(no subject)
Title: Respect for the Dead
Type: Slash
Genre: Smut
Characters: Vince/Hale; cameo from Amber.
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Language, oral, wanking, biting, outdoor sex, dubious consent, light bondage, slight dom-sub.
Prompts: "I went into a sex shop."
Word Count: 2,132
Summary: Vince wants Hale to talk and will use any means he has to.
Disclaimer: Mine, except Hale, who is Chelsea/unrulygarden's. Don't tie people up and suck them off in graveyards.
A/N: Written for this week's AWDT prompt. Also: it's just a dream sequence, kids. Hale's not intentionally a cock-tease, Vince does not have the mind of a rapist, and, while there may be sexually frustrated, accidental snogging and heap loads of angst, no one is being tied up and sucked off in a graveyard. Vince is just a little bit nuts and in love with his best friend. No one condones this either.
The graveyard near Mount Holyoke is chilly on its own, which isn’t helped by the fact that it’s autumn, October to be precise, nearly Halloween, and the over-priced, corporate coffee that Sylvie bought for them is starting its slow descent into futility. But proximity keeps them warm; Vince would never willingly let Hale freeze. Even sans his thick, blue sweater and striped scarf (a most convenient binding for his soft, beautiful hands), the poor boy will never go cold as long as Vince has a say in the matter, and Vince always has a say in the matter. Scream in ecstasy… he might do that, but never, ever will he be tormented by the nips of impatient winter. Besides, the leaves look enough like fire, and that can play the best mind games.
He unconsciously cocks a hip out as he removes his own clothes, peeling away at the layers of a bitter fruit. It’s a striptease, in a way, but he doesn’t mean it to be. First comes the heavy, black pea coat, his hard shell against wind, rain, and passing animals. He sheds that easily, as he’s wanted to take it off since putting it on. His trench coat is much nicer-looking and has the dramatic flair necessary to keep him entertained. Next comes the t-shirt - black and fitted, secretly a girls’ shirt, bought on Broadway at an Avenue Q matinee, and advertising how much is sucks to be him - which is only rivaled in its constraining nature by the long-sleeved, sky blue button-up shirt underneath. That one takes the longest to get off because, drama queen that he is, he has to relish in undoing each button - the slight, nigh inaudible pop as the plastic finally slides through the fabric hole; the way each one makes Hale’s eyes bigger; the finality of a dropped shirt and wind gnawing on his back.
It hardly makes sense that he should be so cold and still keep Hale warm, but there are too many things about Vincent Morris that don’t make sense; it’s been said so often that it must be true.
Sufficiently top-naked, he moves to straddle Hale’s legs instead of taking his jeans off just yet. They’re black, so dirt won’t hurt them, and he can just go wash them later anyway. This set up is a work of art, with Hale as the bright, shining center of it: crisp autumn day with just enough light (not that much), dark headstone, dark patch of earth, shadowed grass, and a perfect little Ganymede, all pink skin and blond charms, sitting there, bound and waiting. He’s full aware of where this is going, and it shows in his passivity - not that he’d argue under most circumstances, he’s terribly helpful and accommodating like that, but he barely reacts when Vince sits on his thighs. Were it anyone else in his position, that’d be a bad sign; here, it’s a “go ahead.”
And, boy, does Vince take heed. Starting with the lips, Vince meanders through familiar territory, looking for something new and exciting, something entirely unexpected and thoroughly modern. The first kiss is delicate, a friendly indulgence. It could be innocently just between friends, were he not tainted to the core. And he is; the unspoken did it to him. Everything he never said wormed into him like old wood, and an unseen knife hollowed him out, leaving not much more than an empty grapefruit rind. Truth be told, this is all his doing. Sylvie might have brought them to this Amherst graveyard, but he’s done everything else. Hale’s been passive through all this nonsense preamble, just as he is when Vince traces lines up his neck and strategically applies pressure to the underside of his chin.
The first taste of his whole mouth is sweet (hazelnut coffee and a few of Sylvie’s Altoids), and smoky (the lingering effects of incense on its burner? Is that even possible?), and intoxicating like harem clouds; the excitation of nerve endings in his lips is too good to be true. A clichéd expression, Vince is more than aware, but it’s a fair one, he’s quite sure. After all, he can’t be brilliant all the time, especially not when his head’s on a merry-go-round at the bottom of a lake and he’s thinking more with the pit of his stomach. Just to be this far makes his heart feel like giving out from a joy-shock cocktail, but it keeps going out of lust and contempt.
Eyes closed, he sees everything: all of Hale’s offside glances in his direction, his geisha pink blush, his perfect little smile. Vince’s fingers feel the roses Hale calls cheeks and his terse left shoulder, they seek the tension out and knead it… it’s a weed in an otherwise meticulously kept grey garden and it must be removed. His back, however, feels all the hugs, all the supportive shoulder grabs, all the times Hale’s shaken him to calm him down, and the dull thump stings on the back of his head, where Hale smacked him once for being an idiot. Hale arches his back ever so slightly, bringing their chests that much closer; Vince, in return, bites his lower lip firmly, with just enough force to egg him on.
Snaking the left hand behind his head seems to encourage that, but once their chests touch, Vince feels the night-veil that gets carelessly thrown aside settle on his vision, is hyper-conscious of the clouds that traipse across his eyes like kids on an old man’s lawn. He sets his darkened gaze on Hale’s spring blue and all he sees is how those eyes look at Kevin - dewy, sentimental… special. Without saying a thing, all of Hale’s intentions make themselves as ostentatious as a cheap whore and her emphatic pimp. The cold water dump of memory serves its purpose, forcing into neon lights the made-up, dressed up, and bedazzled truth: this doesn’t mean a thing to Hale. In his mind, they’re just friends; this might as well be rehearsal for a show. His heart’s with Kevin.
Vince bites his lower lip again, this time hard and vaguely hoping for blood. He rips the button on Hale’s fly off and the zipper yields in submission to his scowl. If only the barriers of pants and underwear would do the same, but some things just aren’t happening any time soon. On his end, the kissing’s more forceful, full up of the sour milk of spite and more bites than he can remember ever giving to any other boy - real or confined to the box of dreams. His one-handed massage ends in favor of digging his nails into Hale’s skin, and he scratches the back of Hale’s neck so much that it’s a wonder he neither has claws nor draws blood. Hale moans; he digs in further.
“Vince…” A slight whine. Perfectly ambiguous.
“You, my friend,” he sighs scholarly, backing aware and pushing a stray, golden lock out of Hale’s face, “are a prick tease of the highest order.”
He runs the serpentine hand through Hale’s hair and drags his teeth possessively down one cheek. De-stemming the rose, as it were.
“I love you; you’re cold. I tell you everything; comparatively speaking, I know nothing about my best friend.”
“What do you want to know?” Hale’s breath is warm and so inviting.
“Everything. I want this gravestone to be your confessional. Every little thing I don’t know comes out here.”
“Okay…”
And it’s to be done, Vince decides, while the boy is getting head.
But, first and foremost, retribution is a bitch in boy’s clothing. He’s also experienced, blame it all on the big, bad ex-boyfriend, and he’s learned from the best How To Tease. Techie flexibility lets him slide back along Hale’s legs without a hitch, and he runs his hands up Hale’s legs as though up silk. Wrapping his legs around Hale’s knees, he drums his fingers on the exposed skin, coming close to the hard-on but never touching. Judging by the way Hale’s breath hitches just so, it’s working. He’ll be talking soon enough.
“I’m so close to dragging you to a GSA meeting by your hair,” Hale sighs.
Tell me something I don’t know. “Good start, good start. Keep going.”
Vince stares at the erection until he goes cross-eyed, but a shake of his dark head brings him back around. Acquiescingly, he slides the backs and nails of two fingers up Hale’s shaft, pressing just a little harder each centimeter; going down, he strokes the opposite side with the same fingers’ undersides and relishes in the tiny, high-pitched gasp that escapes from above him. Hale still hasn’t said “no.” If he’d say it, Vince would consider stopping… he’d probably stop, but it’s not his fault that he has a hot, cock-tease best friend, not his fault at all. Besides, anyone’s a better choice than Dylan, and Hale could still say “no.” But he doesn’t, so it must be fine.
Using his elbows, Vince lifts himself up and inches forward, just a little bit, close enough to breathe coolly on Hale’s stem and more that he acknowledges as possible but doesn’t do. As an enticement, he wraps a thumb and three fingers around the base, but Hale doesn’t say a thing. All five digits, and still nothing. A slight tug up, and all that comes is a moan. Saddest thing is that it wants to be a scream so badly, but it just falls short; even tied up and turned on, he’s so repressed. And Hale still says nothing, so Vince glares at him.
“Vince…” he whines.
“Talk.”
“Come on…”
“No. I want you to talk.”
“Please?”
“That can’t be your only secret, Hale. Tell me more.”
He jerks his wrist up in a short, quick, and completely controlled burst… just to get what he wants, and the faint red glow on Hale’s face says he will.
“I… I went into a sex shop… but it was just one time…”
“Oh really? Tell me more about that.”
“It was last year. We were out with Sylvie, and you were taking a while in the fabric store, so she took me in there.”
“What was in there, Hale?”
As a reward for all his good behavior, Vince wraps his whole hand around Hale’s cock, stroked up, down, and up again, and gets an actual scream when he tears his hand away with a firm yank. That deserves a present on its own, and it comes in the form of a kiss. With pressure and teeth, he presses his lips to the head of Hale’s cock, which gets another hitch in breath, but not much more.
“I said, ‘What was in there, Hale?’”
“Everything. Condoms, toys, weird leather outfits, costumes for role-play… they had a wall of dildos.”
“Oh really.”
“Yeah! All kinds of colors, and sizes, and - aah!”
Since Hale’s been a good boy and both parties clearly want it, Vince closes the gap and slips his mouth around Hale’s cock like a little kid into an unruly garden, long since devolved into a field with a gate. Up and down are all the same when separates into their most basic elements - all just signals and contractions and neurotransmitters; the only difference is the noise that Hale makes. Each motion up gets the petulant, demanding whine of Hale’s inner diva (or inner five-year-old; it’s too hard to tell and matters too little) and each one down earns a throaty, reverberating moan. Speed makes him pant, and teeth make him scream, and he still hasn’t said “no.” As Vince drags his teeth up, he entertains the possibility that this might be wrong, but it doesn’t last too long: Hale still hasn’t said “no.” Now to just get him talking about Kevin…
Vince breaks to look up, and Hale’s biting his lip. Uncharacteristic of him, really, but too cute. And behind him is…
…Amber? …In a dress? It’s not a very nice dress, and it’s a hideous shade of pink, made even worse by how it looks on her. She stares him down knowingly and holds up a machete. The blade’s red, but not with blood. Rather it’s… jam? She licks it off as…
Vince jolts awake, surrounded by a darkness that makes it not matter that he isn’t wearing glasses. Waning moonlight filters in the window, casting just enough light for him to turn on the desk lamp and put his glasses on.
…Hale’s asleep, as they both should be. Lucky bastard… and he’s probably having good dreams too, not ridiculous fantasies with… oh god. It might be after hours, but Vince needs to clear his head right now. Wander around for a little bit, get all these thoughts out of his head… maybe then he can sleep.
Type: Slash
Genre: Smut
Characters: Vince/Hale; cameo from Amber.
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Language, oral, wanking, biting, outdoor sex, dubious consent, light bondage, slight dom-sub.
Prompts: "I went into a sex shop."
Word Count: 2,132
Summary: Vince wants Hale to talk and will use any means he has to.
Disclaimer: Mine, except Hale, who is Chelsea/unrulygarden's. Don't tie people up and suck them off in graveyards.
A/N: Written for this week's AWDT prompt. Also: it's just a dream sequence, kids. Hale's not intentionally a cock-tease, Vince does not have the mind of a rapist, and, while there may be sexually frustrated, accidental snogging and heap loads of angst, no one is being tied up and sucked off in a graveyard. Vince is just a little bit nuts and in love with his best friend. No one condones this either.
The graveyard near Mount Holyoke is chilly on its own, which isn’t helped by the fact that it’s autumn, October to be precise, nearly Halloween, and the over-priced, corporate coffee that Sylvie bought for them is starting its slow descent into futility. But proximity keeps them warm; Vince would never willingly let Hale freeze. Even sans his thick, blue sweater and striped scarf (a most convenient binding for his soft, beautiful hands), the poor boy will never go cold as long as Vince has a say in the matter, and Vince always has a say in the matter. Scream in ecstasy… he might do that, but never, ever will he be tormented by the nips of impatient winter. Besides, the leaves look enough like fire, and that can play the best mind games.
He unconsciously cocks a hip out as he removes his own clothes, peeling away at the layers of a bitter fruit. It’s a striptease, in a way, but he doesn’t mean it to be. First comes the heavy, black pea coat, his hard shell against wind, rain, and passing animals. He sheds that easily, as he’s wanted to take it off since putting it on. His trench coat is much nicer-looking and has the dramatic flair necessary to keep him entertained. Next comes the t-shirt - black and fitted, secretly a girls’ shirt, bought on Broadway at an Avenue Q matinee, and advertising how much is sucks to be him - which is only rivaled in its constraining nature by the long-sleeved, sky blue button-up shirt underneath. That one takes the longest to get off because, drama queen that he is, he has to relish in undoing each button - the slight, nigh inaudible pop as the plastic finally slides through the fabric hole; the way each one makes Hale’s eyes bigger; the finality of a dropped shirt and wind gnawing on his back.
It hardly makes sense that he should be so cold and still keep Hale warm, but there are too many things about Vincent Morris that don’t make sense; it’s been said so often that it must be true.
Sufficiently top-naked, he moves to straddle Hale’s legs instead of taking his jeans off just yet. They’re black, so dirt won’t hurt them, and he can just go wash them later anyway. This set up is a work of art, with Hale as the bright, shining center of it: crisp autumn day with just enough light (not that much), dark headstone, dark patch of earth, shadowed grass, and a perfect little Ganymede, all pink skin and blond charms, sitting there, bound and waiting. He’s full aware of where this is going, and it shows in his passivity - not that he’d argue under most circumstances, he’s terribly helpful and accommodating like that, but he barely reacts when Vince sits on his thighs. Were it anyone else in his position, that’d be a bad sign; here, it’s a “go ahead.”
And, boy, does Vince take heed. Starting with the lips, Vince meanders through familiar territory, looking for something new and exciting, something entirely unexpected and thoroughly modern. The first kiss is delicate, a friendly indulgence. It could be innocently just between friends, were he not tainted to the core. And he is; the unspoken did it to him. Everything he never said wormed into him like old wood, and an unseen knife hollowed him out, leaving not much more than an empty grapefruit rind. Truth be told, this is all his doing. Sylvie might have brought them to this Amherst graveyard, but he’s done everything else. Hale’s been passive through all this nonsense preamble, just as he is when Vince traces lines up his neck and strategically applies pressure to the underside of his chin.
The first taste of his whole mouth is sweet (hazelnut coffee and a few of Sylvie’s Altoids), and smoky (the lingering effects of incense on its burner? Is that even possible?), and intoxicating like harem clouds; the excitation of nerve endings in his lips is too good to be true. A clichéd expression, Vince is more than aware, but it’s a fair one, he’s quite sure. After all, he can’t be brilliant all the time, especially not when his head’s on a merry-go-round at the bottom of a lake and he’s thinking more with the pit of his stomach. Just to be this far makes his heart feel like giving out from a joy-shock cocktail, but it keeps going out of lust and contempt.
Eyes closed, he sees everything: all of Hale’s offside glances in his direction, his geisha pink blush, his perfect little smile. Vince’s fingers feel the roses Hale calls cheeks and his terse left shoulder, they seek the tension out and knead it… it’s a weed in an otherwise meticulously kept grey garden and it must be removed. His back, however, feels all the hugs, all the supportive shoulder grabs, all the times Hale’s shaken him to calm him down, and the dull thump stings on the back of his head, where Hale smacked him once for being an idiot. Hale arches his back ever so slightly, bringing their chests that much closer; Vince, in return, bites his lower lip firmly, with just enough force to egg him on.
Snaking the left hand behind his head seems to encourage that, but once their chests touch, Vince feels the night-veil that gets carelessly thrown aside settle on his vision, is hyper-conscious of the clouds that traipse across his eyes like kids on an old man’s lawn. He sets his darkened gaze on Hale’s spring blue and all he sees is how those eyes look at Kevin - dewy, sentimental… special. Without saying a thing, all of Hale’s intentions make themselves as ostentatious as a cheap whore and her emphatic pimp. The cold water dump of memory serves its purpose, forcing into neon lights the made-up, dressed up, and bedazzled truth: this doesn’t mean a thing to Hale. In his mind, they’re just friends; this might as well be rehearsal for a show. His heart’s with Kevin.
Vince bites his lower lip again, this time hard and vaguely hoping for blood. He rips the button on Hale’s fly off and the zipper yields in submission to his scowl. If only the barriers of pants and underwear would do the same, but some things just aren’t happening any time soon. On his end, the kissing’s more forceful, full up of the sour milk of spite and more bites than he can remember ever giving to any other boy - real or confined to the box of dreams. His one-handed massage ends in favor of digging his nails into Hale’s skin, and he scratches the back of Hale’s neck so much that it’s a wonder he neither has claws nor draws blood. Hale moans; he digs in further.
“Vince…” A slight whine. Perfectly ambiguous.
“You, my friend,” he sighs scholarly, backing aware and pushing a stray, golden lock out of Hale’s face, “are a prick tease of the highest order.”
He runs the serpentine hand through Hale’s hair and drags his teeth possessively down one cheek. De-stemming the rose, as it were.
“I love you; you’re cold. I tell you everything; comparatively speaking, I know nothing about my best friend.”
“What do you want to know?” Hale’s breath is warm and so inviting.
“Everything. I want this gravestone to be your confessional. Every little thing I don’t know comes out here.”
“Okay…”
And it’s to be done, Vince decides, while the boy is getting head.
But, first and foremost, retribution is a bitch in boy’s clothing. He’s also experienced, blame it all on the big, bad ex-boyfriend, and he’s learned from the best How To Tease. Techie flexibility lets him slide back along Hale’s legs without a hitch, and he runs his hands up Hale’s legs as though up silk. Wrapping his legs around Hale’s knees, he drums his fingers on the exposed skin, coming close to the hard-on but never touching. Judging by the way Hale’s breath hitches just so, it’s working. He’ll be talking soon enough.
“I’m so close to dragging you to a GSA meeting by your hair,” Hale sighs.
Tell me something I don’t know. “Good start, good start. Keep going.”
Vince stares at the erection until he goes cross-eyed, but a shake of his dark head brings him back around. Acquiescingly, he slides the backs and nails of two fingers up Hale’s shaft, pressing just a little harder each centimeter; going down, he strokes the opposite side with the same fingers’ undersides and relishes in the tiny, high-pitched gasp that escapes from above him. Hale still hasn’t said “no.” If he’d say it, Vince would consider stopping… he’d probably stop, but it’s not his fault that he has a hot, cock-tease best friend, not his fault at all. Besides, anyone’s a better choice than Dylan, and Hale could still say “no.” But he doesn’t, so it must be fine.
Using his elbows, Vince lifts himself up and inches forward, just a little bit, close enough to breathe coolly on Hale’s stem and more that he acknowledges as possible but doesn’t do. As an enticement, he wraps a thumb and three fingers around the base, but Hale doesn’t say a thing. All five digits, and still nothing. A slight tug up, and all that comes is a moan. Saddest thing is that it wants to be a scream so badly, but it just falls short; even tied up and turned on, he’s so repressed. And Hale still says nothing, so Vince glares at him.
“Vince…” he whines.
“Talk.”
“Come on…”
“No. I want you to talk.”
“Please?”
“That can’t be your only secret, Hale. Tell me more.”
He jerks his wrist up in a short, quick, and completely controlled burst… just to get what he wants, and the faint red glow on Hale’s face says he will.
“I… I went into a sex shop… but it was just one time…”
“Oh really? Tell me more about that.”
“It was last year. We were out with Sylvie, and you were taking a while in the fabric store, so she took me in there.”
“What was in there, Hale?”
As a reward for all his good behavior, Vince wraps his whole hand around Hale’s cock, stroked up, down, and up again, and gets an actual scream when he tears his hand away with a firm yank. That deserves a present on its own, and it comes in the form of a kiss. With pressure and teeth, he presses his lips to the head of Hale’s cock, which gets another hitch in breath, but not much more.
“I said, ‘What was in there, Hale?’”
“Everything. Condoms, toys, weird leather outfits, costumes for role-play… they had a wall of dildos.”
“Oh really.”
“Yeah! All kinds of colors, and sizes, and - aah!”
Since Hale’s been a good boy and both parties clearly want it, Vince closes the gap and slips his mouth around Hale’s cock like a little kid into an unruly garden, long since devolved into a field with a gate. Up and down are all the same when separates into their most basic elements - all just signals and contractions and neurotransmitters; the only difference is the noise that Hale makes. Each motion up gets the petulant, demanding whine of Hale’s inner diva (or inner five-year-old; it’s too hard to tell and matters too little) and each one down earns a throaty, reverberating moan. Speed makes him pant, and teeth make him scream, and he still hasn’t said “no.” As Vince drags his teeth up, he entertains the possibility that this might be wrong, but it doesn’t last too long: Hale still hasn’t said “no.” Now to just get him talking about Kevin…
Vince breaks to look up, and Hale’s biting his lip. Uncharacteristic of him, really, but too cute. And behind him is…
…Amber? …In a dress? It’s not a very nice dress, and it’s a hideous shade of pink, made even worse by how it looks on her. She stares him down knowingly and holds up a machete. The blade’s red, but not with blood. Rather it’s… jam? She licks it off as…
Vince jolts awake, surrounded by a darkness that makes it not matter that he isn’t wearing glasses. Waning moonlight filters in the window, casting just enough light for him to turn on the desk lamp and put his glasses on.
…Hale’s asleep, as they both should be. Lucky bastard… and he’s probably having good dreams too, not ridiculous fantasies with… oh god. It might be after hours, but Vince needs to clear his head right now. Wander around for a little bit, get all these thoughts out of his head… maybe then he can sleep.