Pierce

[ Sky – Master Post ]
Title: Pierce
Fandom: Sky
Characters: Severen, Sin
Rating: E
Warnings: Buttsecks. Bearskins. Boring psychological insights. First-person perspective.
Notes: This began as a rather tongue-in-cheek literary reference. Then it turned into philosophical/psychological smut. (And shut up about Depeche Mode.)

I bought him furs. I cannot say it was an unthinking gift, as one generally doesn't waste a few thousand dollars on bearskins without a great deal of thought, but I can still claim it was quite spontaneous and terribly tongue-in-cheek. They arrived, as I expected, the day after Christmas, at which time I had arranged to be out. There was no sense in disrupting what was bound to be an excellent scene, as my intent percolated through his head.

I didn't have to witness the events to know them. He would sign for the package, confusedly, certain he hadn't ordered anything, but as he opened it, it would slowly register that it was probably a belated Christmas gift of some sort. The next confusion would be when he recognised the contents of the package and unpacked the four black furs. Furs? he would wonder. Who the fuck would buy me furs? And he would sit with them, beside the fire, until his mind rolled over to the memory of the work from which my mis-remembered stage name had come. And then the smile would come. I loved that particular smile, on his face — the one that meant he was up to exactly the sort of no good I was glad no one would ever have proof I enjoyed.

I had told him I would be home by seven — enough time for the package to be delivered and the above sequence to play out. The instant I closed the door, I heard his voice call out to me from the sofa.

"Furs, Severen? Really?" He did his best impression of the way I'd once spoken to my students, and it sent chills down my spine, to hear his voice so cold and languid. "Literary, but rather crass."

"I thought to make a point," I replied, rolling my eyes, not that he could see me, nor I him, just yet.

"You've made one. I'm not certain it's the one you intended," he purred. "Crawl to me."

It was precisely as I had expected. He'd always known how to take a role to heart, and this was no exception. I played along. "W— What?"

"Simple words, simply said. On your knees. Crawl to me." He reached one arm over the back of the sofa, setting his book upon it, and cricked a finger.

I dropped audibly to my knees, on the tiles of the entryway, and made my way toward the sofa.

I must pause, here, to clarify that I had never been interested in this sort of thing — certainly not from the perspective of the possessed — but there was something about Sin, even and perhaps especially after all these years, that let me trust him to take this as exactly the sort of silliness I'd intended, rather than any serious proclamation, on my part.

It was his hair I saw first, as I came around the sofa, dyed a holly-berry red, for the holiday, and draped over the arm of the sofa, to pool on the floor. I may have contentedly rubbed my face against it, as I passed. I have always had a weakness for that particular part of him. Pushing the coffee-table out of the way, I curled cocquettishly about myself, before the sofa upon which he lay. He was, as I now took in the panorama, lying on and covered by the furs, an exquisite vista of red hair, black fur, and pale, shaven skin. I confess it was quite the effort not to simply abandon the role, throw the furs aside, and ravish the delicious beauty beneath. But, really, that would have been rather banal and overdone. I was interested in what he would devise, to put me through. He was, after all, both a genius and a slut — and I don't mean that pejoratively, but rather with the peculiar admiration I reserve for things I will never understand. And as much as it usually excited me to have his intellect and raw sexuality at my disposal, I found it unusually stirring to be subject to his whims, in the moment.

He drew the furs up, to reveal the juncture of his thighs, and lifted a book from the back of the sofa. "Distract me," he challenged.

I couldn't hold back the wolfish grin that seized my features, as I tried to cram my baser instincts back down and be that Severin and not this Severen. In the end, I fear I had to give up the struggle, having made it only halfway there.

"Yes, my love," I breathed, eyes indubitably still gleaming with amusement and gentle treachery, as I traced my fingers up his leg, to cradle one jutting hip.

He smirked mischievously, behind his book. I could see it in his eyes. "No hands. I thought you were creative."

I may have snarled, despite my better judgement. He smacked me upside the head with the book, and we both snorted in amusement. When he raised his eyebrow, wordlessly asking if I was going to keep up the facade, I simply shrugged, passing the decision back to him. It was a Christmas present, after all. He just opened the book, again, and batted his eyes at me.

With what should have been a sultry smirk, but probably looked appalling on me, I crossed my wrists behind my back and licked him from base to crown. He turned the page, without even a glance. I snorted derisively and lapped his flesh into my mouth.

Now, in case there are questions on this point, I like sucking dick — well, Sin's dick. It isn't like I've had any other serious offers, and I'm not certain I'd have taken them up, if I did. But, with a mouthful of cock, I'm not ugly any more; I'm just invisible. And for all that he tells me that he's madly in lust with my nose, I've seen what comes home with him, and none of it looks like me. He tells me it's because I broke the mold, but that's never quite enough. But, once my face is buried in his lap, I am both invisible and in absolute control — anyone who says cocksucking is demeaning, because it removes power and dominion from the person doing it, has clearly never had his cock in someone's mouth, which should, by all rights, be a moderately terrifying and fundamentally erotic experience.

I hummed in lazy contentment, as he hardened against my tongue. He gasped, and I watched the book waver in his hand. I chuckled, and his hips rolled, slow and tight. I hadn't nearly the talent with my tongue that he had, even after all this time, so after a few more well-placed licks, I resorted to a good, hard suck and a bit of the old in-out. After a few minutes I slowed down, nuzzling his hip and letting the natural objections of my throat work at the tip of his deliciously prosaic length. I looked as up as I could, with an inquisitive purr.

He threw the book, bouncing it off the brick of the fireplace, and pulled my head up by the hair. He slipped from between my lips with a faint pop and the slap of wet flesh meeting flesh, as his muscles rebounded. I blinked and gaped foolishly, not having expected that reaction in the least.

"Clothes, Severen. Stop wearing them, immediately."

I met his hungry look with a thin smile and tore off my shirt, tossing it over the sofa. My boots followed, and after that, I managed to shimmy out of my pants, by lying down, instead of standing up. The pants did not follow the boots, as they stayed distressingly hooked about one ankle, as I waited for his next command.

One hand disappeared into the furs, as his other hand caressed and teased me. He hadn't, quite notably, laid a hand on himself, yet. I rubbed my foot against his arm and made generally appreciative noises, until he dropped the bottle of olive oil on my chest. First, it knocked the wind out of me, being a glass bottle, and second, well, it was my goddamned olive oil, not the KY or something sensible. I raised my hands and opened my mouth to protest, but the slightly less than tolerant eyebrow raise he gave me was sufficient to shut me up. He was right, of course. It was cheaper and smelled better than KY. I conceded and filled my palm with oil, batting my eyes at him, like the artful virgin I had once been. (Not that I had ever behaved in such a manner, at the time.) As I stroked myself, to great effect, he turned an amused eye to me and grabbed my wrist.

"No, dear," he gently remonstrated, "the other way."

My face whitened as his intent sank in. "You're going to bend me over the sofa, yes?" I asked, hopefully.

We'd both broken role, for the exchange, because things did not generally go this way. It wasn't that they didn't go this way at all, but the deal had always been that if Sin topped, I was allowed to face away. If I topped, I could just push his leg up and bury my face in his shoulder — again, I'm not comfortable with my face in most situations, and in ecstasy, I try not to inflict my countenance on my beloved partner.

"Not this time. Indulge me, Sebastian." He took my less-greasy hand. "I want to watch you ride me. I want to watch you buck and twist and come all over my chest. I want to see your face, and I want you to know that I love every line of you just as much as I adore your sarcastic wit."

The sight of him leaning over the edge of the sofa, bent adoringly over me, took my breath away. My throat tightened and my eyes welled up. I kissed his hand.

"I trust you." I wasn't reminding him. I was reminding myself. "You've weirded me out, you've made me bleed, you've violated my reality, but you've never given me a reason to stop trusting you. Ever since the first time you kissed me, you've been making sure I walk in with my eyes open."

"Sit up, I'm going to fall off the couch, if I lean over any farther." It was a blunt and seemingly off-topic thing to say, but I knew he meant it as a preface to something relevant, so I freed my ankle from my discarded trousers and rose to my knees.

He touched my face, and I turned my head to rest my cheek on his palm. "You know that you can tell me to go straight to hell. You've done it before. You can do it now, if you want to."

"I don't want to," I muttered against the heel of his palm. "If I wanted to, I'd have done it. You know that. I just have to … I don't know … psych myself up, first."

"How do you want me to play this?" he asked, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "What should I do to help?"

"Tell me the truth. Tell me why you want this. Make me believe you, and I'll do anything for you." I pressed a kiss to his palm and squeezed my eyes shut. "Show me this fear is irrational."

He handed me the bottle. "You know I've never made you believe anything that wasn't true. Your bullshit detector is finely tuned."

I nodded and added a little bit of oil to my fingertips, rubbing them together, thoughtfully. "But, I still can't detect a truth, with perfect certainty, or we wouldn't be having this problem."

"You've never believed that I wanted to look at you, but I do. I used to —" He paused, shaking his head. "I used to watch you sleep. I still do, sometimes. You are unlike all other things. You are not Evan, or any other image of popular attractiveness, but those images shift with time. The history major will not go off on a tangent about the transient nature of popular beauty."

He still called himself a history major, even now that he was a full professor. It was endearing, really, that he'd never let go of where we started.

"But, they are transient images. And you are not. You're outside of all of it. The simplicity, the hard lines, the angles — it's all just you." His fingertips trailed down my chest. "I never get to watch you when you're really having fun. I've been vaguely aware of the fact that you like to watch me come apart, for you. I can't say I was paying explicit attention to your face, at the time, as the entirety of my attention, in those moments tends to be … nonexistent, but I know you like to see that happen. I don't know why it's so strange to you that I would want the same thing."

"I hate to lose control," I admitted. "I hate to think that something could be used against me. I know you wouldn't, but it never really goes away. I'm afraid that I'll become as ugly to you as I am to me."

"I know. I've been watching. I've been right by your side." Three short sentences, spoken gently and lovingly, and each one felt like a shotgun blast to the chest. If I couldn't trust the person who'd worshipped my body and mind, every minute of every day, since nineteen seventy-nine, who had never given me a reason do do anything but trust him, then that was on me. It was a fact I'd never disputed, but I suddenly found myself uncomfortable with it, like I was betraying, well, him, certainly, but worse than that, myself.

"Fuck me," I said, with a certain definitive finality. "Fuck me however you like. Fuck me until I believe you, with both my eyes open."

"Going to apply that oil, or are we going to do this the hard way?" He licked my nose, and all my doubts were forgiven.

"I'm just going to pretend you said 'difficult', and we're going to move on." My eyes were still closed, but the horror of the potential puns was etched into my face as I pressed my two greased fingers into myself.

I'd never really explored the confrontation of self-loathing as an aphrodisiac, but it was apparently a great deal more stirring that I'd ever have given it credit for. I could feel the lust ripple up under my skin, like a cool breeze, the hair on my thighs standing up, as I bit my lip. I started to turn my face away — a reflex — but his hand caught my chin. I stopped moving, entirely. I think I stopped breathing. He hadn't grabbed me hard — I could've pulled away with no effort at all, but that would've been … I was doing this to get over myself, not to indulge my own self-disgust.

I picked up the bottle, opened my eyes, and wiped my fingers on my thigh. "This isn't going to work," I said, pouring more oil into my hand. "This has to happen right now, before I lose my nerve."

He kissed me, with a mysterious sparkle in his eyes, and stretched out flat, uncovering the last of his skin. "Well, hurry up, then," he invited.

I oiled his cock and nibbled his hip, in that way that always makes him squirm. I watched him writhe against the bearskin, as I touched and teased. His hips tipped down and his ribs canted up. My teeth seized on the point of his hip, and he panted and rubbed his cheek against the fur. This was what thrilled me. This was what I wanted, and he was more than happy to give it to me. He was such a performance artist, and the thought made me smile.

I tried to hold on to that contentment, as I climbed onto the sofa, straddling his hips. One hand clutched his hip for balance as I worked out the alignment with the other. The first two inches were the worst, I remembered, and then it would be good. Better than good, if memory served.

I breathed out, slowly and steadily pushing myself down. I felt as though I were being torn apart, and his fingers dug into my thighs as a tense groan worked its way out of his chest. This was, I promised myself, the last time I would let cowardice overrule good sense. A glance at my own flagging erection reminded me how glad I was that it was mine and not his. I'd have died. As it stood, dying felt like it was pretty high on the list of probabilities. And then the last painful quarter inch passed, and the world just exploded in a blue-green rush of endorphins. I might have giggled. I don't remember. I know I threw my head back and shoved myself the rest of the way down.

He took my hands and nibbled on my few un-greased fingertips. I ground my hips against his and muttered garbled irrelevancies as I tried to kick my brain out of neutral. The endorphins had faded to a trickle, rather than a rush, and irrational, driving lust surfaced as a primary purpose. For a change, my need wasn't to watch the beautiful artistry of the body under me unfold; my need was to get myself off. I'm a whole other animal, once I've got a cock inside me, and it's not something I'm generally proud of, but it is something that I've learned to stop arguing with.

Now, in any other circumstance that had gone this way, I'd be hanging on to the sofa, the table, the bedposts, a kitchen counter (on one notable and memorable occasion), or whatever else I'd been seduced into bending myself over, and getting mercilessly and divinely ravished. This was a whole other angle, and I was in no mood to figure it out, but the important thing seemed to be just to keep moving. I whined thinly and ground down harder and faster, which was good, but not good enough and certainly not great.

"Beloved," he said, tolerantly, and I stared at him, probably looking as stupid as I felt.

"Remember when I tried to teach you to bellydance?" He rolled his hips in some strange and liquid way, and the pleasure lit and raced through my body, making my fingertips crackle. "Do that. Trust me. I've been doing this for years."

In a poor impression of the rational individual I usually pretend to be, I gave him the finger. He responded by sucking it. I attempted to look dismayed, if only to preserve some last measure of my pride, as I tried to remember the things he'd said, that drunken night. Swinging one's hips in a manner both rhythmic and independent of the shoulders is hard enough while standing. Doing it while both seated and impaled is an actual challenge. I tried getting some Depeche Mode stuck in my head — a sad but true fact: if Depeche Mode is the first thing I hear, coming through the door, Sin is getting laid before I even start cooking dinner. It's irrational, but delicious. This man has corrupted the shit out of me (hold the witty commentary, please), and I thank whatever gods can hear me for that fact, every day.

The rhythm helped, and my hips started to move in a less spastic fashion. He was right, of course. In things like this, he always is. My eyes drifted closed, and all of my concentration was on moving and feeling. He picked up the timing after a minute or two, and then he was moving with me. Every thrust, every gyration wound me a little tighter. I twisted my hips, and the angle felt so good I gasped. I repeated the motion, inverse, and I could feel the sweat start to bead on my upper arms. He was right. He was so right. The world started to get a little fuzzy, but I could feel his hand wrap around my cock, gently. I'm pretty sure I was making noise, by that point, and probably a lot of it, but I couldn't feel my mouth, any more, and my hearing was reduced to the sound of rushing blood and the pounding of my own heart.

I remember feeling like the top of my head had blown off — a rush that started where I wrapped around him and ended about three feet over where I'm pretty sure my body stopped. I felt like a fountain, and not in the extraordinarily obvious way. After that, everything was just … yellow … for a minute or two. I had no perceptions outside the knowledge of that brilliant lemon-butter colour. I have no memory, but he keeps threatening to hire a painter, the next time he does that to me. He swears, to this day, that I was actually glowing. Radiating light. I'm fairly certain that's not physically possible, but I let him have his illusions. He let me keep mine for so many years.

The next thing I remember, I was crying, as stupid as it sounds. Not that sparkling glimmer of tears in the eyes that you see in bad Japanese bondage comics, either, but shaking and white-faced, with tears dripping off my chin. As he folded himself up, to kneel, I panicked.

"Don't you dare pull out," I snarled. "I'll pass out from low blood pressure."

He laughed and slid easily to his knees, keeping me right where I was, except that he was wrapped around me, holding me in his arms like some piece of meringue statuary. Reluctantly but reflexively, my arms closed around his back.

"Sorry. I'm going to get snot in your hair."

"It's not the only thing you got in my hair. I promise." I could feel him grin, against my shoulder.

"Sin? Why do you tell me these things?"

"Because they're true and they impress me. Are you kidding? I think you might have hit one of the dining room chairs." I groaned in dismay, as he nuzzled my neck. "That was fantastic."

"Did you…? I was rather distracted, for a few moments." It suddenly occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea, and my heart started to sink.

"Nope." He shrugged, dismissively. "Don't worry about it. I know you. You'll have your revenge, later, and I'll love every minute of it."

I flinched, turning my face away. "I did this for you, and somehow, I'm still a selfish fuck."

There was a bit of squirming as he pushed me back an inch or three, with a sharp finger between my ribs. "Excuse you, Sergeant Self-pity, I got exactly what I wanted. And if it'll make you hate yourself less, I will push you down and have my wicked way with you, until I'm good and done."

"Oh, really?" I couldn't help but grin cockily.

Neither of us got any sleep that night… or most of the next day. I still hate the world, and most everybody in it, but that night Boxing Day became my new favourite holiday.