drabbles
Eh, just some stuff I wanted to write. Ignore the gratuitous lazy sex scene, I couldn't be bothered to make it longer or sound less recycled. Alan and Eric belong to Yana Toboso, and so do William and Grell.
Studying
Alan didn’t mind if Eric came over to study with him once in a while. The topics were hard and, while Eric might have thrashed and humiliated every other student in the school when it came to sports, his academics fared less better; often, Alan was tempted to check that he’d gotten the right books, because it didn’t seem as though they were even talking about the same material, sometimes.
(Of course, Eric’s normal answer to a ‘did you do that work’ question was usually a kiss hard enough to knock his brain against the back of his skull and disorient him long enough to forget. Until he remembered and asked him again.)
What he objected to wasn’t the lack of company; it was the way that Eric seemed to insist, sometimes, on not working. He’d sit and be quiet on the rare occasions; on every other occasion, he found some way of being a pest. Today’s designated method was kissing his neck while he was trying his hardest to copy down some notes from his History of Reaping text book.
The fountain-pen’s case dug lightly into his hand as he gripped it. Eric’s teeth nibbled a wet path down the side of his neck, temptingly good - the slow slide of his hand from his chest to his thigh sparked on some hob, and made his shirt deceivingly constricting; it was snowing outside, there was no scientific explanation for feeling like he lived in the middle of the Sahara, other than, well, Eric. Alan gritted his teeth harder, and growled out his words: “Eric, have you ever, during your time here, been hit on the head with a textbook?”
“No,” Eric admitted, and the tickle of breath against the back of his ear made his knee-caps lose all credibility as a solid mass, “people sort of go for their firsts around me.”
“I promise you, you will get hit on the head with a textbook if you don’t let me finish my work,” Alan ordered grimly, wrenching the hand that was playing too close near to the apex of his thighs. The next movement, he decided, would indeed earn Eric that whack to the noggin. “Come on. I have these notes to write, we might have a test tomorrow. Can’t you just hold on a minute?”
“Here,” Eric said, “hand me that book. I’ll read to you. You can take down your notes and save your eyes a bit. This text is fucking awful on the eyes.”
“I know, it’s so small! No wonder everyone needs glasses.”
Alan hesitated, handing the book over carefully, as though handing over an infant. Then, he reached up and drew Eric’s head down by the improperly-tied tie, kissing his rough cheek softly.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Alan smiled, brushing his fringe out of his eyes, softly. “Stay over when we’re done? My dorm mate won’t mind. I mean, I know you don’t care, but he’s accepted it by now, sort of. He makes sure not to touch me.”
“Good boy, that. I’d hate to have to beat up such a fop for putting his hands on you. Now, Alan... and I regret saying this... But take your hands off me and get back to work.”
Alan chuckled, loosening his grip on his fountain pen before it became a part of his bones, and settled himself comfortably into his chair. As Eric’s smooth, deep voice rolled over the letters, with some difficulty, he began to write. The hours began to run, but neither noticed.
Biting
“How is it,” Grell asked, softly, to the bathroom, “that you’re the one with normal teeth, yet I’m the one with bite marks all down my back and legs and shoulders?”
He wasn’t speaking to the bathroom in general. His eyes were fixed on a sad excuse for a bath-tub, and the student that sat in front of him in about the same amount of water that could be held by a regular sized tea-kettle, scrubbing his skin with soap and bare hands. His glasses were hung precariously over the lip of the bath-tub, hooked over the thick porcelain edge by the metal bridge.
“Sorry,” William replied, too smug to be genuine. “I keep telling you not to tease.”
“Well, it’s not fun getting it over and done with. I’d wank if it were.” Grell leaned back against the counter, one eye on the door in case someone came in. “Are you enjoying that novel?”
“Not entirely.” Slicking his hair back with his forearm, William blinked up at his dorm-mate, focusing on the splotch of strawberry red in his vision. “I don’t understand the bloody play. Why don’t they explain his disappearance in the end?”
“Ah, who knows. He probably got tired of writing his songs. Are you about done? Lights out is probably soon. I don’t want you to have an embolism if we end up getting caught here.”
William reached for his glasses, pushing them onto his nose. He stepped out of the shallow water, reaching out for a rag that Grell held, his teeth gritting when the redhead jerked it away and just out of his reach. “I am not going to chase a towel around the bathroom, Grell, especially not naked and wet.”
“You’re at your finest naked and wet, my dear; but, if you insist.”
William snatched the towel out of Grell’s hand before he could change his mind. He’d just rubbed his face dry when he felt, rather than heard, Grell’s mouth to his ear, murmuring: “There’s some water on your back.”
A single fingertip ran down his spine like a shiver. Biting his lower lip, William swallowed back a sound of utter pleasure, leaning forwards as Grell’s tongue lapped hotly at the base of his neck - then blew on it. Uncomfortable, he rubbed the towel over his wet stomach, hoping he’d just back off. “It’s too public,” he warned him, softly. “Stop that.”
“Who cares? We’re d-e”
“Dead, I know.”
“And if anyone mocked you, I’d go after them,” Grell reassured him. His arm felt quite warm, all of a sudden, his body soft and surrounding, like an aura. The idea was ludicrous, but it had a certain appeal to it, it gave a certain lightness of the heart, it gave it wings, nervous ones, that tickled the insides of his ribs.
“I’ll protect you.”
“You just want relations in public.”
“Yes, so I’ll protect you; I fail to see where the problem here is,” Grell’s hands slid around his hips, lifting him up and off the floor, settling him half against the wall, half against an oddly-shaped counter. Elevated, Will glanced down at his face, so close, entirely too close, he should be hitting him by now for being so close - and reached out to wander a fingertip over one corner-sharp cheek.
“Fine, then,” William said, and wrapped his legs around his waist.
And their lips met with a spark and a sound like gunfire going off; and William was still wet and smooth, and Grell’s clothes scraped across his skin, silk and cotton, hard cold buttons that left snowflake kisses against him, made his spine jerk up and out; and it’s a wild rush, a mad race to the finish, hands wrestling and fighting for dominance. He digs his nails into Grell’s back, tears down, and loses himself in the swear word against the hollow of his throat, where shadows gather. His fingers smear red and pink across the Reaper’s shoulders; he hides the squeak of pain as Grell pushes into him, and his sketching goes awry, his back stretching up to the highest point to settle.
“Ch-Christ, this is uncomfortable,” William grumbled, closing his eyes, and Grell’s only response is to drag him off the counter, and slam him into the adjacent wall.
His response is to grab hold of his hair and pull until Grell’s head is forced way from his skin, another kiss, another kiss after that one, and his lips are bleeding from the pressure of the Reaper’s knife-point teeth, and that warmth that’s throbbing inside him, matched to the need pulsing in his head, his body, his veins, the only heartbeat he has now, and it’s all because of this bratty, irresponsible, sowonderful, horrid redhead.
“Grell, grellgrellgrell.”
His name runs together like a prayer, desperate, high, arched; and he sinks his teeth to block himself from screaming it, from begging, from pleading, from a hundred little weak ways to ruin his reputation, when Grell just whispers across something down there that makes pleasure vibrate in his veins.
And again, and again, and again, and he’s lost count of how many times he’s dug his teeth into Grell’s non-injured shoulder to keep quiet.
And again. Again.
His body burns, and dims down slowly to ashes. Grell slides down to his knees, he loses his balance and falls with him, and they lay together in a tangle on the floor, hair and limbs and bodies stuck together with sweat and come, debauched.
“God damn it, Will.” Grell grumbled, reaching back to touch his shoulder as he pushed the Reaper in such a way that he could pillow his head on William’s chest. “You bit me again.”
“At least your legs match your shoulders now,” Will smirked.
Studying
Alan didn’t mind if Eric came over to study with him once in a while. The topics were hard and, while Eric might have thrashed and humiliated every other student in the school when it came to sports, his academics fared less better; often, Alan was tempted to check that he’d gotten the right books, because it didn’t seem as though they were even talking about the same material, sometimes.
(Of course, Eric’s normal answer to a ‘did you do that work’ question was usually a kiss hard enough to knock his brain against the back of his skull and disorient him long enough to forget. Until he remembered and asked him again.)
What he objected to wasn’t the lack of company; it was the way that Eric seemed to insist, sometimes, on not working. He’d sit and be quiet on the rare occasions; on every other occasion, he found some way of being a pest. Today’s designated method was kissing his neck while he was trying his hardest to copy down some notes from his History of Reaping text book.
The fountain-pen’s case dug lightly into his hand as he gripped it. Eric’s teeth nibbled a wet path down the side of his neck, temptingly good - the slow slide of his hand from his chest to his thigh sparked on some hob, and made his shirt deceivingly constricting; it was snowing outside, there was no scientific explanation for feeling like he lived in the middle of the Sahara, other than, well, Eric. Alan gritted his teeth harder, and growled out his words: “Eric, have you ever, during your time here, been hit on the head with a textbook?”
“No,” Eric admitted, and the tickle of breath against the back of his ear made his knee-caps lose all credibility as a solid mass, “people sort of go for their firsts around me.”
“I promise you, you will get hit on the head with a textbook if you don’t let me finish my work,” Alan ordered grimly, wrenching the hand that was playing too close near to the apex of his thighs. The next movement, he decided, would indeed earn Eric that whack to the noggin. “Come on. I have these notes to write, we might have a test tomorrow. Can’t you just hold on a minute?”
“Here,” Eric said, “hand me that book. I’ll read to you. You can take down your notes and save your eyes a bit. This text is fucking awful on the eyes.”
“I know, it’s so small! No wonder everyone needs glasses.”
Alan hesitated, handing the book over carefully, as though handing over an infant. Then, he reached up and drew Eric’s head down by the improperly-tied tie, kissing his rough cheek softly.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Alan smiled, brushing his fringe out of his eyes, softly. “Stay over when we’re done? My dorm mate won’t mind. I mean, I know you don’t care, but he’s accepted it by now, sort of. He makes sure not to touch me.”
“Good boy, that. I’d hate to have to beat up such a fop for putting his hands on you. Now, Alan... and I regret saying this... But take your hands off me and get back to work.”
Alan chuckled, loosening his grip on his fountain pen before it became a part of his bones, and settled himself comfortably into his chair. As Eric’s smooth, deep voice rolled over the letters, with some difficulty, he began to write. The hours began to run, but neither noticed.
Biting
“How is it,” Grell asked, softly, to the bathroom, “that you’re the one with normal teeth, yet I’m the one with bite marks all down my back and legs and shoulders?”
He wasn’t speaking to the bathroom in general. His eyes were fixed on a sad excuse for a bath-tub, and the student that sat in front of him in about the same amount of water that could be held by a regular sized tea-kettle, scrubbing his skin with soap and bare hands. His glasses were hung precariously over the lip of the bath-tub, hooked over the thick porcelain edge by the metal bridge.
“Sorry,” William replied, too smug to be genuine. “I keep telling you not to tease.”
“Well, it’s not fun getting it over and done with. I’d wank if it were.” Grell leaned back against the counter, one eye on the door in case someone came in. “Are you enjoying that novel?”
“Not entirely.” Slicking his hair back with his forearm, William blinked up at his dorm-mate, focusing on the splotch of strawberry red in his vision. “I don’t understand the bloody play. Why don’t they explain his disappearance in the end?”
“Ah, who knows. He probably got tired of writing his songs. Are you about done? Lights out is probably soon. I don’t want you to have an embolism if we end up getting caught here.”
William reached for his glasses, pushing them onto his nose. He stepped out of the shallow water, reaching out for a rag that Grell held, his teeth gritting when the redhead jerked it away and just out of his reach. “I am not going to chase a towel around the bathroom, Grell, especially not naked and wet.”
“You’re at your finest naked and wet, my dear; but, if you insist.”
William snatched the towel out of Grell’s hand before he could change his mind. He’d just rubbed his face dry when he felt, rather than heard, Grell’s mouth to his ear, murmuring: “There’s some water on your back.”
A single fingertip ran down his spine like a shiver. Biting his lower lip, William swallowed back a sound of utter pleasure, leaning forwards as Grell’s tongue lapped hotly at the base of his neck - then blew on it. Uncomfortable, he rubbed the towel over his wet stomach, hoping he’d just back off. “It’s too public,” he warned him, softly. “Stop that.”
“Who cares? We’re d-e”
“Dead, I know.”
“And if anyone mocked you, I’d go after them,” Grell reassured him. His arm felt quite warm, all of a sudden, his body soft and surrounding, like an aura. The idea was ludicrous, but it had a certain appeal to it, it gave a certain lightness of the heart, it gave it wings, nervous ones, that tickled the insides of his ribs.
“I’ll protect you.”
“You just want relations in public.”
“Yes, so I’ll protect you; I fail to see where the problem here is,” Grell’s hands slid around his hips, lifting him up and off the floor, settling him half against the wall, half against an oddly-shaped counter. Elevated, Will glanced down at his face, so close, entirely too close, he should be hitting him by now for being so close - and reached out to wander a fingertip over one corner-sharp cheek.
“Fine, then,” William said, and wrapped his legs around his waist.
And their lips met with a spark and a sound like gunfire going off; and William was still wet and smooth, and Grell’s clothes scraped across his skin, silk and cotton, hard cold buttons that left snowflake kisses against him, made his spine jerk up and out; and it’s a wild rush, a mad race to the finish, hands wrestling and fighting for dominance. He digs his nails into Grell’s back, tears down, and loses himself in the swear word against the hollow of his throat, where shadows gather. His fingers smear red and pink across the Reaper’s shoulders; he hides the squeak of pain as Grell pushes into him, and his sketching goes awry, his back stretching up to the highest point to settle.
“Ch-Christ, this is uncomfortable,” William grumbled, closing his eyes, and Grell’s only response is to drag him off the counter, and slam him into the adjacent wall.
His response is to grab hold of his hair and pull until Grell’s head is forced way from his skin, another kiss, another kiss after that one, and his lips are bleeding from the pressure of the Reaper’s knife-point teeth, and that warmth that’s throbbing inside him, matched to the need pulsing in his head, his body, his veins, the only heartbeat he has now, and it’s all because of this bratty, irresponsible, sowonderful, horrid redhead.
“Grell, grellgrellgrell.”
His name runs together like a prayer, desperate, high, arched; and he sinks his teeth to block himself from screaming it, from begging, from pleading, from a hundred little weak ways to ruin his reputation, when Grell just whispers across something down there that makes pleasure vibrate in his veins.
And again, and again, and again, and he’s lost count of how many times he’s dug his teeth into Grell’s non-injured shoulder to keep quiet.
And again. Again.
His body burns, and dims down slowly to ashes. Grell slides down to his knees, he loses his balance and falls with him, and they lay together in a tangle on the floor, hair and limbs and bodies stuck together with sweat and come, debauched.
“God damn it, Will.” Grell grumbled, reaching back to touch his shoulder as he pushed the Reaper in such a way that he could pillow his head on William’s chest. “You bit me again.”
“At least your legs match your shoulders now,” Will smirked.