notes: Originally this was just going to be a list. Just a list. An innocent list. Then words happened. They went one way despite the fact that I was trying to go another, and so this mess happened. Of course. Of fucking course.
I thought I wasn't going to write smut ever again. Ever. Now look what happened. Of course. Of fucking course.
Her hair is the first thing that falls when she pulls the large white night-time t-shirt over her head.
It's early morning, and she's convinced this is a better form of exercise than whatever he was planning at the gym—"Ugh, it's leg day," he tells her, kissing her on the forehead before rolling over to leave. She grabs him by the wrist and tells him, "No, it's Erza day."—and who was he to skip on Erza for squats?
He doesn't regret his decision to stay in bed instead of working out at the crack of dawn, and he feels his heart hum with cheerful delight as he watches the scarlet tresses pop out from the inside-out-ed shirt and then waterfall in ruby red rivulets, some locks landing softly over her shoulders, others trailing down her arms, and still more balancing on the gentle curve of her supple breasts.
He loves the chaos, the randomness, the way her hair falls over her fair skin reminds him of what a pure chance he was given to have met her in the first place—yet with the same understanding that eventually everything falls into place, and that they were bound to be together from the start.
He's only just accepted her challenge in bed this morning but she's already sitting on his hips, centering herself at his base and giving him the pleasurable warmth between her thighs. He reaches forward to gently run his hands over the concave curves of her waist and stops at the sturdy ridges of her ribs, thumbs tucking themselves comfortably under her breasts.
She smiles, sweeping her hair back from her face before she trails her hands up from his stomach to his chest to his collarbones to his neck. Her hair his chest as she leans forward, pressing her completely bare chest onto his torso and an open kiss onto his mouth.
He closes his eyes and parts his lips and her hair descends and curtains his face and suddenly—she has completely overwhelmed his senses.
He hears nothing but her breath, which turns shallow and quickens with her increasing want. She smells like a hint of last night's shower and the afterthought of pillow talk and cuddles. There is no separation between her body and his—he pulls at the waistband of her panties, she raises her hips, and they remove the last of her clothing in one graceful coordinated motion.
Her hair separates him from the rest of the world and leaves him with just Erza, but it's no different from how he sees his world in the first place.
She plays his tongue with hers but his hands play elsewhere.
He starts from her round bottom, giving each cheek a squeeze, before he inches up her smooth smooth skin. His fingers follow the line of her back until his wrists reach her hair. Her skin is still sleep-hot from being under the sheets all night but the ends of her hair are cool like the air. His hands continue upwards but eventually switch tracks to her silky tresses before finally his fingers are completely entangled in the warm hairs at the back of her head. He pulls her up and closer to him.
The feeling reminds him of their first kiss—one that was too early yet also too late, and never once regretted.
He was leaving for school again, and she embraced him before he stepped onto the train. He thought of nothing but bringing her closer into his arms to shield her from the cool autumn breeze and suddenly he was kissing her. It happened all so naturally and she tasted like everything he expected and it felt like he had done this a million and a half times before that he didn't realize this was their first kiss until the train conductor tapped him on the back and asked him if he was getting on board.
Winter he started his semester, and when he grew cold, he pushed his hands into his pockets, searching for a place for his numbing fingers but finding that he could not recreate the warm he felt when his fingers entangled in the warm hairs, hands at the back of her head, pulling her up and closer to his.
Seven years later, he still doesn't think there is a warmer place for his hands to be, and he still doesn't think that will change in seven hundred more.
She breaks the kiss first—and like a spell, his eyes open.
He watches her mouth follow the opposite direction of his hands, descending his chest. His eyes follow her as she leaves trails down his body and finally rest at exactly where he imagines they are in more lurid dreams. Her lips are still parted from their last kiss and she breathes hot on him.
He feels it intensely under the fabric of his boxers, and he challenges any desire hotter than his at the moment. She runs her mouth along the stiffening length, pressing at the points that make his toes curl. He props himself up by the elbows to guarantee a better view and she watches him watch her with lust heavy eyes and thick eyelashes.
His eyelids flutter. He bites his lip. His jaw drops. He exhales, and his breath is jagged. She is testing his every will to not just take her right then and there.
He grips the sheets instead. He holds his breath as her fingers latch under the last of his clothing. She pulls down slow—always slower than he wants—and the way she watches for him to come out from under the fabric builds an even stronger need to show her what he has.
Then, all their clothing is gone. All that remains is their passion.
There's something about the way she's crouched over him that makes him purr. She's down on her elbows, hovering over him—breathing, breathing, breathing like she always does but never was he so aware of her feathery inhales and steamy exhales.
Her jaw falls forward a number of times, giving him the false sense that she's going to start numerous times, and as much as he knows it's not going to happen, his body pulses a little bit with every drop of her chin and every downward angle of her face.
Her eyes sparkle every time his eyes widen when he falls for her teasing, but one corner of his mouth turns up when she flicks her head to the one side.
He loves the flick of her head when she's about to go down on him. She thinks she's clever when she tries to tease him and then tries to surprise him when she decides to give him what he wants.
But he always knows. Like how he knew she was planning to surprise him by visiting when he was abroad. She asked subtle questions, but he read between the lines and he waited where she expected him to be on the day of his 25th birthday. He was half-hoping she'd come and half-lying to himself that she wouldn't—in the case that he overanalyzed and that he wouldn't see her after all.
But she did. And then he surprised her with a ring, one knee on the ground.
She always told him that he was a bad liar, but she isn't any better at hiding her feelings when it comes to him.
So she flicks her head—flipping her hair away from her face—and he knows to get ready for her smooth silky tongue but he still gasps when she wraps her mouth tight around him.
She looks at him with mischievous eyes, her hair all thrown to the left side of her head. Her hair rises and falls with every stroke she makes, brushing rhythmically over his hips and thighs. Her hair follows her movements but has a life of its own, each strand wavering in its own path, surprising him with the patterns it ghosts over his bare skin.
Her hair is unbalanced and uneven now, like how she's the one providing him better treatment, and even after just several seconds, he's already more than ready to return the pleasure all back.
His tongue draws languid circles onto her, and he finds her furrowed eyebrows, closed eyes, and open panting mouth mesmerizing.
He knows he should be focusing on finding the spots between her legs that pleasure her the most but he cannot take his eyes off her determined face and he especially cannot look away from the way her hands scoop her breasts up and squeezes them together, running her fingers over the hardened tips. Her breasts mold softly in her massage and every time he does something right with his tongue, she clutches them tighter and makes them look so much more full and inviting.
He absolutely cannot wait to get his hands, tongue, mouth, face on them.
She suddenly lets out a moan. And he growls and pulls her hips toward him, moving her entire body forward to him. His lips kiss her wet skin long and lengthy, never pulling back from her, before he goes again with the flat blade, then the small tip of his tongue.
He'd add a finger, but his hands are occupied. They trace patterns over the insides of her thighs and keep legs open when she doesn't think she can take it anymore, keeps her hips down for when she can't handle her growing potential to come.
He watches her to see what she likes most. Her scarlet hair is splayed all over the sheets, red contrasting so definitely against the white.
The early light trickling in from the window transforms her scarlet into shades he only witnesses on the days that he wakes up before her—if he ever does on the weekends. The rising sun offers her already gorgeous hair a richer hue—a color he would never be able to re-imagine yet a color he would never forget—so he takes it all in and burns the image into his mind.
But every time she turns her head to let out another moan, every time she inhales sharply and arches her back, her hair follows and becomes another splayed pattern across the bedsheets, becomes another beautiful shade of scarlet, and he has to learn another color and learn yet another facet of her beauty.
She is strong.
She smells strong and tastes strong, and her hips are angling ever so more upwards with every passing minute, fighting against his holding down of her.
She is desperate and every part of her body outside of the one he is working on is trembling with anticipation. Her toes are spread, her heels are locked high above her heels, her hands are clutching the sheets, and her chest is thrust upwards, her breasts unashamed.
She's turned her face into the bed. She's biting a pillow and there's a wet spot of saliva in other places where she has been clenching her teeth.
His desire is just as bad. So he stops.
Her eyes open suddenly, realizing with excitement that he is finally finally finally going to go in, and she stretches her arms out to receive him while he crashes onto her and brings his lips back onto hers. He props his hands on either side of her chest and slides his hips to align with her thighs. He feels her reach down to guide him, squeezing lightly in anticipation.
She relishes the feeling of him about to enter for a moment, before she lets him go and he takes the cue to let his hips settle with the gravity and press inward. She takes a breath in, finds a position she likes, and then rocks in the same motion. She places her hands on his chest, then switches to his back, before altogether giving up and letting her hands rest to her side, grasping the sheets again.
He starts with his face above hers, dipping down to press a kiss on her neck every now and then, but eventually he falters, focusing on other motions of his body, and sinks into the space just by her left shoulder and ear.
He lets his face fall into her hair, and when he inhales her smell, he briefly regrets the years after his graduation, the years he lost of not having her so close to him.
But he understands that if it wasn't for those years apart from her, he may have never finally realized that he needs her as much as she needs him, and he may have never finally assured himself that he did deserve to be with her in the first place.
She wants to try another position.
He can tell by the way she has placed her the soles of her feet back down on the mattress and is gradually pushing up on his chest. He slows to a stop and pecks her on the cheek before returning his knees to the bed and lifting himself up to let her move as she pleases.
She flips herself around to get on all fours and urges him to take her from behind, and he scoops all her hair back before draping it over her shoulder so that she can feel the kisses he presses onto her back.
He enters again, not wasting their momentum and she mewls at his urgency. She leans back into him and turns quiet again as she builds up again. He offers one last kiss to the middle of her back before rising and taking her waist in both hands. He focuses now and joins her in the silence, just the sounds of their hurried breaths and the occasional moan.
Before long, she changes her mind again about the position.
He can tell because she lifts herself up again and turns herself around to kiss him. She laughs musically in apology and smiles into the kiss, pulling his face against hers. He reaches down to pull her hips toward him, let their bodies kiss as well. He chuckles and accidentally kisses her teeth, which makes her even more amused. She pokes his forehead before she drapes her forearms on his shoulders and leans forward to nibble at the outer edge of his ear.
The quick break is over. She lets herself fall backwards and drags him down to the mattress with her, wrapping her legs around his hips and whispering in his ear for more.
He does her the favor of brushing her hair out from under her back so that she isn't held back by her scarlet strands, but it's really also an opportunity for him to comb his hair through her silky hair again.
Then he bites her on the shoulder softly and obliges her.
She squeezes his biceps hard and her fingernails dig harder into his skin. He's encouraged to perform harder, better, faster than all the other times before.
He wants to make her sing—no, shriek, yell, pull his hair, lose control, get to the point where she knows nothing but him inside her and wants nothing more than her release and waits for nothing else but for him to join her.
Her breathing turns noisy, and her moaning turns to a single note. Her hair is messy and matted over her face. It tangles with itself, damp with her sweat, and unlike before when she flipped her head back to get it out of the way, she doesn't care.
She doesn't care if her hair is messy or if she will have to comb and wash it for hours afterward. She doesn't care if her hair is in her mouth or trapped between her armpits or frizzy and all over her body. She doesn't care if her hair ends up all over the sheets or if she will end up finishing elegantly or if she looks beautiful or hot to him in this moment—
She just comes, and he still loves her no matter what state she's in.
They fall into each other and wrap each other up in kisses, well spent.
He plays with her hair in his right hand—"I'll take the kids to school today," she offers. He raises an eyebrow. "That good, huh?" She laughs.—while she traces his collarbone with the back of her hand. They wait for their hearts to calm as the minutes counting down to rush hour approach and they have to admit to each other that they did indeed have lives outside of this bed.
He twirls her hair around his fingers, wrapping the strands tighter with every twist. He lets it loosen, watching the locks unfurl like roses in bloom.
Then he repeats.
He doesn't plan to get go—but her alarm goes off behind them, and it's quite annoying.
10| the end
She hops into the shower before he can, giggling pleasantly.
He smiles and doesn't chase after her. He's exhausted anyway and would much prefer to roll back into bed. So he falls back into the tousled pillows and sheets and makes himself comfortable in the mess that they would have to clean before sleeping that night.
There's a strand of her hair on the pillow and he blows a puff of air at it, watching it curl against his wind and then collapse into another elliptical pattern on the white fabric.
He simply stares at it, thinking of how his heart would always skip whenever he saw a strand of hair like that during the years he spent away from her at school, abroad finding himself, and even now when he travels for business.
He remembers every now and then discovering her hair in the oddest places—on the shoulder of his suit, at the bottom of his sock drawer, between the pages of his book—and he would always feel so comforted, debating with himself which event in his memories of her probably led to this strand of hair getting there in the first place.
Yet at the same time he would always feel so lonely because that strand of hair meant that she was there and that he was there, but that they were not together in each other's arms at the moment. He would love the scarlet hair for whose it was, but also realize that it existed on its own and that although he would follow from the end of one strand with his eyes, he would not eventually come to see her face at the other end.
He sighs, remembering this.
But then she emerges from the shower, glowing like the light of his life she is. He turns his head to see.
She gives him a shy smile, seeing his sweat-dried-naked self at such a contrasting state from her clean soap-rinsed-toweled self. He return a smile to her and decides to hold her in his gaze for another moment so he could treasure her.
All her scarlet hair is wrapped up in a towel so she can dry it off before she goes to work in an hour. It's tucked away and he can't fully appreciate the color that led him to her in the first place, but there's one wet dark lock of hair that has escaped from towel, clinging to her shoulder and sticking to her arm.
He follows it with his eyes until he reaches her face.
notes: Oh. my. god. Did I just write the most cheesy romantic smut in history? Yes, I admit it. Yes. Such embarrass. Shame on me.