Trance [1/?]
anonymous
January 15 2011, 03:41:02 UTC
___
“What does it feel like to be burned?”
Matthew opens his eyes and slides them up along the curve of Francis’ back, pupils moving up-down-up with every dip and swell of his spine. Francis is curled over his knees in his “Socrates” pose. Canada doesn’t feel like sitting up to get a good look at his face.
Francis chuckles and lifts a slim cigarette to his lips, taking a long, slow drag. He holds it there for a second, and then opens his mouth so the smoke flows out like unfurling bolts of silk. “I guess that sounds odd, hm?”
“Francis, you’ve been burned before,” Matthew says, and he’s whining but he doesn’t care because it’s too goddamn late to have this conversation.
“Yes, but--but I’ve been trapped before,” Francis murmurs, and he turns his hand a little so that Matthew can see the orange glow. “I’ve never gotten to consider what it would feel like...having it slowly come towards you anticipating the sting and smolder--”
“Francis.”
“Can we try it?” And now Francis turns to face him, all bright eyes and hopeful quirk of lips, two fingers extended with the cigarette between them. “I mean it. Let’s try right now--all you’d have to do is put it on my skin and--”
“No.” Matthew regrets opening his eyes for this. “We’ve talked about this before, Francis.” He slides his eyes away from begging blue, settling on the jut of Francis’ hipbone and the way the lamplight plays off of it. He runs his pointer finger over flesh-covered bone and bites his lip and tongue, wonders what it would be like to taste it again on his tongue--
“I know,” Francis says, faltering a little, fading. “But--but I thought maybe we could try to--”
“No,” Matthew says, and wishes he could put that much force into his voice during meetings, where he has to literally fight for his chance to talk. He plucks the cigarette from Francis’ fingers, taking one long, slow breath and holding it. Bitter smoke flows into his mouth, curls and settles in his lungs kind of like when Francis kisses him.
Silence. Matthew shuts his eyes and sighs, rolling onto his back. “I’m not going to hurt you, Francis,” Matthew murmurs, and the smoke gives shape to his words. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” And through closed eyes, Matthew sees Francis’ toothy grin, the gather of skin at the corner of his eyes, and the way his eyebrows perk upwards when he cries. Guilt gathers in his belly. He should apologize.
Instead, Francis sighs and flops back against the hotel pillows, and Matthew bites his cheek and swallows his smile as sits up with open eyes and rubs the burning ashes into the glass tray. The embers scatter and glow, smoking the last of their life out, and then going gray.
“You’re mad,” Francis whispers, and he probably has his arm over his eyes, hiding himself away from Matthew.
“I’m not. Honestly, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You’re making this into something bigger than it has to be, Francis.”
“You’re going to damn me to the couch, aren’t you?”
“Would you just--” Matthew turns to look at Francis.
It’s his one mistake.
Francis sprawls on the white, cool sheets, one hand above his head while the other rests on the maroon comforter. The simple, solid colors make Francis stand out, deepen the shadows on his face and highlight the white skin on his belly.
His blue eyes are even darker now, half-lidded and shadowed; they demand to be the center of attention. Francis bites his lips so they’re all plump and soft, pouting, his lips parting to run his tongue over them. Matthew can’t look away, even when Francis’ shoulder hitches, when his eyes squeeze shut and he croons in pleasure--
In the span of a blink, Matthew’s on top of Francis, pinning his hands at ear level and mingling their breaths.
He tilts his head, his curl brushing Francis’ forehead. “How could I throw you out?” he whispers, bending his head a little more. He squeezes Francis’ hips with his knees.
Francis’ eyelashes flutter. “Are you going to fuck me?” he asks, eyelashes fluttering.
“Yeah,” Matthew whispers. “Uh. Let me think about it.”
They kiss, a smear of lips on lips and saliva-slick, and then Matthew slips beneath the sheets to finally taste that damned hipbone turned golden in the lamplight.
Re: Trance [1/?]
anonymous
January 15 2011, 04:50:36 UTC
Oh goodness, hypnosis is pretty much my number one kink, and "Deeper" was so fucking amazing I can't even begin to describe my love for it! As such, I will ABSOLUTELY be stalking this fill like a madwoman!! :D
(Also, your descrip in the fills section amused me. Makes me wonder what else England has an app for...)
Re: Trance [1/?]
anonymous
January 15 2011, 18:36:16 UTC
OMG, anon.
OMG.
The atmosphere in this was so great, the build of the tension and the way you describe their bodies as well as the words - Matthew bites his cheek and swallows his smile as sits up with open eyes and rubs the burning ashes into the glass tray. The embers scatter and glow, smoking the last of their life out, and then going gray this one especially stuck with me and I can't get it out of my head.
Also the hipbone thing - my ridiculous hipbone kink aside, it was just so well done!
“What does it feel like to be burned?”
Matthew opens his eyes and slides them up along the curve of Francis’ back, pupils moving up-down-up with every dip and swell of his spine. Francis is curled over his knees in his “Socrates” pose. Canada doesn’t feel like sitting up to get a good look at his face.
Francis chuckles and lifts a slim cigarette to his lips, taking a long, slow drag. He holds it there for a second, and then opens his mouth so the smoke flows out like unfurling bolts of silk. “I guess that sounds odd, hm?”
“Francis, you’ve been burned before,” Matthew says, and he’s whining but he doesn’t care because it’s too goddamn late to have this conversation.
“Yes, but--but I’ve been trapped before,” Francis murmurs, and he turns his hand a little so that Matthew can see the orange glow. “I’ve never gotten to consider what it would feel like...having it slowly come towards you anticipating the sting and smolder--”
“Francis.”
“Can we try it?” And now Francis turns to face him, all bright eyes and hopeful quirk of lips, two fingers extended with the cigarette between them. “I mean it. Let’s try right now--all you’d have to do is put it on my skin and--”
“No.” Matthew regrets opening his eyes for this. “We’ve talked about this before, Francis.” He slides his eyes away from begging blue, settling on the jut of Francis’ hipbone and the way the lamplight plays off of it. He runs his pointer finger over flesh-covered bone and bites his lip and tongue, wonders what it would be like to taste it again on his tongue--
“I know,” Francis says, faltering a little, fading. “But--but I thought maybe we could try to--”
“No,” Matthew says, and wishes he could put that much force into his voice during meetings, where he has to literally fight for his chance to talk. He plucks the cigarette from Francis’ fingers, taking one long, slow breath and holding it. Bitter smoke flows into his mouth, curls and settles in his lungs kind of like when Francis kisses him.
Silence. Matthew shuts his eyes and sighs, rolling onto his back. “I’m not going to hurt you, Francis,” Matthew murmurs, and the smoke gives shape to his words. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” And through closed eyes, Matthew sees Francis’ toothy grin, the gather of skin at the corner of his eyes, and the way his eyebrows perk upwards when he cries. Guilt gathers in his belly. He should apologize.
Instead, Francis sighs and flops back against the hotel pillows, and Matthew bites his cheek and swallows his smile as sits up with open eyes and rubs the burning ashes into the glass tray. The embers scatter and glow, smoking the last of their life out, and then going gray.
“You’re mad,” Francis whispers, and he probably has his arm over his eyes, hiding himself away from Matthew.
“I’m not. Honestly, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You’re making this into something bigger than it has to be, Francis.”
“You’re going to damn me to the couch, aren’t you?”
“Would you just--” Matthew turns to look at Francis.
It’s his one mistake.
Francis sprawls on the white, cool sheets, one hand above his head while the other rests on the maroon comforter. The simple, solid colors make Francis stand out, deepen the shadows on his face and highlight the white skin on his belly.
His blue eyes are even darker now, half-lidded and shadowed; they demand to be the center of attention. Francis bites his lips so they’re all plump and soft, pouting, his lips parting to run his tongue over them. Matthew can’t look away, even when Francis’ shoulder hitches, when his eyes squeeze shut and he croons in pleasure--
In the span of a blink, Matthew’s on top of Francis, pinning his hands at ear level and mingling their breaths.
He tilts his head, his curl brushing Francis’ forehead. “How could I throw you out?” he whispers, bending his head a little more. He squeezes Francis’ hips with his knees.
Francis’ eyelashes flutter. “Are you going to fuck me?” he asks, eyelashes fluttering.
“Yeah,” Matthew whispers. “Uh. Let me think about it.”
They kiss, a smear of lips on lips and saliva-slick, and then Matthew slips beneath the sheets to finally taste that damned hipbone turned golden in the lamplight.
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(Also, your descrip in the fills section amused me. Makes me wonder what else England has an app for...)
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OMG.
The atmosphere in this was so great, the build of the tension and the way you describe their bodies as well as the words - Matthew bites his cheek and swallows his smile as sits up with open eyes and rubs the burning ashes into the glass tray. The embers scatter and glow, smoking the last of their life out, and then going gray this one especially stuck with me and I can't get it out of my head.
Also the hipbone thing - my ridiculous hipbone kink aside, it was just so well done!
F5 F5 F5
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