Dans l'Elephant
Title: Dans l'Elephant
Fandom: Les Miserables
Pairing: Montparnasse/Gavroche
Rating: X or hard R
Warnings: slash, sex, dubious consent, possibly chan (I'm not sure of the definition). Montparnasse is eighteen, as I recall, and Gavroche is, I think, fourteen or so.
A/N: Bunnying myself by going through ABC's. A is for absinthe, la fee verte.
Montparnasse's hair is in his face. His breath smells of absinthe, and his curls are redolent with the scent of lavender pomade. He lies on his back among the ropes in the Elephant, and looks out of place. He is so beautiful, with his elegant attire and his cheeks pricked with the great-blown summer roses of late-stage drunkenness. Gavroche watches his chest heave as he breathes uncomfortably. He twitches in the throes of a nightmare. Gavroche wants to look away, but finds it impossible, until the day's exertions drag his eyelids down and set him adrift in the black waters of youthful sleep.
Gavroche wakes from a heavy weight on top of him. He wakes with a cry. His body arches, but protestations are swallowed by Montparnasse's mouth, which tastes of absinthe, and of chocolate as well. His tongue stabs Gavroche's tongue back into his head. Montparnasse is in a fever, perhaps only half-awake. He tears Gavroche's clothing away from flesh, bares his own skin to the cold. When Gavroche lies, his heart pounding like a small thing's, still beneath him, Montparnasse puts Gavroche's hands on his skin and moans as if to have no touch burns him. As if he needs it. Tentatively, because Gavroche is afraid of him, he caresses that heated skin.
Montparnasse lowers his face to Gavroche's neck and shoulders. His kisses are deep, so deep they are nearly bites. They leave heated marks, they leave Gavroche shaking. Stupefied with fear, Gavroche feels his body respond, but that is of little consequence to Montparnasse, who is still burning like a furnace, still moaning with each increased contact of skin. Gavroche closes his teeth against the pain when Montparnasse buries his teeth in the smooth curve of a boyish shoulder. He closes his teeth against the fear he feels at being naked and pressed against this mad ange dechue who seems to need his hands constantly moving and his legs wrapped around. He wonders if Montparnasse is dreaming that Gavroche is a woman, or if a boy is good enough.
He feels himself relaxing, somewhere upon the point where Montparnasse's rhythmic breathing slows from the harsh and heavy rasp it has been. He offers a few tentative kisses to broad shoulders and a china-white expanse of perfect skin beneath the collarbones. It is all he can reach, and he has no desire to caress Montparnasse's face, which is still stung and glowing. His eyes are open. They are the color of the liquid that is this frenzy's likely cause. Deeper than the river, filled with the shadows of self-interest that has coagulated into evil.
Gavroche almost screams when Montparnasse suddenly thrusts into him. He has felt the erection against his thigh, but expects nothing more than, at worst, some drunken friction. The pain makes his eyes water and his chest tight. He feels claustrophobic and betrayed beneath the iron weight of Montparnasse's body, which might be an Adonisian statue for all Gavroche can move it off him. Tears sweep his cheeks, but he allows himself no sound of anguish. He stares up into Montparnasse's demon green eyes.
Montparnasse brushes the tears away with his mouth. He leans his hot cheek against Gavroche and moves within him, at first slow, so that the pain becomes bearable, then hard and rough so that something inside Gavroche snaps, and suddenly scarlet traceries of fire have netted all of his skin, and he is on fire with the feelings inside him that seem to explode off his lips and the tip of his cock in need, in need...
And then it is over, and Montparnasse collapses. The friction of his hard belly is all Gavroche needs to reach his own peak, and it is sudden and frightening and real, a man's explosion of hard orgasm, not the childish dribble that comes when one wakes from disturbing, half-remembered dreams. Gavroche feels his face heat and wants to cry again. He stares up at the iron above them and listens to the rats. Montparnasse's hair is in his face.
Fandom: Les Miserables
Pairing: Montparnasse/Gavroche
Rating: X or hard R
Warnings: slash, sex, dubious consent, possibly chan (I'm not sure of the definition). Montparnasse is eighteen, as I recall, and Gavroche is, I think, fourteen or so.
A/N: Bunnying myself by going through ABC's. A is for absinthe, la fee verte.
Montparnasse's hair is in his face. His breath smells of absinthe, and his curls are redolent with the scent of lavender pomade. He lies on his back among the ropes in the Elephant, and looks out of place. He is so beautiful, with his elegant attire and his cheeks pricked with the great-blown summer roses of late-stage drunkenness. Gavroche watches his chest heave as he breathes uncomfortably. He twitches in the throes of a nightmare. Gavroche wants to look away, but finds it impossible, until the day's exertions drag his eyelids down and set him adrift in the black waters of youthful sleep.
Gavroche wakes from a heavy weight on top of him. He wakes with a cry. His body arches, but protestations are swallowed by Montparnasse's mouth, which tastes of absinthe, and of chocolate as well. His tongue stabs Gavroche's tongue back into his head. Montparnasse is in a fever, perhaps only half-awake. He tears Gavroche's clothing away from flesh, bares his own skin to the cold. When Gavroche lies, his heart pounding like a small thing's, still beneath him, Montparnasse puts Gavroche's hands on his skin and moans as if to have no touch burns him. As if he needs it. Tentatively, because Gavroche is afraid of him, he caresses that heated skin.
Montparnasse lowers his face to Gavroche's neck and shoulders. His kisses are deep, so deep they are nearly bites. They leave heated marks, they leave Gavroche shaking. Stupefied with fear, Gavroche feels his body respond, but that is of little consequence to Montparnasse, who is still burning like a furnace, still moaning with each increased contact of skin. Gavroche closes his teeth against the pain when Montparnasse buries his teeth in the smooth curve of a boyish shoulder. He closes his teeth against the fear he feels at being naked and pressed against this mad ange dechue who seems to need his hands constantly moving and his legs wrapped around. He wonders if Montparnasse is dreaming that Gavroche is a woman, or if a boy is good enough.
He feels himself relaxing, somewhere upon the point where Montparnasse's rhythmic breathing slows from the harsh and heavy rasp it has been. He offers a few tentative kisses to broad shoulders and a china-white expanse of perfect skin beneath the collarbones. It is all he can reach, and he has no desire to caress Montparnasse's face, which is still stung and glowing. His eyes are open. They are the color of the liquid that is this frenzy's likely cause. Deeper than the river, filled with the shadows of self-interest that has coagulated into evil.
Gavroche almost screams when Montparnasse suddenly thrusts into him. He has felt the erection against his thigh, but expects nothing more than, at worst, some drunken friction. The pain makes his eyes water and his chest tight. He feels claustrophobic and betrayed beneath the iron weight of Montparnasse's body, which might be an Adonisian statue for all Gavroche can move it off him. Tears sweep his cheeks, but he allows himself no sound of anguish. He stares up into Montparnasse's demon green eyes.
Montparnasse brushes the tears away with his mouth. He leans his hot cheek against Gavroche and moves within him, at first slow, so that the pain becomes bearable, then hard and rough so that something inside Gavroche snaps, and suddenly scarlet traceries of fire have netted all of his skin, and he is on fire with the feelings inside him that seem to explode off his lips and the tip of his cock in need, in need...
And then it is over, and Montparnasse collapses. The friction of his hard belly is all Gavroche needs to reach his own peak, and it is sudden and frightening and real, a man's explosion of hard orgasm, not the childish dribble that comes when one wakes from disturbing, half-remembered dreams. Gavroche feels his face heat and wants to cry again. He stares up at the iron above them and listens to the rats. Montparnasse's hair is in his face.