Ontario [8/?]
anonymous
December 5 2009, 20:16:03 UTC
Ivan presses his cheek to Francis’s stomach, but he lets his bangs feather over his eyes.
“Ivan?”
“It’s a lovely night outside,” Ivan says. “It’s snowing.”
“So it’s snowing,” Francis murmurs, an echo, and he’s not sure he likes the tone in Ivan’s voice. “Shall we talk about warmer weather, then? About your trip to Alfred’s home, I think. Did he take you to his -”
“Francis.”
Ivan’s level with his face again, sudden, unexpected, and the intensity of the pain in those eyes makes Francis cast his eyes away and look out the window. It’s clear tonight, and Francis thinks how sharp and cold it must feel outside.
“Francis, look at me, please.”
Fingers caress his cheek, and Francis finds his gaze forced back onto Ivan before he has a chance to object. Francis just sighs and smiles in response, a bit too wide and sad for either of them to believe.
“Remember when we said that we’d always have this, even if we hated one another?”
“After the Cold War,” Ivan murmurs, his hand moving up to cup Francis’s cheek. “After I was admitted to the G8.”
“Oui.”
“It’s not fair,” Ivan says, and the sadness in his voice twists into a bit of bitterness, a barbed-wire edge of anger. “My boss thinks that I need ‘stronger relations’ with America. Of all the people to -”
Francis leans up and stoppers Ivan’s mouth with a kiss. He makes Ivan slide into it, pulls him deeper in and away from the world. “Let’s…let’s enjoy this,” he pants, looking up into Ivan’s eyes. “Let’s enjoy what little time we have left with one another, cher. Please?”
Ivan trembles in his arm, and Francis notices that he looks away now - to the walls, headboard, anywhere that isn’t Francis’s faces. Francis can’t decide whether the trembling in those arms is from arousal or something else entirely.
He sighs, reaches down between their bodies, and decides for Ivan. Ivan gasps at the hand on his cock, and the story they’ve been trying to weave shatters with a mutual sob as Ivan bows his head to kiss Francis’s mouth.
When Francis feels slick fingertips probing him, seeking and asking, he just sighs and parts his legs further, letting Ivan inside. He’s still slick from before, from their tryst in the bathroom, but this is habit to them now, this slow, lazy preparation.
And Francis doesn’t mind.
He just closes his eyes and thinks, thinks of how lucky he is to have a lover who probes and slicks him up with such gentle fingers, callused as they are. He thinks of what those fingers were forced to do in his Soviet years, of the reputation it earned Russia among the other Nations, and he aches for Ivan’s heart. Wishes only to stay by Ivan as long as he can, to keep that loneliness at bay.
So when Ivan slips inside of him, when he feels his ass give and envelop Ivan’s cockhead, he reaches up with his arms and pulls Ivan down, pressing a heel into the small of Ivan’s back to pull him deeper in.
“Francis -”
“Shhh.”
“But I -”
Francis smears their lips together in an attempt to shut him up. “No more words,” he chides, gentle, sweet. “No more thoughts. Just feel, Ivan.”
Ivan looks like he wants to say more. So Francis stops him by pressing Ivan’s face to his shoulder, by smoothing his hand over fair hair and crooning nonsense French into his ear until Ivan’s breathing slows to what is normal for sex.
“Are you all right now?”
“M-mmm.”
“Good,” Francis smiles, and bucks his hips up so that his cock can rub against Ivan’s stomach. “I - ah - Ivan, please. Just feel.”
And Ivan moves, too, and feels with Francis. They do not shut their eyes, but they do not look at one another, either; they look at their joined hands, at the wall, down the length of their joined bodies. They feel the center where their bodies are joined, where the pleasure creeps out and up through their veins. They move slow and steady, so that when enough time passes Francis thinks that liquid sex is pumping through his heart rather than blood, that he’s sweating everything but Ivan out of his body.
“Iv -” Francis starts, but chokes off as Ivan thrusts and hits his prostate again. “Ivan,” he forces out in a rush, scared that he will lose himself again if he’s not quick enough.
“Ivan?”
“It’s a lovely night outside,” Ivan says. “It’s snowing.”
“So it’s snowing,” Francis murmurs, an echo, and he’s not sure he likes the tone in Ivan’s voice. “Shall we talk about warmer weather, then? About your trip to Alfred’s home, I think. Did he take you to his -”
“Francis.”
Ivan’s level with his face again, sudden, unexpected, and the intensity of the pain in those eyes makes Francis cast his eyes away and look out the window. It’s clear tonight, and Francis thinks how sharp and cold it must feel outside.
“Francis, look at me, please.”
Fingers caress his cheek, and Francis finds his gaze forced back onto Ivan before he has a chance to object. Francis just sighs and smiles in response, a bit too wide and sad for either of them to believe.
“Remember when we said that we’d always have this, even if we hated one another?”
“After the Cold War,” Ivan murmurs, his hand moving up to cup Francis’s cheek. “After I was admitted to the G8.”
“Oui.”
“It’s not fair,” Ivan says, and the sadness in his voice twists into a bit of bitterness, a barbed-wire edge of anger. “My boss thinks that I need ‘stronger relations’ with America. Of all the people to -”
Francis leans up and stoppers Ivan’s mouth with a kiss. He makes Ivan slide into it, pulls him deeper in and away from the world. “Let’s…let’s enjoy this,” he pants, looking up into Ivan’s eyes. “Let’s enjoy what little time we have left with one another, cher. Please?”
Ivan trembles in his arm, and Francis notices that he looks away now - to the walls, headboard, anywhere that isn’t Francis’s faces. Francis can’t decide whether the trembling in those arms is from arousal or something else entirely.
He sighs, reaches down between their bodies, and decides for Ivan. Ivan gasps at the hand on his cock, and the story they’ve been trying to weave shatters with a mutual sob as Ivan bows his head to kiss Francis’s mouth.
When Francis feels slick fingertips probing him, seeking and asking, he just sighs and parts his legs further, letting Ivan inside. He’s still slick from before, from their tryst in the bathroom, but this is habit to them now, this slow, lazy preparation.
And Francis doesn’t mind.
He just closes his eyes and thinks, thinks of how lucky he is to have a lover who probes and slicks him up with such gentle fingers, callused as they are. He thinks of what those fingers were forced to do in his Soviet years, of the reputation it earned Russia among the other Nations, and he aches for Ivan’s heart. Wishes only to stay by Ivan as long as he can, to keep that loneliness at bay.
So when Ivan slips inside of him, when he feels his ass give and envelop Ivan’s cockhead, he reaches up with his arms and pulls Ivan down, pressing a heel into the small of Ivan’s back to pull him deeper in.
“Francis -”
“Shhh.”
“But I -”
Francis smears their lips together in an attempt to shut him up. “No more words,” he chides, gentle, sweet. “No more thoughts. Just feel, Ivan.”
Ivan looks like he wants to say more. So Francis stops him by pressing Ivan’s face to his shoulder, by smoothing his hand over fair hair and crooning nonsense French into his ear until Ivan’s breathing slows to what is normal for sex.
“Are you all right now?”
“M-mmm.”
“Good,” Francis smiles, and bucks his hips up so that his cock can rub against Ivan’s stomach. “I - ah - Ivan, please. Just feel.”
And Ivan moves, too, and feels with Francis. They do not shut their eyes, but they do not look at one another, either; they look at their joined hands, at the wall, down the length of their joined bodies. They feel the center where their bodies are joined, where the pleasure creeps out and up through their veins. They move slow and steady, so that when enough time passes Francis thinks that liquid sex is pumping through his heart rather than blood, that he’s sweating everything but Ivan out of his body.
“Iv -” Francis starts, but chokes off as Ivan thrusts and hits his prostate again. “Ivan,” he forces out in a rush, scared that he will lose himself again if he’s not quick enough.
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