The Very Model (Persona 4, Naoto->Dojima)
May. 21st, 2009 07:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cypher posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no_true_pairTitle: The Very Model
Author:cypher
Fandom: Persona 4
Pairing/characters: Naoto->Dojima
Rating: not worksafe
Prompt/challenge you're answering: body worship/fetishizing a body part
The Very Model
Detective Dojima is...unsettling. There's no way around it. Everything about him, the blunt physical solidity of his presence -- the square set of his shoulders, the roughness of stubble along his jaw, the growling edge to his voice that he no doubt owes to those cigarettes he can't seem to do without. Even the scent of smoke clinging to him, objectively an unpleasant one, suits him well. He's the very model of the detective Naoto has always idolized, as though he stepped right out of one of those battered old novels in Grandpa's library.
It's distracting, this fascination, this admiration, when this case would be difficult enough without that to complicate matters. Naoto wants to prove something to him, not just solve the mystery, and that's dangerous. What good would his admiration do? Why would it be so much better for it to be his rough voice offering praise, for his suspicious eyes to widen with surprise and pride?
Naoto curses, rolls over in bed, burrowing under the covers as if the idea could be shut out so easily. Because that isn't the end of the unreasonable fantasy, the pointless desire. His hands are broad and strong, confident, and he would reach out to Naoto to touch --
No. Even alone, even in fantasy, Naoto finds she can't suspend her disbelief that far. If he touched her -- if he discovered her -- she shakes her head to clear the thought away. That wouldn't lead to anything she wants.
What she wants is to be what he is, but sometimes -- sometimes the idea of having a man like that is tempting, too. Touching him, feeling that hard strength under her hands -- reaching for his cock, stroking it -- offering herself to him as the boy she pretends to be, perhaps. She slides one hand down inside the loose waistband of her pajama pants.
He would hesitate; she is too young. But she wouldn't be swayed and he wouldn't really want to refuse. Naoto's fingertips part the curls between her thighs, sink into the tell-tale wetness of her folds. She would go down on her knees for him, would take the thickness of his cock in her mouth. The immediacy of it would overwhelm her detachment, her rational distance. She licks her lips, parts them as if she could imagine how it would feel. He would smell of sweat and smoke, of gun oil. He would -- he would try to stay silent, stoic, and every half-swallowed noise he made -- almost sounds of pain -- would be a triumph.
She thinks she would want him to say her name. Her hand moves faster, tension rising in tiny taut shivers along her limbs. No other words -- she wouldn't need him to tell her how it felt -- only her name, husky and low, needy, damning evidence of how much he wanted her, wanted this.
Naoto reaches her climax imagining his, breathes out a low, hurt sound that is nothing like his name. Release leaves her shaking. She rolls onto her side, curls up and pulls the blanket tight around her. Tomorrow she'll return to the investigation, and she'll forget about this. She has to.
Author:
cypherFandom: Persona 4
Pairing/characters: Naoto->Dojima
Rating: not worksafe
Prompt/challenge you're answering: body worship/fetishizing a body part
The Very Model
Detective Dojima is...unsettling. There's no way around it. Everything about him, the blunt physical solidity of his presence -- the square set of his shoulders, the roughness of stubble along his jaw, the growling edge to his voice that he no doubt owes to those cigarettes he can't seem to do without. Even the scent of smoke clinging to him, objectively an unpleasant one, suits him well. He's the very model of the detective Naoto has always idolized, as though he stepped right out of one of those battered old novels in Grandpa's library.
It's distracting, this fascination, this admiration, when this case would be difficult enough without that to complicate matters. Naoto wants to prove something to him, not just solve the mystery, and that's dangerous. What good would his admiration do? Why would it be so much better for it to be his rough voice offering praise, for his suspicious eyes to widen with surprise and pride?
Naoto curses, rolls over in bed, burrowing under the covers as if the idea could be shut out so easily. Because that isn't the end of the unreasonable fantasy, the pointless desire. His hands are broad and strong, confident, and he would reach out to Naoto to touch --
No. Even alone, even in fantasy, Naoto finds she can't suspend her disbelief that far. If he touched her -- if he discovered her -- she shakes her head to clear the thought away. That wouldn't lead to anything she wants.
What she wants is to be what he is, but sometimes -- sometimes the idea of having a man like that is tempting, too. Touching him, feeling that hard strength under her hands -- reaching for his cock, stroking it -- offering herself to him as the boy she pretends to be, perhaps. She slides one hand down inside the loose waistband of her pajama pants.
He would hesitate; she is too young. But she wouldn't be swayed and he wouldn't really want to refuse. Naoto's fingertips part the curls between her thighs, sink into the tell-tale wetness of her folds. She would go down on her knees for him, would take the thickness of his cock in her mouth. The immediacy of it would overwhelm her detachment, her rational distance. She licks her lips, parts them as if she could imagine how it would feel. He would smell of sweat and smoke, of gun oil. He would -- he would try to stay silent, stoic, and every half-swallowed noise he made -- almost sounds of pain -- would be a triumph.
She thinks she would want him to say her name. Her hand moves faster, tension rising in tiny taut shivers along her limbs. No other words -- she wouldn't need him to tell her how it felt -- only her name, husky and low, needy, damning evidence of how much he wanted her, wanted this.
Naoto reaches her climax imagining his, breathes out a low, hurt sound that is nothing like his name. Release leaves her shaking. She rolls onto her side, curls up and pulls the blanket tight around her. Tomorrow she'll return to the investigation, and she'll forget about this. She has to.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-21 06:18 pm (UTC)I haven't read anything in P4 fandom, honestly, so I don't really know what else is out there. ^^;
no subject
Date: 2009-05-21 06:27 pm (UTC)