Fic: Persuasion
Title: Persuasion
Fandom: Desperate Romantics
Pairing: Gabriel/Fred
Rating: R
Spoilers: Desperate Romantics 1x01
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: "It's not about vision, it's about emotion." Gabriel's voice is right against his ear, a trail of warmth and a whisper-soft brush of lips against the skin "So tell me what you feel?"
AN: 'Rare pairings' cliche for cliche_bingo .
Gabriel turns him to view the painting, sharp fingers dug into his biceps like he can perhaps force artistic vision through him.
Fred is not entirely convinced of that.
"Tell me what you think about when you see it," Gabriel says dramatically. This, apparently, is a day for drama.
"Gabriel-"
"Tell me."
"I will admit to lacking a certain artistic vision," Fred admits, or perhaps it's an apology in advance.
"It's not about vision, it's about emotion." Gabriel's voice is right against his ear, a trail of warmth and a whisper-soft brush of lips against the skin "So tell me what you feel?"
"What I feel," Fred repeats uncertainly, though it's not a question, and Gabriel doesn't treat it as such.
"Be honest."
Fred tries to look at him over his shoulder and merely succeeds in pressing their cheeks together.
He turns back to the painting.
"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be feeling."
Gabriel makes a noise, he hasn't moved from where he's bent, breath still shivering down the edge of Fred's shirt, warming the hidden line of his neck.
"It's not about what you're supposed to feel. Just tell me, spontaneously Fred."
Fred clears his throat.
"I suppose I feel a certain sense of secrecy, everyone seems to be hiding something."
Fred is not prepared at all for the slide of Gabriel's fingers at his waist, for the way they dig in, ever so slightly, on the word 'hiding.'
He thinks he does not imagine the drift of Gabriel's mouth across his ear. The way it lingers and steals what breath he would have used to describe what else he sees.
He clears his throat and tries again.
"Perhaps also there's a certain expectation-"
His voice stumbles to a halt, becomes nothing but a shaky wet exhale. Gabriel's attention has drifted far past improper into something Fred cannot find a word for, pressed close behind, warm breath and hands that never still. Movements that though they seem innocent are anything but. The way he has made such small almost inoffensive gestures seem so aggressively sexual has left Fred almost bereft of word or thought.
"Tell me." It sounds like a dare, though Fred can feel the curve of a smile against the edge of his cheek, a quick breath of amusement and want. He thinks he can even feel the hectic curl of Gabriel's hair on his skin.
"Gabriel?" It's a question, he forces it to be so, forces his voice not to stammer on the long syllables of his name.
"Am I not allowed to want you as well." Gabriel makes it sound, for all the world, like a sensible and reasonable question.
"You want everyone," Fred says quietly.
"All the more reason to find my behaviour unremarkable."
There is no doubt of Gabriel's affection this time, a warm open line of mouth against the edge of his jaw.
Fred slithers round in his grip and Gabriel lets him, he lets him take a step back and Fred forces himself to ignore the flush at his neck and the less than steady flare of every breath.
"Not unremarkable then, perhaps inappropriate."
Fred ignores the speed of his own heartbeat. Excuses his own reaction, his own dizzy breathlessness on surprise and the simple truth of his own weakness. Any temptation of a sexual nature could unsteady a man. The speed at which it could drive all thoughts of sense and decency from one's head was only as remarkable as it was understandable.
"Inappropriate, really?" Gabriel looks amused, which Fred finds disconcertingly familiar. He tells himself, most assuredly, that Gabriel's attentions are both fickle and unwise, consistently so. He intends to tell Gabriel as much, to perhaps remind him that his judgment on this is not always sound.
But, Gabriel has followed him, and Fred's words die with every step that brings him closer.
"Tell me then," Gabriel says slowly, long fingers pulling at the edges of Fred's cravat. "Tell me you've never thought about me, tell me you've never wondered, even once."
Fred is forced to wonder, terribly, if Gabriel had known, in some complicated and worldly way every time Fred had thought something base and obscene about him. If he'd watched him and understood and found it...enticing.
"It means nothing," Fred offers into the silence, for need of something, anything, to say.
Gabriel laughs like it's a yes, like he's admitted something shameful and wonderful.
"That does not mean- it doesn't mean-" Fred sucks a breath. Gabriel has his fingers, scandalously warm, against the fragile base of Fred's throat, touching the skin there, thumb brushing against the line of his collarbone in a way that seems impossibly erotic.
"Yes it does," Gabriel's voice is a ring of amused brilliance.
He threads a hand by way of stealth and enthusiasm into Fred's hair, convinces his lips to part and his breath to stop. Gabriel laughs into his open mouth and kisses him, fierce, deep kisses, like Fred has given him permission. As if he has been party to his own fall, though it is not a painful one. It is a most insidious slide, as if maybe his submission was fated from the start. Gabriel the devil himself, intent on stealing Fred's soul.
If Fred had not seen him making a drunken arse of himself on numerous occasions he might even have believed it.
Gabriel's fingers on his bare skin are a shock of attention that's bold and reckless as he draws his shirt up and lays his palms beneath, scatters Fred's thoughts for a long moment. A moment he takes advantage of, touches the skin over his ribs, and the curve of his back.
"We cannot do this," Fred protests, though his voice sounds thin and barely there. He can't for the life of him draw breath enough to form an argument as to why.
"We can," Gabriel assures him, and his mouth is not nearly so stuck. It is, in fact, warm and persuasive and Fred feels most entirely helpless under its insistence. Never has Gabriel seemed so tall and dark and impossible.
"Gabriel," he says simply, as if that might halt him, the soft certain expression of his name. Instead he seems to take it as a token of affection, or whatever these things are between men.
"You haven't protested fiercely yet," Gabriel points out, and Fred is forced to agree, reluctantly, at the truth of this. He wonders what fierce protest would entail. For Gabriel is something of a force of nature, liable to sweep protest out of his path without thought, or effort.
Other, perhaps more sensible excuses are smothered under Gabriel's mouth, and his hands, and a curl of hair that falls forward and Fred can resist none of them, though he's not sure why. He feels entirely out of his depth.
Fred finds air to breathe, though so close to Gabriel's mouth it perhaps makes no difference.
"For a start it's criminal." Fred manages, both satisfied and perhaps disappointed when Gabriel draws back. Instead of his mouth he has the edge of his thumb, trailing the wet brushed edge of his lip, a soft unconscious gesture like he thinks he can smear the colour of his skin.
"Sodomy is illegal," Gabriel corrects. "I intend simply to express myself wherever I find you most pliable. Which is very artistic and not at all criminal."
It sounds more than criminal to Fred, it pushes all the breath into his throat and holds it there.
"You can say no."
Fred isn't sure he can say anything at all. Though Gabriel gives him little time to do so, and then there are just hard kisses, that break every time Gabriel sheds a piece of clothing, harsh rips of sound that are shocking in their volume.
The buttons on his trousers seem far too eager to come open under Gabriel's hands. Fred has to wonder how much practice Gabriel has had with the stubborn buttons of other gentlemen, or more likely in Gabriel's case, less than gentlemen, and Fred has to wonder if he is now forced to occupy this description as well.
Any words or protests that remain are destroyed utterly, when Gabriel's hands shiver over his bare skin, greedy and triumphant and Fred thinks he can feel this in the way he kisses, in the way his hands are wilder in his hair.
He feels that his hands touch the narrow length of Gabriel's waist without his permission, though he is not so sure he wouldn't have given permission had they asked.
Gabriel's hand moves and there's a curve of warm fingers where Fred is impossibly traitorously hard and all the breath leaves him.
"Gabriel-"
Gabriel takes Fred's fingers on his wrist not as deterrent but encouragement. Fred is certain he never meant it so but the steady shift of his hand is a harder, sharper sensation than it was before. He finds himself pushing down, he finds that he is indeed encouraging, and is further shamed to hear himself make small, tight noises of startled pleasure.
Gabriel's eyes go dark and heavy, and there's a certain feral beauty in him that Fred finds he cannot look away from. He takes a step and crowds him into the desk, leaving him little room to catch his breath, or resist. If resisting is still his objective. Fred is starting to suspect that it is not.
"I want you on the bed," Gabriel murmurs and Fred cannot hope to hold the startled little sound of agreement he makes. For though his brain finds the idea more than a little frightening his body seems to have overruled him.
He moves obediently, he is far too obedient for Gabriel, beneath the coaxing of his hands. Until he's pressed back into the softness of pillows, his own nudity more striking when he feels cloth against his skin. It brings into stark relief the enormity of what he is doing, of what Gabriel is coaxing him into.
Though he won't fool himself into pretending he is not a more than willing participant.
Gabriel is disconcertingly heavy, though that doesn't seem to stop Fred's hands from seeking out his waist and drawing him down tighter, shifting in increments under the solid push of his own need, foreign and unnatural against his skin even while he groans helplessly under every half-uncomfortable movement.
Gabriel's hand shifts his thigh, leaves the space he presses into tight and easy and Fred wonders, madly, if this is what the whores feel like when they're spread out beneath him. Jagged edges of sensation accompany that thought and Gabriel's thumb runs over the wet open edge of his mouth.
"I didn't know you'd be like this," Gabriel says shakily, the press-slide of his hands a continual movement, like he can't decide where to touch him, where to hold him.
He settles for where Fred needs him most, long fingers letting him slip between them, tight and then tighter and then Gabriel's hand releases him, he moans protest, until it returns, slippery wet around him.
It's a spike of sensation that digs deep and never lets go. Fred pushes into it, fingers digging into soft flesh, the curve of Gabriel's shoulder and the damp skin of his waist and he is, without doubt, encouraging him now. Short, rough pushes that gradually lose their rhythm.
"I want to leave you wrecked," Gabriel says fiercely. "I want to leave you wrecked and spread out just like this."
Which Fred finds shockingly obscene.
He has no choice but to be overwhelmed, skidding on the edge of release for what feels like forever. He comes against his own stomach, hears the broken sounds he makes, that sound for all he world like dying. Gabriel presses down, presses into him, weight and heat and then slick wetness against his skin which should not be half as satisfying an image as it apparently is.
He has no breath left.
Less when Gabriel takes it upon himself to groan and lay his full weight upon him.
He has little idea of what is expected of him now. Of what this means, if anything.
Fred thinks perhaps, without conscious intent, he has finally become part of their world. Since Gabriel is currently collapsed between his thighs, in a way that seems the very picture of debauchery.
Fandom: Desperate Romantics
Pairing: Gabriel/Fred
Rating: R
Spoilers: Desperate Romantics 1x01
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: "It's not about vision, it's about emotion." Gabriel's voice is right against his ear, a trail of warmth and a whisper-soft brush of lips against the skin "So tell me what you feel?"
AN: 'Rare pairings' cliche for cliche_bingo .
Gabriel turns him to view the painting, sharp fingers dug into his biceps like he can perhaps force artistic vision through him.
Fred is not entirely convinced of that.
"Tell me what you think about when you see it," Gabriel says dramatically. This, apparently, is a day for drama.
"Gabriel-"
"Tell me."
"I will admit to lacking a certain artistic vision," Fred admits, or perhaps it's an apology in advance.
"It's not about vision, it's about emotion." Gabriel's voice is right against his ear, a trail of warmth and a whisper-soft brush of lips against the skin "So tell me what you feel?"
"What I feel," Fred repeats uncertainly, though it's not a question, and Gabriel doesn't treat it as such.
"Be honest."
Fred tries to look at him over his shoulder and merely succeeds in pressing their cheeks together.
He turns back to the painting.
"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be feeling."
Gabriel makes a noise, he hasn't moved from where he's bent, breath still shivering down the edge of Fred's shirt, warming the hidden line of his neck.
"It's not about what you're supposed to feel. Just tell me, spontaneously Fred."
Fred clears his throat.
"I suppose I feel a certain sense of secrecy, everyone seems to be hiding something."
Fred is not prepared at all for the slide of Gabriel's fingers at his waist, for the way they dig in, ever so slightly, on the word 'hiding.'
He thinks he does not imagine the drift of Gabriel's mouth across his ear. The way it lingers and steals what breath he would have used to describe what else he sees.
He clears his throat and tries again.
"Perhaps also there's a certain expectation-"
His voice stumbles to a halt, becomes nothing but a shaky wet exhale. Gabriel's attention has drifted far past improper into something Fred cannot find a word for, pressed close behind, warm breath and hands that never still. Movements that though they seem innocent are anything but. The way he has made such small almost inoffensive gestures seem so aggressively sexual has left Fred almost bereft of word or thought.
"Tell me." It sounds like a dare, though Fred can feel the curve of a smile against the edge of his cheek, a quick breath of amusement and want. He thinks he can even feel the hectic curl of Gabriel's hair on his skin.
"Gabriel?" It's a question, he forces it to be so, forces his voice not to stammer on the long syllables of his name.
"Am I not allowed to want you as well." Gabriel makes it sound, for all the world, like a sensible and reasonable question.
"You want everyone," Fred says quietly.
"All the more reason to find my behaviour unremarkable."
There is no doubt of Gabriel's affection this time, a warm open line of mouth against the edge of his jaw.
Fred slithers round in his grip and Gabriel lets him, he lets him take a step back and Fred forces himself to ignore the flush at his neck and the less than steady flare of every breath.
"Not unremarkable then, perhaps inappropriate."
Fred ignores the speed of his own heartbeat. Excuses his own reaction, his own dizzy breathlessness on surprise and the simple truth of his own weakness. Any temptation of a sexual nature could unsteady a man. The speed at which it could drive all thoughts of sense and decency from one's head was only as remarkable as it was understandable.
"Inappropriate, really?" Gabriel looks amused, which Fred finds disconcertingly familiar. He tells himself, most assuredly, that Gabriel's attentions are both fickle and unwise, consistently so. He intends to tell Gabriel as much, to perhaps remind him that his judgment on this is not always sound.
But, Gabriel has followed him, and Fred's words die with every step that brings him closer.
"Tell me then," Gabriel says slowly, long fingers pulling at the edges of Fred's cravat. "Tell me you've never thought about me, tell me you've never wondered, even once."
Fred is forced to wonder, terribly, if Gabriel had known, in some complicated and worldly way every time Fred had thought something base and obscene about him. If he'd watched him and understood and found it...enticing.
"It means nothing," Fred offers into the silence, for need of something, anything, to say.
Gabriel laughs like it's a yes, like he's admitted something shameful and wonderful.
"That does not mean- it doesn't mean-" Fred sucks a breath. Gabriel has his fingers, scandalously warm, against the fragile base of Fred's throat, touching the skin there, thumb brushing against the line of his collarbone in a way that seems impossibly erotic.
"Yes it does," Gabriel's voice is a ring of amused brilliance.
He threads a hand by way of stealth and enthusiasm into Fred's hair, convinces his lips to part and his breath to stop. Gabriel laughs into his open mouth and kisses him, fierce, deep kisses, like Fred has given him permission. As if he has been party to his own fall, though it is not a painful one. It is a most insidious slide, as if maybe his submission was fated from the start. Gabriel the devil himself, intent on stealing Fred's soul.
If Fred had not seen him making a drunken arse of himself on numerous occasions he might even have believed it.
Gabriel's fingers on his bare skin are a shock of attention that's bold and reckless as he draws his shirt up and lays his palms beneath, scatters Fred's thoughts for a long moment. A moment he takes advantage of, touches the skin over his ribs, and the curve of his back.
"We cannot do this," Fred protests, though his voice sounds thin and barely there. He can't for the life of him draw breath enough to form an argument as to why.
"We can," Gabriel assures him, and his mouth is not nearly so stuck. It is, in fact, warm and persuasive and Fred feels most entirely helpless under its insistence. Never has Gabriel seemed so tall and dark and impossible.
"Gabriel," he says simply, as if that might halt him, the soft certain expression of his name. Instead he seems to take it as a token of affection, or whatever these things are between men.
"You haven't protested fiercely yet," Gabriel points out, and Fred is forced to agree, reluctantly, at the truth of this. He wonders what fierce protest would entail. For Gabriel is something of a force of nature, liable to sweep protest out of his path without thought, or effort.
Other, perhaps more sensible excuses are smothered under Gabriel's mouth, and his hands, and a curl of hair that falls forward and Fred can resist none of them, though he's not sure why. He feels entirely out of his depth.
Fred finds air to breathe, though so close to Gabriel's mouth it perhaps makes no difference.
"For a start it's criminal." Fred manages, both satisfied and perhaps disappointed when Gabriel draws back. Instead of his mouth he has the edge of his thumb, trailing the wet brushed edge of his lip, a soft unconscious gesture like he thinks he can smear the colour of his skin.
"Sodomy is illegal," Gabriel corrects. "I intend simply to express myself wherever I find you most pliable. Which is very artistic and not at all criminal."
It sounds more than criminal to Fred, it pushes all the breath into his throat and holds it there.
"You can say no."
Fred isn't sure he can say anything at all. Though Gabriel gives him little time to do so, and then there are just hard kisses, that break every time Gabriel sheds a piece of clothing, harsh rips of sound that are shocking in their volume.
The buttons on his trousers seem far too eager to come open under Gabriel's hands. Fred has to wonder how much practice Gabriel has had with the stubborn buttons of other gentlemen, or more likely in Gabriel's case, less than gentlemen, and Fred has to wonder if he is now forced to occupy this description as well.
Any words or protests that remain are destroyed utterly, when Gabriel's hands shiver over his bare skin, greedy and triumphant and Fred thinks he can feel this in the way he kisses, in the way his hands are wilder in his hair.
He feels that his hands touch the narrow length of Gabriel's waist without his permission, though he is not so sure he wouldn't have given permission had they asked.
Gabriel's hand moves and there's a curve of warm fingers where Fred is impossibly traitorously hard and all the breath leaves him.
"Gabriel-"
Gabriel takes Fred's fingers on his wrist not as deterrent but encouragement. Fred is certain he never meant it so but the steady shift of his hand is a harder, sharper sensation than it was before. He finds himself pushing down, he finds that he is indeed encouraging, and is further shamed to hear himself make small, tight noises of startled pleasure.
Gabriel's eyes go dark and heavy, and there's a certain feral beauty in him that Fred finds he cannot look away from. He takes a step and crowds him into the desk, leaving him little room to catch his breath, or resist. If resisting is still his objective. Fred is starting to suspect that it is not.
"I want you on the bed," Gabriel murmurs and Fred cannot hope to hold the startled little sound of agreement he makes. For though his brain finds the idea more than a little frightening his body seems to have overruled him.
He moves obediently, he is far too obedient for Gabriel, beneath the coaxing of his hands. Until he's pressed back into the softness of pillows, his own nudity more striking when he feels cloth against his skin. It brings into stark relief the enormity of what he is doing, of what Gabriel is coaxing him into.
Though he won't fool himself into pretending he is not a more than willing participant.
Gabriel is disconcertingly heavy, though that doesn't seem to stop Fred's hands from seeking out his waist and drawing him down tighter, shifting in increments under the solid push of his own need, foreign and unnatural against his skin even while he groans helplessly under every half-uncomfortable movement.
Gabriel's hand shifts his thigh, leaves the space he presses into tight and easy and Fred wonders, madly, if this is what the whores feel like when they're spread out beneath him. Jagged edges of sensation accompany that thought and Gabriel's thumb runs over the wet open edge of his mouth.
"I didn't know you'd be like this," Gabriel says shakily, the press-slide of his hands a continual movement, like he can't decide where to touch him, where to hold him.
He settles for where Fred needs him most, long fingers letting him slip between them, tight and then tighter and then Gabriel's hand releases him, he moans protest, until it returns, slippery wet around him.
It's a spike of sensation that digs deep and never lets go. Fred pushes into it, fingers digging into soft flesh, the curve of Gabriel's shoulder and the damp skin of his waist and he is, without doubt, encouraging him now. Short, rough pushes that gradually lose their rhythm.
"I want to leave you wrecked," Gabriel says fiercely. "I want to leave you wrecked and spread out just like this."
Which Fred finds shockingly obscene.
He has no choice but to be overwhelmed, skidding on the edge of release for what feels like forever. He comes against his own stomach, hears the broken sounds he makes, that sound for all he world like dying. Gabriel presses down, presses into him, weight and heat and then slick wetness against his skin which should not be half as satisfying an image as it apparently is.
He has no breath left.
Less when Gabriel takes it upon himself to groan and lay his full weight upon him.
He has little idea of what is expected of him now. Of what this means, if anything.
Fred thinks perhaps, without conscious intent, he has finally become part of their world. Since Gabriel is currently collapsed between his thighs, in a way that seems the very picture of debauchery.