never ballpoints [66/?]
anonymous
August 16 2010, 15:30:56 UTC
Alfred has drawn the blinds, so the room is dark. The shadows make his heart stop, flicker, till he reminds himself what they are.
Except Arthur. Except Arthur, sat on Alfred’s desk, skin water-colour-blue in the dark. He barely breathes.
(He’s naked, and resigned, and his eyes are still shouting. It’s all Alfred can hear, over the blood in his ears and the crow of students outside.)
“I’m-” starts Alfred, and can’t think how to finish. He doesn’t, and rolls his thumb over the packet in his fingers; lets himself remember.
(How it used to be, and how it should be, and regret bubbles, sad and slow under his stomach.)
Arthur’s thighs are pliant, spreading under his pressure. Arthur himself is equally willing, but he never stops staring. It would be unnerving if Alfred didn't love his eyes so; the emotions that shine in them; their colour, forest-sharp.
Alfred unzips himself, hard beneath his slacks from anticipation and long-wore repression.
Rip and crinkle and it’s greasy in his fingers, and Arthur’s gaze never wavers. Alfred slides it over his cock, anyway, and gasps at the stimulation. Arthur’s eyes crack at the corners.
“Okay,” Alfred says, and wonders why he bothers. Arthur makes no noise as he presses forward, lotion slick between them. Its cloying lavender sticks to the inside of Alfred’s mouth and reminds him, inexplicably, of Francis.
He shifts, leaning till his cheek meets Arthur’s, breath tickling hair from his ears.
“Have you ever done this with anyone else?” says Alfred, implication obvious. He pushes up, to make his point ever-clearer. “Or just me?”
(Because he’s thinking, as always: Francis Francis Francis and two teenage boys in the same dorm with the same urges and it would be understandable. Excusable.)
Arthur, however, flushes darker and whispers: “No one.”
Alfred-takes a deep breath, which may be relief-and pushes closer.
Except Arthur. Except Arthur, sat on Alfred’s desk, skin water-colour-blue in the dark. He barely breathes.
(He’s naked, and resigned, and his eyes are still shouting. It’s all Alfred can hear, over the blood in his ears and the crow of students outside.)
“I’m-” starts Alfred, and can’t think how to finish. He doesn’t, and rolls his thumb over the packet in his fingers; lets himself remember.
(How it used to be, and how it should be, and regret bubbles, sad and slow under his stomach.)
Arthur’s thighs are pliant, spreading under his pressure. Arthur himself is equally willing, but he never stops staring. It would be unnerving if Alfred didn't love his eyes so; the emotions that shine in them; their colour, forest-sharp.
Alfred unzips himself, hard beneath his slacks from anticipation and long-wore repression.
Rip and crinkle and it’s greasy in his fingers, and Arthur’s gaze never wavers. Alfred slides it over his cock, anyway, and gasps at the stimulation. Arthur’s eyes crack at the corners.
“Okay,” Alfred says, and wonders why he bothers. Arthur makes no noise as he presses forward, lotion slick between them. Its cloying lavender sticks to the inside of Alfred’s mouth and reminds him, inexplicably, of Francis.
He shifts, leaning till his cheek meets Arthur’s, breath tickling hair from his ears.
“Have you ever done this with anyone else?” says Alfred, implication obvious. He pushes up, to make his point ever-clearer. “Or just me?”
(Because he’s thinking, as always: Francis Francis Francis and two teenage boys in the same dorm with the same urges and it would be understandable. Excusable.)
Arthur, however, flushes darker and whispers: “No one.”
Alfred-takes a deep breath, which may be relief-and pushes closer.
Reply
Leave a comment