Fic: Early Riser (Elena/Tseng, NC-17)
Okay. This is absolutely shameless comfort-fic, plus cooking. I make no apologies. (It has improved my evening immensely. Worthwhile just for that!)
Early Riser
Food and morning sex can smooth over even entrenched morning lark/night owl discrepencies.
FFVII, Elena/Tseng. 1600 words.
NC-17/MA/Not Worksafe for sex. Also somewhat lacking in plot.
Had Elena been inclined to speculate, when she first met Tseng, she would have guessed that he was a morning person. He was always punctual, always prepared, and in her embarrassingly-frequent daydreams she had pictured him an early riser.
He was not, as she had learned the first time she spent the whole night with him and woke up with him -- to find him still fast asleep, and resistant to waking even when she had to crawl over him to get out of bed. In the intervening months it became clear that it was part of his nature: he slept as late as he possibly could and still be prompt and presentable.
She didn't. She'd always been an early riser, waking with the sun and puttering around with coffee and a crossword, or a bad mystery novel -- ever since the academy, when it was the best time to get a little privacy. So she rolled out of bed over him, eliciting an unconscious plaintive mumble, and went to take a shower.
Elena liked hot showers, but not long ones -- she'd been too long with quasi-military discipline for that --and efficient; efficient until her fingers slid between her legs. She was a little sore; she'd gone hard on Tseng the night before. Stripped off his half-gloves and then pinned his wrists up above his head on the pillow and told him to hold them there, without tying him at all -- told him to hold them there without moving; and he hadn't moved them, because he had control that could take her breath away. (She always had to be tied for games like that; she didn't have that kind of control, and even when she wanted to hold still she'd wind up with her hands tugging on his hair or snapping his hips against her without even realizing that was what she was doing.) He'd held his hands there over his head while she teased and bit and licked, the insides of his wrists shining pale and exposed in the lamplight until she couldn't stand the sight any longer and straddled his hips and rode him hard. Even then, his eyes trained on her face and making low quivering noises, he hadn't moved until she'd told him to -- and then the feel of it, his hands on her breasts and his calluses catching her nipples, sent her over the edge....
...as now the tips of her fingers on her clit sent her over the edge, her knees weak and the hot water cold on her skin, and she turned her face away from the spray so she could catch her breath.
She made coffee and contemplated the contents of her refrigerator. The contents of the takeout boxes were probably toxic waste by now, the milk didn't bear speculating, and the bread was only good by dint of having been frozen. There was a block of cheddar, though, with only a little fuzz on it, and she pulled that out, sliced off the bad bit, and started to grate.
Twenty minutes later her fallback cheese-goo breakfast-slash-lunch-slash-late-night-snack of choice bubbled away on the stove. She turned off the heat and padded back to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, next to Tseng.
"Hey," she said. He mumbled and shifted in his sleep. "Hey," she persisted, nudging his shoulder. "Wake up. There's food."
"Mmph," he said, and then, "Food?"
"Breakfast," she said, and leaned down to kiss him lightly. He met her kiss, pressed another drowsy one to her throat and then to her collarbone, and then toppled her over onto her back in dreamy slow-motion. When his mouth traced a lazy path from her throat to her belly, she decided not to complain about the delay. The brush of his hair against her hip made her squirm. He nuzzled against the inside of her thigh. She spread her legs and rocked her hips encouragingly, and he traced the skin there with the tip of his tongue and said, "Impatient?"
"The food's going to get cold," she said, winding her fingers through his hair and tugging a little.
He laughed. "Is it?" he said. "Well, we mustn't have that." He bent his head, hesitated for one blood-simmering moment, and then closed his lips around her clit.
"Oh," she said, squirming, hips arching: "oh, oh, fuck," which made him laugh against her, the sound reverberating over her cunt and deeper. Her body sparked with little shockwaves, skin hot and too-tight in the morning air. She wound her fingers in his hair and tugged, holding him where she wanted him. When he trailed his fingers up her thigh and then pressed into her -- the calluses of his fingers dragging coarse against her slick flesh -- she couldn't quite bring herself to be embarrassed by the noise she made.
"Come on," she said, "that's it, right there, right there, right there," and he moaned in response which made her moan too, a thin shuddering sound as she squeezed her eyelids shut and trembled into the heat and slick friction. The muscles in her legs tensed, hard and corded and her feet curled and she squirmed and sparked right on the brink and then came, wet, wet and deep and throbbing against his mouth, around his fingers, as he moaned again and swallowed. She raised her head to look at him, vision swimming and something warm and light and unnameable in her chest.
Tseng reared up to his knees, eyes dark and hair loose and cock hard against his stomach. She sat up and reached out without thinking to wrap her hand around him, and he exhaled hard and thrust into her hand, eyes slipping closed. She leaned against him, still shaky with her orgasm, breasts against his side, and stroked -- began to drop her head, but he caught her shoulder to stay her and said, "N-no. Just like this. I -- " He shuddered, and she looked up into his face, a little flushed, right on the edge of control. "I don't know where my stamina's gone." His voice shook.
"It's early," she said, and tightened her grip around him with each stroke. He laughed, moaned, shuddered against her; she could feel the tension in his body against hers, and shifted so that she could lean into him. His breath caught, his mouth opened, she could see the tendons stand out in his neck and then he was coming, warm against her hand and splashing warm onto her belly and hip. She shivered and kissed his shoulder and throat, and he turned his head and kissed her back, pulling her against him and them both down to the bed, sweaty and shaking.
"I expect your food has grown cold," he said, after a moment, reaching for the tissues to clean them both up.
"I think that's all right," she said. He tossed the tissue in the wastebasket and kissed her throat, lazily.
"It can probably be reheated," he said after another moment, nose in her hair and mouth moving against her ear.
"You're going to have to do the reheating. I'd just burn it."
"In a minute," he said, arms around her waist, pulling her against him.
True to his word, he reheated her cheese stuff-- rarebit, he said, not cheese stuff, with such resignation in his voice that it made her laugh -- by adding a little cream and stirring gently over low heat for a while, which proved him to have both more kitchen prowess and more patience than she had. Before he poured the cheese over the toast, he added slices of tomatoes, and then fed her the remainder on slices of an apple she'd forgotten at the bottom of her refrigerator.
"Show-off," she said, taking the apple slice delicately from his fingers with her teeth.
He had cheese goo -- rarebit -- on his fingers, and pressed them against her lips. "I can stop any time you like," he said.
She licked at the pads of his fingers, and then the insides of his knuckles, and smiled, feeling warm and smug indeed. "I'll let you know," she said.
***
And here's the recipe for Elena's cheese stuff.
Early Riser
Food and morning sex can smooth over even entrenched morning lark/night owl discrepencies.
FFVII, Elena/Tseng. 1600 words.
NC-17/MA/Not Worksafe for sex. Also somewhat lacking in plot.
Had Elena been inclined to speculate, when she first met Tseng, she would have guessed that he was a morning person. He was always punctual, always prepared, and in her embarrassingly-frequent daydreams she had pictured him an early riser.
He was not, as she had learned the first time she spent the whole night with him and woke up with him -- to find him still fast asleep, and resistant to waking even when she had to crawl over him to get out of bed. In the intervening months it became clear that it was part of his nature: he slept as late as he possibly could and still be prompt and presentable.
She didn't. She'd always been an early riser, waking with the sun and puttering around with coffee and a crossword, or a bad mystery novel -- ever since the academy, when it was the best time to get a little privacy. So she rolled out of bed over him, eliciting an unconscious plaintive mumble, and went to take a shower.
Elena liked hot showers, but not long ones -- she'd been too long with quasi-military discipline for that --and efficient; efficient until her fingers slid between her legs. She was a little sore; she'd gone hard on Tseng the night before. Stripped off his half-gloves and then pinned his wrists up above his head on the pillow and told him to hold them there, without tying him at all -- told him to hold them there without moving; and he hadn't moved them, because he had control that could take her breath away. (She always had to be tied for games like that; she didn't have that kind of control, and even when she wanted to hold still she'd wind up with her hands tugging on his hair or snapping his hips against her without even realizing that was what she was doing.) He'd held his hands there over his head while she teased and bit and licked, the insides of his wrists shining pale and exposed in the lamplight until she couldn't stand the sight any longer and straddled his hips and rode him hard. Even then, his eyes trained on her face and making low quivering noises, he hadn't moved until she'd told him to -- and then the feel of it, his hands on her breasts and his calluses catching her nipples, sent her over the edge....
...as now the tips of her fingers on her clit sent her over the edge, her knees weak and the hot water cold on her skin, and she turned her face away from the spray so she could catch her breath.
She made coffee and contemplated the contents of her refrigerator. The contents of the takeout boxes were probably toxic waste by now, the milk didn't bear speculating, and the bread was only good by dint of having been frozen. There was a block of cheddar, though, with only a little fuzz on it, and she pulled that out, sliced off the bad bit, and started to grate.
Twenty minutes later her fallback cheese-goo breakfast-slash-lunch-slash-late-night-snack of choice bubbled away on the stove. She turned off the heat and padded back to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, next to Tseng.
"Hey," she said. He mumbled and shifted in his sleep. "Hey," she persisted, nudging his shoulder. "Wake up. There's food."
"Mmph," he said, and then, "Food?"
"Breakfast," she said, and leaned down to kiss him lightly. He met her kiss, pressed another drowsy one to her throat and then to her collarbone, and then toppled her over onto her back in dreamy slow-motion. When his mouth traced a lazy path from her throat to her belly, she decided not to complain about the delay. The brush of his hair against her hip made her squirm. He nuzzled against the inside of her thigh. She spread her legs and rocked her hips encouragingly, and he traced the skin there with the tip of his tongue and said, "Impatient?"
"The food's going to get cold," she said, winding her fingers through his hair and tugging a little.
He laughed. "Is it?" he said. "Well, we mustn't have that." He bent his head, hesitated for one blood-simmering moment, and then closed his lips around her clit.
"Oh," she said, squirming, hips arching: "oh, oh, fuck," which made him laugh against her, the sound reverberating over her cunt and deeper. Her body sparked with little shockwaves, skin hot and too-tight in the morning air. She wound her fingers in his hair and tugged, holding him where she wanted him. When he trailed his fingers up her thigh and then pressed into her -- the calluses of his fingers dragging coarse against her slick flesh -- she couldn't quite bring herself to be embarrassed by the noise she made.
"Come on," she said, "that's it, right there, right there, right there," and he moaned in response which made her moan too, a thin shuddering sound as she squeezed her eyelids shut and trembled into the heat and slick friction. The muscles in her legs tensed, hard and corded and her feet curled and she squirmed and sparked right on the brink and then came, wet, wet and deep and throbbing against his mouth, around his fingers, as he moaned again and swallowed. She raised her head to look at him, vision swimming and something warm and light and unnameable in her chest.
Tseng reared up to his knees, eyes dark and hair loose and cock hard against his stomach. She sat up and reached out without thinking to wrap her hand around him, and he exhaled hard and thrust into her hand, eyes slipping closed. She leaned against him, still shaky with her orgasm, breasts against his side, and stroked -- began to drop her head, but he caught her shoulder to stay her and said, "N-no. Just like this. I -- " He shuddered, and she looked up into his face, a little flushed, right on the edge of control. "I don't know where my stamina's gone." His voice shook.
"It's early," she said, and tightened her grip around him with each stroke. He laughed, moaned, shuddered against her; she could feel the tension in his body against hers, and shifted so that she could lean into him. His breath caught, his mouth opened, she could see the tendons stand out in his neck and then he was coming, warm against her hand and splashing warm onto her belly and hip. She shivered and kissed his shoulder and throat, and he turned his head and kissed her back, pulling her against him and them both down to the bed, sweaty and shaking.
"I expect your food has grown cold," he said, after a moment, reaching for the tissues to clean them both up.
"I think that's all right," she said. He tossed the tissue in the wastebasket and kissed her throat, lazily.
"It can probably be reheated," he said after another moment, nose in her hair and mouth moving against her ear.
"You're going to have to do the reheating. I'd just burn it."
"In a minute," he said, arms around her waist, pulling her against him.
True to his word, he reheated her cheese stuff-- rarebit, he said, not cheese stuff, with such resignation in his voice that it made her laugh -- by adding a little cream and stirring gently over low heat for a while, which proved him to have both more kitchen prowess and more patience than she had. Before he poured the cheese over the toast, he added slices of tomatoes, and then fed her the remainder on slices of an apple she'd forgotten at the bottom of her refrigerator.
"Show-off," she said, taking the apple slice delicately from his fingers with her teeth.
He had cheese goo -- rarebit -- on his fingers, and pressed them against her lips. "I can stop any time you like," he said.
She licked at the pads of his fingers, and then the insides of his knuckles, and smiled, feeling warm and smug indeed. "I'll let you know," she said.
***
And here's the recipe for Elena's cheese stuff.