slashfic25 prompt #17: Map
Gerard/Bert
Standalone
R (swearing and smut)
written May 2006
Notes: Inspired by John Donne's poem Elegy 19: To His Mistress Going to Bed
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America, my new found land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery,
How blessed am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness, all joys are due to thee.
-- John Donne. Elegy 19: To His Mistress Going to Bed
To Gerard, Bert's at his most beautiful when he's naked; when every inch of his smooth, lightly tanned flesh is exposed. When he can see the muscles moving under Bert's warm skin, giving strength and solidity to his small, slight frame. Definition of chest and stomach muscle helps to square his narrow shoulders, easing some of the burden they carry. A lot of people forget about the baggage Bert lugs around with him every day of his life, the baggage that makes him hunch his shoulders and look at the ground, the weight that pulls him relentlessly back to the past.
But Gerard never forgets.
He doesn't understand why, but Gerard understands Bert better when there are no clothes, no distractions, no inhibitions. It's almost as if Bert bares his soul -- his twisted, contradictory, confused soul, a soul that laughs and aches simultaneously -- every time he bares his body. When he's naked, Bert stands up straighter and looks Gerard in the eye. He's not afraid to care, not afraid to cry, not afraid to be afraid. He knows he doesn't have to be. There's nothing to fear.
He's never afraid to be worshipped, and that's what Gerard wants to do as soon as Bert peels off those shapeless, ragged, sometimes stinking items he calls clothes. Sometimes, Gerard will walk into his tourbus or hotel room to find Bert lying on his bed naked, waiting for the adoration that only a lover can provide. And Gerard is only too happy to oblige, his tongue flicking between his lips to moisten them in a gesture that makes Bert's eyes glitter with lust.
He starts from the top, like any good artist, with Bert's hair, running his fingers through the stringy, greasy strands. Gerard knows he should hate it, but he can't. He loves its dirtiness, its lack of perfection. It's so Bert, and yet not Bert at all.
He loves Bert's sharply receding side-parting, even if it does point to future baldness, because it shows off the smooth line of his forehead and leads down to his sparkling eyes, blue as topaz. He loves the way they flutter closed under their heavy lids and his full, dark lips purse because he wants to be kissed.
Gerard loves the way that he controls every minute of this. And he loves the way Bert lets him.
So he kisses him, chastely at first, gathering the long hair into one hand and running his other hand across the nape of Bert's uncovered neck. The smooth, sweeping curve of Bert's neck is perfect, he thinks; it's a shame he doesn't show it off more often.
Bert's kiss grows more urgent as he tries to push his tongue into Gerard's mouth, fingers digging into Gerard's scalp. The older man laughs softly and pulls away, shaking his head slowly. He drops the handful of hair and cups Bert's face in his hands, thumbs running along the cheekbones. They stare at each other for a few seconds before Bert leans in for another kiss.
"Not yet," Gerard whispers, turning his attention to Bert's neck and shoulders, his lips and fingers gliding lightly across the skin. Tracing tattoos, becoming familiar with protruding bone and fibrous muscle.
Every tattoo on Bert's body is a landmark, the drops of ink cities on the map of his smooth skin. And Gerard, the enraptured tourist, travels on, absorbing everything.
Every time feels like the first time. Every time is better than the time before.
Gerard has started to make a mental sketchbook of Bert's anatomy, a sensory atlas that his artistic talent could never convey. He'd have to be God or maybe Michelangelo to try, and he's not. But it doesn't matter, not when there's a living (moaning, panting, cursing) work of art beneath his fingertips.
This feeling he has with Bert -- maybe it's love, he doesn't know or care -- is too extraordinary for words. Bert is so different when they're like this, sometimes it feels as though he's the artwork and Gerard is the artist. Pygmalion and Galatea. It's the ultimate expression of narcissism; falling in love with your own creation and bringing it to life.
As Gerard kisses his way along Bert's arm, lingering on the swell of bicep and forearm, he changes his mind. I'm as different with him as he is with me, he thinks. He's created me too. If he's the artwork, I'm the artist's reputation -- created by the art. Based on it. These strange alter-egos we have are only reflected in each other's eyes. We don't let anyone else see them. And how could we? No-one would ever understand.
"Mmm ... god, you're beautiful," he murmurs into Bert's stomach, hand brushing the gingery-brown hairs that lead down to his groin. The contrast is exquisite; from coarse, wiry hair under his fingers, to soft, sweat-warmed skin under his lips. Gerard's sure he's never been so aroused in his whole life.
Then he feels Bert tense slightly, his breath quickening, and when he speaks, the words don't come as a surprise.
"Jesus Christ Gerard, will you just fuck me already?"
Standalone
R (swearing and smut)
written May 2006
Notes: Inspired by John Donne's poem Elegy 19: To His Mistress Going to Bed
Licence my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America, my new found land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery,
How blessed am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness, all joys are due to thee.
-- John Donne. Elegy 19: To His Mistress Going to Bed
To Gerard, Bert's at his most beautiful when he's naked; when every inch of his smooth, lightly tanned flesh is exposed. When he can see the muscles moving under Bert's warm skin, giving strength and solidity to his small, slight frame. Definition of chest and stomach muscle helps to square his narrow shoulders, easing some of the burden they carry. A lot of people forget about the baggage Bert lugs around with him every day of his life, the baggage that makes him hunch his shoulders and look at the ground, the weight that pulls him relentlessly back to the past.
But Gerard never forgets.
He doesn't understand why, but Gerard understands Bert better when there are no clothes, no distractions, no inhibitions. It's almost as if Bert bares his soul -- his twisted, contradictory, confused soul, a soul that laughs and aches simultaneously -- every time he bares his body. When he's naked, Bert stands up straighter and looks Gerard in the eye. He's not afraid to care, not afraid to cry, not afraid to be afraid. He knows he doesn't have to be. There's nothing to fear.
He's never afraid to be worshipped, and that's what Gerard wants to do as soon as Bert peels off those shapeless, ragged, sometimes stinking items he calls clothes. Sometimes, Gerard will walk into his tourbus or hotel room to find Bert lying on his bed naked, waiting for the adoration that only a lover can provide. And Gerard is only too happy to oblige, his tongue flicking between his lips to moisten them in a gesture that makes Bert's eyes glitter with lust.
He starts from the top, like any good artist, with Bert's hair, running his fingers through the stringy, greasy strands. Gerard knows he should hate it, but he can't. He loves its dirtiness, its lack of perfection. It's so Bert, and yet not Bert at all.
He loves Bert's sharply receding side-parting, even if it does point to future baldness, because it shows off the smooth line of his forehead and leads down to his sparkling eyes, blue as topaz. He loves the way they flutter closed under their heavy lids and his full, dark lips purse because he wants to be kissed.
Gerard loves the way that he controls every minute of this. And he loves the way Bert lets him.
So he kisses him, chastely at first, gathering the long hair into one hand and running his other hand across the nape of Bert's uncovered neck. The smooth, sweeping curve of Bert's neck is perfect, he thinks; it's a shame he doesn't show it off more often.
Bert's kiss grows more urgent as he tries to push his tongue into Gerard's mouth, fingers digging into Gerard's scalp. The older man laughs softly and pulls away, shaking his head slowly. He drops the handful of hair and cups Bert's face in his hands, thumbs running along the cheekbones. They stare at each other for a few seconds before Bert leans in for another kiss.
"Not yet," Gerard whispers, turning his attention to Bert's neck and shoulders, his lips and fingers gliding lightly across the skin. Tracing tattoos, becoming familiar with protruding bone and fibrous muscle.
Every tattoo on Bert's body is a landmark, the drops of ink cities on the map of his smooth skin. And Gerard, the enraptured tourist, travels on, absorbing everything.
Every time feels like the first time. Every time is better than the time before.
Gerard has started to make a mental sketchbook of Bert's anatomy, a sensory atlas that his artistic talent could never convey. He'd have to be God or maybe Michelangelo to try, and he's not. But it doesn't matter, not when there's a living (moaning, panting, cursing) work of art beneath his fingertips.
This feeling he has with Bert -- maybe it's love, he doesn't know or care -- is too extraordinary for words. Bert is so different when they're like this, sometimes it feels as though he's the artwork and Gerard is the artist. Pygmalion and Galatea. It's the ultimate expression of narcissism; falling in love with your own creation and bringing it to life.
As Gerard kisses his way along Bert's arm, lingering on the swell of bicep and forearm, he changes his mind. I'm as different with him as he is with me, he thinks. He's created me too. If he's the artwork, I'm the artist's reputation -- created by the art. Based on it. These strange alter-egos we have are only reflected in each other's eyes. We don't let anyone else see them. And how could we? No-one would ever understand.
"Mmm ... god, you're beautiful," he murmurs into Bert's stomach, hand brushing the gingery-brown hairs that lead down to his groin. The contrast is exquisite; from coarse, wiry hair under his fingers, to soft, sweat-warmed skin under his lips. Gerard's sure he's never been so aroused in his whole life.
Then he feels Bert tense slightly, his breath quickening, and when he speaks, the words don't come as a surprise.
"Jesus Christ Gerard, will you just fuck me already?"