Fic: Pressed Between
On Friday my brain made me write this. My brain is a weird place to live. But I was all, wahey I usually write nada on Fridays so writing anything's better than nothing! Since then, I've had a crazy day at work on Saturday (one of those days where everything goes wrong, but for some reason I was riding the zen and thus actually enjoyed it!), was sick with a migrane yesterday, wishing for unconsciousness, then eventually feeling better, drinking my bodyweight in tea and making myself better by watching Harry Potter and the Love of Werewolf and Mandog. Ah, good times.
So I thought I'd post it anyway, though I have barely looked over it and I'm not sure I want to. peace-bloom, this is for you. I blame the collective Esther-consciousness - it made me write this!
Title: Pressed Between
Pairing: Cary Grant/Frank Sinatra (yes, you heard!)
Rating: A bit of kissing. Also the word 'erection'. So, ah, 15+, perhaps?
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. No slander intended. All for fun. etc.
Notes: I told nixwilliams that I had soul-bonded with Cary Grant and this is how I know what happened and what these chaps were really like. And I wouldn't lie about something like that. No. O_O
Either than, or I got it all wrong. I don't know. PS. comments = love.
It was interval. It was five minutes before interval was due to end and some girl was using a brush on the shoulders of Frank Sinatra’s black tuxedo jacket. He was half-flirting with her and she was busying herself, trying to be professional, trying not to blush, making fleeting eye contact and then trying not to smile.
‘I like the colour of your hair-clip. That’s neat,’ he was saying. ‘The way it catches the light.’ They were at the side of the stage, in among red velvet curtains and rope pulleys for the lights.
Cary Grant was leaning in the shadows, perfectly still, watching. He was wearing a black shirt, a black tie, black trousers. His eyes were serious, one hand behind his back.
The girl used the brush down the front of Frank’s tux, then directed him lightly with her hand on his arm, turning him so that she could brush down the back of the jacket. It was immaculate black anyway, but the brushing seemed to add an inky shine.
Frank laughed, ‘Hey, I know what you’re getting at there!’ He tipped forward on his toes, then rocked back on his heels as the girl brushed down the full length of his jacket. He was looking straight at Cary. He was smiling straight into Cary’s eyes. Cary didn’t smile back.
‘You’re all done, Mr Sinatra,’ the girl said, and walked lightly away.
Frank put one hand to his mouth, still looking at Cary, pondering him, thinking.
‘Three minutes, Mr Sinatra,’ the stage manager called from somewhere.
‘Ok, Diane,’ Frank replied, and then whispered, ‘Three minutes, Mr Grant,’ His eyes were fixed to Cary’s, his face serious, one eyebrow arching.
‘Ok,’ Cary barely whispered. The word was mouthed, no louder than a breath. He stood straight, took a small step forward, still in shadows. Another step, into light. His eyes were liquid. Resonant, dark and unblinking. And then Frank felt dizzy looking at them like that, dizzy and had to look away. Another step forward. Cary grabbed Frank and pushed his whole body against Frank’s, kissing him, his mouth open. Frank kissed him back. They were all teeth and jaws and tongues, and biting, their bodies against each other, like a struggle, like a fight.
Frank broke apart and looked around, looking to see if anyone had seen them.
‘Sheesh, Mr Grant,’ he said. ‘You’re a fire-cracker tonight.’ His voice was low, breathy.
Cary grabbed the lapels of Frank’s jacket and pulled him backwards, into the shadows. He engineered his movements so that his body ended up pressed between the wall and Frank’s body. Frank didn’t seem to mind. Cary tried to explain something to Frank through his mouth - his mouth against Frank’s mouth. He added hands, running smooth against the tux jacket, warm underneath, finding the outline Frank’s flesh, surprisingly soft. One of Frank’s hands was flat against the wall, next to Cary’s head. The other by his side, almost not-touching Cary, but then brushing fingers by his thigh. Cary felt Frank’s erection through his trousers, pushed against his body. Cary applied pressure to it with his hand, felt Frank make a sharp movement in response, his muscles clicking, his breath hot into Cary’s mouth.
‘Frankie,’ Cary whispered. Frank kissed him, wet and rough.
And then the sound of tapping heels.
‘Mr Sinatra?’ called the stage manager. ‘Are you ready?’
They broke apart. Cary looked away, could feel Frank’s fast breath on his face. Frank stepped back. Cary’s body felt cold suddenly, and exposed.
‘Ok, Diane,’ Frank said, his voice level, ever professional, ‘I’m good to go.’
Cary looked at Frank. Not a hair out of place. He was doing up the buttons on his jacket, straightening his bow-tie. Frank met his eyes and blinked. He let out an unsteady breath, then looked away from Cary, hitching a smile to his face as Diane approached.
She nodded to him. ‘Ok, you’re on,’ she said.
Frank walked onto the stage. The audience burst into applause.
‘Welcome back, my good people,’ Cary heard him say.
So I thought I'd post it anyway, though I have barely looked over it and I'm not sure I want to. peace-bloom, this is for you. I blame the collective Esther-consciousness - it made me write this!
Title: Pressed Between
Pairing: Cary Grant/Frank Sinatra (yes, you heard!)
Rating: A bit of kissing. Also the word 'erection'. So, ah, 15+, perhaps?
Disclaimer: Not real. Not for profit. No slander intended. All for fun. etc.
Notes: I told nixwilliams that I had soul-bonded with Cary Grant and this is how I know what happened and what these chaps were really like. And I wouldn't lie about something like that. No. O_O
Either than, or I got it all wrong. I don't know. PS. comments = love.
It was interval. It was five minutes before interval was due to end and some girl was using a brush on the shoulders of Frank Sinatra’s black tuxedo jacket. He was half-flirting with her and she was busying herself, trying to be professional, trying not to blush, making fleeting eye contact and then trying not to smile.
‘I like the colour of your hair-clip. That’s neat,’ he was saying. ‘The way it catches the light.’ They were at the side of the stage, in among red velvet curtains and rope pulleys for the lights.
Cary Grant was leaning in the shadows, perfectly still, watching. He was wearing a black shirt, a black tie, black trousers. His eyes were serious, one hand behind his back.
The girl used the brush down the front of Frank’s tux, then directed him lightly with her hand on his arm, turning him so that she could brush down the back of the jacket. It was immaculate black anyway, but the brushing seemed to add an inky shine.
Frank laughed, ‘Hey, I know what you’re getting at there!’ He tipped forward on his toes, then rocked back on his heels as the girl brushed down the full length of his jacket. He was looking straight at Cary. He was smiling straight into Cary’s eyes. Cary didn’t smile back.
‘You’re all done, Mr Sinatra,’ the girl said, and walked lightly away.
Frank put one hand to his mouth, still looking at Cary, pondering him, thinking.
‘Three minutes, Mr Sinatra,’ the stage manager called from somewhere.
‘Ok, Diane,’ Frank replied, and then whispered, ‘Three minutes, Mr Grant,’ His eyes were fixed to Cary’s, his face serious, one eyebrow arching.
‘Ok,’ Cary barely whispered. The word was mouthed, no louder than a breath. He stood straight, took a small step forward, still in shadows. Another step, into light. His eyes were liquid. Resonant, dark and unblinking. And then Frank felt dizzy looking at them like that, dizzy and had to look away. Another step forward. Cary grabbed Frank and pushed his whole body against Frank’s, kissing him, his mouth open. Frank kissed him back. They were all teeth and jaws and tongues, and biting, their bodies against each other, like a struggle, like a fight.
Frank broke apart and looked around, looking to see if anyone had seen them.
‘Sheesh, Mr Grant,’ he said. ‘You’re a fire-cracker tonight.’ His voice was low, breathy.
Cary grabbed the lapels of Frank’s jacket and pulled him backwards, into the shadows. He engineered his movements so that his body ended up pressed between the wall and Frank’s body. Frank didn’t seem to mind. Cary tried to explain something to Frank through his mouth - his mouth against Frank’s mouth. He added hands, running smooth against the tux jacket, warm underneath, finding the outline Frank’s flesh, surprisingly soft. One of Frank’s hands was flat against the wall, next to Cary’s head. The other by his side, almost not-touching Cary, but then brushing fingers by his thigh. Cary felt Frank’s erection through his trousers, pushed against his body. Cary applied pressure to it with his hand, felt Frank make a sharp movement in response, his muscles clicking, his breath hot into Cary’s mouth.
‘Frankie,’ Cary whispered. Frank kissed him, wet and rough.
And then the sound of tapping heels.
‘Mr Sinatra?’ called the stage manager. ‘Are you ready?’
They broke apart. Cary looked away, could feel Frank’s fast breath on his face. Frank stepped back. Cary’s body felt cold suddenly, and exposed.
‘Ok, Diane,’ Frank said, his voice level, ever professional, ‘I’m good to go.’
Cary looked at Frank. Not a hair out of place. He was doing up the buttons on his jacket, straightening his bow-tie. Frank met his eyes and blinked. He let out an unsteady breath, then looked away from Cary, hitching a smile to his face as Diane approached.
She nodded to him. ‘Ok, you’re on,’ she said.
Frank walked onto the stage. The audience burst into applause.
‘Welcome back, my good people,’ Cary heard him say.