|Screaming loud enough to turn back the wind. (whatawaytoburn) wrote,|
@ 2012-06-10 12:07 am UTC
|Entry tags:||memes: 100 prompts, writing: and the devil makes three, writing: fic (in comments or otherwise)|
His eyes are closed and his body relaxed, he can hear things around him but he doesn't open his eyes. He doesn't have permission. Instead he lets his other senses take over, lets the smell of a fire make him smile and the soft feeling of cotton sheets underneath his body ease him into a state of relaxation.
But he's not supposed to open his eyes.
Vincent breaths in deeply, taking in the scents and tastes in the air, reaching out to feel with all his other senses and paint a picture of the room, even though he knows it's probably a familiar one.
But he can't open his eyes to be sure.
"Good," says a voice in his ear, sending a shiver up his spine. "Keep them closed."
And he does.
Tristan's hand is in his hair, stroking hit, his fingers moving to trace his jaw, and mouth before dipping down into his collarbone. His hands move softly and with the ways of a man who knows what he's doing.
It's not about sex, about getting turned on. If Tristan wanted him to be turned on, he could make that happen, it's about listening, about keeping his eyes closed, about feeling the world in a new, interesting way.
It's about getting back in touch with his body in a way that he lost when he went off to fight. Oh, it's not that he didn't pay attention to his body Above but it was a weapon there, something to fight with. Now whoever, it is meant for pleasure, for reveling in, for feeling and tasting and touching and enjoying.
And that's what Tristan does, he touches him, he licks him, he bites him and makes him feel every moment of it, makes him remember that his body is meant for more than fighting, it is for pleasure and pain and joy and so much more.
Vincent is breathing hard by the end of it, his body feeling the ghosts of hands and mouths everywhere. He's a little dizzy, a little high off of the sheer amount of contact he's experiencing but even then, even when Tristan surprises him with ice against his warmed skin, he doesn't open his eyes.
Then they go through it all over again, they play with temperature, play with ice and heat and wax. They play with silk brushing against his skin and the lightest touches that make Vincent crave more.
"Tristan," he mumbles against a bitten lip. It's the only thing he allows himself to say. He won't let himself beg until Tristan pulls it out of him. They both know what him saying the man's name means though, they know he wants him to keep going, Keep touching.
Keep making him feel like something more than a soldier, than a gun waiti8ng to be cocked. Make him remember he has blood and bones and breath.
Tristan kisses him hard on the mouth, forcing Vincent to let his lip go from between his teeth. There's blood there but he gives it freely, lets Tristan suck at his lip and his tongue wipe away at the blooming blood.
The lightness that comes with it, the heady, dizzy, almost high feeling that comes is addictive and he can't help but relax into the bed further.
The last strands of control he had were given away, he is done. He is done fighting, done being a creature made to shed the blood of others.
Now it's time for his blood to stain the sheets.
And God, oh god, is he ready for it. For the loss of control, for giving up, for giving in, for not being in his head for a while, for knowing what to do and that nothing that comes of it will end in any blood but his own.
He needs this, needs the control more than he needs Tristan's touch, than he needs the teasing and the wax and the ice. He needs the blood, needs the bond that lets him give in, just for a while, into something more, something safe.
"Open your eyes."
And without hesitation, he obeys.