
the noise of the cans knocked against the floor
the heady scent of him as she leans over her armrest
the heat of his mouth against hers
the residual taste of root beer lingering on the tip of his tongue
the darkness behind her eyelids as she closes her eyes and surrenders.
He kisses with a ferocity that leaves her breathless and wanting, tugging on the lapel of his button-up shirt to convey what she wants without having to disentangle herself from him. He huffs out a breathy laugh and she could’ve brought herself to resent it but he slides an arm around her waist and a hand beneath her shirt, and it’s too warm by a mile to be sidetracked from what was her original intention all along.
Somehow, she finds herself off her couch and onto his lap in a maneuver that would’ve been difficult to recreate in any other circumstance, but she’s too distracted to even give it a lingering thought. Especially as he runs his palms over the dip of her back, and rational thought turns into mist completely.
She presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss by the base of his ear. He tugs on the hem of her shirt impatiently.
“Do you think I’m faking now, Fujioka?” She breathes, taking one of his hands and guiding it past the waistband of her underwear, to the wet heat between her thighs. “Do you?”
He brushes his index finger against her clit and her breath stutters.
She presses her mouth against his jaw and he turns his head to kiss her again. From behind them, Meg Ryan says something, the screen flaring bright for an instant that when she pulls back to tug on his shirt, he is thrown in bright relief against the red weaving pattern of the couch. His cheeks are flushed and he is looking at her intently.
She pauses and raises one hand to ruffle his hair; he takes her wrist and presses a kiss against her palm and it would’ve been affectionate-
But then he slides one finger inside her and her world blazes into bright heat and desire.
She likes it, she thinks, or he just knows how to touch her- He adds another finger and it slides much, much too easily: a half-fulfillment in the heat of their yearning. When he curls his fingers just so, she can’t help but stutter his name in a malformed whisper; when he runs his lips against the fluttering pulse of her neck, she pushes herself against his hand, seeking the friction which makes her skin thrum and burn.
She holds onto his shoulder and moves her hips in the rhythm he sets, so needy that the “Please”s and “More”s and “Yes”s gasp out from her mouth like a wanton prayer he answers with a hard thrust in a new angle.
The wave crests and hovers on the precipice of a climax that she can almost taste the euphoria at the tip of her tongue echoing within her body, but he pulls back before she can spiral into a fall.
He fumbles with the button of his trousers and she swats his hand away to take over the job of undoing his zipper. Too slow, she says brusquely, let me- He sits back and watches her with pupils so dilated the brown irises of his eyes is a thin line circling the rim, looking so breathless and wanting that it begins the tide within her anew.
When he lifts his hips to slide his pants and briefs down, she almost falls off the seat but manages to loop an arm around his shoulder. He eases her back against him with a hand to her thigh, sliding to cup the back of her knee and hitch her legs wider. It takes a bit of awkward fumbling and careful positioning to push her underwear to one side and guide the tip of his cock against her entrance, but it’s heat and want and moremore that she cannot be bothered to give a damn, not when his hands are on her hips and he’s tugging her down as he thrusts up.
His eyelids flutter, lips parting in a soundless moan. The desire molds his expression into a portrait of ecstasy on the point of attainment, close but not quite there. She presses her mouth against his, sharing his gasps as she shifts up and sinks down, wresting a guttural moan from him that she strokes with another push-pull, up-down, rise-fall, a circuit connecting until his breath hitches and the hand against her knee tightens its grip fractionally.
She keeps silent but for a low, drawn-out murmur when he rocks his pelvis against hers, with hers, frantic and out-of-rhythm but just the perfect angle and the perfect pressure and Yes, yes there-
His fingers dig into her skin as she grinds against him and the tidal wave rises into a crescendo brought impossibly higher when he slides his hand between them and presses his thumb against her clit. She feels empowered and feverish and complete, hovering on the brink of falling with his cock deep inside her and his mouth against her throat, their orgasm within reach.
There, yes-
He snaps his hips with a forceful thrust and the wave finally crashes, her fingers curling around the electric edge of her climax, as he follows her just as he always had.
The blank screen of the television signals the end of the movie but she feels too languid to get up and turn the machinery off. He seems to be in accordance with her because he lazily runs his hand up and down her back, beneath the shirt they never bothered to take off. Her knee digs into a button by the side of the couch and his shirt is missing a button; but the thoughts stop there and refuse to connect. She doesn’t mind.
“Verdict?” She murmurs against the side of his neck, where her cheek is tucked in a gesture of fatigued affection.
He presses a kiss to the top of her head.
“Not faked and very satisfying.”
She laughs softly and shifts closer to him. “You give yourself too much credit.”
“But you liked it.” His hand skims down her leg and pauses to throw the offending button away.
She hums noncommittally because he knows her too well that she doesn’t need to voice out her answer, and cups her palm against his wrist, tracing a lemniscate against the beating pulse under his skin.
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/6097.html. Please comment there using OpenID.