Fruits Basket, Haru/Rin, secretive
It was silence that dominated their early relationship.
The silence of shuttered rooms, stillness puncuated by the softness of her strangled voice, the heat of his touch, the choked sounds she made around her wrist or hand, trying to strangle the signs of her pleasure, trying to keep them safe.
Fear rode her harsher than it did Haru; rather than shy away from the danger, he drank her in as though he was afraid she would vanish when he opened his hands. There were nights when he simply swallowed every sound she made, hands buried in her long hair--she always braided it before she slept if she was sleeping with him, but he had a fascination for the sight of it loose against her skin--moving against her with a torturous slowness, until she was out of control and making helpless sounds, too far gone for sensible restraint.
Haru was too familiar with her thorny anger, the sharp-edged shield she drew around herself, razored at all edges to ward off reaching hands. He stripped her of it with a thoroughness she almost called cruel, if not for the tenderness in his eyes. It left her too vulnerable, always, but in the dark rooms and quiet spaces there was only Haru to see her, his eyes dwelling on her face.
Always the secrets, always the silence; it remained even when she walked away, born under the weight of her experience with pain and her willingness to perpetuate a thousand lies to protect him from it.