Fandom: Cowboy Bebop
Disclaimer: I no own, so you no sue, ladidadidoo!
In some small, strange way, Gren knew from the beginning that that was going to happen. Like a potter knows how the wheel moves, he knew. From the first time he'd seen him - since the scorpion - since the music box - Gren knew he'd end up like this, arching up into Vicious as the white-haired man pressed down into him (and how had Vicious gotten such pale hair? Freak accident of genetics? Dye? Prematurely white? Gren preferred to think it was genetics. There was something beautiful about the idea that such hair was natural.). It was as if he'd pulled himself into it, willing and unwilling at once.
Vicious's skin was warm in the cool air of the half-heated, and very empty, Titan barracks. It enveloped him in an almost unpleasant way; Gren had always preferred the cold. He hadn't expected that much heat from the body of such a frozen man, had been looking forward to chill touches and shivery lips, and was nearly disappointed in the warmth. Nor had he expected it to be so overwhelming, although maybe he should have, because everything about Vicious was overpowering. It was what intrigued him about Vicious, even as he was afraid of the man. Here, under the cheap blankets, was a flame that was threatening the cold world that Gren loved.
He would have liked to throw the blankets off them - feel the Titan chill over his skin and seeping into his bones - but he had a feeling Vicious would object. And now, with a man he feared and admired and hated moving inside of him, was not the time to raise objections; not the time to rise above his fear of the firey anger that he knew slept under Vicious's skin. Except that, really, it was too hot; the press of Vicious's body, solid and smooth and searing; the weight of the blankets; the rising desire flaring under his skin; even the sheets under his feet were too warm.
Gren moved his hand towards the hem, but it was met by another, paler hand whose fingers laced with his, nails pressing into the back of his palm and leaving scratches that burned. Vicious murmured something unintelligble in his ear, and then nipped lightly - almost playfully - at his neck. He was starting to feel dizzy now. He groaned when Vicious shifted position, felt the painfully pleasant strain of over-stretched leg muscles and the even more pleasant feel as Vicious hit that spot.
But still - even as his breath quickened and the need (damned need and desire, damn desire, damn beautiful hated devil-man that unleashed this damn desire) rose, it was like being trapped. Trapped in a kiln of his own device, flames leaping at his skin and whispering messages as inscrutable as what Vicious said now (what was he saying? Gren couldn't quite make it out - had too much of a feeling of hot cotton stuffed in his ears - thought it might have been a woman's name, or a man's name, or both - certainly not his - he couldn't really understand the words Vicious groaned or the ones that he himself replied with. It was frightening.).
When he came with a muffled cry, Vicious following him moments later and leaving the infernal sensation of semen on sore, tender, delicate skin, it was like suffocating as the clay of himself turned to bone china (and why were there still blankets over them, when Vicious wouldn't care anymore, was satisfied? Why still so trapped?).
And afterwards, with the weary press of exhausted body against exhausted body, Vicious settling half on top of him for sleep, it was like shattering in the kiln and turning into myriad pieces of dust.
:::what will the potter turn you into?:::