Winter work: dreamstate
The little AU: Winter Work: Dreamstate
slashfairy
R
~~
He doesn't know the name of the song, only that it's helping him at the same time it hurts. It's something plaintive with the thin high piping of missed love and the soft calling strings of remembered love; something you'd listen to and remember your hands on them, their hands on you. Light and sweet and warm and like that fog that's thin enough to walk through, and not chilly, but thick enough that the light sparkles on the individual bits of moisture in the air, and that sparkle soothes the ache on your cheek where it's been too long since they kissed you. It's Irish or Scottish or Peruvian; something with a clear piped note and bowed strings and finger-picked notes that feels like it connects him to them intimately, and it's the last thing he hears before sleep overtakes him, and he falls through the stages of sleep until he re-emerges into the un-moving state of stage one sleep.
He's not even awake enough to touch himself; in his dream-state his unmoving body responds to the strong hand wrapped around their two cocks. Fully erect and hard, they're curved just enough that they rub just slightly around each other; each hand-stroke causes friction- blessed, silky, electric friction -as the frenulum of his cock rubs against the frenulum of the other's. He's been given an assignment: Try not to move, Vig. Let me do it all, so the fact that he can't move in this mellow sleep-stage doesn't distract him.
He hears the voice, velvet, velour, velveteen, silk, cotton, soft, sleek, warm in his ear, saying all the things he'd given up thinking he'd ever hear: "I love you, like life itself. I'm yours, however you want me. I'll never stop loving you, no matter what." He yearns to find the lips through which the voice falls but he's been asked not to move, so he stays still, lets the voice caress his hearing the way the hand's partner now caresses his balls, softly, gently, firmly, with all the knowing that years of intimacy brings.
Lips do cover his, other lips: full lips, lips with a tendency to pout, to sneer, to open fully and let belly laughs of delight fly up out of them. He's still not to move, so he doesn't, as those lips open his mouth and let a warm seeking tongue find his. In his unmoving sleep-state he's transported to the place where there are no thoughts, only sensations, only feelings: the arm under his shoulders holding him up is strong, and he feels so safe, while the hand under his ass is clever, too clever, and it's all he can do not to move, not to press back into that hand, encourage it to find more of him.
He doesn't move, just lets the four hands, the two voices, the third cock that's joined their two bring him blindingly to orgasm then cradle him to take him safely deeper into sleep than he'd expected to go here in the London hotel bed so far from the large well-appointed bed in the house at the end of the bluff road. In the morning he'll have the sense of being well-rewarded for his ability to follow directions: he never moved a muscle, no matter how many times they brought him off.
The morning's music will be something bright and lively, something with well-tuned brass and light-finger'd guitar, that dances in his heart even as he turns into the mask of something dark and cold; it'll keep him light and warm until he can call them and tell them he must have dreamed of them last night: I felt as though you were right there with me.
ten
A/N: something about the sensitivity of the frenulum here; stages of sleep here.
slashfairy
R
~~
He doesn't know the name of the song, only that it's helping him at the same time it hurts. It's something plaintive with the thin high piping of missed love and the soft calling strings of remembered love; something you'd listen to and remember your hands on them, their hands on you. Light and sweet and warm and like that fog that's thin enough to walk through, and not chilly, but thick enough that the light sparkles on the individual bits of moisture in the air, and that sparkle soothes the ache on your cheek where it's been too long since they kissed you. It's Irish or Scottish or Peruvian; something with a clear piped note and bowed strings and finger-picked notes that feels like it connects him to them intimately, and it's the last thing he hears before sleep overtakes him, and he falls through the stages of sleep until he re-emerges into the un-moving state of stage one sleep.
He's not even awake enough to touch himself; in his dream-state his unmoving body responds to the strong hand wrapped around their two cocks. Fully erect and hard, they're curved just enough that they rub just slightly around each other; each hand-stroke causes friction- blessed, silky, electric friction -as the frenulum of his cock rubs against the frenulum of the other's. He's been given an assignment: Try not to move, Vig. Let me do it all, so the fact that he can't move in this mellow sleep-stage doesn't distract him.
He hears the voice, velvet, velour, velveteen, silk, cotton, soft, sleek, warm in his ear, saying all the things he'd given up thinking he'd ever hear: "I love you, like life itself. I'm yours, however you want me. I'll never stop loving you, no matter what." He yearns to find the lips through which the voice falls but he's been asked not to move, so he stays still, lets the voice caress his hearing the way the hand's partner now caresses his balls, softly, gently, firmly, with all the knowing that years of intimacy brings.
Lips do cover his, other lips: full lips, lips with a tendency to pout, to sneer, to open fully and let belly laughs of delight fly up out of them. He's still not to move, so he doesn't, as those lips open his mouth and let a warm seeking tongue find his. In his unmoving sleep-state he's transported to the place where there are no thoughts, only sensations, only feelings: the arm under his shoulders holding him up is strong, and he feels so safe, while the hand under his ass is clever, too clever, and it's all he can do not to move, not to press back into that hand, encourage it to find more of him.
He doesn't move, just lets the four hands, the two voices, the third cock that's joined their two bring him blindingly to orgasm then cradle him to take him safely deeper into sleep than he'd expected to go here in the London hotel bed so far from the large well-appointed bed in the house at the end of the bluff road. In the morning he'll have the sense of being well-rewarded for his ability to follow directions: he never moved a muscle, no matter how many times they brought him off.
The morning's music will be something bright and lively, something with well-tuned brass and light-finger'd guitar, that dances in his heart even as he turns into the mask of something dark and cold; it'll keep him light and warm until he can call them and tell them he must have dreamed of them last night: I felt as though you were right there with me.
ten
A/N: something about the sensitivity of the frenulum here; stages of sleep here.