Writing's on the Wall 2/9
anonymous
October 22 2010, 01:40:11 UTC
Arthur opens to Alfred as their mouths pillow and plump together. Arthur traces Alfred’s mouth, explores the walls and the rows of white teeth. He touches Alfred’s tongue, feels Alfred respond and grip him tightly, all the while loosening his tie. His nimble fingers brush against his neck as he pulls at the knot of his tie, and Arthur breathes out an almost-sigh against Alfred’s mouth. Arthur’s hands can’t settle, won’t settle-he grips at Alfred’s shirt, tugs him closer, slips away to knead at the back of his neck, roll down his back and follow the bumps of his spine. He tries, even, to grasp at Alfred’s hips, but his hands don’t fit so easily over Alfred’s hips as Alfred’s hands can fit over Arthur-everywhere, any part of Arthur. He grips at the collar of Alfred’s silly shirt, brushes his fingers under it to breeze across his lean shoulders, feel the slope of his golden skin for the first time in weeks and it feels so nice that he really can’t imagine any reason to leave the front foyer, so long as Alfred was standing there.
He scrapes at Alfred’s lower lip, and Alfred lets out a stuttering gasp before deepening the kiss, taking back the territory that Alfred invaded and exploring the contours of Arthur’s own mouth. Arthur does not protest-he welcomes it. Arthur bites at his mouth until Alfred opens to him, breathes against him and into him, and Arthur melts against him, his fingers searching, never staying still for long. Alfred’s breath is short, and he just manages to bite back a moan. His touch is so warm. He’s missed him so much.
They fit together so well-it’s almost painful. Separation from him is painful, and finding his way back to him-to Alfred-makes it all okay again. All the stresses, all the work waiting on the backburner-they all fell away and it was just Alfred. Always only Alfred.
Arthur arches against Alfred’s touch, as fingers manage to pull the tie away and it falls down innocently onto one of Arthur’s bags. Arthur arches, pulls at Alfred so that their chests press together, and Alfred’s hands press against Arthur’s chest, trapped. Arthur drags, and Alfred responds, trying to weasel his hands back so he can keep touching at Arthur’s face, thread into his hair, draw him just as close-closer, somehow always closer.
Alfred’s fingers are still wedged, and Arthur’s not about to pull away. So Alfred’s hands squirm, work at the buttons of Arthur’s very practical dress-shirt (though Arthur suspects that if his mouth was free, Alfred would make some kind of comment about prissy, over-dressed Brits). Something heaves in Arthur’s chest-god, how he has missed this boy, this beautiful, wonderful, lovely boy-and he swallows a responding deep noise that bubbles from Alfred’s throat. Words stifle on Arthur’s tongue, but now is not the time to speak anyway, so he strokes the pads of his fingers at Alfred’s neck, follows the lines of his body, slips over his shoulders, kneads at the skin there, fisting into his shirt and wishing he could wrench it off without having to break the kiss.
Finally, though, Alfred has to pull away, and he gasps for air. His eyes are glazed, his face flushed. And Arthur thinks that no, he will never grow tired of this boy, of that smiling face. He lifts a hand again, strokes at the line of his jaw, thumbs over his cheekbone, pads his fingers over the kiss-swollen lips.
“Hello, my lovely,” Arthur says again, because it seems like the only appropriate thing to say.
Alfred’s face breaks into another smile, and he just beams at Arthur. And if there was ever a time that Arthur would be blinded by the lad’s face, it would be now. He even, finally, manages a small smile back, stroking his hands over his face, pushing the hair from his face, adjusting the glasses that’d been knocked slightly askew by their enthusiasm.
“Hey, Arthur,” Alfred returns, and his words are breathless, much softer than he’d probably intended-and it is in that still moment when the words fall away that Arthur understands, fully, just how much they’d missed each other.
He scrapes at Alfred’s lower lip, and Alfred lets out a stuttering gasp before deepening the kiss, taking back the territory that Alfred invaded and exploring the contours of Arthur’s own mouth. Arthur does not protest-he welcomes it. Arthur bites at his mouth until Alfred opens to him, breathes against him and into him, and Arthur melts against him, his fingers searching, never staying still for long. Alfred’s breath is short, and he just manages to bite back a moan. His touch is so warm. He’s missed him so much.
They fit together so well-it’s almost painful. Separation from him is painful, and finding his way back to him-to Alfred-makes it all okay again. All the stresses, all the work waiting on the backburner-they all fell away and it was just Alfred. Always only Alfred.
Arthur arches against Alfred’s touch, as fingers manage to pull the tie away and it falls down innocently onto one of Arthur’s bags. Arthur arches, pulls at Alfred so that their chests press together, and Alfred’s hands press against Arthur’s chest, trapped. Arthur drags, and Alfred responds, trying to weasel his hands back so he can keep touching at Arthur’s face, thread into his hair, draw him just as close-closer, somehow always closer.
Alfred’s fingers are still wedged, and Arthur’s not about to pull away. So Alfred’s hands squirm, work at the buttons of Arthur’s very practical dress-shirt (though Arthur suspects that if his mouth was free, Alfred would make some kind of comment about prissy, over-dressed Brits). Something heaves in Arthur’s chest-god, how he has missed this boy, this beautiful, wonderful, lovely boy-and he swallows a responding deep noise that bubbles from Alfred’s throat. Words stifle on Arthur’s tongue, but now is not the time to speak anyway, so he strokes the pads of his fingers at Alfred’s neck, follows the lines of his body, slips over his shoulders, kneads at the skin there, fisting into his shirt and wishing he could wrench it off without having to break the kiss.
Finally, though, Alfred has to pull away, and he gasps for air. His eyes are glazed, his face flushed. And Arthur thinks that no, he will never grow tired of this boy, of that smiling face. He lifts a hand again, strokes at the line of his jaw, thumbs over his cheekbone, pads his fingers over the kiss-swollen lips.
“Hello, my lovely,” Arthur says again, because it seems like the only appropriate thing to say.
Alfred’s face breaks into another smile, and he just beams at Arthur. And if there was ever a time that Arthur would be blinded by the lad’s face, it would be now. He even, finally, manages a small smile back, stroking his hands over his face, pushing the hair from his face, adjusting the glasses that’d been knocked slightly askew by their enthusiasm.
“Hey, Arthur,” Alfred returns, and his words are breathless, much softer than he’d probably intended-and it is in that still moment when the words fall away that Arthur understands, fully, just how much they’d missed each other.
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