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Want me While You Still Can

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You let him sleep, because, really, he's going to need it when the plane lands. He's curled up on the couch and, even though there's a comfortable bed in the back of the plane, you want him there. You can't see him behind a closed door, can't watch his face for lurking demons.
Because you know they're in his mind, hurting him. He's been through far too much to sleep easy all the time. He stirs, and you see the flicker of a shadow.

Your fingers ache to touch him, and that's how you find yourself crouched by his head, brushing the hair from his face. You don't speak, because he might wake up, and...well. It's because he needs rest, you tell yourself. It's not because you can't explain why you feel the need to protect him from everything. You wouldn't anyway. You don't do that.

It's not part of the game.
He grimaces in his sleep, so you press your lips to his temple.
Then again, it stopped being a game a long time ago. Didn't it?
When he relaxes, you're back on your side of the plane, as if it had never happened. As if your lips don't taste his skin, and your nose doesn't smell his scent, and your fingers don't feel his hair. But he's resting, finally. You allow yourself a small smirk at your power but quickly wipe it away. Best not to look too far into that. It's better to leave things where they are.
You've already let too many things from your world scar him.

So what if you’ve never taken him on your trips before? Who’s going to stop you, or tell you can’t? You can convince him it’s a surprise; he’ll believe you. It’s not an evasive maneuver. So what? The less he knows, the safer you can keep him.
Because you have to keep him safe. You owe him that much.
You owe him lifetimes. But he doesn't need to know that.
You glance at your laptop and sigh. Spreadsheets, and a full inbox that can wait until the plane lands. So you close the computer and fill your glass and just watch him. Because that's what it takes to protect him. You can't turn away, or he'll get hurt, beaten, taken, shot. He is yours, and you have to keep him safe. You have to make sure he's warm and dry and comfortable and close because if you ever lost him-
Never again, you tell yourself firmly. You never want to see his blood again. You don't want to see it spilling, to see his skin ripped from his body, to see him covered in crimson and pale and-
There's not enough of him in your hands. You down your whiskey, and don't even notice the burn as you move back to his side. You reach out to touch, to taste, to take, to claim-
And then you see them. The bruises on his wrists, from when you were frustrated and took it out on him. You remember the tears, the cries of pain drowning out pleasure, the way he'd seemed to give up under your brutal touch.
You hurt him, and still, he's here with you. He can still sleep soundly around you. And it's a heady feeling that knocks the wind from your lungs and the snarling hunger from your mind. Instead of fisting handfuls of skin, you toy with his hair. You brush a kiss along his temple. He stirs, and you take advantage of it by kissing down to his now exposed neck. You secretly love the way he bends to you. Even on instinct, he is yours.
And you know what he likes.
You can feel his breath shudder through his body as you graze your teeth along the tendon connecting his neck and shoulder. His hand finds its way in your hair, the fingers flexing with each move of your mouth. It's an amazing feeling, the way he reacts as he wakes under your touch. Submissive and pliant and warm and vocal. He hides none of the little gasps and whimpers as you slowly, tenderly wake him up. You crave his scent, his taste, the feel of his skin on yours. He moans, and the sound goes right through you, and you must have him. He's light in your arms as you pick him up, but you forget anything about weight when you feel him press a sloppy kiss to your throat.
Takaba Akihito is an absolute treasure, and you know you have to savor him properly. You gently lay him on the oversized bed, watching as his eyes flicker open and his skin flushes under your gaze. Beautiful. You run your hand under his shirt, feeling the soft skin of his back.
It's barely a whisper, but it's perfect, so you kiss him. Your mouth fits perfectly on his, and you're not sure how you managed this long without his taste in your mouth. You hate sweets, but you'll take his sweetness over whiskey any day. You crave the way he melts under you, and his hands are warm as they slowly begin to touch you.
Your adorable little kitten.
He's just awake enough to suck on two of your fingers as you pull away his layers. His skin is beautiful, and for once, the idea of putting bruises on it doesn't excite you. That's not what this is about. You just need to feel him.

He gasps sweetly as you push your fingers inside him, his head thrown back. His lips are swollen from a mixture of biting them and kissing. Perfection. You kiss his neck, feeling the way his soft insides clench and swallow your fingers. He feels exquisite, and you would touch him there all day if it didn’t drive both of you insane. His fingers are already fisted in your hair, his breathing already harsh in his lungs.

And he's still only half awake.

The feeling of him opening up under you always makes your ego multiply. When you finally, finally, push inside if him, he arches into you, and you hold him close. You know the stretch doesn't hurt, not anymore, but after a week of nothing, it doesn't surprise you that he's still tight.

You keep it smooth and slow, letting him feel all of you as you wring pleasure from his body. He looks up at you with a feeling that you know you’re going to have to become well acquainted with. The shine of love in those eyes, almost accusing you.

“‘Sami,” he gasps, fisting your clothes. You kiss him again, savoring the clenching of his insides around you. His legs are wrapped around your waist, holding you close, tightening with every thrust. You can tell by his liquifying eyes how close he is, by the tremble in his limbs. You can taste it in his skin as you kiss his sweat-soaked neck, again and again. He's gasping, holding you close, calling for you.

“I love you.”

The words ring in your mind as you push him over the edge, his eyes going blank with pleasure. And then you're groaning in surprise as he tightens like a vice, milking you for what you have.

As you both come down from your high, his breath ghosting across your face, he presses another kiss to your neck. But it's not enough, and you can't help the growl in your throat as you wind a fist in his hair. You tug his head back, just enough to bare his throat to you, and you're kissing him as if you'll die if you don't. He's gasping into your mouth, arching into your touch. You love the feel - the taste - of his sex. You're addicted.

“I love you.”

Something pulls at you as the words ring, hollow and desperate, and you break the kiss, watching him gasp for breath, his lips swollen and tantalizing. His eyes are unfocused, glazed with pleasure, and you can see the ghost of his face as it had contorted with unspoken hurt.

So you kiss him again, and he’s holding you tight, his arms strong bands around you.

Mine. You see the word with such clarity, marked with everything you have. Does he even know?

You love this look on him, love the way he trusts you, despite everything you've done, everything that you've put him through, everything that you are.

He's falling asleep again, every blink lasting longer and longer. He's smiling up at you, that sexy sweet tug of lips as his body falls lax under you. You kiss him again, one last time, and you feel him slip away, his breath a gentle caress on your skin.

He doesn't rouse as you wash the two of you with washcloths dipped in warm water. His skin is soft and smooth under your fingertips, and you have to resist the urge to kiss every patch you clean. And then you take him in your arms, and you hold him close, closer than anyone. And even though you're not tired, you let your eyes slip closed and drift off to the sound of his breathing.




You wake up to him drooling on your arm, an adorable wrinkle in his nose. You watch him, gentle fingertips caressing a cheek. There are bags under his eyes, so deep it looks like he's been punched. You rub at the bags stubbornly, willing them away. It's a testament to his trust when he doesn't even grimace. You kiss his head before removing your arm from under him. He groans as you pull away and reaches for you and you almost, almost, lay back down. But you have work, and if he wakes-


You don’t know what time it is and don’t care. Time could halt in its tracks, and you would still be too busy watching him curl up under the blanket. He has your pillow captive before you know it, and something tugs at your lips.

Your phone beeps then, and the tugging ceases, your mouth falling back to its professional, unaffected frown. When you check the screen, it’s only been a couple of hours, yet you have far too many notifications. Already, a headache is threatening to spoil the moment, the absolute peace in-

Another notification: a text from Kirishima. There’s no keeping the sigh from filtering into the air, but Akihito is too far gone to notice your growing annoyance. So you resist the urge to kiss his forehead as you stand and fix your suit. Duty calls.

You don’t spare a final glance behind as you leave, not trusting yourself to continue walking if you did.