aphrodisia
For neuroticismette, footballslash OTP Fic Exchange 2007.
Title: Aphrodisia
Rating: R
Pairing: Tomáš Rosický/Theo Walcott
Disclaimer: Fiction; the ideas of the beloved and the lover are learned from Carson McCullers.
Summary: In Ancient Greece, there are the erastes and the eromenos.
This time, he thrusts a little harder and you do not suppress your moan-your eyes widen when the low, guttural sound reaches your ears and quickly they close in shame. You bite your lip and turn your head slightly.
“Apologies-!” you gasp, “-I…I couldn’t help it.”
He says nothing but (pulls and) pushes deeper still and you begin to think that he does it intentionally and you wish that you could hate him for it but you know that you do not (cannot) because it feels that good (so good) so instead you just wish that he would never stop (please).
He reaches between your bodies and grasps your cock and it shocks you so much that you open your eyes again and stare into his-he smiles and strokes and you think you’ve lost it.
“My Lord,” you whisper frantically, “please!”
He brings his body closer now, your naked chests almost touch, and says against your lips, “Please…what?”
Stop is what you should say, but he is smoothing his thumb over the head now and you remember never and think ever-ever-ever and somehow manage to say, “I mustn’t-you mustn’t-we mustn’t-”
When his lips smother yours, he comes and he takes you with him.
“Apollōn.” This is impossible, unacceptable, and you are breathing hard, breathing loud and then barely breathing when he touches your cheek and says, “My beloved, I think it’s time.”
No is what you want to say, but it is far too bold and you are not quite coherent yet, his other hand is on your hip now and it’s drawing patterns and you shake, say, “I…I’m not ready, my Lord. (I like it the way it is, us the way we are.)”
“Tomáš,” he pleads, taking your hand. “Call me Tomáš.” He guides it down his torso, past his navel…there’s a gasp when your fingers brush his cock-and then another one when he presses them against his entrance.
“Tomáš,” you panic, “my Lord-what-what if somebody-?”
He laughs and maneuvers himself underneath you gently. “Nobody will,” he says, persisting with your fingers, “they’re all at Emperor Ballack’s celebration.”
Another major victory in this long, bitter war, you understand, and that means that you are guaranteed privacy-but there is privacy and then there are principles and you couldn’t…you couldn’t-
“Teodor,” he says, taking your length into his hands now, “all beloveds must become lovers.”
You feel dizzy and you steady your darker hands against his pale shoulders, rubbing the pad of your thumbs across them as you (can’t help it and) move your hips to his rhythm.
“I like…being yours,” you whisper and blush.
He shakes his head as he strokes you hard (impossible, unacceptable) and directs you, moving slowly (so slowly) and making eye contact (making sure you know). “Love is a solitary thing,” he explains, pausing only to catch his breath when you push in, “every lover knows this and yet-” he moans, unashamed, “-most of us would rather love than be loved.”
“Why?” you ask. And thrust.
He smiles and touches your chest longingly (lovingly).
“Stripped bare.”
This time you come but he doesn’t.
Title: Aphrodisia
Rating: R
Pairing: Tomáš Rosický/Theo Walcott
Disclaimer: Fiction; the ideas of the beloved and the lover are learned from Carson McCullers.
Summary: In Ancient Greece, there are the erastes and the eromenos.
This time, he thrusts a little harder and you do not suppress your moan-your eyes widen when the low, guttural sound reaches your ears and quickly they close in shame. You bite your lip and turn your head slightly.
“Apologies-!” you gasp, “-I…I couldn’t help it.”
He says nothing but (pulls and) pushes deeper still and you begin to think that he does it intentionally and you wish that you could hate him for it but you know that you do not (cannot) because it feels that good (so good) so instead you just wish that he would never stop (please).
He reaches between your bodies and grasps your cock and it shocks you so much that you open your eyes again and stare into his-he smiles and strokes and you think you’ve lost it.
“My Lord,” you whisper frantically, “please!”
He brings his body closer now, your naked chests almost touch, and says against your lips, “Please…what?”
Stop is what you should say, but he is smoothing his thumb over the head now and you remember never and think ever-ever-ever and somehow manage to say, “I mustn’t-you mustn’t-we mustn’t-”
When his lips smother yours, he comes and he takes you with him.
“Apollōn.” This is impossible, unacceptable, and you are breathing hard, breathing loud and then barely breathing when he touches your cheek and says, “My beloved, I think it’s time.”
No is what you want to say, but it is far too bold and you are not quite coherent yet, his other hand is on your hip now and it’s drawing patterns and you shake, say, “I…I’m not ready, my Lord. (I like it the way it is, us the way we are.)”
“Tomáš,” he pleads, taking your hand. “Call me Tomáš.” He guides it down his torso, past his navel…there’s a gasp when your fingers brush his cock-and then another one when he presses them against his entrance.
“Tomáš,” you panic, “my Lord-what-what if somebody-?”
He laughs and maneuvers himself underneath you gently. “Nobody will,” he says, persisting with your fingers, “they’re all at Emperor Ballack’s celebration.”
Another major victory in this long, bitter war, you understand, and that means that you are guaranteed privacy-but there is privacy and then there are principles and you couldn’t…you couldn’t-
“Teodor,” he says, taking your length into his hands now, “all beloveds must become lovers.”
You feel dizzy and you steady your darker hands against his pale shoulders, rubbing the pad of your thumbs across them as you (can’t help it and) move your hips to his rhythm.
“I like…being yours,” you whisper and blush.
He shakes his head as he strokes you hard (impossible, unacceptable) and directs you, moving slowly (so slowly) and making eye contact (making sure you know). “Love is a solitary thing,” he explains, pausing only to catch his breath when you push in, “every lover knows this and yet-” he moans, unashamed, “-most of us would rather love than be loved.”
“Why?” you ask. And thrust.
He smiles and touches your chest longingly (lovingly).
“Stripped bare.”
This time you come but he doesn’t.