Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4995265.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Pandora_Hearts
  Relationship:
      Leo_Baskerville/Elliot_Nightray
  Character:
      Leo_Baskerville, Elliot_Nightray
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Birthday_Sex, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/
      Porn_Without_Plot, Morning_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-25 Words: 4106
****** Recognition ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Elliot’s forehead creases, tension skimming over his face for a
     moment like he’s not sure if he should take Leo seriously or not.
     'Because it’s your birthday,' he says, his voice going a little rough
     in preemptive defense for an attack Leo isn’t trying to level. 'Don’t
     tell me you forgot.'" Leo forgets his birthday but Elliot gives him a
     present anyway.
Leo has never thought there was anything special about the month of October.
It’s just another month, one of the dozen in each year, and if the seasons
changing are a point of some interest the specifics of the dates are less than
interesting to him. Some are worth remembering, especially since Elliot brought
him home to the Nightray household: the party for the new year is an event to
be dreaded, Elliot’s birthday at the blistering hot end of summer a more
positive experience. There’s Christmas, and Thanksgiving, events that fall
outside the realm of ordinary and draw Leo with them into party preparations or
private, late-night congratulations to Elliot, the break from routine notable
if nothing else. But October is just another month, any importance it may have
once had long since lost to the annual routine at the orphanage, and Leo
thought no more of the change in the name weeks ago than he did of the date
last night.
When he wakes up, it’s to a kiss.
It’s from Elliot -- of course it’s from Elliot -- but it’s oddly soft, gentle
in a way Elliot rarely is first thing in the morning. The careful friction
eases Leo from sleep to waking more slowly and more persuasively than Elliot’s
other methods of waking him, until when he blinks his eyes open it’s without
the bite of discomfort at the morning that usually greets his move to
consciousness. Elliot’s got a hand in his hair, fingers sliding carefully
through the locks to brace Leo in place; when Leo shifts into wakefulness
Elliot hums heat against his mouth before he draws back where Leo can see him.
“Good morning,” Elliot says, whispering the words like they’re a secret, or
like maybe Leo’s not completely awake yet in spite of his open eyes.
“Morning,” Leo admits, not yet willing to cave to the designation of ‘good.’
“What are you doing?”
Elliot’s smile drags at the corner of his mouth, twists the expression into a
sharp-edged grin for a moment before it eases into sincere amusement. “What
does it look like I’m doing?” he asks, his focus dipping from Leo’s eyes to his
mouth. “Are you sure you’re awake, Leo?”
“I’m awake,” Leo protests, irritation trying to force itself into his voice,
but Elliot is leaning in again and he can’t keep hold of the edge of
frustration at being teased while slow heat rises in his blood. His eyes shut
of their own accord in instinctive submission to Elliot’s touch, and when he
moves it’s to draw a hand free of the blankets around him to catch at the soft
of Elliot’s loose shirt, to make a fist of the thin fabric and wind the cloth
in around his fingers to pull the other in closer. Elliot makes a sound against
Leo’s mouth, a vibration of incoherent want, and it’s Leo who opens his mouth
to lick into Elliot’s, to catch the other’s lip between his teeth and suck
friction over it. Elliot groans again, the sound coming louder past his parted
lips, and Leo lets him go so he can take a deep breath of air, can let his head
clear of the cobwebs of sleep and the blur of heat at the same time.
“I’m awake,” Leo repeats, sounding more persuasively coherent to his own ears
and with his voice dipping far lower than it did before. “Why are you awake?”
He loosens his hold on Elliot’s shirtfront, lets the thin fabric of the
undershirt drag over his fingertips. “I should be waking you.”
“Not today,” Elliot says, purring satisfaction over the words like being awake
first is some major victory. He shifts his weight, and for a moment Leo thinks
he’s pulling away and off the bed; then a knee fits between Leo’s, and Elliot’s
hips press against him, and it becomes clear that getting up is nowhere in the
plans for the near future. “Today’s special.”
Leo frowns confusion, blinks up at Elliot’s face like he’ll be able to get some
kind of clarity from the quirk of delight clinging to Elliot’s mouth or the
bright anticipation in his eyes. “Why?”
Elliot’s forehead creases, tension skimming over his face like he’s not sure if
he should take Leo seriously or not. “Because it’s your birthday,” he says, his
voice going a little rough in preemptive defense for an attack Leo isn’t trying
to level. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”
Leo blinks. It takes a moment to remember the date, another to recall far-off
celebrations from when he was young enough that it was worth having a party to
celebrate the passing of another year. It’s not something he’s thought about
since he was a child; even Elliot’s recently-passed birthday didn’t spark any
thought of his own, not when the celebration was so much larger and dramatic
than anything he’s ever experienced himself. “Oh.”
“You did,” Elliot says, his voice hovering somewhere between appalled and
amused. “You forgot your own birthday?” and he’s veering towards laughter, Leo
can hear the catch of it in the back of his throat and can see Elliot’s grin
going blade-sharp on it. “You are such an idiot.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Leo protests. “There are better things worth
remembering.”
Elliot’s laughter dies all at once. “What?” Leo can see his forehead going
tense, his lips dipping down into a frown instead of a smile. “Don’t be
absurd.”
“It’s not important,” Leo says, calm in the absolute certainty of this
statement. “It doesn’t really matter.”
Elliot is really frowning, now, his expression turning stormier with every
moment. “Don’t say that,” he says, his voice hitting the particular resonance
of an order, his head tilting back on the expectation of obedience that comes
so easily to him. “It matters. You matter. Your birthday matters.”
“It didn’t used to,” Leo observes, feeling the tension of adrenaline unfurling
into his veins, the kiss of electricity coursing over his skin. “Does it matter
now just because you say it does?”
“No,” Elliot snaps. “It matters because it does.” His frown is deepening,
threatening the edge of a pout at the damp of his lower lip. “Do you want your
present or not?”
Leo blinks, the temptation of a fight giving way to the sudden rush of startled
pleasure at this statement. “I have a present?”
“You have more than one,” Elliot huffs, still audibly irritated even though his
frown is easing, his forehead smoothing back into calm at Leo’s shift in
attention. “I didn’t forget your birthday, even if you did.”
Leo can feel his smile spread over his face, the expression catching at the
edge of adrenaline in his veins and turning it to the warm of self-conscious
pleasure instead of anger, the transition made easy on the encouragement of
Elliot’s presence. “I guess you didn’t,” he says, and collects another handful
of Elliot’s shirt into a fist under his fingers. Elliot leans in without being
pulled, capitulating to an unspoken request so when Leo turns Elliot follows,
is tilting in over him so he casts Leo into his shadow.
“Of course I didn’t,” Elliot says, his tone easing into calm at Leo’s
submission as he presses in close enough that the buttons of his shirt skim at
Leo’s clothes. Leo can catch the scent of flowers in Elliot’s hair, the perfume
of familiar soap still clinging to his skin with early-morning determination;
when he fits a hand up under Elliot’s loose shirt to press against flushed skin
he can catch the aroma on his fingertips, can feel the heat of Elliot’s body
turning to sweetness in the air. Elliot groans appreciation at Leo’s touch, his
hips coming forward to grind hard at the other’s hip, and Leo’s thoughts are
going hazy, the crackle of adrenaline through his blood unneeded for a
nonexistent fight but still demanding expression of a different sort.
“Is this my present?” Leo manages, hard-earned restraint sliding off his voice
and turning it low, shadowed, granting it a roughness something between a drawl
and a grate. “You teasing me all morning?”
“No,” Elliot says, sounding only a little bit breathless and mostly hitting the
irritation he’s aiming for. His knee slides up against the outside of Leo’s
thigh, braces at the bed; the next roll of his hips is harder than the first
few, granted force courtesy of the shift in his position, and Leo hisses
reaction, lets Elliot’s waist go to grab at his ass instead and drag him in
closer by force. Elliot groans at the motion, grinds himself at Leo’s hip
again, and when he speaks the words are cracked open on heat, losing coherency
as fast as he loses control of his breathing. “I was going to wish you a happy
birthday before you picked a fight.”
“I’m not picking a fight,” Leo says, the words absent the snap that would turn
them to aggression. He arches up towards Elliot, his entire body tensing for
the moment of effort, and Elliot whines, fingers tightening to a fist of Leo’s
hair as he shoves in close for a bruising kiss. He’s burning hot, his skin and
his mouth and the heat of his cock through his pants, and Leo wants to come
alight, wants to strip the barrier of clothes away from them both so he can
have Elliot flush against him. He clenches his fingers on the fistful he has of
Elliot’s shirt, tries to find coherency as the other pulls back to gasp for
air. “Take your shirt off.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Elliot says, but he’s rocking up over his knees
anyway, drawing his weight back as he lets his hold on Leo’s hair go. His shirt
is loose, one of the thin undershirts he usually wears to bed; it comes off
easily, once Leo lets his fist on the fabric go so Elliot can drag it up over
his head. He emerges flushed and breathless, far more winded than this one
movement can explain alone, but Leo barely glances at the picture he’s making;
he’s pushing upright himself, hooking his fingers inside the top edge of
Elliot’s pants so he can push the fastenings loose as quickly as possible.
Elliot’s hands catch at Leo’s shirt, drag it up over his chest, and Leo gets
Elliot’s pants open as the other pulls his clothes over his head.
“I can’t see what I’m doing,” Leo complains, but he lets his hold go so he can
tug his arms free of the fabric fisted in Elliot’s hands. Elliot twists to toss
the shirt over the edge of Leo’s bed, the fabric spreading open to flutter its
way to the floor, and Leo reaches back out for the tension along Elliot’s
waist, fits a thumb to the other’s hipbone while his other hand dips under the
loosened edge of Elliot’s pants and down over the soft curve of his ass. Elliot
groans at the contact, his hips bucking forward towards Leo’s chest, and Leo
ducks close, presses his face and then his mouth to Elliot’s chest to breathe
in the heat off his skin.
“Leo,” Elliot says over the top of his head, fingers digging into the tangle
sleep has made of the other’s hair as Leo works his hand down farther to pull
Elliot closer to him with bruising force. Leo makes a sound, something close
enough to assent or acknowledgment for the moment, and Elliot rocks his weight
forward, grinds his leg in against the front of Leo’s pants in a suggestion
that lacks any trace at all of subtlety. “Where’s the oil?”
It takes Leo a moment to resolve the question into meaning, another to recall
the answer. He turns his head sideways to look towards the table by the head of
the bed, the drawer in it too far to reach as they are; he’s frowning
consideration of their options, unwilling to move to make the stretch, when
Elliot says, “There?” and moves with no consideration of the effect this has on
their balance. Leo falls backwards, Elliot topples to land over him, and in the
first crush of impact it’s Leo who recovers first, at least enough to brace a
foot against the mattress and shove them both over to trade positions.
“Idiot,” he says, not without affection, and drags his hands free so he can
brace himself over Elliot’s shoulder and make the stretch for the drawer.
Elliot doesn’t protest, leaves the reach to Leo while his hands find their way
to the front of the other’s pants; Leo’s just got the drawer open and his
fingers against the bottle in question when Elliot manages to push his pants an
inch off his hips and make room for his hand inside the fabric. Leo’s shutting
his eyes before the contact comes, anticipation riding hot at his lips, and
then Elliot’s fingers drag against the sensitive-flushed head of his cock and
he groans, a sustained shattered note of heat as his hips come forward of their
own volition to arch into Elliot’s touch.
“Elliot,” Leo gasps, a protest and a plea at once, and Elliot wraps his fingers
into a grip on his length, strokes up over him with a twist of his wrist that
shudders electricity all through Leo’s body.
“Hurry up,” Elliot says, the sound too wide-open to be the order he clearly
intends it to be, and takes another stroke. The friction tightens Leo’s fingers
into the sheets, dips his head down to gasp for air, and Elliot is arching up
towards him, his body straining for closer contact than they have yet achieved.
“Give me the bottle, I can do it.”
“No,” Leo says, and rocks back over his heels with an outrageous effort of will
as he twists the lid open, forcing his hand to release from the sheets so he
can turn his palm up and catch the oil he spills from the bottle. The liquid
trickles across his palm, tips over the edge to splash shining onto Elliot’s
skin, and Leo is reaching out, smearing his slippery touch along Elliot’s spine
as he reaches behind him and dips under the edge of his clothes. Elliot’s hips
come up, tilting like he’s trying to meet the grip he still has on Leo’s cock,
and Leo leans forward, braces himself close against Elliot’s bare skin as his
hand slides down over flushed heat to press against the tight of Elliot’s
entrance. Elliot sucks in a breath, anticipation hot on the sound, and Leo
pushes, the tremble of want in his fingertips making the motion rougher than he
intends. His finger slides into the other, Elliot opens up to the intrusion,
and Elliot is groaning, tensing against Leo’s touch as his hand clenches
tighter on the other’s cock.
“Leo,” he says, meaningless but for the heat on the sound, but Leo’s moving
without waiting for the command, thrusting in deeper, as far as he can manage
from the angle he’s at. Elliot is arching closer, his skin catching warm
against Leo’s, and when Leo breathes in he can smell flowers in the air, can
catch the faint perfume of violets clinging to the flushed heat of Elliot’s
body. He draws back, pushes in again, harder, and Elliot whimpers this time,
draws his hand up in a hasty stroke over Leo’s cock like he’s just remembered
what he’s doing. Leo can hear the ragged edge to Elliot’s breathing, can feel
the strain all through his body, and when he moves it’s to press closer, to pin
Elliot to the bed by his own weight as he drags the slick of another finger
against the tension of Elliot’s body. Elliot clenches against him again, the
movement as involuntary as the breathless groan he makes; Leo waits until the
tension has passed, until Elliot is starting to relax against the bed again,
before he pushes into him with a movement as smooth as it is sudden. Elliot
moans, grabs at Leo’s hair as if to brace himself, and Leo shuts his eyes,
presses his face to Elliot’s shoulder and breathes into the darkness so he can
focus on the thrust of his fingers, the inconsistent slide of Elliot’s hold on
him, the tangle they have made of their knees and their limbs and their bodies,
pressed so close Leo can’t make the lines between them come clear. His skin
flushes hot, warmth washing over him in a wave of sensation, and Elliot tips
his head in, the heat of his exhale close enough to ghost through the tangle
Leo’s hair has made over his ear.
“Leo,” Elliot says, voice quivering with strain. His hips come up, his body
arching under the other’s, and for a moment Leo can feel the heat of Elliot’s
cock pressed against his stomach, the slick against the head dragging slippery
over his skin. “Come on.”
“Shut up,” Leo blurts, words tumbling unthinking from his lips, but he’s easing
his fingers free anyway, spreading them wider as he draws back for the way it
makes Elliot shake, for the sound of Elliot’s breathing turning to heat in his
throat. Then his hand is free, and Elliot is ready, and there’s a tangle of
clothes in their way, the barrier of pants a suddenly insurmountable issue.
“Damn it,” Leo says, seizing a handful of fabric into a fist at the edge of
Elliot’s pants. “Move” and Elliot is obeying, letting his hold go and tipping
himself up so Leo can drag his clothes off and strip him down to flushed skin.
The pants go over the edge of the bed, forgotten as soon as Leo’s hand is free,
and Leo leans in fast, while Elliot is still angling his knees open, forces the
other boy’s legs wider by the pressure of his hips against Elliot’s thighs.
Elliot reaches back out, fingers catching at the edge of Leo’s undone pants,
but Leo beats him to it, fumbles his clothes down another half-inch while he
closes his hand against himself and strokes hasty lubrication over the heat of
his cock.
“Happy birthday,” Elliot says, rushing over the words as Leo leans back over
him and braces a hand over his shoulder. Elliot’s cheeks are flushed, his mouth
damp and dark from the catch of Leo’s teeth at his lip; this close Leo can see
the flecks of grey in the blue of his eyes, the shading from light to dark in
the depth of the irises. “Leo.”
Leo can feel the words hum in the air, the vibration catching against the
inside of his ribcage to ache pressure under his skin, the tension so much it
feels more like pain than pleasure. He opens his mouth but there aren’t any
words, not for Elliot, not for this moment, not for the strange inside-out hurt
lighting itself in the blood in his veins, and in the end all he can say is
“Elliot,” the syllables going soft and gentle on his tongue, and lean in to
kiss the other boy as he rocks his weight forward. Elliot arches to meet him,
his lips parting as Leo’s mouth meets his, and then he’s groaning, shuddering
through the first wave of tension as Leo’s cock slides into him. They’re
pressed together, skin dragging over hot-flushed skin, Elliot’s arm around
Leo’s shoulders and Elliot’s fingers digging into Leo’s hip, and Leo can’t find
air, can’t fill his lungs with anything except for the radiance spilling off
Elliot’s lips.
“Elliot,” Leo says again, his voice so low and so soft he doesn’t recognize his
own tone, doesn’t realize it’s him speaking when he hears the words in the air.
Elliot gasps under him, his hand curling into a fist in Leo’s hair, and Leo
wants to shut his eyes again but can’t, he can’t make himself look away from
the color staining Elliot’s cheeks or the heat going soft at his mouth.
“Elliot.”
“Leo,” Elliot manages, desperate on the sound like he’s struggling for
coherency, and Leo lets his free hand slide up from the outside of Elliot’s
knee to the angle of his hip, in to fit between the press of their bodies so he
can close his fingers on the too-hot resistance of Elliot’s cock. Elliot’s head
goes back, his throat straining for air, and the next sound he makes isn’t a
word at all, just heat raw and dragging in his chest. Leo ducks closer, presses
his mouth to the hum of noise in Elliot’s throat, and Elliot’s groan skips
higher, strains into appreciation as Leo draws back for another thrust, keeping
his hold tight enough that he can feel the rush of accompanying heat into
Elliot’s cock at the motion. His head is spinning, the world is swaying into
dizziness as he moves, but he is moving, something between rhythm and instinct
driving the stroke of his hand and the slow, rocking thrust of his hips. He can
feel the sound of Elliot’s breathing against his lips as well as he can hear it
over the rush of blood in his ears; it’s too hot, the air around them is rising
to unbearable temperatures, and Elliot is straining underneath him, pressing
impossibly close until Leo is sure one or both of them is going to collapse to
tension or the heat, that everything is going to fall to pieces before they
reach the satisfaction they both want. But Elliot keeps gasping, and Leo keeps
moving, and then Elliot’s fist drags hard at Leo’s hair, Elliot chokes out a
“Leo” that sounds like a warning, and Leo lifts his head as the rising tide of
heat in his veins makes space for a burst of sudden attention. Elliot is
breathing hard, his mouth flushed under the dig of his teeth at his lower lip;
his forehead is creased, strain written into the line of his eyebrows and the
drag of his fingers, but he’s breathing harder with every inhale, he’s starting
to tremble under Leo’s hold.
“Elliot,” Leo says, a question and encouragement and an order somehow all
tangling together in his throat, and Elliot’s fingers drag at his hair,
pressure cutting over the edge to painful for a moment as his entire body
arches to pin him flush against Leo. Leo can feel the gasp of air Elliot takes,
can feel the way Elliot’s cock goes hard and hot against his fingers; and then
Elliot groans, low and shuddering in the air, and when he comes his whole body
shivers with it, quaking through the shocks of sensation as the tension in him
collapses to drop him boneless to the bed. His eyes are glazed with heat, his
mouth open and choking for air, and Leo can’t breathe at all, can’t relax the
building pressure in his chest to make space for an inhale. He just keeps
moving instead, instinct entirely overriding intent, now, until when Elliot
shudders through an aftershock Leo is coming before he realizes it’s happening,
his body jolting into pleasure as his vision whites out into a rush of heat.
His throat tenses, turns the rush of air from his lungs into a wail that sounds
more pained than pleasured, but he can’t change the tone, can’t shut his mouth
on the sound, can’t do anything at all but shake into fragments of sensation
under the radiance of Elliot against him.
After, Elliot’s the one to move first, the one who urges Leo down when his
braced-out arm starts to tremble and threaten collapse while he’s still trying
to collect the shattered pieces of himself. The bed is soft, Elliot is warm,
and when Leo breathes in he can smell violets in the air, their faint perfume
collecting at Elliot’s shoulder to touch Leo’s tongue with almost-sweet.
Elliot sighs, satisfaction audible as heat in his throat, eases his hold on
Leo’s hair. Leo can feel the gentle drag of Elliot’s fingers through the
strands, the contact as tender now as it was desperate before. “Happy birthday,
Leo.”
Leo shuts his eyes. He can feel the burn of tears behind them, the threat of
emotion too strong to easily fight back; there’s no chance of speech, not with
his throat tight on pleasure and gratitude and affection so strong it chokes
him into strain even on simple inhales. But he reaches out, fits his fingers
against the curve of Elliot’s hip, and when he presses his fingers in hard the
huff of Elliot’s pleased exhale says he understands the intended meaning.
Elliot is a better present than Leo could ever have hoped for.
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