Midousuji Akira (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
discarding) wrote2010-08-25 08:07 pm
discarding) wrote2010-08-25 08:07 pm
yet another self indulgent aef AU
[Midousuji and Aerith have been…friends (or something—Midousuji wouldn’t call it that even if it were that simple, because he simply didn’t put titles on any type of relationship for fear of spontaneous combustion per his breadthy slew of mental problems) for a little over half a year.
he hates, as a matter of fact, that he knows the time they’ve known each other to the week, day and hour; a curse of an obsessive personality and an over-calculating brain that parses logic by numbers before anything else. it, of course, makes him feel gross.
as too do his feelings, of which he can no longer deny in the privacy of his own mind—and even that’s been a milestone to cross. he’s aware, to his great irritation and dismay, that he has feelings for Aerith. gross ones. ones that make him wonder how she’s doing, what she’s doing, and do things like reach out to her on purpose, or occasionally vandalize her porch with a small gift (extremely sparing are these gestures; god forbid Midousuji be transparent about anything).
and in Aefenglom, he has no purpose—there is no any particular reason to construct himself in any particular way, because he’s only ever molded himself as his own idea of the perfect machine suited best for victory. the only thing he’s ever had, and the only thing he’s ever cared about. but he’s been in this horrible place for a horrible year, and with the disservice (help) of new memories imparted to him the previous Summer, Midousuji has changed. it’s subtle, being the long-limbed picture definition of a slow-burn in any capacity.
even his sexual attraction to Aerith was late to catch up to every other type of attraction that had been months-festering, and if he hadn’t had…a disquieting dream that sort of slapped him in his dense-idiot face, Midousuji might not have ever become aware. it was easy to dismiss as an offshoot, and then he’d gone and had another. he was able to dismiss that as a coincidence—but after the 4th time, Midousuji had to (with great frustration) resign himself to his fate. and his dick. terrible.
but despite all this, Midousuji’s behavior hasn’t changed from when Aerith had first met him. not too much, anyways. he’s of course more comfortable (though not by a heap), even if that too was a months long journey; he’s now more playful, more goading. it’s easier to lean into that with his (gag) crush, too. and of course, because he’s frustratedly aware that this is an aspect of him that may never change, Midousuji is still plenty shy, too, despite that. but now, if Aerith incidentally and innocently shows a bit too much leg, or leans in a way that, in combination with his lofty height, shows a bit too much of the soft, inviting cleft between her breasts, Midousuji sharply looks away, and takes longer to recover than any of his typical sheepish gaze-dodging—whereas before, Midousuji didn’t bat an eye at these things. if he’d even noticed.
doesn’t help that it’s not like he has access to porn in Aefenglom. the asshole powers that be should sooner strike him dead than catch Midousuji stooping so low as to buy a racy, old-timey skinmag.
all of this combined has gotten Midousuji into the unique (though admittedly, teenagedly predictable) situation that he’s in now.
Midousuji and Aerith don’t have a lot of types of magic in common that they like to practice—but the one overlap in their interest, though for very different motivations, is divination. part of Midousuji’s interest in divination is that he has any at all, and so does Aerith. meaning, of course: it’s an excuse to spend time with her, guised conveniently and for his comfort as him being his typical hardworking and studious self. Aerith probably isn’t fooled, but Midousuji thinks he’s pretty clever and doesn’t even consider that.
tonight, against his better judgement, but not for the first time, he’s studying at Aerith’s—worse yet, and also not for the first time, in her room. but at least, they were sat on the floor—any suggestion to move somewhere more comfortable gets an eye-rolled shrieking tantrum from Midousuji adamantly putting down the line with a hard no. too risky!
and they’ve studied late into the night. Midousuji hadn’t wanted to admit that he was getting drowsy, and when Aerith teased that it seemed so all the same, Midousuji simply blamed her—said because she was acting groggy and yawning that his animal brain was being tricked into picking up her sleepy cues. but they were almost through this chapter. Aerith was more familiar with tea-leaf divination than Midousuji, so maybe she’d just been a little bored. truth told, Midousuji’s not all that interested in it either. so he is bored, despite how riveted and on-edge he feels at the same time.
it doesn’t prove to be enough to keep him awake, and, resting on his belly, Midousuji eventually nods off, drooling onto the page of his book before his head suddenly slammed down against it, arm still propped as it had been to support his chin. and just like that, he was out like a dead person. he always slept hard, and suddenly—and he had a pretty regular routine, too, working his own clock against him in this circumstance.
if he shifts in his sleep, he doesn’t notice; he tends to be quite still himself, but there’s some unfamiliar parameters at play in this situation. one of which being a warm body sensed near by in his subconscious, tied to a familiar scent that brings both comfort and craving. Midousuji’s never hugged anyone in his life—not even his own mother—but somehow, at some point, maybe due to Aerith’s dozy nearness or her curious, too-close inspection a couple of hours, Midousuji’s bony, awkward arms have pulled her in. the only reason the hold isn’t especially stiff and awkward is because much of his body’s tension comes from his mind, which had been currently off.
so to speak, anyways.
another lurid dream had began to tingle the peripherals of his mind—and elsewhere. he squeezed Aerith a little closer, thin, strong arms pressing in parallel folds across the soft of her tummy, his head swimming with the scent of her. and, unfortunately, while Midousuji wasn’t one to express his inner workings, sometimes, his body was. this was made evident, depending on whether or not Aerith was even awake, by his obvious, urgent hardness against her body. he wasn’t doing anything as foul as rutting (by some miracle; Aerith was lucky), but in the back of his mind, in his subconscious, he was aware of a soft, pleasant pressure. it informed his dream, though it was kind of abstract and hard to pin; holding Aerith’s jaw with one upturned, clawed hand to taste the inside of her mouth and to bite her lips, grindingly deep within her. the dream is surprisingly nothing frantic in its depiction; just close, hard, quiet; quiet gasps and panting—
but no orgasm, as these dreams tend to go by the design of a young man. indeed, Midousuji wakes suddenly, for whatever reason. maybe the warmth against his crotch had suddenly dawned on his sleep-self’s brain as being too real, or maybe Aerith had stirred in some way. but either way, his eyes open in a sudden snap, and simultaneously, he sucks in a raspy, choked gasp.
frozen, his arms then do cage in an unnatural, stiff grasp. realization coming in sleep-drunk, confused pieces, Midousuji’s eyes drop with pin-pricked horror, noticing the position of his arms. and thus, subsequently, Aerith’s body—and his hard, stupid dick.
Midousuji shrieks, throwing his one arm off of Aerith while desperately yanking his other one away from underneath the (lovely) dip of her side, and scrambles backwards so suddenly that he slams the back of his head and his bony spine against the hard wood of her bed frame. which, of course, gets another yelp out of Midousuji, turning in wide-eyed surprise as his back bends to boggle at the bed frame. he’d forgotten where he was. mortified, Midousuji then whips his head around to stare, wide-eyed, at Aerith. he can’t even find words.
but his head is an echo-chamber of “no”s.
no, no, no, no, this is bad. he’s crossed a line!! he couldn’t be—wasn’t that kind of person! sure, yes, urges were normal! even attraction was, fine! but that—that wasn’t why he spent time with Aerith! that wasn’t why he wanted to be closer to her!! and now it’s going to seem that way. and his intentions be damned, his attraction is enough to make him a monster anyway! he’d fucked it up!! he’d fucked it all up!
panic swells in Midousuji, which does nothing to de-escalate the swelling of his unspent wood, because he’s the worst. he has to get the fuck out of here right now.]
he hates, as a matter of fact, that he knows the time they’ve known each other to the week, day and hour; a curse of an obsessive personality and an over-calculating brain that parses logic by numbers before anything else. it, of course, makes him feel gross.
as too do his feelings, of which he can no longer deny in the privacy of his own mind—and even that’s been a milestone to cross. he’s aware, to his great irritation and dismay, that he has feelings for Aerith. gross ones. ones that make him wonder how she’s doing, what she’s doing, and do things like reach out to her on purpose, or occasionally vandalize her porch with a small gift (extremely sparing are these gestures; god forbid Midousuji be transparent about anything).
and in Aefenglom, he has no purpose—there is no any particular reason to construct himself in any particular way, because he’s only ever molded himself as his own idea of the perfect machine suited best for victory. the only thing he’s ever had, and the only thing he’s ever cared about. but he’s been in this horrible place for a horrible year, and with the disservice (help) of new memories imparted to him the previous Summer, Midousuji has changed. it’s subtle, being the long-limbed picture definition of a slow-burn in any capacity.
even his sexual attraction to Aerith was late to catch up to every other type of attraction that had been months-festering, and if he hadn’t had…a disquieting dream that sort of slapped him in his dense-idiot face, Midousuji might not have ever become aware. it was easy to dismiss as an offshoot, and then he’d gone and had another. he was able to dismiss that as a coincidence—but after the 4th time, Midousuji had to (with great frustration) resign himself to his fate. and his dick. terrible.
but despite all this, Midousuji’s behavior hasn’t changed from when Aerith had first met him. not too much, anyways. he’s of course more comfortable (though not by a heap), even if that too was a months long journey; he’s now more playful, more goading. it’s easier to lean into that with his (gag) crush, too. and of course, because he’s frustratedly aware that this is an aspect of him that may never change, Midousuji is still plenty shy, too, despite that. but now, if Aerith incidentally and innocently shows a bit too much leg, or leans in a way that, in combination with his lofty height, shows a bit too much of the soft, inviting cleft between her breasts, Midousuji sharply looks away, and takes longer to recover than any of his typical sheepish gaze-dodging—whereas before, Midousuji didn’t bat an eye at these things. if he’d even noticed.
doesn’t help that it’s not like he has access to porn in Aefenglom. the asshole powers that be should sooner strike him dead than catch Midousuji stooping so low as to buy a racy, old-timey skinmag.
all of this combined has gotten Midousuji into the unique (though admittedly, teenagedly predictable) situation that he’s in now.
Midousuji and Aerith don’t have a lot of types of magic in common that they like to practice—but the one overlap in their interest, though for very different motivations, is divination. part of Midousuji’s interest in divination is that he has any at all, and so does Aerith. meaning, of course: it’s an excuse to spend time with her, guised conveniently and for his comfort as him being his typical hardworking and studious self. Aerith probably isn’t fooled, but Midousuji thinks he’s pretty clever and doesn’t even consider that.
tonight, against his better judgement, but not for the first time, he’s studying at Aerith’s—worse yet, and also not for the first time, in her room. but at least, they were sat on the floor—any suggestion to move somewhere more comfortable gets an eye-rolled shrieking tantrum from Midousuji adamantly putting down the line with a hard no. too risky!
and they’ve studied late into the night. Midousuji hadn’t wanted to admit that he was getting drowsy, and when Aerith teased that it seemed so all the same, Midousuji simply blamed her—said because she was acting groggy and yawning that his animal brain was being tricked into picking up her sleepy cues. but they were almost through this chapter. Aerith was more familiar with tea-leaf divination than Midousuji, so maybe she’d just been a little bored. truth told, Midousuji’s not all that interested in it either. so he is bored, despite how riveted and on-edge he feels at the same time.
it doesn’t prove to be enough to keep him awake, and, resting on his belly, Midousuji eventually nods off, drooling onto the page of his book before his head suddenly slammed down against it, arm still propped as it had been to support his chin. and just like that, he was out like a dead person. he always slept hard, and suddenly—and he had a pretty regular routine, too, working his own clock against him in this circumstance.
if he shifts in his sleep, he doesn’t notice; he tends to be quite still himself, but there’s some unfamiliar parameters at play in this situation. one of which being a warm body sensed near by in his subconscious, tied to a familiar scent that brings both comfort and craving. Midousuji’s never hugged anyone in his life—not even his own mother—but somehow, at some point, maybe due to Aerith’s dozy nearness or her curious, too-close inspection a couple of hours, Midousuji’s bony, awkward arms have pulled her in. the only reason the hold isn’t especially stiff and awkward is because much of his body’s tension comes from his mind, which had been currently off.
so to speak, anyways.
another lurid dream had began to tingle the peripherals of his mind—and elsewhere. he squeezed Aerith a little closer, thin, strong arms pressing in parallel folds across the soft of her tummy, his head swimming with the scent of her. and, unfortunately, while Midousuji wasn’t one to express his inner workings, sometimes, his body was. this was made evident, depending on whether or not Aerith was even awake, by his obvious, urgent hardness against her body. he wasn’t doing anything as foul as rutting (by some miracle; Aerith was lucky), but in the back of his mind, in his subconscious, he was aware of a soft, pleasant pressure. it informed his dream, though it was kind of abstract and hard to pin; holding Aerith’s jaw with one upturned, clawed hand to taste the inside of her mouth and to bite her lips, grindingly deep within her. the dream is surprisingly nothing frantic in its depiction; just close, hard, quiet; quiet gasps and panting—
but no orgasm, as these dreams tend to go by the design of a young man. indeed, Midousuji wakes suddenly, for whatever reason. maybe the warmth against his crotch had suddenly dawned on his sleep-self’s brain as being too real, or maybe Aerith had stirred in some way. but either way, his eyes open in a sudden snap, and simultaneously, he sucks in a raspy, choked gasp.
frozen, his arms then do cage in an unnatural, stiff grasp. realization coming in sleep-drunk, confused pieces, Midousuji’s eyes drop with pin-pricked horror, noticing the position of his arms. and thus, subsequently, Aerith’s body—and his hard, stupid dick.
Midousuji shrieks, throwing his one arm off of Aerith while desperately yanking his other one away from underneath the (lovely) dip of her side, and scrambles backwards so suddenly that he slams the back of his head and his bony spine against the hard wood of her bed frame. which, of course, gets another yelp out of Midousuji, turning in wide-eyed surprise as his back bends to boggle at the bed frame. he’d forgotten where he was. mortified, Midousuji then whips his head around to stare, wide-eyed, at Aerith. he can’t even find words.
but his head is an echo-chamber of “no”s.
no, no, no, no, this is bad. he’s crossed a line!! he couldn’t be—wasn’t that kind of person! sure, yes, urges were normal! even attraction was, fine! but that—that wasn’t why he spent time with Aerith! that wasn’t why he wanted to be closer to her!! and now it’s going to seem that way. and his intentions be damned, his attraction is enough to make him a monster anyway! he’d fucked it up!! he’d fucked it all up!
panic swells in Midousuji, which does nothing to de-escalate the swelling of his unspent wood, because he’s the worst. he has to get the fuck out of here right now.]
no subject
but it had been different then. but this is different, now. there is no zack fair here to wrap his arms around her; there is no cloud strife to hold her hand and promise that things will be okay. there is no tifa lockhart to pet her hair and soothe her when she's upset; there is no one here anymore but the person that cares enough to wrap the covers up around her shoulders, the person that came when she thought she could ask no one else to. he's still the person she called when she sat up on that roof and wanted to disappear into the night sky, terrified of it all the same--and now he's the person that pulls her in close and tries to make her feel better, even when she doesn't deserve it.
at least it feels that way, at first. when she slides in beneath his arm and tucks herself up against him, he says it doesn't have to be so brief. it's exhilarating, as much as it is scary--to be able to trust someone, like that? to be able to have faith in them?
and then it starts. it's like leafing through a bush to find sweet raspberries there, but when reaching in, the thorns pluck at raw skin and make them bleed: the way you talk to me… really, how do you think i feel about you?
that's the midousuji akira that she knows--so why the sudden hammer of dread in her stomach? has she gotten it all wrong?
her breath goes shallow, hot against the skin of his bare shoulder, because she's found her way up against him, because she's found the crook of his neck perhaps the safest place to hide. her expectations aren't fair--even when he continues on, soothes over the initial wound, she almost wishes that he would blame her for something, so at least she could alleviate some sense of guilt about it all. she likely has misunderstood him. and why? because she's too wrapped up in her own worries to see clearly, here? or is it simply because she cares so much that she's terrified of declaring things with her usual playful confidence?
her arms, folded up between them, brush against his chest; it's just the lightest touch, a small trailing of fingertips like she's trying to organize her thoughts using the plane of skin there. )
I want you to like me.
( he wants honesty--she's willing to give it. but just like his arm, tremoring slightly in unfamiliar use, her voice shakes all the same. )
Do you like me?
I like you.
( like it's the easiest thing in the world to admit. like even if he says he doesn't, it's fine to say so. like she won't spend a whole night crying like an idiot if he decides he doesn't. could her intuition be that wrong? )
I’M…SO SORRY……i got COVID after a bunch of crazy irl bs… pls forgive me
it’s not as if this night hasn’t already been vulnerable. he’s shared his body with her—chastised himself for how she thinks of him, of his feelings—briefly went through a life-flash of fatherhood…
his arms awkwardly come around her—gracelessly, first, beneath her waist, his awkward, sweating open palm unsure of where to grasp—and his other arm comes around her torso, pulling her close, somewhat out of anxiety. and the way her scent fills his head is different, then—dizzying in a different way. why does it feel like a death knell?
at least, on one hand… the one that so fears the generosity of giving his real feelings—the risk that takes, the one that made him run from it for so long. far before Aefenglom—that nauseating, embarrassing, unifying factor of all humans. the desire to connect, and so to with it, the genuine fear of being unable to.
but he owes her that much, doesn’t he? it’s unfair to even expect a mother’s love to be without transaction.
he nuzzles into her hair, quiet for a moment, his voice low, barely above register, trembling with his jaw.]
Of course I do, stupid.
[his long arm quells its unsteadiness by grasping her shoulder, and his chin dimples a little, causing him to frown around his teeth awkwardly, closed mouth. he lifts his legs a bit, bumping Aerith’s up along with them, their legs clumsily entangling where they manage to touch.]
I’m just…
I’m…not good at it…
[why does admitting this make him feel like this? why does he feel like his face is on fire? in a different way—a painful way? is it shame? fear? part of him does want to recoil, to bail, as before, but—
they’ve come this far, right? both of them. together. he can’t discard her journey just because he’s been refusing to see that it’s his, too.]
—so much, Aerith… For a…for a long…
time…
💖 no forgiving necessary
( but there's a fondness there, like it doesn't matter. there's attraction there, like maybe it's part of what pulls her to him. and more than that, there's acceptance there: that despite knowing it, despite dealing with his thorns or encountering his brambles, despite climbing in beneath fences that tell her to keep out and words that land like walls between them, it doesn't really matter if he's good at it, or not. it doesn't matter if he's never been with someone like this or if they're going to share all of his first times together, or if he gets scared sometimes and tries to elbow her aside.
and is that too much? is that too fond, too delicate, too warm? she doesn't say it out loud, though her lips press together and instead a breath escapes, warm and heated, to the side of his neck. their legs tangle together and it feels like he's sealing something into place--after all, for him to come closer of his own accord is something special, she thinks, so special that she doesn't want to call him out on it.
so she doesn't. she doesn't call him out on the rest of it, either, though his admission makes her stomach twist and her throat feel warm and excited, like she wants to laugh but doesn't want him to get the wrong idea. it's not like she's gone around confessing her feelings to a whole bunch of different people, either: she has little experience here, too, just enough to know that honesty is really the best course of action, and that she can move past anything else. his arms circle around her in that clumsy way and she feels: oddly, almost safe, in a way.
if she laughed, if she cried--either way, he'd get the wrong idea, wouldn't it?
her nose bumps up, dots along the ridge of his jaw, and she nods a little, as if cementing it. )
...Then you'll stay, in the morning, and I'll make breakfast.
( one of her hands shifts, palms against his chest, slides down to brush near his ribs almost teasingly. )
Maybe we'll wash up together. If you're lucky.