Disclaimer: No, they're not mine.
My perverted reasoning as to why Eric keeps Techrat around despite the fact that his machines always go haywire. Wanted to try a new format of writing, and I've had this pairing bouncing around in my head for a bit. The italicized parts are Eric Raymond's thoughts
Why I Keep You
He keeps his workshop freezing. I swear, more of his money goes to air conditioning than food, which would certainly explain how skinny he is. I think he likes the cool, sterile certainty of his machines more than the chaotic heat of the living. His skin is always cold to the touch.
Footsteps. Expensive leather loafers with thick rubber soles scuffling upon the shiny black tile floor.
"Your machine screwed up again. What the hell do I pay for?"
I see only his back, black leather trench coat stretched across his shoulders, making them seem sharper. Long neck and most of his scalp bare, only that sleek limp flip of bangs, a black curtain for one side of his face. So soft, too; like the fine hairs of feathers.
Stubble is growing in. I want to drag my tongue up from the base of his neck and feel the roughness of it as I lick to his hairline.
"My machine was perfect." The chair swivels. "I can't help that your girls are idiots."
Touche.
He is never quite relaxed, sitting so straight in his big black chair. He is wearing all black, pants, socks, and that coat, but why-oh-why is he wearing no shirt. A V of smooth white flesh left bare, combined with his sharp, stern face, blue eyes bright as a computer screen.
New hands pressed on either armrest making the leather upholstery creak. Breath mingles, pulse speeds up.
I lean over him, and already I want to taste him. Those lips . . . sharp like the rest of him, bowed, most often frowning. Or pouting. Or so many other minute expressions that are somehow too sexy for words.
Swift, aggravated breath flares, like brown eyes do."Then, figure. It. Out. . . Make something foolproof."
"Impossible."
"To you?"
The Misfits are morons, but he's a fucking genius. I flat-out refuse to believe that there is something he can't do.
"I can't make up for your mistakes, Eric."
I suck in a sharp breath. That was deliberate; had to be. When it's only business between us, he only uses my surname, and I only use his nickname. It . . . becomes more when we start using our first names. And I know his, know what it does to him to hear me speak it.
Just like he knows what it does to me . . .
"You want to discuss my mistakes? Stop making yours, first."
This . . . tonight . . . was supposed to be all business. I'm pissed, and I was supposed to stay that way, but now I'm losing my edge. I wonder if he knew that I would, dressed this way on purpose. Spoke my name in that unique voice of his knowingly . . . Maybe he's the one calling the shots here.
Those beguiling lips curl into an almost imperceptible smirk. Damn it.
Rustling cloth, clenched in a fist. Leather creaks as hands slip. Breath hisses through noses as mouths meet, lips and tongues clicking wetly against each other.
I regain my balance, drag him out of the chair and throw him against the console of his huge computer. I swear, I want to break every machine in this building, crush it with our bodies, short it out with our sweat.
Hot breath; panting. The rustling of clothing . . . buttons pop . . . silk torn . . . The hollow clomp of cloth thrown to the floor.
So cold, even after the clothes he had been wearing. Our sweat becomes as cold as bottled water in this room. But his mouth is hot and tastes like lightning, and the whimper that escapes him as I shove myself into him is more delicious than any music I have ever heard.
Inside he is on fire, engulfing me.
Gasps. Moans. Panting. Groaning. Slick bodies sliding against one another.
He never makes as much noise as I do, so much quieter than anyone else I have ever had. I moan with reckless abandon; I can't help it. But his pleasure is announced in the softest of breaths, and somehow this is so much better than the loudest screams. I relish every faint gasp that I milk from him.
The hiss of nails drawn along bare flesh.
I love the feel of his skin, soft and mine alone to touch. He hates even looking at most people, but I get to have him.
A loud exhale. Computer keys click while crushed beneath pressing flesh.
I love the way he clutches at me, wriggles in my arms, the way his lips tremble as I suck and nibble at them.
"Eric."
. . . he whispers in my ear, gasps as I drive myself into him. I groan from this, knowing that he is mine, and vice versa. I practically own some people by paper, but this is real control.
"Terrence."
. . . I answer him, and he convulses around me.
A hoarse cry; a deep throated moan. More keys clicking more frequently as they are crushed.
I am not the one in control.
A gasp, and a final cry.
I don't care. I love it.
Panting. Sweat-drenched bodies sucking wetly, sticky as they press against each other. Breathing, a struggle.
I can barely move; I come so hard when it's with him. His eyes still flash like wild blue fire, beckoning for more, and I want to deliver.
"Now, shall we discuss your mistakes?"
He's still somewhat hard.
I can take care of that.
"Shut up, Terrence."
For the record, no idea what Techrat's real name is, or if he even as one. Terrence sounded good, though.