Title: Angeal's Room
Pairing: Angeal/Zack
Summary: Even the mention of it—Angeal's room—made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and a burning desire coil in his stomach.
Words: 520
Author's Note: So, I sat down to write something for school, and not surprisingly, I wrote smut instead. –facepalm- Just a short little drabble thing for Amarissia because I love her Madness story so much.
--
"Fuck," Zack hissed. "Fuck, fuck." His teeth drew blood from his bottom lip, unsuccessfully stopping the long and strangled moan that tore from his throat.
Zack never cursed. He had learned from years of roller pins to the head not to, but all of that fell away when he met Angeal. When he became accustomed to those large hands—calloused and deft perfection.
Zack had only ever jacked off in the shower back home; it was the only place that ever held any privacy for him. But in Midgar, the shower was a room filled with hundreds of shower stalls and cold water was best for taking care of those sorts of needs. Forget about jacking off in the dark like a masturbatory ninja surrounded by two other guys his age in his quarters—that was not his idea of sexual relief.
It was no wonder then that Angeal made him elicit those words, especially when they were in the privacy of his dark room where Zack could shudder and writhe and scream all he damn well pleased. He knew that room well. Even the mention of it—Angeal's room—made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and a burning desire coil in his stomach.
Angeal's fingers ghosted and teased. Prolonged. Zack had never known what it was like to be led toward that cliff—expect to be dropped off it—and taken back from it and toward its edge again and again before finally he was allowed. All at Angeal's mercy. Even when he whimpered and pleaded and called his mentor a tease, his orgasms were never as intense as they were at the mercy of Angeal's hands. It was true that Zack really had no basis of comparison, but he didn't care. Angeal was all that he wanted. All that he needed.
He stared into that glow in his mentor's eyes—they lit up his face in the dark, his features almost softened somehow by the pale light—and rocked into that hand that gave him everything. A steady stream of curses left his lips as fingers manipulated his flesh, drew him slowly, slowly, toward the brink.
It was his kisses he enjoyed best. They were rare, but the way they left him straining for air made him dizzy with want, made the slow burn of the teasing touches more acutely felt. The way Angeal kissed made his lungs burn for air, but he gladly would have died from lack of breathing to get more of his mentor's lips, teeth, tongue. He could kiss Angeal for hours, survive only on his lips, but Angeal controlled everything. Zack suspected he even controlled the curses that fell from his lips. It was Angeal's control and his lack of it that made him feel bare, totally and utterly bare.
But he didn't mind.
Didn't care.
"My puppy," Angeal breathed, fingers fluttering.
"Your puppy," Zack whined.
"Come for me."
"Ohfuck," he sobbed. His body complied, his mind melted.
There was nowhere he'd rather be. He belonged here. Belonged to Angeal. And even when he shuddered and whimpered and pleaded, there was no shame, only devotion.