Miyagi x Shinobu - Junjou Terrorist - oneshot
I shouldn't speak...
Miyagi/Shinobu (Junjou Terrorist), PG-15 - R, angst
I scream as he drives through me; every single time, at the top of my lungs, I scream his name.
Furious at myself for feeling euphoria, I hang on to him for mercy.
My lover is big, so much bigger than I am in built. Every time he takes me, my insides feels queasy, that area connecting us, ripping. But every time I feel like falling apart, he puts me back into place as easily as how he loves to put images together in haiku which he loves so much; communicating with urgency to that desperate desire within my soul, concertizing pleasure altogether. We finish covered in sweat, sticky in an artful mess of limbs; imprints of our earlier rendezvous still pulsing persuasively in a hazy state.
My lover is seventeen years older than I am.
While I'm finishing puberty and settling my priorities on paper, he has gone through a doctorate degree and handling a responsibility as an educator, as an adult, so much heavier than a teenager's arrogant desire to be given attention.
While confused about the possibility of destiny and the label of "love", he has already gone through a painful first love and death, marriage and divorce.
By the time I meet him in the eye, he had finished a quarter of his life while I wonder about life at seventeen.
My lover is the exact opposite of me.
Once he has called me a 'terrorist', I recall that name with a bitter smile.
Against his calm demeanor, my determination surfaces as stubborness.
No matter how one would look at the events that comprised until we came to this point, until I came to this point, I forced myself to him.
Actually, people would assume he forced himself to me.
He is the adult, the more experienced, the one who should know better than to test the waters in a territory he knows could drown him. I am the bratty kid who insists on what he heeds, whom adults should be understanding enough not to resist or I would come on more aggressive and rebellious.
Yet he did. He stepped forward for me.
Time and time again with gentleness and sincerity, he expressed that what he felt wasn't fleeting nor a simple trick of curiosity.
He would never know about this, and I would never ever tell him, that every night, alone in my dormitory miles away from him, I battled against my conscience--guilt--whenever I would touch myself thinking it was his hand stroking me, fast, fast, more, more, faster, faster, faster until I am crying a prayer to God for forgiveness. Within the darkness of my room I'd whisper to myself over and over again that he is my brother-in-law, the man my sister loves, despite the pain that grips my heart, squeezing it until I am lacking air and I surrender to slumber.
Yet in the end I found myself on the next plane to Japan from Australia upon the fortunate news of his divorce, phone on my hand and summoning him to a nearby cafe of the university, professing my intentions and demanding his love.
"Take responsibility!" I remember crying out.
Honestly, shouldn't I take responsibility, as well?
Eventually he came around, took me by the hand and finally declared me his, as passionately as I had possessively kept him mine too many times in my head before. I kept that fantasy so well engraved in my head that my doubts wouldn't go away until he made it clear the second time.
"Weren't you listening earlier?" he sounded gripe about it. I'm sorry, but I just couldn't believe it.
He said I'm his number one and closed the promise with a kiss.
The night that followed was my first time with a man in bed.
It was a wonderful night and I moaned as loud as I can. Compared to those suppressed desires I can only intensely stroke out of me in mere frustration and longing alone, they were easily pulled out of the shell, shame and doubts washed away by my lover's own need; his hands traversing the length of my back, teasingly. His fingers were cold against my heated body as I danced to the rhythm of his thrusts.
I must have looked like an idiot the morning after when I could barely get my legs together. It wasn't entirely his fault anyway. I got so into the mood, I ended up seducing him the second, third and fourth time of the same night. Well, at least that's how he accused me of it.
Silly man, he said he would have collapsed and die inside me if I didn't stop making those expressions. But whose fault is that?!
Nonetheless... I love him.
I love him so much I lose control of myself.
The world narrows down to a single existence--him.
Like a spotlight, my interests dawns only on him and him alone.
Everything dies into a shade of gray, except for a single brilliance which is him.
But we are seventeen years apart.
He's so much like a universe than I am in so many ways. Often my insecurity turns me into feeling like a mere speck of dust amongst a million of stars in his life.
The gap feels so much more alive even when he merely holds my hand.
As I slip my fingers against the spaces of his, I see it before me, they don't sit that well.
We are an unmatched couple: a confused teenager and a crazy, lonely, old man.
But I love him.
I love him so much.
In my eyes, we have found a thing called "love" with each other.
I'd like to believe in this madness for as much as I can; for as much as time would allow.
Before my precious shelter is taken away by what society would soon dictate.
I love you, Miyagi.
I love you, love you, love you.
Miyagi, I'm sorry.
I love you.
--
Eeeep! My first fic of the decade! LOL~
This idea had been sitting in my head for quite sometime, I finally had the courage to put it down into words. Oh well~
Title borrowed from MBLAQ's "I shouldn't speak". :)