Trigun Fan Fiction ❯ Village Bicycle: First Time Sextet ❯ Chapter 1

Village Bicycle: First Time Sextet

(animeverse)

The first time, she had been sixteen. He was a year younger, hiding beneath the black coat and the black glasses and the black cloud of don't touch me don't touch me don't you fucking touch me he'd brought with him into Little Nowhere in those long dark days of late summer. It took two weeks before he spoke, and three more days before she learned his name, and the day after that they lay silent in her room above the bar, learning each others bodies as they avoided each others eyes, gently sweltering. He didn't kiss. She didn't push.

Or,

The first time was three years earlier, on his knees in the confessional, begging for forgiveness even as David whispered halleluia. Beautiful David, soft and fair, who'd taught him how to pray, taught him how to dance, caught him by the hand and dragged him, giggling, into the holy of holies to say goodbye forever. Beautiful David, who'd taught him that pain and pleasure looked so very similar. He came on the velveteen dais, and was mildly disappointed when he didn't burst into flames. Neither of them had heard the footstep outside the door, and neither heard it turn away.

Or,

The first time, he was blindfolded and cuffed to the bed, arms and legs spread wide, open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy, attendant upon his whim, unable to fight or run or relax enough to cry out, to plead, unable to do anything but listen and react and feel, to jump at each blow and groan into each caress, and when he drew his knees up and took him, hard, it was flying, it was freedom, it was the whisper in his ear that he had done so well that awakened something else that had slept for far too long.

Or,

The first time had been out back, behind some unnamed bar, pants around his knees, cuffs dragging in the alcoholic mud, clawing for purchase on the cracked clay wall, drunk and angry. Head pounding, heart pounding, hips pounding, all out of sync, all over powered by the music and laughter coming from inside, pouring out into the street just out of arms reach. His balls began to tighten, but he couldn't come, could only hold on, keep going, keep going, it'll all be over soon…just…don't…

Money had exchanged hands, but damned if he could remember who bought who.

Or,

The first time, he was so cold and so hungry and so tired and so stupid for saying yes, shouldn't've said yes, should've kicked and bit and run but he was so cold and so hungry and so tired and the hands were so strong and the voice was so loud and the offer so tempting because he was so cold and so hungry and… and did he have the gun yet? No, the gun wouldn't be there for two more years, there was no gun, but there was the door that he could shut and not have to see…

Or,

The first time he fled the nightmare and awoke, still shivering, and found himself safe, held tight again a warm chest by gentle arms, and a soft voice in his ear whispered all things right and good, and he didn't have to fight, and he didn't have to be cold, and he didn't have to be alone, and this had to be another dream so he held on tight to those arms and leaned against that chest and listened to that voice until he slept again, and in his dreams they both could fly.

(Idea wantonly ganked from Laura Antoniou's wonderful short story "The First Time".)