Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/718775.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Santana_Lopez/Brittany_S._Pierce
  Character:
      Santana_Lopez, Brittany_S._Pierce
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-03-13 Words: 4193
****** Soft ******
by jellymankelly
Summary
     "The rest of the Glee club stares at you in shock, and you think you
     hear Puck mutter something about 'girl's going soft.' In all
     truthfulness, you kind of agree with him."
You sigh contentedly as Brittany snuggles into your shoulder. Her long fingers
dance gracefully over the skin of your forearm, leaving little trails of heat
in their wake. If it weren't for the hobbit's caterwauling, you think you could
sit like this forever and not be bothered by it.
Your eyes roll almost of their own accord when Berry immediately launches into
some ridiculous diatribe about rebuilding team bonds and immersing yourselves
in the essence of teamwork. You miss the TroubleTones, more than you're willing
to admit, so instead you simply sit in the back with Brittany and scoff.
Fetus Face catches it and turns to fix you with what you can only assume is
intended to be a withering stare. He mostly just looks like he can't quite work
out how to master his own oversized digestive system. He makes an underhanded
comment about how you need to put yourself out there and you're bristling
before the words even finish leaving his lips.
You're about to cut into him when you feel a light squeeze on your thigh. You
settle for a piercing baleful glare in his direction and then ignore him
completely.
The rest of the Glee club stares at you in shock, and you think you hear Puck
mutter something about girl's going soft.
In all truthfulness, you kind of agree with him. The vast majority of the
student population still gives you a wide berth as you walk down the hallways,
but the ever present wave of intimidation that used to precede you and billow
in your wake has faded considerably. People avoid you out of habit now, rather
than out of the respect you command or the fear you inspire.
It bothers you, quite a bit actually, but you let it go. For Brittany's sake.
For Brittany, who keeps saying how far you've come.
Mr. Schue finally cuts Rachel off and dismisses you all. You don't have
Cheerios practice on Thursdays anymore, so you're free to go home.
Brittany walks you to your locker and you promise to call her later tonight,
once your homework's done.
You walk home quickly, not wanting to get caught in the cold. You curse your
father for insisting on maintaining connection with his roots in Lima Heights
Adjacent, because his roots fucking slashed the tires of your car and Prancy
Smurf's father still hasn't gotten around to checking for any other heretofore
unseen damage to it. Who knows how long you'll be stuck walking to and from
school. At least you live nearby.
You notice a group of guys loitering at the corner a couple blocks from your
place, but dismiss them once you notice their McKinley letterman jackets.
Stupid jocks probably looking to pick up some weed in the Heights. A couple of
them catcall at you, but you breeze by them without even a word. You're not
gonna start something here. You're not that stupid.
It's not until the first fist connects with the side of your head that you
realize that something was going to start whether you wanted it to or not.
You give as good as you get at first, but there's only so much a five foot two,
hundred-something pound girl can do against three high school football players.
It's not until the fourth kick to your gut that you admit to yourself that
you're not likely going to be able to finish this something either.
By this point, it's all you can do to remain conscious, curled up on the ground
and covering your head as best you can to protect it from the flurry of
unforgiving blows pounding into your tiny body. Your back is pressed against a
chain link fence, so they can't get to your spine, but they can still stomp and
kick into your mostly exposed left side and front. And they do. Over and over
and over.
Finally, just as your vision is beginning to fade from red to black, the boys
leave. The last things your pain-clouded brain recognizes before the
unconsciousness seeps in is the snarled words filthy fuckin' dyke and something
wet hitting your cheek.
When you come to, it's gotten a bit darker outside, and the cold of the evening
has already set into your bones and muscles. With supreme effort, you pull
yourself to your feet (staving off a wave of throbbing pain and the subsequent
blackout by sheer force of will alone) and half-stumble, half-walk the last two
blocks to your home. Your parents are on yet another one of their many business
trips (this time for two weeks), so the house is dark and empty when you
eventually manage to force your shaking hands into service unlocking the front
door.
In the time it takes for you to crawl (literally crawl, on all fours like an
animal, it's humiliating) up the stairs and into your bedroom, you've already
considered and discarded the idea of taking a hot bath in favor of falling into
your bed as you are.
Just before you fall asleep you rouse enough to send a brief text to Brittany,
cancelling your weekend plans (thank God it's Thursday - one missed day won't
spoil your 4.0 GPA, because you don't even want to think about going to school
like this) with the excuse that you're really sick and you're just going to
sleep it off. You learned long ago that if you just say it's a stomach thing,
Brittany will be over in a flash to play nurse with soft piano music and cream
of potato soup, so you're sure to mention a high fever. Brittany knows that a
fever means contagious, and with her baby sister still so young, she doesn't
want to risk becoming a carrier. She'll hate it, but she'll stay away.
It's a measure of how much agony you're in that you can't even muster up the
energy to feel guilty about the lie. You just know that Brittany can't see you
like this.
When you wake up again, the first thing you become cognizant of is an
overwhelming need to use the toilet. Moaning softly, you stumble into the
bathroom, noting with faint relief that movement seems to be coming to you a
great deal easier than it did when you first got home.
You squint blearily at the digital clock sitting on the bathroom counter for
several minutes before realizing that you still have your contacts in. With
slightly steadier hands than before, you remove the lenses, flicking them
carelessly into the bathroom sink. After you wash your hands and brush your
teeth - even half blind, you know it's not good that thatmuch of your spit came
out pink - you head back into your room.
Standing in front of your full-length mirror, you shrug painfully out of your
Cheerios uniform and give your underwear clad body a once-over. Gently, you
prod at your black and blue mottled ribs, gasping and blinking back tears every
time you find a particularly tender patch of flesh. Based on the fact that you
can still breathe normally with relatively little pain, it doesn't seem like
anything's broken or cracked, just really fucking bruised. Silver lining, you
suppose.
You stumble back over to your bed, wrestling with the drawer of your night
stand for a few moments until you manage to find your glasses. Once they're
perched securely on your nose, you fumble for your phone.
If your face didn't hurt so much, you'd be smiling at the 17 text messages you
find on it, all from Brittany, and all expressing varying degrees of sympathy
and affection. You fire off one quick text, a simple xoxo to let her know
you're still alive (barely).
You check the time and start a little when you realize it's a day later than
you thought it was. No wonder you feel so wobbly.
After you've changed your underwear (because your skin was starting to crawl,
you'd been wearing them for so long), you consider your clothing options,
opting for the infinitely comfortable oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants combo
after a moment's deliberation.
You wince internally at the state of your uniform, the black smudges and rust
brown splatters standing out in vulgar contrast against the normally pristine
scarlet and white of the fabric. You leave it all in a pile outside your
bedroom door for the housekeeper. It costs your parents a little extra when she
has to do your dry-cleaning, but at this point you really couldn't care less.
Their mild irritation is much less intimidating than Coach Sue's wrath.
Stewing it over for a few moments, you decide to move yourself - and as much of
your bedding as your starved, aching body can carry - downstairs.
After you've gotten everything arranged to your satisfaction, you wander slowly
into the kitchen to find something to line your stomach. You don't think you
have the energy to actually make anything, so you just grab half a French loaf
and a bottle of Sprite from the fridge.
Simple seems like the best choice now considering how much of your own blood
you may or may not have ingested in the past 36 hours. If the color of your
toothpaste spit was any indication, it was a lot.
You catch sight of yourself in the faint reflection of the liquor cabinet as
you pass by, and it makes you gasp aloud.
Your face is a swollen, lumpy mass of purple and blue bruises, and your bottom
lip is split in at least three different spots. With a sigh, you turn back to
the refrigerator and grab two bags of frozen peas before shuffling back to the
couch.
Once you're comfortably settled (or as comfortably settled as you can be,
considering you're basically a walking bruise), you lean back and plop one bag
of peas on each side of your face, leaving only your nose and mouth exposed so
you can still eat and breathe.
You only manage to muscle down a few bites of bread and sips of soda before you
begin to doze off again.
You keep a steady application of food and drinks to your stomach and frozen
objects to your face for the rest of the weekend. The housekeeper says nothing
about the state you're in, but leaves a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol by
your soda before she leaves. You remind yourself to ask your parents to at
least triple her tip this month.
By the time Monday morning rolls around, you almost feel human again. You still
look like a prizefighter after an especially brutal match, despite the best
efforts of concealer and frozen vegetables, but in comparison to how you looked
on Saturday, it's still a vast improvement.
You can walk, sit, and stand with hardly any pain, but you shudder to think
what it would do to you to suffer through Cheerios practice, so you forge a
quick note from your father to get you out of it for the week, just to be safe.
Coach will kill you, of course, but at least by then you'll be able to face it
without wincing every time you move too quickly.
When you get to school, it doesn't take more than fifteen minutes for news of
your fearsome appearance to circulate through the halls of McKinley at least
twice. Each theory is more insane than the one before, and you neither confirm
nor deny anything.
Jewfro approaches you with a camera and mike at some point between homeroom and
first period, but the look you level at him has him backing away and tripping
over his own feet before he even gets within three yards of you.
A certain select number of football players are almost conspicuous in their
adamant intent to keep their hands pocketed, but you don't think anyone really
notices other than you. You keep your chin up and your gaze hard whenever one
of them passes by, and the look of intimidated awe in their neanderthalic faces
is worth the pain it causes to repress your near constant urge to shy away.
Clearly they didn't expect you to be walking anytime soon.
No one in this school is ever going to call you soft again.
It's not until second period that you understand your mistake. Brittany.
Brittany, who extracted a promise from you not two weeks ago that you wouldn't
engage in any more fighting. While she was inclined to agree that Finn really
had that slap coming to him, she insisted that violence was not the answer, and
you dutifully agreed. You were tired of fighting at that point anyhow, so it
was an easy promise to make. At the time.
You wish desperately for the ground to just open up and swallow you whole after
the first time she sees you. The disappointment in her eyes is so palpable you
can practically feel it from across the room, and it hurts worse than any fist
or shoe ever could.
You keep your head down and your shoulders hunched defensively for the rest of
class, only lifting your chin after she's passed you by (without a word - you
think you might cry right here, right now).
You do your best to keep up your false bravado through the rest of your
classes, despite the shame and guilt roiling in your gut.
You want to go to her, to explain that it wasn't your fault, that those
dickheads fucking accosted you. You want to tell her how they called you ugly
things and beat you 'til you couldn't even cry anymore. But you don't. You
won't.
She was so proud when you finally came to terms with being out, when you
finally just let yourself be you. You can't take that away from her. You can't
tell her that it's the sole reason you look like three day old ground beef, not
some stupid remnants of your pride pushing you into an unnecessary
confrontation.
Because you know, the second you say any of that, she'll find some way to blame
herself. She'll insist that she pushed you (even though fucking Finn Hudson is
the only one who can claim credit for that), or that she should have somehow
known and been there to protect you (the wave of relief you feel that she
wasn't makes your head spin).
So you accept the weight of her disappointment, even though it feels like a
knife to your heart. You accept it because it's better than the alternative,
better than bringing any clouds into that beautiful place she lives in. She'll
forgive you eventually, if you apologize enough. You hope.
You sit in the back left corner during Glee, and remain silent. The rest of the
members look at you curiously and just a little bit fearfully as they filter
in, but don't say a word to you. A few days ago, you would have smirked in
satisfaction, but now you just wonder how much they must hate you, that they
don't even bother to ask you how you are or what really happened. Not even Mr.
Schue. Not even Quinn. Whatever. You don't need them and their pity anyhow.
When Brittany walks in, little bit of you dies when she sits in the front right
corner without even a glance in your direction, but you take it.
She doesn't say a word to you the whole rest of the day.
Or the next day.
Or the day after that.
By the time Friday arrives your bruises have all faded to a sickly yellow-green
and your scrapes are little more than pink scars scattered across your dark
skin. The distance between her and you, however, gapes like an open wound.
She walks into the choir room after school, and it's clear that she's been
crying. It takes everything in you not to rush to her side. You've never been
more grateful for Puck when he sits beside her and pats her shoulder
comfortingly, and you don't think anything could hurt more than knowing that
you can't be the one to do it because you're more than likely the reason for
the tears in the first place.
He shoots you a look over his shoulder that you can't read. It seems fierce and
full of pity at the same time, and that just makes you cringe even more. When
Glee ends, Brittany turns and takes two steps in your direction, eyes brimming
with more sorrow than you thought it possible for any one soul to hold, before
you have to run.
With a strangled sorry you flee for the safety of your empty house.
Up until that point, at school, you were able keep your head high. But once
you're home, where it's dark and quiet and there's no one to witness your
weakness, you sob into your arms like you've lost your last chance at heaven.
Once or twice you wonder if maybe you have.
You fall asleep with your face half buried in the soggy pillow, and your last
thought before your eyes close is to wonder if pillows can grow moldy, because
yours hasn't been properly dry in days.
You wake a couple hours later to the sound of the doorbell being rung
repeatedly, and it takes you a minute to figure out that you're still on the
couch in your uniform.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror in the entryway as you pass by
and grimace at your reflection. Your cheeks are stained with dark mascara
smudges from your little Niagra Falls reenactment earlier, but you can't bring
yourself to care enough to do anything more than rub at them half-heartedly as
you amble to the door.
You experience a brief flash of irritation at the insistent manner in which
this person is ringing your doorbell, but it dies as soon as you open the door.
Brittany stands with her finger hovering over the doorbell button, looking
about as bad off as you are.
You stand there in shock, mouth opening and closing several times, completely
at a loss.
It's only when she flings herself at you that you're able to move again. You
pat her back bemusedly and tug her the rest of the way inside while she weeps
incoherently into the crook of your neck.
You think she's trying to tell you something, but she's too worked up to manage
anything more than a few muffled syllables and a hiccup or two.
You shush her soothingly and guide her gently over to the couch, kicking your
bedding off of it (you never bothered to move back into your room) before
sitting her in its place.
You only leave her side long enough to grab a box of tissues and a bottle of
water for her, and her watery thank you makes you smile until you remember that
she's still upset with you.
She manages to calm herself down after a few minutes, but she still hasn't
spoken. You sit next to her awkwardly, not sure if you're allowed to comfort
her or not, so you inch a little closer - just enough so that if she wanted to
lean on your shoulder, she could, but far enough so that you're not actually
touching.
She seems to notice your cautiousness, and for a moment you're afraid she's
going to start crying again. Instead, she flings her arms around your neck once
more, gripping you so tightly you almost can't breathe.
It takes a few seconds for the words she's mumbling into your cheek to process,
and when they do, your eyes widen in comprehension and horror at the
repeated I'm so sorrys andwhy didn't you say somethings.
Apparently, sometime between lunch and Glee earlier today, Puck had overheard
several football players talking about putting it to some dyke the previous
weekend, and he had passed on what he'd heard to Brittany. You make a mental
note to give him a piece of your mind later. You promised no more violence, but
you'll be damned if you can't put your words to work just as well as your
fists.
Slowly, slowly, she pulls the whole story from you, one reluctant sentence at a
time. She starts crying again almost immediately, but insists that you continue
regardless. When she asks you why you didn't tell her in the first place what
really happened, it's several minutes before you can explain that you didn't
want to hurt her or give her a chance to take any of the blame. You're certain
if you had been stronger or smarter about everything you could have somehow
avoided this whole mess, but you don't say that part out loud.
She cries even harder and calls you silly and kisses your face over and over
again and you think maybe you should hug Puck after you're finished laying into
him with your vicious, vicious words. Because even though she's crying and you
hate that it's over you, at least she loves you again.
You offer her an apology of your own - you're not sure what for, but you're
certain there's something you should probably apologizing for (there always is)
- until she fixes you with a gaze that says she doesn't want to hear another
word about it. So you press your lips together and watch her carefully, unsure
of your next move.
She stands, gently pulls you to your feet, and with a pillow in one hand and
your fingers laced in the other, she leads you up the stairs and into your room
without a word.
Silently she tosses the pillow to the head of the bed before turning and
tenderly stripping you of your clothes. Your hands reach out to return the
favor but she catches you and gives you yet another look that stills your
motions completely.
Once you're completely nude, she presses you softly into the mattress, tugging
and pulling until you're splayed out flat on your back while she hovers over
you.
Starting with your hairline, she begins slowly and methodically laying kisses
on every single inch of your skin. She makes her way down your left arm, and
lavishes special attention to your knuckles and the tips of your fingers. When
she repeats the process on your other hand, you realize what she's doing. She's
kissing your injuries. Every single mark, cut, scrape, or bruise she comes
across receives her attention.
When she gets to your ribs, you feel tiny drops of wet warmth splash across the
tender, still-purple flesh, but she quickly kisses them away before you can say
anything. You brush a thumb lightly across her right cheek, and move to dry her
left as well, but she catches your wrist and sets it gently back down on the
mattress with a tiny peck before moving back to her task.
By the time she's finished and is working her way back up again, your own
cheeks are wet with silent tears you can't even explain. She kisses those too.
Your skin is practically humming from all the attention it's received, but you
don't want to assume anything, so you remain still.
She leans in and gives you the deepest, sweetest, and most passionate kiss
you've ever been given before moving her questing lips to your cheek, your
neck, your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach, until finally her mouth
moves over where you need her most.
With the same slow, methodical pace, she brings you to the brink. She says your
name once and it rings out in the silence, pulling you out of the haze she's
wrapped you in. You prop yourself up on your elbows and look down at her where
she's nestled between your legs like it's home. She looks back at you, blue
eyes filled with so much love and adoration you almost can't take it, and then
she takes you over the edge.
As your body quakes and pulses with aftershocks, she slides two fingers into
your core, and with a soft, loving motion, crooks them, as if beckoning to you
from within. Obedient to her call, you come. She slides her thumb up and
circles it over your clit while repeating the beckoning motion until you come a
third time before she finally comes back to rest beside you.
She lies down next to you on her back and pulls you to her, arranging you so
that your head is settled against her heart (you spare a brief second to wonder
when and how she got naked too) and her lips are pressed against your forehead.
Her arms enfold you gently and her legs tangle possessively with yours and you
swear if you died tomorrow, you wouldn't have a single regret.
This kind of soft, you could be this kind of soft for the rest of your life, if
she could too. This kind of soft is worth not fighting for.
The last thing you hear before you drift off is the gentle strains of her
voice, singing softly into your hair.
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
as he
jerked himself off that exact same way, coming to pictures of JJ, beautiful,
aggravating JJ.
“I think about you.” JJ’s other hand is tracing his lips. “The way you are on
the ice. The way you were with me. I think about you and I think about
intensity.” He is so quiet and so gentle that it's almost like his touch and
his words aren't even there and yet it has the power to curl Yuri’s spine and
he can’t help himself, he sucks JJ’s finger into his mouth. ”Calisse de
Tabernak!”
Yuri swipes his tongue across his finger tip and JJ’s hand goes faster. His
eyes get so dark and he’s staring at Yuri like he’s not sure - but he’s letting
Yuri suck it. No, he’s actually pushing his finger in a little more. Yuri grabs
his hands. Nods. He never wants JJ to stop, or to even make him come. He wants
to stay like this, in that place where pleasure is a slippery throttle and the
rush is so good. Yuri sucks harder and JJ is pressing his face in Yuri’s hair
and his arm is so tense from working his hand with those fast strokes.
“What are you doing to me? Fuck!” JJ’s hot breath blasts in Yuri’s hair. And,
god, he grinds against Yuri’s body. He’s big and he’s so hard underneath that
tracksuit and and he’s nuzzling Yuri’s hair. “Would you touch me?”
Clothes take too long. Yuri sits up and fights with JJ’s zipper. He throws off
the jacket and looks into JJ's eyes as he pulls up his shirt. His face is red.
“You’re blushing?”
“So’re you.” JJ touches Yuri’s neck. His collarbone. He smiles and JJ looks
absurdly beautiful, too good. Yuri looked down and - oh! - JJ’s chest. “Touch
me?” JJ takes his hand and puts it over his pec. Over his nipple. God, he’s so
toned and smooth — Yuri doesn't realize he’s licking JJ’s skin until he’s
lapping at JJ’s nipple. “Ooh! Baby boy, that’s so good!”
Yuri will do this forever, as long as he keeps calling him that.
JJ’s shoving his hand in Yuri’s hair and he’s gasping and Yuri’s moving to the
other one and JJ’s hands grab a little harder, fisting Yuri’s hair and
scratching at Yuri’s back and Yuri sucks at his nipple as JJ wraps his whole
hand around Yuri and pumps.
Yuri’s hand slips over JJ’s chest. Down, down under the seam of his pants. Yuri
presses his face against JJ. Thrusts into his hand and pushes his hand into
JJ’s pants. He touches the tip of his dick and JJ thumbs Yuri's, swiping the
head firmly. “Fuck! Jeh Jeh -“
“Say my name like that!” JJ moans as Yuri’s hand slides over his - oh, god! JJ
is huge. “Baby, I’ve come so many times remembering how you say my name.”
JJ’s other hand is on his thigh. “Jeh Jeh.” He can’t help it. He wants to see
JJ come, too. He wants to see someone feel something like that for him. Yuri
looks up and JJ is looking back at him, staring at him. He can’t help saying it
again. “Jeh Jeh.”
“Sweet, beautiful - “ He moans again when Yuri starts pumping him, too. Grabs
Yuri’s hip and twists his grip as he jerks Yuri off. And his eyes - they’re the
clearest eyes Yuri’s ever seen, like mirrors, and Yuri can almost see himself
in those eyes. “How are you so sweet, baby boy? How is it you’re so sweet to
me?”
Yuri’s sweet? God, Yuri’s such a fool, because that makes him arch his back and
it makes him sit up and take JJ’s mouth with his and he shoves his tongue in
his mouth and whines for more.
Tongues slide together, strokes rise and fall like waves, and when JJ thrusts
against Yuri’s hand and growls against Yuri’s mouth, Yuri shivers and he
whimpers. JJ’s fingers dig into Yuri’s ass and JJ’s hand primes Yuri’s cock and
he pulls back and all Yuri can see and feel is JJ as -
“God, yes! Come for me!”
All he can see is JJ. Yuri sobs and Yuri jerks and Yuri explodes like a
firecracker. All he can feel is that hand priming it out of him. All he can
hear is his deep, warm voice. “Oh, baby boy! That’s it! That’s my sweet, sweet
baby boy!”
Then JJ kisses him with soft, feathery pecks all over his face as he settles
Yuri back down. Shushes him as Yuri groans and grabs for him as he gets up.
Smiles as he leaves the bed.
Yuri shivers again, this time from a sudden chill. JJ’s running the tap. He’s
going to wash Yuri’s come off his hand and leave. Obviously.
Yuri closes his eyes. He listens to clothes rustling. He expects the soft click
of a door closing. He doesn’t expect a dip in the mattress or the warm breath
on his belly. “Yuri?”
“What are you doing?”
JJ is naked. Gloriously fucking naked and leaning over his body. “Would you let
me lick this off?”
God! It does something to Yuri when he asks for permission. It twists him up
and makes his toes curl and his back arch and he nods without words and he
gasps without making a sound as JJ keeps looking up at him, as JJ bends his
head, as JJ takes a long, slow lick.
“Mmmm…”
JJ’s hands cradle Yuri’s hips and he settles in between his legs. He slurps up
Yuri’s come and when he’s done swallowing it all, he dips his tongue into his
belly button. “Fuck!” It’s too much - Yuri can feel it in his balls and it’s so
soon after. Yuri yells and he laughs and JJ chuckles and he’s wiggling his
tongue into Yuri’s belly button, trailing his fingers up and down, up and down,
until that tickles too, and Yuri can’t take it. He tosses his head back and
forth until JJ is suddenly on top of him taking his face in his hands.
“You’ll say yes if I ask you for something, won’t you?”
Yuri nods.
“Would you ask me for something? I wouldn’t say no.” JJ’s eyes are so clear
Yuri thinks he can see through them, inside of him, and he’s not the arrogant
prick he shows everyone else. Yuri touches his shoulder, traces the lines of
his body, down over his heart. He’s so strong, he could hold Yuri down or shove
him away so easily. But he doesn’t. He’s strong, but he’s gentle, and god- that
makes him so hard again. “I’d never say no to you, Yuri Plisetsky.” He takes
his hand. He kisses it. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you on a silver
platter.”
“Don’t -“ He stops himself. “I mean, keep doing what you’re doing.” He kisses
JJ’s hand now.
“You sure?” JJ strokes his cheek. “So you’re okay with me lying down naked with
you? I want to do more than touch you, Yuri.”
Yuri nods. “I don’t want you to stop.”
“I am so glad you said that.” JJ braces his hands on either side of Yuri’s
head. He eases himself down and Yuri loves the feel of his weight on him. He
doesn’t feel trapped. He feels claimed. “Actually, it’s still hard to believe
you said that.” He feels wanted. When JJ bends his head and when JJ presses his
open mouth against his Yuri feels cherished. When JJ’s fingertips slide over
his face and his body moves against his and their tongues slide together Yuri
feels like he’s found home.
His fingers are so gentle and his body is so big. And hard. Yuri traces over
his arms, and wonders when he’s touching a tattoo. JJ laughs a little when Yuri
passes over the bend of his elbow, then inner arm. “You’re ticklish, too?” Yuri
asks.
JJ smiles against his lips as he shakes his head. “No.” He dips his tongue back
inside.
Yuri reaches down, near JJ’s ribs, but JJ’s already jabbing his ribs and Yuri
has to arch his back to try to get away and - oh fuck! - JJ is merciless! He
holds him down and Yuri laughs so hard he can’t stand it. “You’ll pay for
that!” The words barely make it out. But he tries - and even gets a few good
pokes in. Just a few, before JJ grabs his wrists.
JJ’s holding his hands over his head. “Oh, really?” He’s smirking now, but it’s
not too annoying. No, he knows JJ will stop if Yuri wants him to. JJ taps Yuri
on the nose. “So what’re you going to do to me, baby boy?”
“I’ll have you at my mercy!” Yuri snaps at his finger. When JJ snaps back -
catching Yuri’s lip between his teeth - Yuri pulls his right hand free for a
moment. It’s long enough to reach down. JJ chokes out a laugh because Yuri’s
grabbed his dick. And he’s pulling at the foreskin, gently, with just his thumb
and forefinger. He smiles as JJ moans. “I know you like this, Jeh Jeh.”
JJ groans. But he doesn’t give up. He wiggles around until he’s pressed his
dick against Yuri’s, and it’s so, so - Yuri hisses as JJ spits and reaches
down. Grips Yuri’s cock and presses it up against his.
“I know you like this, baby boy.” His breath is warm in Yuri’s ear and his
voice is low and deep and Yuri feels it in his balls as JJ thrusts against him.
“Sweet baby boy.”
Yuri moans and he’s wrapping his legs around JJ and wrapping his arms around JJ
and scoring his nails down that firm, hard back, and grabbing that fucking
perfect ass. “Jeh Jeh! Like that! Please! Oh fuck like that!” He doesn’t know
what else to say. He doesn’t know how to keep his voice from breaking and he
doesn’t know how to stop the sobs when JJ holds him close and whispers French
in his ear. “Don’t stop!” He’s crying and he’s going to die when he comes. He’s
going to die.
“Want you so bad.” JJ is looking in his eyes, rubbing the tears away from
Yuri’s cheeks. “Want to make you cry because you're happy.” JJ’s lip trembles
when Yuri whimpers. “Please be happy, baby?” JJ’s whisper is so soft. His eyes
are so clear. “Baby, you make me so happy. I just want to - “
Yuri shivers as JJ kisses him, gently. Softly. He arches his back and he comes,
crying even harder as JJ watches him.
”Sweet, ah! Sweet Yuri -! Ah!” JJ groans, and Yuri whines as JJ keeps watching
him as he touches Yuri’s face and kisses him just as he comes. And they can’t
stop thrusting against each other, they have to ride it out, to milk the
aftershocks as they stare into each other's eyes.
Yuri bites into his shoulder when it’s too much and it starts to almost tickle.
“Fuck!”
JJ stops. He rolls over and whistles. “Wow.”
Yeah. Yuri stares at the popcorn ceiling. Wow. Now comes the part where JJ
really leaves. “Okay, then.” He tells himself not to look at JJ. Not to expect
any of that sex talk to mean shit, because now they’re done. JJ is done. Done
with Yuri and ready to ignore him until and unless -
“Hey, Yuri?” Oh, shit. Yuri is looking at him. His smile is so soft, so, so
soft, and his lip is trembling. “I’m not going to tell anyone what we did.”
Yuri nods. “Course not.” He doesn’t know why JJ’s lip is trembling. But he
knows why his is. He wishes he could make it stop. He wants to make it stop. He
can’t make it stop.
“Baby?” JJ reaches out. He touches Yuri’s mouth and Yuri can feel his fingers.
They’re shaking. “Baby, I just want to be able to tell them you’re mine. Can
I?” JJ looks so scared.
Just like Yuri.
“Well?” JJ whispers. “When are you going to tell me to go to hell?”
Yuri closes his eyes and presses his face into JJ’s hand. “Only if you don’t.”
He can’t look at him when he says it. He can’t stop the tears.
“Are those happy?”
Yuri nods. He didn’t know he could feel this good. “So fucking happy.” He’s not
alone anymore.
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