Gravitation - "Masochist" (Eiri/Shuichi) Part A
Title: Masochist
Fandom: Gravitation
Pairing: Shuichi x Eiri
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: A very mean Eiri, bondage, violence and blood, explicit sexual content, non-con, language, and alcohol usage. Whoo.
Disclaimer: Gravitation and its characters do not belong to me.
A/N: This is technically a one-shot, but it's too long to put in one post. Part B is here.
[1]
Do you love me?
Not a chance.
There were times when the words hurt, hurt in the way that a knife of arrow hurts, when the sharp point plunges into skin, punctures it and draws the reddest blood. But other times it hurt in the way that a knife or arrow hurts, when the sharp point is already embedded in the skin, and it turns a little, enough to send a stinging sensation through the numbness that has settled-not enough to kill, just enough to remind.
[2]
Shuichi thinks it’s the little things that count the most. He knows he’s never been good in the kitchen; Maiko will never let him forget that one time he put foil in the microwave. But during the first week he moved in with Eiri Yuki, Shuichi taught himself how to make absolutely amazing coffee. He practiced at Hiro’s place until he got it perfect, and is still surprised that the Nakano brothers let him come inside the front door.
Shuichi knows that in the morning, though Eiri is often less of a grouch than he is later in the day, he tends to be disoriented, never quite fully awake. The first few mornings, Shuichi simply watched with bemused fondness as the writer fumbled through his morning routine. But then, the urge to please his new-first-lover, to make any and all parts of his life as easy as possible, hit the singer hard. And that was when he took it upon himself to make coffee for Eiri every morning.
Shuichi sits on the kitchen counter, beside the coffee maker. He waits patiently for the drink to brew, nibbling occasionally on a breakfast bar. When the writer enters the kitchen, eyes covered with a sleepy glaze that makes Shuichi’s heart skip, the singer is holding a warm, coffee-filled mug, which he gingerly places in Eiri’s hands once he’s close enough. He tries to wear the most fetching smile he can, and is sometimes rewarded for his efforts with a faint nod of acknowledgement. He’s yet to receive the morning kiss that he actually wants, but he tells himself that he will one day. He’ll keep hoping, anyway.
[3]
Shuichi started out his relationship with Eiri Yuki not knowing anything about sex. He didn’t think of himself as a bad lover, exactly, as the writer often called him. He was sexy enough, that much was certain. He had no problem getting Eiri’s attention; the trouble was in keeping it. He didn’t have enough experience or natural skill to know what to do to make him feel good. He’d discovered the writer’s sensitive ears once he’d felt brave enough to explore, but he could only play with them for so long before Eiri growled at him. He still hadn’t gotten the hang of giving a hand job-though he didn’t know why he couldn’t do it properly; it couldn’t have been that different from jacking off on his own. The thing that saved him-the only reason Eiri bothered with foreplay at all and didn’t simply skip to hard fucking-was Shuichi’s blowjobs. As a singer, Shuichi had wonderful control over his throat. It’d taken him a bit of coaxing to get Eiri to let him try it out, but ever since, it’d become part of their routine.
“Shit,” a hiss, unbidden, slipped past Eiri’s lips, his slender fingers sifting through pink hair with a reluctance Shuichi could even feel, despite him being preoccupied.
The singer took the writer’s erection deep into his throat, blinking back the onslaught of tears that the invasion brought on. Once he was comfortable enough, he made swallowing motions, letting his throat muscles to massage the length. He felt Eiri grow tense, struggling to keep from bucking his hips into the tight, wet heat; Shuichi would’ve smiled if he could’ve. He allowed a hum of pleasure, approval, instead, and repeated it when he heard Eiri groan above him.
“Stop,” Eiri muttered after a moment, tugging at Shuichi’s hair. “Stop, fuck…”
Shuichi allowed himself to be pushed away, albeit reluctantly, swallowing the pre-come and saliva that had gathered on and underneath his tongue. Shuichi was pulled up onto Eiri’s lap, and the novelist-enflamed by the foreplay-wasted no time in slipping two slick fingers into the singer’s puckered entrance. Shuichi winced, hiding the expression Eiri’s silky golden hair while the other man attacked his neck with rough bites bound to leave marks, marks which Shuichi would have to cover with make-up in the morning.
“No time,” Eiri growled against his neck, removing his fingers all too soon.
“But-”
“Shut up, you’ll be fine.”
With those tender words of reassurance, Eiri gripped Shuichi’s hips, guiding him down onto his throbbing arousal. Heat washed over Shuichi’s face; he closed his eyes, overcome by the mixture of pleasure and pain that shot through his entire body. It was a familiar sensation, but it never grew less powerful, no matter how many times they did this.
“Breathe, moron,” Eiri whispered, brushing his lips over Shuichi’s. “I don’t need you passing out on me.”
Shuichi inhaled shakily, nodding, grateful that the writer was controlling both of their movements, even though he was on top. He’d been the one to suggest the position, wanting-at the time-to have some sort of control, but he hadn’t counted on how exhausting it could be, and all he’d been able to was let Eiri guide his hips up and down, even as the writer continuously thrust up and into him.
“Nnh, Y-Yuki! Ah!” Shuichi threw his arms around Eiri’s neck, fingers digging blindly into the bare skin of his back as the writer’s cock expertly hit his prostate. “S-Slow down! I-ah!”
Eiri ignored him, as always, and-if anything-made a point to speed up his thrusts. Shuichi gripped harder at Eiri’s back; Eiri moved to kiss him and Shuichi responded as best as he could through the moans that were escaping his throat, growing in volume as he got closer and closer to his release.
“Y-Yuki, wait, stop, I’m gonna-”
“Don’t.”
“I-I can’t-”
“Don’t-”
Shuichi squeezed his eyes shut, muffling his keening wail into Eiri’s shoulder as climax tore through him. His body went slack as he collapsed against the writer, panting softly. A growl sounded in his ear and his eyes shot open as he tossed off Eiri’s lap and onto the bed. His heart pounded in nervousness; Eiri hated it when he came too soon. He yelped as he was turned over onto his stomach; he barely had a moment to breathe before Eiri’s hands were spreading his legs and Eiri’s cock plowed into him with one, merciless jab. Shuichi gripped the bed sheets until his knuckles turned white, lips parted in a silent scream as Eiri fucked him, hard, rough, and fast. It was pure revenge. Shuichi whined into his pillow, muttering a mantra of “ow, it hurts, Yuki, it hurts, ow”-the words were second nature and Shuichi was almost certain that the writer had learned to ignore them.
Shuichi jumped, crying out in surprise as a hard slap was delivered to his backside, adding to the pain. He turned his head to glare at Eiri, who smirked back at him.
“What? You were acting like a corpse down there.”
Well, maybe if you hadn’t been treating me like one, Shuichi thought, but he couldn’t speak, only cried out again when Eiri repeated the action; a pleasurable warmth spread through his body the second time, making it more bearable, although he still felt fairly humiliated. He buried his face in his pillow again and moaned, more out of obligation than enjoyment. He wanted to please Eiri in any way he could, and if letting the other man use his body was what it took, then he would grit his teeth and bear it. It was worth it when Eiri came inside of him, planting a kiss on the back of his neck. Shuichi almost felt special, until the heat of his lover’s body left him completely and he spent the rest of the night alone, listening to the tapping of the writer’s keyboard.
[4]
“Kumagoro’s being foolish again!”
Shuichi opened his eyes and sat up from where he’d been sprawled out on a classic white-and-red checkered picnic blanket; he’d almost fallen asleep for a moment, the day was so peaceful. He looked to where Ryuichi was sitting and saw that Kumagoro’s paws were pressed against the trunk of a tall, thick tree.
“He’s trying to move the tree,” Ryuichi explained. “Isn’t he a silly bunny?”
“Not silly,” Shuichi replied with a sweet smile. “He’s determined.”
“I don’t know~!” Ryuichi sang as pink paws pressed harder and harder. “Doesn’t look like it’s moving! He could push and push all day and all night ~ and he could never accomplish a thing.”
Shuichi watched as Kumagoro stopped and wiped at his forehead. He jumped slightly as Ryuichi’s fingers tapped and tickled underneath his chin; the older singer tilted Shuichi’s head back to make their eyes meet. When he spoke, his voice was serious and deep-like the bass undertone of a rock song-and sent shivers down Shuichi’s spine.
“Not a single thing.”
He dropped his hand, but held Shuichi’s gaze for several seconds before a grin spread across his face and he cheered.
“Kumagoro hears the ice cream man! I want chocolate, Shuichi wants strawberry!”
[5]
When he moved into Eiri’s apartment, Shuichi took it upon himself to take care of the laundry. Eiri never said anything about it, but Shuichi was sure that he really appreciated it. It was a simple enough task. For the most part. Except on the days when he found skimpy, lacey, and decidedly female lingerie. He tried hard not to let it bother him, tried not to even bring it up. But sometimes, he couldn’t help it.
“Yuki, can I ask you something?”
“You already did.” Eiri’s fingers never halted, never slowed, flying over the keyboard with a speed Shuichi could only wish to imitate; his golden eyes were concentrated solely on the screen of his laptop monitor. “Go ahead.”
“I-” He swallowed, picked at the places where his jeans were beginning to rip. “Why can’t I be your only lover?”
“Because I get bored,” Eiri answered without missing a beat, too busy and too familiar with the question to bother caring.
Shuichi frowned and tugged a little too hard, making a hole over his left knee.
“Am I that dull?”
Eiri didn’t answer and Shuichi sighed, hanging his head miserably.
“We’ve been over this, brat.”
“I know…”
“You knew I was like this when you got involved.”
“I know.” He sighed again. “It’s just hard to accept.”
“If you don’t like it,” Eiri shrugged, “you can always leave.”
“No,” Shuichi presently said quietly, meekly. “I’d rather be lover number twenty than not be on the list at all.”
Eiri said nothing for a moment and Shuichi stared at the hole in his jeans. Eventually, the pace of the writer’s typing slowed and he exhaled in soft exasperation.
“You’re not number twenty.”
Shuichi allowed a small smile and leaned towards the writer, resting his head on a firm shoulder. And Eiri waited three whole minutes before pushing him away.
[6]
[…] if you’re trying to cut me down/you know that I might bleed
Shuichi barely dodges being hit with a stapler. He ducks out of the room, pounds his fist on the wall once, twice, too angry to let it go, too angry to simply run away.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite, you know that?!” He turns around to face the study, unfazed by the icy heat that burns in the writer’s eyes. “Goddammit, Yuki, it was one time!”
“That’s all it takes,” Eiri says in a low voice of venom. “One mistake and you’re out of the game.”
“That isn’t fair! I let you do whatever the hell you want-”
“And I never said you could do the same,” the writer snaps, moving to stand up in one, quick movement, knocking his chair back into the wall. “You know what happens when you assume, don’t you?”
‘Cause if you’re trying to cut me down/I know that you’ll succeed…
“I always forgive you when you fool around!”
“I never ask you to.” Eiri is advancing towards him, emitting nothing but hatred and resentment. If Shuichi wasn’t feeling the same way, he would wish for some jealousy in that mix, too. “I don’t expect you to. And maybe I don’t want you to. Do you ever think of that?”
“But I do!” Shuichi backs away, but doesn’t break eye contact. He’s too angry. “I do, and so should you, dammit!”
“Well, I’m not going to.” They’re in the living room now and Shuichi’s steps falter slightly, but Eiri doesn’t stop walking. “You’re screwed, Shindou, but at least you have a back-up to run to.”
“It didn’t mean anything, Yuki-”
“Fine. Neither do you. You never did.”
And if you want to hurt me/there’s nothing left to fear
“Don’t say that!”
Shuichi’s back is pressed against the front door and Eiri’s hands slam down on either side of his face. Shuichi’s still angry, too angry to realize that now he’s scared and Eiri can see that he is, because Eiri can always see everything with those eyes of his.
“Get out. Get the hell out. I don’t want to see you ever again.”
“No, Yuki, listen to me-”
“Out!” Eiri grabs his arm-he’s too angry to struggle-and flings the door open. “Out of my apartment, out of my face, out of my goddamn life!”
Shuichi is thrown outside and he lets himself fall, pounding his fist on the floor as the door slams behind him.
‘Cause if you want to hurt me/you do it really well from here…
[7]
“But he took you back, right?”
Shuichi nodded, chewing absentmindedly at the straw of the cherry soda he was sharing with his sister. Maiko rolled her eyes.
“Then what are you moping about, dummy? You’ve still got him! My boyfriend and I broke up, like, two months ago.”
“Your boyfriend was a pansy.”
“Oh, shut up,” she laughed. “He was not.” Her expression turned thoughtful then and, after a moment, she snapped her fingers in front of his face to make sure she had his attention. “Look, Shuichi. You know how thrilled I am that you’re going out with a super-famous, ultra-sexy romance writer-stop that,” she admonished when he snorted. “But if he’s really as mean as you say he is…” Her voice trailed off as Shuichi pulled of the lid of the cup in order to get to the ice. “Shuichi.”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t stay with him.”
“…Let’s get another soda.”
[8]
Shuichi never claims to be a good cook. But it still offends him when Eiri orders dinner behind his back-“just in case,” he says.
“That’s fine,” Shuichi tells him as he tries to scrape miscellaneous bits of badly burnt food off of the frying pan and into the trash. “I’ll just make us dessert!”
“That really isn’t necessary.”
“I know,” Shuichi drops the pan into the sink and turns to smile at Eiri. “But I want to!” Eiri raises a wary eyebrow and Shuichi added, “I’ll make your favorite!”
Eiri rolls his eyes, but doesn’t try to dissuade him again. Shuichi shoos him into his study, so he won’t get distracted from baking a masterpiece.
Twenty minutes later, there’s milk and sugar on the floor, eggs on the counter, and a glass mixing bowl in pieces around the feet of Shuichi, who is covered in flour. Folding his arms on the edge of the kitchen sink, Shuichi hides his face from the writer, who he knows heard the crash and will soon be in the doorway, demanding, “What the hell happened in here?”
“What the hell happened in here?”
Shuichi’s shoulders jerk, a sob catching in his throat, and he can’t bring himself to answer. He knows it’s painfully obvious, anyway. He’s screwed up. Again. He can’t do anything right.
“All right.” Shuichi can hear the exasperation in his voice. “Just clean it up.”
Shuichi nods, even as he hears Eiri’s footsteps move down the hallway and the study door closes. He tells himself that he’ll clean the kitchen until it sparkles, that he won’t sleep until he can see himself in the floor. He won’t be a failure again.