Uninvited

You're soaked to the bone. Your dark hair is lank and dripping with rain water, the droplets golden in the dull lamplight that flickers past the sliding doors of your room and into the night, where you stand brazen in the rain with head tilted back, eyes closed. Your outer robe, hanging loose about your thin frame, is heavy with the damp, its abused silk sagging beneath the weight of rain and cold. It can offer you no warmth or protection, and it's taking my mouth too long to voice my innate fears for your health. Maybe it has been struck dumb by the obvious astonishment in my eyes, wide and staring at you lit against the doorway like an apparition, so frail and insubstantial as to be a complete fantasy. So incongruous in your damp red with your beaded gold and slight, delicate smile as to be a dream. Your throat, bared at an angle to me, is alive with the rivulets of water sluicing along paper thin skin. When my mouth manages to work out the beginnings of a worry, it is struck dumb again by your eyes.

"Akito," I begin, wanting to reach out to you, but hesitating in a way that is very unlike me. Only you can make me hesitate this way, when we're alone like this, and you're no longer the Souma Akito we all know, but a vision of the unearthly, haunting and beautiful the way the moon is haunting and beautiful on full lit but cloudy nights. You turn to me as soon as I begin to speak, that tiny smile still on your face, and your eyes are so dark I can't even make out your pupils or your whites – it's just all violet, all amethyst edged with silver raindrops that cling to your lashes as if desperate not to lose you. I'm startled by you. The way you look at me and smile, and the way it fills my chest like blood, as if my heart has burst.

"This isn't very good for your health," I say, trying to sound as though I'm joking, like always. But I don't joke with you on most days, no matter how fey a mood you're in, and when I say this you only smile more, showing the barest flash of teeth as you turn toward me, eyes softening like a person's much younger and more carefree. I swallow hard, choking on blood, but manage to go on, saying, "You know Ha-san would have my head if he knew I let you stand in the cold and rain like . . . this . . ."

My voice trails off as though I had more to say when I really didn't. Thought left my mind the instant you stepped toward me, one hand sliding the door closed as the other reached for me, fingers tightening in the front of my kimono as you used it to pull us closer together. My heart quickens, my skin burns as you put the other hand on my chest, lowering your eyes from my face only to lean against me – no pretenses, no warnings. Your arms are swift and serpentine, winding inside my robe to link around me, and you're so cold and wet I immediately begin shivering.

"Then warm me up," you say softly, the barest hint of teasing in your smooth voice that remains at a constant murmur and only serves to boil my blood, it's murmuring so close to my heart. "If you're so worried about what Hatori will do, make it so that he'd never know."

I stand here, stiff and shocked and not knowing what to do. It's not as though I've never wanted you – such thoughts are always racing through my head, a constant barrage of all the various partners I could have, male or female or otherwise. You have always had a place among them, but a place that I never thought to touch, because you seemed so untouchable. I know better than to embrace you, even though you're so cold and so weak, even though you need the warmth and I'm willing to take the cold, even though you're so fragile and palpable against me. I know better.

Your icy fingers are pressed against my bare back, and are now sliding down my spine, causing a shudder that makes you sigh against my breastbone. Resting now at the small of my back, arms firm like ivy around my waist, you press yourself forward so that your damp body is all too apparent to mine through the thin barrier of clothing between them. I can feel your bird-like heartbeat, two hundred beats a minute – so tiny, like a buzz – fluttering against my own as you look up at me. Your breath against my jaw, the only thing dry and warm about you. It has a low, smooth, murmuring quality to it just like your voice, and I can't help but close my eyes. Your lips on my pulse with a gentle pressure, the kiss of your tongue, tasting my heart race. I ball my hands into fists, fighting the urge to hold you. I'm no longer trembling with cold, but with the suppression of desire.

I have a fear of breaking you. Of you cracking apart like brittle bones. Of you crumbling into dust. I have a fear of your taste. Of liking it too much. Of craving it too long. I have a fear of being burned. Of the promise of loneliness after passion and desperation accompanying need.

"Shigure," you whisper, lips having traversed a hot, slippery path to the base of my ear, your voice a whispering sing-song in warm, blood filled breaths. "What are you afraid of? Afraid of breaking me? Afraid of wanting too much?"

Your scent is overpowering – jasmine and moist silk. Your tongue caressing my earlobe, making me crazy and I'm actually asking myself now how I've held control for this long. But I know why. Because it's you and you're the only one who's ever given me control. Funny, considering your need for it. But I don't need to think these thoughts now. Your robe has slipped off your shoulders, and mine has too, pushed off by your hands. You've got your fingers – no longer frigid or damp – knotted in my hair at the nape of my neck, and you're forcing me to look you in the eye with a dangerous pressure. Your lips are so close, testing me, teasing me, eyes open and staring me in the eye, nothing but dark amethyst, smoky and beautiful . . .

"It's okay," you're saying, half-whispering, and every breath rolls against my lips, swollen with anticipation. "You're not going to break me. You're not going to take anything I'm not willing to give." Your lips graze my own, but still I don't react. Still, I stay as frozen stiff as if I were stone. And right now every last inch of me feels about as hard as such. "If this is what you want, Shigure, say it. It's what I want."

Your lips pressed full to mine now, my bottom lip between your own, pulling gently, your tongue barely flickering out to touch. I have no choice but to sigh – even your kisses are fragile and insubstantial. I return your kiss, giving in to this temptation at least, parting my lips, accepting your tongue – a deep kiss that surpasses all expectations. You're touching something other than my lips right now, other than my tongue; you're somewhere deep inside me, beyond the physical, and this is what I was afraid of. Afraid of being touched like this by you. Touched so deeply I'd never be the same person. Never want the same things.

I put my arms around you, sliding my hands beneath your thin robe. So small and so cold. I can't help but want to hold you, just enough to make you warm. Just enough to protect you from yourself. Your kiss is calling me out, beckoning me to give in, and somewhere apart from the pleasure and the discomfort of frigid clothes against my bare skin and the growing ache just below the open front of my robe where my belt remains looped I am thinking about Yuki and realizing that in a small, cosmic way this is very wrong.

You pull away, smirking at me, but there's a tiny light of apprehension in your eyes. I know you well enough to be able to see it, but it must be apprehension for something other than what we're doing because you're unknotting my belt with the swiftest and most graceful of fingers. I haven't even time to protest as the robe falls open around me, the only thing keeping it on being my bent arms, clasped around your tiny waist. My desire is laid bare for you now, so I suppose there's no point in trying to deny it. But you barely even glance there, instead coming up to kiss me again, not at all desperate despite the fierceness that's in your kiss.

I shudder, all but frozen by how cold you are, but you're not shivering at all. Maybe you're truly unaware of how you feel, or maybe I really am making you warm. Either way, I can't let you freeze like this, and as I'm kissing you back, my own kisses filled with more need than your own, I push your outer robe off into a puddle of red and silver silk. I pull away to look at you, the danger in your eyes, the danger that is always there, but I feel it differently in this moment. You've called me out, and now I have to decide if I'll answer.

"Here," I murmur, surprised by my own voice's weakness. I can't believe I'm so unsteady and unsure of myself! "Let's get you warm, Akito."

Your smile is so childlike, and right now you look so much like Yuki it's almost disturbing. You hold out your arms like a child, and I push the gray kimono off your shoulders and let it drop to the floor. It's only coincidence that my robe slides off as I'm doing so, so that we're both chilled and naked in the dimly lit room.

Your damp hair slides over one eye as you tilt your head slightly and turn toward the futon in the far room, smile teasing, beckoning. You sidle off in that direction, and I just stand here and watch you, alarmed by your frailty, shocked by your delicate beauty, amazed by the sultry way you walk and how masculine it is despite everything else. You climb on the bed, turning and resting upright, watching me and waiting. I have no choice but to follow you. I've come this far.

You push me down onto my back as soon as I'm there, taking control despite appearances. A little laugh escapes me – I can't help it. Something about this is cute, something about it humors me. I can find humor in anything. You should know. You force your lips over mine to shut me up, actually biting my lower lip and making me wince. At the same time one hand takes a grip on latent heat waiting patiently just beside your graceful thigh and I pull away to take in a sharp breath. Your hands are so cold! I want to hold them between my own, rub them vigorously, blow my breath against them to warm them up. But you would have none of it, I know, so I don't even try. I withstand the cold grip on my sex, touching me gently with soft fingers, long and cunning in their endeavors. Your lips are exploring me everywhere, down my throat, across my chest, nipping and biting hard enough to leave bruises. A little discomfort, but it turns me on. Of course you'd know this – it seems you know everything. The great omniscient Akito, the reason you're the head. I wonder now, distantly, if you've had others like this. If you've managed to seduce Ha-san to your bed on more than one occasion. He is a lot more easily seduced than he appears, but he would never kiss and tell. Or if you've had Aya, if you were actually able to make him shut up long enough to kiss you. My thoughts wander too far; I'm thinking of Yuki again, and immediately I make myself stop.

Your lips are on my hips, tongue tracing a path along the seam of my thigh and down, maddening as your cheek grazes my sex and your hand refuses to gain pressure. I want to touch you, I want to twine my fingers in your hair, but I won't. I refuse. Your tongue barely flickers across the burn in your hold and between my legs and I groan, raising up just enough to look at you. Your eyes, in knowing response, look back at me, and this vision of you with me caught between your tongue and hand, eyes steady on my eyes as you lick up in one slow, lingering stroke, is enough to kill me.

"This," you murmur, lips kissing the tip in the pause between words, "is what I've missed."

I'm now desperately fighting the urge to violently shove my cock down your throat. I don't want you to talk, I want you to suck! Cocktease – I should've pegged you as such. But through my desperation I belatedly make-out what you said, and I realize your tone is not of one who's never known, but of one who has. I want to ask Hatori some things now, but put them out of my mind for later.

Mostly because you've got me now, pinned and in your mouth, lips wrapped around the head and tongue laving the tip. I fall back into the pillows, helpless now, and moan, arms reaching over my head to grip onto something, anything. You make a noise, something like a "hmm" and take me deeper, as if intrigued by my reactions or my taste. Your sucking me in earnest now, tongue rough along the underside of my prick, and I'm a whimpering puppy, hips undulating in time with your rhythm, the rest of my body warm and singing with bitten places and bruises. I run my hands down my own chest, caressing my nipples, because they were neglected and I'm a wanton bastard.

But I want to touch you now, more than ever before. I want to know what you would sound like in this position, how you would move against me, if you would touch me or touch yourself instead. It's all left up to you though. I could no more ask you to stop than I could refuse you in the first place.

You really must be omniscient, because you're stopping now, pulling away to look me in the eye as if waiting for me to say something. I can't speak though. I'm still touching myself, and with you no longer doing anything I can't help but slide my hand between my legs. I don't take waiting very good at all. The look on your face goes from thoughtful to amused as you watch me with my hand between my legs. I can't do it the way I want to though, not with you watching me. For some reason, when it's you watching it makes me less eager. Maybe because I want you, and not just gratification. The thought blows my mind.

You lean up now, bend over me, kiss me – your lips and tongue salty, tasting like me. You even smell a little like me now; it makes me wonder if some of your jasmine scent has been left on me. I reach up for you, I put my arms around you – something to hold onto, anything to hold onto. Even if you are so fragile against me. You move down, splaying one hand over my heart, and suckle a sad nipple, which comes to life with praises for your tongue. And I sigh, because you're really so very, very beautiful, and there's nothing I can do if all I want is you and not just what you're giving me.

Your length is brushing against mine. I tremble, wrap my legs around you, pull our hips together shamelessly. You gasp, for the first time showing pleasure, and lift your head with surprise. You bite your lip, press down harder against me. I wonder what it is you want – if you want inside me, if you want my mouth on you, or if you just want me. I can't ask though. Really, I'm afraid of the answer.

"Say it, Shigure," you whisper, and I'm confused. What am I supposed to say? I take your face in my hands, pull you up to kiss me. It's a hard kiss, I realize too late; I let you go with an apology on my lips, but you only kiss me again, soft and fragile like everything else, rubbing yourself against me slowly. I think maybe I want you inside me. I know I want as much of you as I can get.

"Say it," you whisper again, right into my ear. Your tongue snaking inside and making me jump a little, then moan. I reach between us, wanton and desperate as always, take you in my hand and pull fretfully. You whimper, kiss me, sucking on my tongue as if in need of some sort of retribution.

"Say what?" I ask desperately, moving against you and myself in hopeless need for release. You look at me with bleary eyes, black now with desire, and act as if you might say, but only hang your head as a groan comes out.

"If this is what you want, Shigure, say it. It's what I want."

I sit up, pushing you up with me. You're startled, the look crossing your face exactly like fear. I've never seen such a look on your pretty face before, and I know it's because you're afraid I'll leave you. And not just because you're hard in my hand, or finally warm, but because I'm what you want. It's me. And you're asking me to say it.

I flip you over on your back, pin you against the sheets and the pillows. Still stroking, slow and steady. Your panting, your delicate cheekbones and little nose red. I smile. You're so beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

I lean over you and breathe into your ear, "I want you . . . Akito."

You arch against me so hard I lose my grip on you, and you spread your legs so that your bottom is pressing against me, legs wrapping around me and holding me in place. You turn your face toward me, breath still full of blood in my ear, "takemetakemetakeme..."

I don't hesitate, even though I feel I should. I'm more afraid of not complying with the swiftness of your desire than hurting you, which I immediately feel is wrong as I'm pressing against you. I hesitate for a heartbeat, but I feel you flexing, relaxing, and panting, "Take me!" into my hair. So I do.

One long up-stroke against all your hidden heat and I'm inside you. You're vocal exclamation is loud, shocking compared to your normal manner of speaking. Even when you're angry, even when you're crazed you're never this loud. And you're crying. I lift my face to see the tears streaming from the corners of your eyes, gold in the light just like the raindrops in your hair.

"Oh . . . Akito . . ." I nuzzle my face apologetically against your throat. "I'm so sorry. Forgive me."

You breathe deep, then put your hand on the back of my head. It's the most comforting gesture I've ever felt. "Daijobu."

I swallow back my own sudden maelstrom of emotion, holding your limpness in my hand and trying to coax it back to life. I want to wipe your tears so bad, but I only have two hands and one of them is required for holding myself in place above you. The way you look at me is heart-telling, so much in your eyes and hidden in your lips I would be shocked if I weren't already this far, inside you, apologetic and grateful at the same time. You're telling me it's alright with your eyes, you're telling me you want me, you're telling me you're apologetic and grateful too. This is a moment no one else would ever understand. This is a moment to be cherished, when Souma Akito shows how truly fragile he is on the inside. And the person he wants to protect that fragility is me.

"Akito..." I can't help but say your name. It rings with a newfound clarity it never had before, with meaning and symbolism. I sit back, pulling you up with me, so that I'm kneeling with you in my lap, holding you in place against me. You flop forward, easily poseable, your arms around my neck as you lean against me. You're trembling and it worries me. It's not worth it if you're only going to feel pain. You live in pain, and the last thing I want to do is be another source of it.

"Are you – ?"

"Shigure." You press your forehead against my throat, so that I'm forced to rest my chin against your hair. Your hands have slid down to my shoulders, gripping tight as you fight for the breath to speak. "I'm fine."

I'm afraid to move, so I work you instead, feeling you harden in my hand. I kiss your hair, coaxing you to lift your head so my lips can brush across yours, along the bridge of your nose and over your eyelids. You sigh against my mouth, then into it, and suddenly you're moving slowly. Your hand sneaks down to cover my own, easing it away so you can touch yourself. I let you – it's what you want. I simply hold onto you and move, slow, easy thrusts forward, trying not to speak. But you're coming alive, trembling and whimpering, keening softly with each thrust and riding me so perfect now. You stop touching yourself to embrace me, pressing your sex against my belly and moving it against my skin, so that we're in synch.

I can't keep quiet anymore. I groan aloud, pressing my mouth to your throat to taste your sweat and pulse. You're tight and you're hot and you're liquid and blood and tears, pain love death. You're clenching around me, licentious and sensual, moaning my name as you rake your nails down my back.

"Shi . . . gure . . ."

And oh God, you're hard against me and thrusting as if you were fucking me back, and maybe you imagine you are. The thought in itself is orgasmic – that I'm being taken as I'm taking you. I push harder, capturing your lips and tongue. You're clawing my back to the point of bringing blood, my skin burning, but I don't feel the pain. I shift slightly, bending you back a little and bending myself forward, expecting your sharp moan and the desperate way you thrust your hips. I grab you in my hand, thumb pressing over your leaking tip, and you contract violently, your entire body tensing and bowing back. You cry out – a loud and choked gasping cry – eyes opening and catching mine. And I can't look away, even as I come inside you and am left helpless and overwhelmed, your eyes looking into mine – glazed amethyst eyes so warm and vulnerable and trusting – God, it makes it a thousand times stronger.

You hold onto me so tight that if I weren't already gasping I'd be searching for breath, your entire body shuddering. I can feel the aftershock rivulets of hot wet over my hand as I subconsciously work the remains out of you, my own hips bucking in gentle dying rhythms until I'm still and quiet. We're covered in your release, and I'm probably bleeding, but I could care less either way. The way you're holding onto me now, with your head on my shoulder, tenuous like a dream, is more than I could ever ask for.

I wrap both my arms around you and ease you onto the bed. You wince as I roll away, and I apologize again for being too rough. But you shush me, and smile sleepily as I clean you off then gather you back against me.

So I said it. I said I wanted you, and you asked me to take you. I'm not sure what it means. I'm not really a romantic. I do things for pleasure and for fun, and though my cares and emotions can run deep, I've never admitted love to anyone. So I'm not expecting you to say anything, or want anything just because of this. Even though with you asleep now, your face nose to nose with mine on the pillow, I can't help but feel those quiet eddies of emotion lapping at the edges of my heart, threatening to drown me in sentimentality. Maybe it's my writer's nature. Or maybe it's pity for our predicaments. If it's anything more than this I'll never let myself know.

 

---

Must be strangely exciting
To watch the stoic squirm
Must be somewhat heartening
To watch shepherd need shepherd
But you, you're not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight
-"Uninvited," Alanis Morissette