drifting_anima (drifting_anima) wrote,
drifting_anima
drifting_anima

A Hundred Fifty: ValEyn

Fandom | Pairing: Bacciami | ValEyn
Rating: M I tried
Notes: It's not 3AM here. Val belongs to mizumi888



They say that good things come to those who wait. For someone who has been waiting for more than two years, someone must have marked him a saint, a martyr even.

However, it's a different story when she finally returns to France, giving him a layer of hope that she will never be gone from him again, and that there won't be a need to test his ability to hold himself back; only to arrive at another three-day disappearance that led him to the conclusion that probably, his patience must be marked with a dot-a period that resolves an unbelievably long sentence.

Her reason for being gone in three days only adds to his frustration: can someone really be that buried in work that they will be gone without notice, or at the very least, without reminding him (or anyone) that she won't be coming home? If he can toss his anxiety and allow himself some reprieve from the heavy feeling in his chest, and if only he can then he should have done so a number of years before, so that he won't find himself sitting on the couch in her living room, sifting through television channels with the volume down to 25%.

Rain pelts outside like small marbles peppering the roofs, but her dragging footsteps sounded clearer and louder than anything else.

She enters the living room, a few locks of her shoulder-length blonde hair framing her face. Her eyes are downcast, her lips varying from a thin, straight line, to a scowl. He silently pays her a glance, takes note of her disheveled frame in the loose, gray shirt and mid-thigh shorts she donned, then bolts his eyes back to the television. He figures that she's still being apologetic albeit the number of times she has apologized for the past day, but something tugs in his gut that tells him he shouldn't always tolerate the repercussions of her inability to be considerate to those who worry for her. She's a worrywart herself, so she should know how it feels to be very anxious, but when it comes to her own safety she tends to disregard the concern of others for her, thinking that she can handle things by herself.

With a soft thud, she sits at the other end of the couch, her back tense against the backrest.

She should compensate. Or at least learn her lesson. He presses a button and changes the channel, the thought causing an inner debate.

Three.

Four.

Five seconds.

She stands up and walks behind the couch, and he feels her presence behind him. Something hovers on his shoulders (her hands, maybe), but the presence disappears just before he gives in to the urge to entwine his fingers with hers.

Two.

Three.

Four seconds.

She's back on her previous seat with a bothered countenance.

One.

Two.

Three channels.

Wool and cotton softly scrapes against each other, and soon enough, his right arm welcomes the warmth that she provided after sitting beside him.

He does not shift channels.

She does not utter a word.

However, she shifts on her seat uncomfortably and slowly twists her torso to the left to look at him, her eyes boring on him with hesitation and assurance playing in her deep blue orbs. Another precarious move: she slightly stands up and kneels on where she previously sat, her arms wrapping around his chest and hands locking behind his nape.

Cotton against cotton.

She hoists herself up, allowing her lips to touch his.

A press.

One.

Two.

Three seconds.

She unlocks her fingers and she returns to her seat, her shoulders sagged, the side of her head resting on his shoulder.

Four.

Five.

Six beats.

He recognizes a mixture of apricot and mint from his own lips, a mark she has left upon the kiss.

He should not tolerate. He should let her compensate for what she has done. It's her fault that he's feeling this way, that the anxiety is continuing to worm inside-but now he knows it's not anxiety that tugs his gut, but something ominous and kept locked in him. He is not a saint, nor a martyr, but a person who has set himself a protocol for control, which he reinforced when she came to his life. He recognized the need for a stronger restraint to enable a permanent sense of patience in him.

At times, he hears the lock creak in protest. But now, it's as if the lock has gone silent, and the chains rhythmically fall on the floor like the sound of the rain outside, pouring down and pelting on the ground.

He puts down his bars.

Seven.

Twenty-seven.

Forty-seven.

He places an arm on the backrest where she's leaning against.

Fifty-seven.

Sixty-seven heartbeats.

He encircles his arm around her shoulders, his lips grazing on her left ear. He opens his mouth and unceremoniously nips on the tip of her ear, and he hears her gasp.

"Val..." she calls out softly, but does not pull back.

Seventy-seven heartbeats.

He lets go of the remote control and it clutters on the carpeted floor. He gently holds her right wrist and draws her forward to his chest, and soon enough he finds himself directing her to his bidding with a few more tugs and pulls, leaving her no choice but to stand before him. He blankly pulls her, until their chests touch. She stares at him, stammered, but soon enough she comprehends that he won't stop pulling her close unless she finds out whatever might be going on inside his head.

Eighty heartbeats per minute.

She carefully stands up, then dips her right knee beside his left thigh; she, then, plants her left knee beside his right thigh, and she sits on his lap, her face contoured to a mixture of embarrassment, curiosity, and apology. She keeps her eyes connected to his, and she finds it odd when she figures a surprised expression on his face. Has she made the wrong move? Has she done something out of the ordinary, yet again a failure to figure out what he wants her to know? She breaks the eye contact, and she searches for the answer to her question from the ceiling, to the remote control on the carpet, to the door... and she tries to stand up. "Sor-"

Eighty-five heartbeats.

He pulls at her again; this time, his hands cup her cheeks and he inches forward, his lips crashing against hers. He allows three seconds of recovery, the usual time he gives her when he catches her off-guard (and probably, the same number she offers him when she does it first before him). He breaks apart and places his forehead against hers, and he deliberates.

She should compensate. Or at least learn her lesson. He has been held at bay for too many years, and his chains are already on the floor, showing no interest of wrapping him back to restraint.

He looks at her through their entwined fringes, and notices that she's still recovering.

He closes her eyes. In the recesses of his mind, he knows that this is not her turf, that even simple kisses can faze her and that when she initiated the previous kiss, she must have deliberated it carefully before even performing the action. How can he even proceed? The chains slither back to where they used to belong, and he pulls back.

But curiosity gets the better of her and she takes the chains in her hands, throws them beneath her feet and steps on it, using it as a leverage to reach for his cheeks and plant another kiss on his lips.

Eighty-nine heartbeats.

She has easily trampled on what could have saved her.

He opens his mouth and captures hers hungrily, which she spontaneously responds to by pressing back. He focuses on her upper lip and nibbles on it briefly, and he follows up by lashing his tongue inside, swiveling and exploring her wet mouth. She lets out a groan and her eyebrows knit up, but he takes it as a sound of pleasure—and he proceeds by doing more, feed her more, and satisfy her more. Slowly, he delves his mouth deeper into hers, his tongue seeking hers as if seeking for a mate, and their organs move like chivalric knights as if fighting for supremacy.

Ninety hearbeats.

He withdraws his lips with a wet, sloppy sound, and heaves heavily; and he is quite surprised by his partner's vigor in kissing. She has never allowed herself to act as bold as this, and she once confessed to him that she might not be able to go beyond anything than a french kiss. She's also wrapping herself with chains, and as how she did his, he will undo hers.

He raises her chin slightly with his left hand, his right now perched on the exposed skin of her right thigh, and he bends down, his mouth now searching for the crook of her neck. He starts by mapping his lips to her right jaw, up to the base of her ear. Tracing the tip of his nose down to the length of her neck, she lets out a shaky breath and her right hand bolts to his left shoulder, instantly gripping the round collar of his shirt. He strokes her skin with his wet tongue before his teeth graze on her neck. Her grip tightens and she calls his name, instinctively and involuntarily thrusting her hips forward, only causing his hunger to search for more than what it can take.

He groans, bites her neck and nibbles, his teeth expertly doing its bidding, until the skin has been hued rosy red.

She pleadingly calls for his name, her tone mixed with a slur that instantly makes his heart thrum heavily. Her fingers curl and uncurl on his shirt, fingernails almost scratching his skin if not for the fabric that separated the two. He buries his forehead briefly on where he has bitten her, the hand which previously held her chin now trailing to her nape. He sucks in air as she does, and she moves closer, her thighs near to strangling his waist. Her fingertips slide to the length of his nape as they sought for the locks of his red hair, and as soon as they did, they rake on his scalp. He can feel himself gradually harden, that he wonders if she's purposefully thrusting forward to aid in his erection. But Eyn is not someone you can trust in sex, even in simple foreplay. She's naive. Innocent. She needs to know more.

However, she seems to be a natural to respond to his needs.

The very thought is enough to elate him more, and his craving only intensifies.

Ninety-five hearbeats.

He groans and ghosts his lips on her clavicle and she gasps for air, and she does it more when he lightly traces on her nape. Soft spots, he notes, and he smiles deviously while basking his tongue to the skin of her clavicle, the tips of his fingers tracing up and down from the top of her head to the spot on her nape. He finds her in the middle of giggling and wincing, and the tug in his pit gets stronger, his member hardening even more.

Returning to the base of her nape, he scoops her head closer to him and engages themselves in another battle of kissing, with his hand on her thigh smoothing the plane of her skin to and fro, until it slides in the leghole, and the tips of his fingers tug on the thin band of her undergarment. She grumbles against his lips, a hand earnestly snaked around his neck and the other groping his offending hand. He slips out this hand, making sure that it leaves a remarkable trail by occassionally pinching her thigh, then vines it around the small of her back, urging her to move closer.

A hundred beats.

She really moves closer, and she feels something really hard pressing against her.

A hundred ten hearbeats.

Before she can even inquire what it is, he busies her by pulling her to his chest really close, their lips almost not breaking apart.

A hundred fifteen.

One of his hands trail down to the small of her back and, as if resuming the devious deeds of its twin, it easily slips in her shirt, smudging her sweat upwards as it trails up, and soon enough it has found its target. The fingers rub on the clasp, and she groans achingly at the action. He breaks apart from the kiss, his other hand now running to the left side of her waist, moving up, up, up, and it settles itself at the underside of her left breast.

He dips his head down and uses his teeth to will down the very loose collar of her shirt to dangle on her left shoulder, exposing the white, cupped undergarment.

A hundred twenty beats.

He finally flicks the clasp of her bra free.

A hundred thirty beats.

He maps his lips from her clavicle down to the valley of her left breast, and he kissed the skin.

He can hear her heart thrumming wildly against her chest.

He can feel his briefs tighten against his own erection.

He can hear her gasp.

A hundred thirty five beats.

Unceremoniously, he licks on the valley and he squeezes the underside of her breast, forcing it upward. He continues his bidding by biting on her skin, sucking that same portion on top of her breast. She suddenly thrusts forward and he instinctively thrusts back, making the both of them wince in both surprise and a short momentum of lust and desire.

She bolts her hands on his head and pulls on his red hair.

A hundred forty hearbeats.

He moves forward and she responds by moving forward, too, colliding against each other for only the third time, for the briefest moment, and they are both filled with wonder and washed with euphoria, the chains for restraint seemingly forgotten on the floor.

A hundred forty five.

He continues his bidding by delving his head once more to the spot he is currently working on.

"Val...!" she exclaims when he bit a bit harder. He compensates by simply perching his lips on the spot, and then he resumes on his work.

"Val, I—!" she calls out again, pleadingly, and her fingers untangle from his hair until it trails down to the base of his neck.

He perks his head up, and he faces Eyn with disappointment and longing, and he asks, "Are you okay?"

"I—!" she huffs and gasps for breath.

A hundred forty-six.

She relaxes herself on her seat - his lap -, completely aware of what's knocking on her, both grateful and not for the fabric that separated the two of them.

A hundred forty-seven.

The hand cupping the underside of her left breast drops to smooth her thigh, the one on the small of her back perched lightly on her skin.

A hundred forty-eight.

She wraps her arms around Val's neck and kisses it.

One more move from her and he will really lose it.

And she kisses his neck.

A hundred forty-nine.

He asks himself what kinds of chains have been binding him and her, and where the metaphor even came from. He places both hands on the hem of her shirt, ready to take off the very loose clothing, and she whispers,

"—I'm so nervous. I... let's stop for now."

A monotonous, hundred-forty-ninth heartbeat.

He releases his hold on her shirt; instead, he gropes for the ends of her bra and clasps it back for her. As soon as he does, she pulls away, a hand fixing the collar and setting it where it should be. He lightly encircles his armss around her and clasps his hands on the small of her back, a way of showing his tiny protest, as well as the message that he won't be letting off her easily.

They almost reached the epitome. The hundred-fiftieth heartbeat.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes, her head carefully averted from his crotch.

He tears his eyes from her, the disappointment very much evident in his features. "I... almost lost myself, too."

"I-It's my fault," she says.

"You say this is wrong?" he asks, his voice etched with hurt.

"No wait—" she quickly turns to him and supplements, "—I'm not saying it's a wrong thing. I'm just... not yet ready."

Not yet ready? Did he hear it right? The way how she rallied with him and turned over his biddings, thrusted and made him feel that she's game for it—that's what she call not yet ready? Or is she just too shy to unleash her hidden monstrosity?

A smile ghosts on his lips, and a set of chuckles escapes his lips. As his laughter recedes, so does his forehead as it seeks solace on the crook of her neck, where he first bit her. "Eyn, you don't know... how much..."

She looks at him quizically, her cheeks still red from their previous actions. "...what...?"

Oh, so she really doesn't know.

"...how much you give me the need to go to the bathroom."

He sits up and leans forward to catch her lips, and kisses her softly. Unlike the brusqueness of their previous kiss, this one is gentle, the one they always shared.

Pulling back, he pats on the small of her back, and she wriggles herself off from his lap (while making sure not to look at his pants). Val stands up and makes his way to the bathroom, and says, "I... might be inside for a long while. Uhh, okay? I won't be sleeping inside, I promise."

She just nods at him, and as soon as he disappeared behind the bathroom door, she slouches on the couch and recalls what she has just done.

What they have done.

Burying her face ot a nearby throwpillow, she reminisces the warmth—the heat shared, the boldness that she never imagined she would have the courage to take, and his.. his masculinity beneath her... She glances at the bathroom door and suppresses a giggle and a squirm.

She goes up to her bedroom and opens her cabinet, then decides to have a change of clothes, from the undergarment to the outer clothes. The foreplay they just had made her feel the heat, the seemingly infinite perspiration from the inside out, and the stickyness.

As soon as she's done, she sits back to the couch and looks at the bathroom door.

She knows she doesn't need to ask what he is doing inside.

As for him, he knows he's no saint.

He's no martyr when it comes to this.

It's just the proper timing, he reminds himself, and he flushes the evidence of his relief in the toilet. He knows that there's a good thing waiting for him at the end of the tunnel. He just needs to wait.

Because that's when the right time will come.

----

A/N: I've read somewhere that when a person, particularly a male, releases himself, he reaches the 150th heartbeat. Same with a female, I guess. Ha. Ha. Behold the power of research!

And the last line. Can I just point out it holds two meanings? =))) I'm not an expert in smut/M so huhu ;u; sorry.
Tags: fandom: warm snow bacciami, pairing: valyn
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