He wasn't sure what he was reading, except that he found it very interesting. This maybe explained why his first reaction upon being interrupted was severe irritation.

He heard something moving and the shift of weight on the bed. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't see the edges of the bed very clearly. How big was this place, anyway?

"What do you want?" Edgar didn't look up from his book until something flickered in the corners of his vision. He reluctantly looked up to see Scriabin standing at his feet, his balance a bit shaky on the soft surface of the bed. He looked angry. For a moment Edgar felt a tinge of apprehension, but his irritation soon returned. He turned his eyes back down. "I'm-"

Scriabin reached down and swatted the book out of Edgar's hands without warning. Edgar jumped as the book awkwardly fell to one side, pages bent and cover pressed at a bad angle. He instinctually reached out to fix it so it could rest properly and found Scriabin's fingers around his wrist.

"Stop it-" Edgar tried to pull away but Scriabin merely tightened his grip, yanked Edgar's arm sharp enough to make him stop moving. Edgar was breathing a little hard, which he tried to hide as he glared up at Scriabin. "I was doing something-"

Scriabin stared at him for a few more seconds, then leisurely began to settle himself down on the bed's surface, well astride Edgar's still reclining body. Edgar considered for a few seconds moving away, as he had an idea of what Scriabin wanted from him now, but he wasn't sure where he could go in this place.

"Stop it." Edgar tried to sound menacing. Judging by Scriabin's lack of verbal response, he failed. He reached down to take Edgar's other wrist, which Edgar offered to him in the interest of getting this over with quickly.

"I was reading something." It was worth a try. Scriabin stared at him with disdain, as if surprised he could speak at all. He squeezed Edgar's wrist painfully.

"Shut up."

"I don't want to-"

Scriabin moving closer, his chest against his own, body matching and bending and fitting against his own in a way that it really shouldn't have. His grip on Edgar's wrists was tight.

"Since when has it ever mattered what you want?"

Edgar shut his eyes. Scriabin nudged his head to one side non-too-gently with his own. Edgar tried for a few seconds to not allow him to do this, but the low growl from Scriabin's throat told him to give it up.

Scriabin's breath against the skin and Edgar swallowed. "I don't want to. It doesn't-"

A squeeze of the wrist, the catch of skin between teeth and pressure against certain areas of his body stopped his words. Again, pressure insidious and pleasant in a way that he hated but couldn't deny, Scriabin was just too good at this over time and he struggled to keep his voice quiet, but something like a groan made it through.

"It's not for you." Scriabin's teeth were too frequent and it made the skin across his entire neck tingle unpleasantly. "Shut up."

For a moment, he tried to get away and in the process only moved more closely against him. An appreciative noise from the both of them, perhaps unintentional, and Edgar let his voice break, soft and despairing. "It's not supposed to be just for one person..."

Scriabin let go of his wrist, his skin warm and sweaty from the prolonged contact between them and he worked at Edgar's clothes. Propped himself up enough to get to the clasps, the buttons, the leverage required. He pulled Edgar's shirt over his head regardless of his desire to cooperate and as a result, Edgar ended up with two scratches near the bridge of his nose from his glasses. With each small barrier between them removed, Edgar felt an increasing sense of fear and unexplainable sorrow. Not that this even felt wrong, but something about this situation made him unbearably sad and he wasn't sure what it was or why he felt that way. He didn't want to be here, and he didn't want Scriabin to be doing this to him, and he didn't want to be doing anything, he wanted this all to end, he wanted to wake up, he wanted to forget everything.

Tingling across his neck where Scriabin had bitten him, along with the coolness of drying saliva. Edgar kept his eyes closed because if he felt this bad right now, he wasn't sure what actually looking at Scriabin would do. He could feel the strands of his long hair brushing across his face, the touch of lips on his cheek, then on his own and he opened his mouth without thinking. Something in him rebelled, quietly and with no hope of success, and that lack of success was maybe what made him feel this way.

He didn't expect sex to be some kind of earth shattering event. He knew better than that. But he was sure that it wasn't supposed to make him feel like this. He never felt so miserable, and he couldn't make it stop.

Driven beyond the point of caring, beyond it all and he let his body move as it wanted. He let his back arch, his hips move with Scriabin's hand, rough and hard and it hurt, this hurt a lot as usual. He kissed Scriabin until Scriabin moved away, stared at the ceiling with half-open eyes and left his mouth partly open because he wasn't sure if he should close it yet.

Pain, this hurt. "Not so h-hard, slow down-"

He didn't expect Scriabin to listen, he just felt as though he had to raise some kind of protest in one way or another. Scriabin took his Edgar's lower lip in his teeth, gently although Edgar did not think that would last, and his hands made Edgar let out a shuddering breath, his body rising and shaking to try and prolong the experience, regardless of the pain. He felt Scriabin's breath quick and hot across his chin, his neck, felt him breathing and his own pulse rising with Edgar's.

Edgar didn't want this to happen. He didn't want to be here. There was no place in the world he would have rather been than here, completely at Scriabin's mercy, begging him wordlessly to continue with what he was doing. Soft whimpering cries and he wasn't sure if it was because of what Scriabin was doing or because he wasn't sure if maybe one of the sounds he made would describe how bad he felt. If it had a word, something solid, then maybe this wouldn't be so terrible.

Scriabin's arm, the blankets around him, wrapped in a world so self-contained. He let his breath hiss through his throat, tossed his head to one side. Scriabin touched his chest, let his fingers glide over the bones of his ribs, the occasional mole and small scar from forgotten accidents. He let his body arch with Scriabin's, the two of them entwined together. He lost track of what was where and doing what, just the unison between them, their minor reflections of heartbeat and breathing.

Edgar kept his eyes shut, let Scriabin's fingers explore, touch in ways they both knew would get a reaction. They knew each other so well. Glancing over sensitive skin and Edgar gasped, and he held on to Scriabin tightly because he at least had his arms under his own control at the moment.

"You're mine..." Scriabin's voice was a low growl, fierce and angry. His movements were harder, more vigorous, almost violent. Edgar's body hurt and he wasn't sure how he could feel any worse. He wished for apathy, it was so much more simple. A dull choking thing in his chest, something that he could not name. He let his body rock back with Scriabin, gave up all resistance to him, made the breathless, shaky sounds that he knew he wanted to hear.

"I own you..." The words were part of it, Edgar knew it. Eyes shut tight and he grimaced, his body's nerves on edge, demanding release or whatever was happening to stop. His muscles twisted hard, the muscles in his leg spasming, locking up and Edgar made a long pained sound, almost tried to get away but only went deeper. After the moan had faded from his unintentional action, he wasn't sure which one he wanted more.

"I own every part of you..." Scriabin's voice beside his ear, thick and still angry.

Edgar didn't know what Scriabin wanted to hear. He wanted this to be over, he wanted everything to be over, something in him wanted to die.

"I know." His voice was choked, pained and he coughed and bit back what he thought would unchecked become a sob.

More anger in Scriabin's motions, his punctuating noises, and Edgar's became more feeble as the desire to fight grew dimmer. He let his mouth stay open, let soft pained gasps emphasize each of Scriabin's movements.

A rush of heat, tingling, muscles shaking and Scriabin beside him, hissing and wishing that he had Edgar's throat in his teeth. The pleasure shook through them both for those few moments, Edgar in particular giving a long moan of varying frequency, and then it was over and done. Scriabin let himself rest on top of Edgar for a few seconds with as much concern and tenderness as if Edgar was one of the pillows he had knocked to one side. Edgar's face felt warm and his throat tight, and he kept his eyes shut because he could not let anything leave them, he would not give him that satisfaction.

Scriabin pushed himself up, his hands across Edgar's chest. His fingers curled and his nails dug into his skin, and Edgar tensed as Scriabin raked both hands down to his stomach. A pause as the pain flared through Edgar's lower body, then he felt Scriabin stand and leave him.

No matter how many times this happened, Edgar could never understand why. Why for so many things. The dull dead thing crushed his chest.

Edgar curled up on his side as soon as he was gone, pressed his hands over his face and counted until his breathing slowed and regulated, and then he fell asleep although he had no intention of doing so.

Woah okay that was really depressing porn. Weird.