Gravitation -- Practice Makes A Fine Snack (Eiri x Shuichi, Eiri x Jell-O)
Title: Practice Makes a Fine Snack
Fandom: Gravitation
Pairing: Eiri x Shuichi, Eiri x Jell-O
Rating: NC-17 for lewd thoughts, excessive language, and gelatin molestation.
Disclaimer: Gravitation and its characters do not belong to me.
A/N: I...I have no excuse for this. I'm sorry.
Eiri had never been with another man.
It wasn’t as if he’d never had the chance-of course he’d had. He’d been offered a plethora of opportunities to be with men, women, and others that didn’t necessarily fall into either category (but he doesn’t like to talk about those).
And it wasn’t as if the idea of being with a man didn’t appeal to him. It did. But perhaps it appealed to him too much. Perhaps he knew that, deep down, it would take another man to unravel him, to completely undo him in a way a woman never could.
And perhaps that was why he’d never been with a man.
With a groan of exasperation, Eiri deleted the last page and a half he’d written. He needed to focus, to concentrate. He needed to stop thinking of the boy-not even a man!-he’d kissed and subsequently, somehow, allowed into his apartment every afternoon for the past week.
Stupid boy.
The little idiot was reading too much into one little kiss. If Eiri had actually wasted time and energy on all the girls he’d simply kissed-but then, Shuichi wasn’t a girl.
Thus, the problem.
Eiri gave up on work and closed his laptop. He tossed his glasses haphazardly onto his desk and rubbed lightly at the bridge of his nose. He had no idea what to do with the boy. He felt like they should play catch and go to football games or something equally inane and boyish.
“Christ, I’m not his fucking father,” Eiri muttered, disgusted at the thought. If he had a son like Shuichi, he wouldn’t make it without killing himself. He wouldn’t kiss him, either. Actually, maybe that situation was preferable.
Rolling his eyes, Eiri checked the time and realized he hadn’t eaten in 18 hours. He supposed he should, if only to tell the boy that he had and save himself from having to eat something stupid and gross like a popcorn and pocky sandwich. (An awful combination, but he wouldn’t put it past the brat.)
En route to the kitchen, Eiri let his mind return to the issue at hand: what to do with Shuichi. He’d dismissed the thought of ignoring the other boy’s existence; he’d tried that before and practically everyone in the apartment had called to complain about the noise Shuichi had made banging on the door and calling him rude, obscene names. So that wasn’t an option. They’d kissed a few times, which Eiri had hoped would satisfy whatever little phase the kid was going through, but there hadn’t been any sign of things slowing down.
Eiri frowned and opened the fridge. There wasn’t much there. He didn’t eat often. After all, a shortcake (or two, or three) from the bakery down the street was enough to tide him over for a while. He’d read somewhere that after a snake eats it can take months to digest its food. Maybe he was like that.
Great. So, by now he’d compared himself to a reptile with no limbs and had decided that he’d rather be Shuichi’s father than his boyfriend. Well done. He was on a roll.
Still, nothing was solved.
He settled on a bowl of jell-o. He wasn’t much of a fan of gelatin with its freaky jiggling qualities, but he’d made it one day when he was wondering what to feed Shuichi. (Shuichi=kid, kid=jell-o) That was before he knew Shuichi traveled with pocky sticks hidden in his sleeves and socks. (An exaggeration. Hopefully.) He sat down at the kitchen table, poked warily at the squiggly substance, and tried to focus once again on the subject of Shuichi. Ignoring him was no good, treating him like the annoying six-year-old brat he seemed to be channeling only offended him for some reason, and to continue kissing him would lead them both down a road Eiri did not want to travel.
Or did he?
He stilled at the thought, his frustrated expression softening into something more pensive. Maybe he did want the boy. Would being with him unravel and undo him and open up a whole new can of worms for him (and his therapist) to work out? Quite probably. But hell, he was having such a hard time keeping things rated PG-13 between them when they kissed. The boy had a good mouth and Eiri could just imagine the things that little singer throat of his could do for-
Fuck.
He did not need to be thinking about that. He needed to be eating his stupid jell-o so he could get back to his study and get some work done before the brat in question showed up and started bothering him with his whining and clinging and kissing and whimpering and kissing and coddling and fucking kissing-
Enough.
Seriously. He was not some adolescent loser who lacked the ability to control his hormones. He was an adult. A mature, grown man who was going to sit and eat his damn jell-o.
…Now there was a thought.
He looked down at the bowl thoughtfully and stuck his finger inside the red liquid-solid. He wiggled it around once (or twice) and then quickly pulled it back out, heat spreading across his face. What the hell was wrong with him? It was fucking jell-o. He was fingering fucking jell-o.
Disgusted with himself, he shoved the bowl away and glared at it. It was turning him into some kind of pervert. He was not the kind of dude who got lewd with food. No matter how red and squiggly and inviting it might be. No matter how much it made him think of the tightness and warmth that a certain boy could possibly offer him, if he’d only take a chance.
“…Oh, hell.”
He was hard. It was there. He was alone in the privacy of his own kitchen. And it was oh, so squiggly.
He’d never be able to eat jell-o again.
But then, he didn’t like jell-o that much to begin with.
Closing his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to see himself do it (probably true), he reached down and released his erection from the confines of his slacks and boxer shorts. He stood, retrieved the bowl of jell-o, and, after a bit of wondering and cursing and maneuvering, slid himself inside.
It was so fucking cold. But in a kind of good way, he decided through gritted teeth and the haze of blurry thought that was, I can’t believe I just put my dick in this jell-o. He closed his eyes again as he began to move and the gelatin began to warm. He thought of Shuichi, bent over the kitchen table, back arching as he thrust in and out of that tight, hot, young, boy body of his, and god, he loved boys and he loved red, squiggly jell-o so fucking much-
The front door opened and the voice he’d grown to both hate and love at the same time called, “Yuki?”
Shit.
Cursing under his breath, he hurriedly pulled out and struggled to close his pants back up. He managed to quickly stuff the bowl back in the fridge and grab a beer to distract himself before Shuichi walked into the kitchen, smiling hesitantly.
“Hey, Yuki.”
“Brat,” he replied in greeting, grateful his voice didn’t crack. “How did you get in?”
“Your door was unlocked,” he explained, gesturing over his shoulder. He looked up at Eiri from underneath his lashes, sheepishly. “I, uh, think I left without locking it when I left yesterday.”
“Moron.”
“Sorry… Have you eaten? I skipped lunch to work out this new song with Hiro, and-”
“Help yourself,” Eiri said, turning his head slightly and taking a swig of his beer to keep from thinking about the result of his snack break. When he looked back, he nearly choked when he saw Shuichi had taken out of the fridge. In the back of his mind, he could hear the boy chatting about his day, but all he could do was stare in growing horror and pray he didn’t notice how rapidly his heart was beating as the singer sat down across from him with the jell-o, spoon in hand.
And then he started to eat.
“Yuki, you look a little flushed. Are you okay?”
“I’m-just fine.” He swallowed. “How’s the uh--?” He nodded toward the bowl, unable to continue.
“It’s really good,” came the cheerful, sincere reply.
And Eiri couldn’t help the way the corner of his mouth quirked upward and the way his already straining arousal jerked.
And finally, Eiri came to a decision.
He was going to make jell-o every fucking day.