Vargas Fic: Hair on End

"I can be everything he can't."

Edgar sighed and kept his eyes closed. It'd be nice if Scriabin would just leave it at that, but he knew he wouldn't. Scriabin never did anything that wasn't annoying or in service of his ravenous ego. What a ridiculous turn his life had taken, that this was the kind of thing he had to deal with on a regular basis. More so recently as he'd been spending more time with Johnny, which Scriabin absolutely hated.

Not that he was going to do anything about that, for all that he tried.

Edgar was on his side and Scriabin was pressed against him from behind, as he often was whenever they were trying to sleep. He'd been doing that more lately, no doubt another side-effect of Edgar not giving him enough attention. Sometimes he could be so needy, and even now, there was a twinge of fear at the thought. It was still hard to remember that Scriabin couldn't hear his thoughts anymore.

"Not this again." Edgar shifted a little, trying to focus on getting comfortable. He could feel Scriabin's heart against his back, the warmth of his hand over his side, some of his hair against the back of his neck. His breathing, now that he thought about it. Had he gotten used to this? How had he gotten used to this? "It's not a competition."

"You really are stupid." Scriabin's breath was warm across his shoulder. "You refuse to see all those gaps and holes in him, that what little he gives you or can ever give you will never satisfy you. After a lifetime of starvation, you can't see the crumbs he gives you for what they are."

"What's your point?"

"I know you, Edgar," Scriabin said, still soft and without his typical aggression. That made Edgar a little uneasy, and Scriabin slowly drifting the tips of his fingers across Edgar's chest didn't help. "I know everything about you, and everything you want. Everything you want from another person."

If you did, you wouldn't treat me the way you do, Edgar thought, still trying to shake the fear, reminding himself again that he couldn't hear him. For all that it still ached, for all that Scriabin's closeness felt right on some primal level but not right enough... still, on some level he'd always be a little afraid of him.

"I doubt it," Edgar said, unable to think of anything more clever with how tired he was. Why did Scriabin only do this when they were sleeping?

"You would." Scriabin's trailed his fingers, slowly, up over Edgar's chest to his shoulder, and Edgar made a faint sound as an instinctual shudder went through him. It was a foreign, alien feeling, and it left a strange tingling trail. "You don't even understand what it is you want. It's been buried and ignored for so long, you don't even know it's there."

"Mm," Edgar said, wanting to check out of the conversation at this point. He didn't know where it was heading, but he didn't like it. He had that feeling.

"I can give you exactly what you want, in a way that no one else ever can."

"Mm."

He thought maybe that'd annoy him, but Scriabin didn't seem bothered. He felt his mouth close near his ear, his breath flowing over it and again he found himself shivering with a prickling across his arms. Goosebumps, for some reason. Maybe the cold of the passing air? That made sense to him. "Mm indeed."

Scriabin shifted away from him a little, to get a bit of space between them, and the lack of warmth and presence left Edgar cold and wanting. Irritating, frustrating, needy and arrogant, all of it undeniable and yet when Scriabin left him, when he stopped feeling him so closely, all it was was empty, and Edgar hated it, hated the sadness that came with it. It shouldn't make him sad. Nothing should make him sad if he didn't want it to.

Scriabin's fingers kept tracing across his skin, slowly along the lines of his arm in a way that made him suddenly aware of himself, of the bones and muscles in him, of that strange feeling that followed their progress. Cold, warm, he couldn't place it. Edgar shifted a little, unconsciously, wanting something although he wasn't sure what it was. Still the hair on his arms was raised - he wondered if Scriabin could feel it, and what it might have felt like.

His fingers touched his side, near his ribs, and Edgar couldn't help what was something like a jump, a flinch or a twitch of his skin there. Skin gave underneath his fingers, under pressure that wasn't too hard but was still perceptible, and he could feel Scriabin's warm breath against the back of his neck. Edgar shifted again, trying to move his legs in a way that'd be more comfortable, made a faint annoyed sound in spite of himself. It was meant to be annoyed anyway.

He could feel lightly at times the touch of Scriabin's fingernails, the sides of his fingers, aware suddenly of so much and so many details. Scriabin's fingers traveled down to the small of his back, and in spite of himself he felt something tense through him, the slightest arch of his back towards him with another faint sound.

"Mm? What's that?" Scriabin's fingertips touched him lightly, ran across an area soft and usually ignored, something that felt strikingly alive all of a sudden, that filled him with a odd kind of warmth and a buzz of energy. "Do you like this, perhaps?"

Edgar shifted again, stretching out one foot beneath the sheets with a faint tremble through his leg, as he let out a long breath. He felt weirdly vulnerable, exposed in a way he wasn't familiar with. He could still feel Scriabin's fingers, pressing lightly, moving against his skin, and Edgar felt like he was waiting for something, that this meant something but he wasn't sure what. He felt warm, all of a sudden, in a strange way.

"I think you do," Scriabin whispered by his ear, prompting a full-body shudder that caught him by surprise, and a soft noise he was sure Scriabin would like, as much as he wanted to keep it in. "I think it feels good for you. What do you think?"

It was hard to think the word, it didn't feel right but he wasn't sure there was any other. Did it feel good? It wasn't a question he asked himself much about anything. Something feeling bad, sure... could he even recognize what it would feel like if something felt good? If someone's touch just felt... nice? He knew other kinds of touches, heated and wanting ones; those he was quite familiar with now, no thanks to Scriabin of course. This felt different somehow, in an intense way he wasn't used to.

Scriabin moved some more, perhaps to give himself better leverage or a better vantage point, trailing his fingers lightly up his spine as it arched to match him, and Edgar felt the fingers of his other hand touch his hair, his nails against his scalp. Again he shuddered with a little flush of warmth, again there was that feeling of vulnerability, of something weak exposed, of a strange kind of danger and that tingling hyper-awareness of his touch. Afraid of being attacked? A sudden betrayal? That would make the most logical sense.

"It's not something you're familiar with, is it?" And of course, Scriabin would know... he'd know exactly how Edgar was feeling, he so often did. For all that the connection between them had been severed, still Scriabin could predict and read him, sometimes better than he could himself. More often than not, it was comforting; a reminder of what they once had, a remnant that proved it existed in some way. Sometimes it could be very annoying though, and Edgar was sure this was one of those times. "I told you... I know you."

"Mmn..."

Scriabin ran his fingers along his side, pressed in places like he was marking where each of his ribs were, his touch light and focused with tapered fingers, teasing in a way. It felt like where his touch went fire followed, warmth rising along with a strange desire for more. The rest of Edgar's body cried out, neglected and demanding. This unknown, tingling pleasure - he didn't want it to stop. He wanted to see how far it would go.

"I can feel it from you, even without you saying it," Scriabin said, and Edgar wasn't used to his voice being this soft, this warm, inviting without teeth. He wanted Edgar to do something, that was clear, but Edgar wasn't used to him doing it without the threat of pain or force. Kindness as a lure was unusual for him, which was strange... it usually worked. "I have a sense of what you want me to do..."

He ran his touch down to his hip, up again over his tingling side, and Edgar moved his arm out of the way to give him more access, more of his skin. Scriabin made that satisfied noise that Edgar hated. He'd won this, he already knew it, and he always made it obvious and it was so annoying.

"Is that enough for you...?" Scriabin knew it wasn't, and it was clear in his voice. "I know every little secret place you have, every little silent wish for attention. I know all of them. Are you going to give them to me, or are we done?"

Edgar groaned, frustrated and powerless in the face of the waves of warmth going through him, intense desire of a kind he'd never experienced. It wasn't sexual desire... at least, not yet, but it was still intriguing. The pleasantness of it was so alien - he wasn't used to this soft and delicate feeling, the details of it all that were suddenly too clear.

"Fine," Edgar managed to get out, a bit breathless, as he turned over to expose his back to him. "Fine..."

That, in itself, made his heartbeat pick up faster, something like adrenaline go through him as Scriabin sat up. Like exposing his throat to him, something clearly dangerous, but it wasn't just that... admitting something like this, even in this way, admitting it to himself... daring to actually explore something he'd never thought about before. Uncharted territory, and he thought there weren't any more of those between them. What was Scriabin going to do? It filled him with anticipation, both pleasant and fearful. What was it he wanted now? His thoughts felt increasingly fuzzy.

"Oh, such a sulky little boy," Scriabin said, mocking but not as much as usual, and Edgar shuddered powerfully again and tried not to think of why. He made a noise longer than he intended when he felt Scriabin's fingers on his back again, making a little circle between his shoulderblades, slowly marking the line of his spine, and it felt too slow, although he wasn't sure what it was he was waiting for. "Like this is such a hardship for you, just torture to get what you want. How cruel I'm being to you, giving you something you've wanted for so long without even asking anything in return."

"You want something in return," Edgar said, breathing coming in quicker, his heart beating harder as Scriabin returned to the small of his back, a place that kept him shifting with unplaceable energy, sent that feeling of anticipation through him again all the way to his stomach, accompanied by that strange and comforting warmth. "You always do..." And he couldn't think clearly, the feel of it was doing something to him. He made a soft wanting noise, moving his head against the pillow. "Nnh..."

"Very astute... although I wonder if you know what it is." He let one fingertip linger a little, little circles against warm and twitching skin, raising it until it was just his nail and Edgar tensed and made a shivering sound. "You don't even know yourself, how could you know what I want?"

Edgar tried to guess, to think of it, and he got somewhere around attention before he felt Scriabin's fingers on the nape of his neck, and he twitched with a little sound. The hairs on the back of his neck raised, another wave of goosebumps as his touch moved upwards, along the short hair of the back of his head up to the longer strands. He ran his fingers through his hair, gently at first, then with firmer pressure and Edgar found himself gasping a little. It was intense when it shouldn't be, it filled him with energy he didn't know what to do with, each little shiver like it was breaking something in him. His scalp tingled now too, it felt like it was all over him, and every place Scriabin wasn't touching still wanted more of it.

Scriabin took hold of a little bit of his hair, tugged but not too hard, and the noise Edgar made was embarrassing, he couldn't believe it came out of him. He followed his wordless directions, rolling over towards him, his face burning and breathing through his mouth. He couldn't make out Scriabin's face in the dark, just a vague indistinct shape over him. It was a big shape though, it felt like it took up all of his vision. His breaths didn't feel like enough, suddenly, that adrenaline shaking through him as his heart pounded.

Scriabin traced his fingers across his forehead, and Edgar shut his eyes as they moved down the side of his face, lingering in places that made him suddenly aware of every part of it. The hardness of his cheekbones, the soft give of his cheek, the line of his jaw, and the soft underside of his throat. He was breathing hard now, and he knew Scriabin could feel it, he had to be able to feel how hard his blood was thrumming under his touch. He expected him to grab his neck, to squeeze and choke him, to growl something at him about anger or lust, something he was familiar with. Instead, the soft touches did something else to him, and he pressed his head back against the pillow to show more of his throat to him with a pleading sound.

Scriabin's touch was so soft, that was the strangest thing about it. Something so gentle shouldn't have lit such fire where it moved, painting physical awareness of everything behind it. Edgar's body was just a vessel so often, something he never thought of, something he had no awareness of at times, like he was a formless consciousness that drifted through reality. Only a glimpse in the mirror or of his hands reminded him that he had a body at all. Now, his body was awake, it was awake after a long sleep and it wanted, it wanted like he'd never experienced before. He wanted this - not just his body, he wanted this, to be touched like this, he wanted these sparks and he wanted this adrenaline, to be afraid and yet not be hurt, he wanted this softness and it felt good, it felt good to be touched like this. He felt alive in a way he was unfamiliar with.

And Scriabin kept touching him, ran his fingers along his clavicles, the hollow of his throat, lifted a finger to touch the back of it to his chin again. "I told you... I know exactly what you want. All of it." And he leaned down closer over him, so he could feel the long strands of his hair brush against his face, something almost ticklish. It made his presence, his whole presence suddenly quite real and undeniable. Not just his hand or his touch, but him, the entirety of him, suddenly huge in his awareness. "Not just this, of course... I know what you want."

"Scriabin..." Breathless, somewhat pleading, without strength. Something about this made him feel so weak.

"Mmm..." It was a pleased sound he knew well from him. Perhaps he did know what Scriabin wanted from him, for all that Scriabin said he didn't. "Here, Edgar... another gift for you, to prove my earlier point... something for you to remember, when you think of anyone other than me." His voice was that warm and soft thing again, so foreign for him but his voice still fit into the strange shape of it. "Remember this... I know how you want to be touched, what parts of you you want touched, and in what way... but the important thing is this."

He leaned down closer until their noses almost touched, until he was sure the warmth from his face was unmistakable, until he could feel their breath mingling. Scriabin spoke slowly.

"I want to touch you."

Tension ran through him, Edgar arched his back and made a sort of whine, his eyes shut and trembling. Something in him felt like crying, and he wasn't sure why. He wanted, he wanted and he didn't know what. Hearing that sent that warmth through him again, something that pooled and left him feeling powerless. The whine broke into a gasp, he felt as though his face was burning. He could almost feel the smugness of Scriabin radiating off of him, how much he enjoyed proving himself right. He always did.

"I like touching you." And Scriabin ran his hand down his chest to emphasize his point, ran close to but didn't quite touch one of his nipples, even though Edgar raised his body to try and draw it closer. "I want to touch you; every inch of you, every bit of you. I want all of you... and that includes this body you so often neglect, quietly praying and hoping someone else will do it for you, do things to you you can't do yourself. You can barely bring yourself to touch yourself... but I want to touch you."

And the unspoken message was clear... I want to touch you, like he never will.

And that hurt, a sudden pain through the warmth of it, and when Scriabin's fingers did find his nipple finally, Edgar made a kind of shaking whimper. Pain, he knew well, and emotional pain for all he tried to shut it out. All the warmth and softness he'd been feeling... he wanted that, he wanted whatever that was... not this sadness that was intruding on it.

"And I know what you like... I can see what you want. I'm looking at you, Edgar. I'm paying attention. I know what you want, and I'm going to give it to you."

Like he never will went through it again, with another jolt of pain. Edgar's breathing got harsher now, in spite of how he was trying to control it. The touching, the warmth, the awareness of himself, that heat pouring into him, that desire for something that wasn't just sex and relief, that wanted more of this...

"Who else will give that to you?

Edgar honestly didn't know.

Scriabin kept his hand where it was, toyed with him gently, pressed and pinched the little nub until it stood straight, begging almost like the rest of him. Edgar pressed into his hand for more and tossed his head back and forth, panting now, unable to think clearly. With his free hand, Scriabin touched his face, stilling him a little, ran a thumb across his cheekbone and moved upwards to bury it in his hair. Edgar moaned in spite of himself, and when Scriabin pressed his lips to his, it was almost hard to discern in the midst of everything else. He knew a kiss's sensation, although it was rare, and it was one he'd always liked, one perhaps he craved when he wasn't thinking straight. That soft pressure against his lips, the scrape of nails across his scalp, the gentle pinches to his chest, and he moaned into his mouth which had the side-effect of letting his tongue inside.

It was, in a way, overwhelming, so much coming at him at once that he felt lost in it, like the world had narrowed down to just his body and what was happening to it. He was trapped inside himself now in a way he'd never experienced, not like this. His body surrounded him, crackling with that anticipation and desire, that want for this, this softness, this gentleness, this attention. This focus on him, this kind of focus on him from someone else, it left him gasping.

Scriabin didn't have to use his grip on him to pull his head further into the kiss - Edgar was more than willing to do that himself, to do anything that'd keep the sensation coming. When Scriabin pulled away, he tried to follow, desperate to keep contact, to be close to him, to keep this intimacy for as long as it would last.

"It seems like you want something," Scriabin said, and he could hear the smirk in his voice. Insufferable as it was, Edgar barely noticed. He couldn't think, still he writhed under his touch, his heart beating harder. "I wonder what it could be..."

"I want..." It was all he could get out before he moaned again, louder this time.

Scriabin moved both his hands to cradle his face. Edgar thought, for a moment, that he was going to kiss him again, and he wanted nothing else, as deep a kiss as he could manage that'd keep him in this weak and wanting state. It didn't make sense.

Instead, Scriabin let his hands drift away, and he leaned back. And Edgar sat up without thinking, seeking those hands again, and Scriabin shifted back a little farther away from him.

"It certainly seems like you want, doesn't it?" Still smiling, he could hear it. Edgar felt cold now without his hands, without him so close, and he wanted that heat again, he wanted. A shape came at him through the dark, a slender hand that pressed a finger underneath his chin, leading him closer. "What is it you want, hmm? Is it me?"

"Yes," Edgar said without thought, following as Scriabin pulled his hand back, leaning forward. "Don't stop..."

He felt it, through his touch, through a shiver across the bed, and he heard Scriabin make a soft, pleased sound, and he could imagine goosebumps going across him as well. Always, when they got close, Scriabin would ask him that question in some kind of way. Not always direct, not always obvious... but it was always there in some fashion.

"I told you." Pleased in that usual smug way, although there was something sincere under it that Edgar liked. He wasn't sure why. "You see? I'm always right."

Edgar wasn't really listening - Scriabin's touch beneath his chin wasn't enough. The cold was growing and he wanted that warmth again, that vulnerability and shivering tension that left him feeling strangely useless. Thankfully, Scriabin's fingers slid down, across his throat, around his neck, and pulled him forward more firmly. He thought, at first, that he was going to kiss him again, but instead, Scriabin pulled him past him, pushed down a little in a way that was hard to mistake. As senseless and desperate as he was, he didn't think of disobeying or questioning it. He set his arms down and rested his head down on the bed, shifted his legs back and up in a position that he never thought he'd become familiar with.

Just as Scriabin wanted, from the pleased hum he made, as he shifted around behind him. Sex seemed almost a foregone conclusion at this point, and while he throbbed at the thought, still it paled at that warmth and closeness, that feeling he didn't know that he wanted so much more of. If there'd be some of that, then it didn't matter.

Scriabin touched his hands to his back again, Edgar making a soft gasp at it, and ran his hands along his sides, lingered around his hips until he moaned again. Everything in him felt like it was pulsing, everything felt so warm, and when Scriabin drew his hands up, letting his fingers leave almost delicately, Edgar raised his hips to try and follow them.

"Practically presenting yourself to me... and you think anyone else could do this to you. Begging me to fuck you, and that's hot as hell, don't get me wrong..."

He touched him again, his fingers running down to that spot on his lower back, and Edgar fisted the covers with a fervent whine.

"But breaking you into pieces with just this is satisfying as well. I've broken you so many ways... I always like finding new ones."

"Scriabin..." Edgar panted, his eyes shut tight as he felt Scriabin's fingers trace patterns, as he spread his legs further and tried to press into it, tried to prolong it, that tingling sensation that spread through him, left him shivering in its wake. He wanted to drown in it, lose himself entirely in its embrace. He wanted this, this felt good and he wanted it, he wanted to feel good, for once, like this...

He wanted to feel wanted, like this. That someone would want to touch him, like this...

That someone would want to touch him the way that he wanted to be touched.

Scriabin's fingers splayed, they traveled back up his body towards his shoulders, and tension went through Edgar again, everything tight as he arched his back and raised his hips further, begging him for anything he'd give him, for even the more familiar sweet heat of lust. It blended so perfectly in with the rest of this, it was hard to differentiate, all of it heightened to the point he felt senseless. He panted against the sheets, ten sparking trails burning through his skin, burning through him to his heart and stomach; it caused adrenaline to power through him again and again, leaving him shivering and desperate to be taken apart completely, to have someone want him so badly that they'd give him everything he'd ever desired.

"God, look at you... panting with your legs spread, begging me to fuck you so hard, until you're nothing but this shivering weak little thing... can you picture it? Me deep inside you, just like you want? I'm sure you can... you probably already are, aren't you?" He felt Scriabin's body behind his own, pressing against him, his hips matched to his, although they both were still clothed. Even so he could feel that heat and hardness from him - he was enjoying this almost as much as Edgar was.

This warm and desperate feeling, this soft shaking, this pleading for more of it, was that what it was? Enjoyment? He didn't know how to identify it, just that he wanted, needed, more of it, he couldn't live without it.

"Why don't you tell me?" Of course, of course Scriabin would do this when the last thing he wanted was for him to take his time. His ego was insatiable, and Edgar groaned. "Go ahead... tell me how much you want it."

Ugh. Saying it out loud always did something to him - it was so intense that it made him uneasy, he didn't like how powerful that feeling was. He shuddered as warmth swept over him as he tried to make the words come. "I... I want it, please."

"How much?"

"Fuck, Scriabin," he gritted out through his teeth, his fists tight in the blankets. "Why do you always do this?"

His fingers touched his back, traced a delicate circle that made Edgar shudder powerfully, tingling accompanying the rush of warmth. "Because I want to. Say that you want me."

"I want you."

"More than anything."

His face burned, it was hard to think, and it was easiest to just repeat what Scriabin said. It came from him breathlessly, each word spiking something in him even without conscious thought. "More than anything, Scriabin, please."

"More than him."

"God... damn it," Edgar grunted through clenched teeth again, his eyes shut tight. Everything in him was throbbing, he couldn't take much more than this, whatever it was he had to say or do that'd make all this anticipation end, he'd do it. It had built so high it didn't feel like he could hold it. Even if he didn't mean it, Edgar couldn't bear not getting what he wanted. "More than him, Scriabin, please."

"What is it you want me to do to you?" Scriabin's fingers touched his back again, light as they drew intricate patterns across his skin while he gasped, everything in him tensing.

"Touch me-" It was hard to breathe almost, it felt like he was burning up. "Keep touching me-"

"I think you want me to fuck you." His fingers ran along his sides, down to his hips, and Edgar groaned in frustration.

"God damn it, why are you like this- yes, fuck, yes, fuck me, please." He was clearly irritated, and in response Scriabin laughed in that smug little condescending way he hated so much.

"No one can play you like I can." He heard the click of the cap of a bottle of lotion they kept near the bed (Scriabin kept near the bed), and the thought of him doing whatever it'd take to make this torment end made him shiver with a moan. "Never forget that. You always beg for it in the end."

"You make me- ah-" His arms shook with tension as he felt Scriabin's hand, now slick and soft, work its way beneath the waistband of his boxers. "You always..." He panted as Scriabin came close, he could feel his hand running along his hip... but didn't quite touch him yet.

"Always passing off responsibility, always so innocent. And you call me a liar... I think we both know how badly you want this. You don't have to beg verbally for it..." And he was starting to touch him, but too slowly, mocking him with a loose grip. "You're as hard as a rock, and you think you have any kind of dignity? Any plausible deniability? I just like to hear it."

"God damn it-! Haah..." His whole body shook with it, it felt like, when he finally took proper hold of him. His hand was cool against his skin, although that could have been due to how warm he currently felt. "Scriabin-!"

"Yes, that's it..." His voice lowered with that smooth quality that had an effect on him, as much as he wished it didn't. "I like hearing you scream my name, too." He could feel the shift of weight on the mattress as Scriabin set a hand beside him to balance himself, so he could begin stroking him with real focus.

At that point, there wasn't any thought or logic that'd keep him quiet. Edgar wanted to say something but he couldn't make any words come, they garbled in his mouth into loud and desperate cries, begging for more as Scriabin rocked against him and he rocked back into him, as he gripped the covers tight, his back taut, everything in him on edge, that adrenaline pouring through his stomach with a flood of pleasure. God, it felt good, he couldn't remember when it had felt this good, it had felt pleasurable before when they'd done things like this but never like this. It was never this overwhelming, it never ran across his whole body - he'd never felt this desperate for more or that pleasure was going to wipe out everything else in his mind and he needed it, he needed it like he needed air to breathe. This ecstacy felt like it'd break him apart.

It rose in him steadily, he could feel it, as Scriabin kept moving against him, as though he was fucking him even through his clothes. He was moaning just as loudly as Edgar was; Scriabin had always been loud.

"God, fuck-" Edgar managed to get out, somehow, breathless as he thrust into Scriabin's hand, into it and when he went out, he felt Scriabin's hips meet his hard and hot. "God, yes- please- ah-"

"Fuck-" In response, through gritted teeth and harsh gasps it sounded like, his arm shaking beside them as he tried to keep his balance. He could feel Scriabin's hand trembling, everything around them felt like it was going to shake apart. "Fuck- Edgar-"

Edgar could feel it rising suddenly, he knew what was happening, his thighs were tightening with it, it felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. "I'm-" He didn't know how he was talking, he didn't know why he was talking or why it was so loud as his hips moved of their own accord, he could feel him against him, imagine him inside him, imagine the sound of his voice as it hit, imagine how it'd feel when Scriabin came deep inside him and- "I'm-"

And with a long and shuddering cry, it rocked through him in a final burst of ecstatic sparks, jerking against Scriabin as he came hard while he stroked him through it, his grip so tight on the covers his hands were shaking. It felt like it lasted forever, that it quaked through him over and over, that all that existed was Scriabin's hand on him and every muscle in him as tight as a bow, jerking and twitching as it poured out of him, lost in the hot haze of it, in how loud he'd been gasping, how loud Scriabin had been himself - he wasn't sure when Scriabin himself had came but from how they both slowed as the pleasure passed, it must have happened at some point. Scriabin was panting hard above him, shaking uncontrollably, and Edgar found himself whimpering with each outward breath. He felt boneless and weak, warmth permeating every part of him, taken apart just as he'd wanted.

Scriabin sat back, and Edgar let his hips fall and his body thanked him with relief, and all the two of them could do for a while was pant and try to recover. His body tingled, and still he could feel where Scriabin had been touching him, like he'd left permanent trails, like shadows of his hands were still stroking his body, touching him so gently, so knowingly, with such focus and such attention.

"Fuck..." He heard Scriabin say behind him, breathless, somewhere close to laughing. "Fuck, you are such a good fuck, Edgar. You don't even know."

A reminder of where he was, and who he was with, and slowly he began rising out of the pool of peaceful bliss he'd been in. He could remember who he was again, instead of all that wonderful warmth. Edgar turned to fall on his side, something a little more comfortable, his heart still beating hard enough that he could feel it in his face.

"Don't say it like that..." Weak and shaky as he kept reconnecting to his sense of self. He heard Scriabin move across the covers towards him, settle himself on top of him and the weight pressed him down. It felt as though he covered all of him, and again that rose up something desperate and wanting and small within him. He could feel Scriabin touching him all over now, he could feel that in a way he didn't normally, and he wanted to never leave this little warm place of safety, even though he knew somewhere logical that he was never safe with Scriabin. Not the way he wanted to be.

Scriabin's arms were around him, he felt lost in them, he wanted to lose himself in this feeling even though he knew it was a lie. Scriabin kissed his shoulder and he shuddered and felt tears come to him suddenly without much cause, which made them harder to resist somehow.

He ended up crying after this kind of thing more than he would have expected, and more than he would have liked, but this time, it was intensity more than anything else. They'd never done something quite like this before... and often when pushed to new places, it was hard for him to process. He wasn't good with emotions normally, and ones that came up due to this kind of thing were even harder to deal with.

"I'll say it anyway I like," Scriabin said, still a little out of breath, without any of his typical aggression. His weight was immovable, so strangely comforting. "God, I love fucking you. I love fucking all your little issues right out of you, until you're begging me for more. It's so good. You don't know how good it feels."

Scriabin never praised him unless it was in this kind of context, which made it impossible to take and just made him feel disgusting. He lifted one hand, shaking and moving strange, to rub away some of the tears. He hated crying during this kind of thing and praise made it worse, which was probably exactly why Scriabin did it.

"Don't say it like that..." Edgar said, he always said that, and Scriabin never listened but he couldn't stop himself anyway.

"Love fucking you," Scriabin breathed against his skin, and he could feel his heart beating against his side, as hard as his own. "And you love being fucked."

"I..." He wanted to protest - that didn't seem right, he didn't know why but he wanted to say that wasn't true. He couldn't love something like this, that was wrong.

"You love it." Scriabin's fingers brushed the back of his head, toyed with some of the short strands there, and Edgar couldn't resist another shudder. "Someday you're going to have to accept that. Or I'm just going to have to fuck it out of you."

Edgar breathed, tried to sort out his feelings, tried to engage with the question of why it had been so intense, why so often he found tears coming to him for no reason afterwards, why Scriabin would even do this kind of thing, and he took in another shivering breath and wiped at his cheek again.

"Damn it... I have work tomorrow. You know I do. You couldn't have done this any other night...?"

Scriabin made that scoffing laugh he often did whenever Edgar said sensible things like that. "No, I couldn't have."

Edgar sighed, and Scriabin shifted a little against him, enough to get close to his ear again and make him shiver. "And it's not my fault. It was exactly what you wanted, all the way through. Even the fucking." And a moment where he heard his smile work through his voice. "Especially the fucking."

"Ugh, get off." Edgar tried to turn over, his face warm with the accusation (was it an accusation, so much?), and Scriabin stayed where he was for a few annoying moments, his weight keeping him still, before he moved away. "I have to get changed."

"Although, really... it was the touching that did it for you, wasn't it? God, that got you hard as hell in no time at all."

"Get off!" Edgar shoved him, openly irritated and more so when Scriabin just laughed at him. "Fuck you, you know I have work tomorrow. You always do this."

"Mmhmm, that's what's bothering you."

"Smug bastard." Edgar sat up, although he felt a little dizzy, and felt for the edge of the bed. His arms trembled, and when he stood for a second he thought his knees would give out. His legs barely felt like they could hold him up.

"Really... you'll probably sleep better for it anyway," Scriabin said, still infuriatingly casual, as he followed his progress off the bed. After all, he had to get changed as well... typical for Scriabin not to think about that before he went and did something like this. Inconvenient and selfish, as always.

Scriabin's fingers touched his back briefly as he steadied himself, and Edgar jumped with a little gasp. Everything in him felt so sensitive, it sparked through him with warmth like nothing had happened.

"Ha." Scriabin noticed, because of course he did. "Wouldn't take much for Round 2 for you, would it?"

"Shut up. I'm going to sleep. It's not happening."

"Just saying..." As smug as always. Edgar would have shoved him again if he hadn't lost track of him in the dark. "You get hard real fast when I play you right."

"Fuck off." His face was burning, and Edgar felt his way over to his dresser. He'd gotten dressed in the dark before, and he didn't want to turn on the lights and see Scriabin's smug smirk, and, dimly, he didn't want Scriabin to see the look on his face right now either. That voice, that desire inside him, had quieted with climax, but with that brief touch it sparked back to life powerfully, like nothing had happened. He hated it when Scriabin was right. He was not going to let him win this one... he really DID need to work tomorrow, and having sex all night was not going to make him well-rested for it. Not that that had stopped Scriabin before, but he wasn't going to give in to it.

Well... give in to it again.

He changed, felt his way back to bed, closed his eyes and focused on quieting that desire and still noticing details that had never seemed important before. Sensation still felt heightened, like he could feel every detail of the sheets and the pillow, and even the coolness of the air. Still his skin tingled, still he could feel the phantom trails of his touch across his skin, still his body craved for more of that slow and focused attention. He told it to shut up.

He felt, more clearly than ever, Scriabin get back into bed as well, and, unsurprisingly, even though Edgar was turned away from him, he reached over to settle against him as he always did. Edgar flinched when his arm touched his, half-heartedly tried to shoo him away with one elbow.

"No, go sleep over there," he mumbled, and just as he expected, Scriabin ignored him. He clumsily tried to use his arm to fend him off, but in the end, Scriabin had his arm around his chest again, his body warm against his back, and Edgar sighed and let it go. Even though he knew this would happen, he couldn't help but put up a little resistance, even if it was just for appearances.

Scriabin's body felt warm against his, it felt like he was aware of every inch of it, that his back had somehow been worn raw even though Scriabin had been touching it so gently. It wasn't like him to do that... but then again, Scriabin was capable of doing a lot of uncharacteristic things when he really wanted something. He had his reasons for this, sure to be malevolent, and sure to be kept a tight secret as Scriabin kept all his secrets.

Scriabin's breathing had calmed, but there was still a hint of breathiness to it... a remnant of exhaustion from what they'd just done. It was, for some reason, a little satisfying. Edgar's heart and breathing had calmed down to very normal levels... there was something a little gratifying to think that it had affected Scriabin more than himself. He'd take whatever bits of power he could get.

And, annoyingly enough, it seemed like Scriabin was right... he dropped off to sleep almost immediately.