(no subject)
Title: All He Knows
Author:
llassah
Pairing: Fraser/Victoria
Rating: NC-17
Kink: Breathplay
Notes: Hugemassiveginormous thanks to
zellieh, for a quick, insightful beta *snuggles* Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.
She never asks him if he trusts her. He isn’t quite sure if that is because she thinks he doesn’t, or if it isn’t relevant to her. He will try and do the right thing whatever his feelings towards her, trust or otherwise, and she knows this. She will continue to follow the path that she has chosen, and he will stumble along a darkened passage, sometimes catching up with her, sometimes ahead, but never sure of what her eventual goal is.
He doesn’t know what he would say if she asked.
He only knows the softness of her hair, that wild tumbling mass of curls that he expects to coil like snakes at his touch. He knows her collarbone, the way the skin seems paper-thin there, translucent and beautiful. He knows that sometimes she ducks her head as she laughs, looks up at him through those long dark lashes, and that he is lost, hopeless, and that the idea gives him a wrenching sort of joy. He knows that when she pushes him away, he will always catch her, draw her closer, and that he will never be able to do anything else. He knows her violent words will make him kiss them away, that her kisses will catch him and hold him there, caught between drowning and dancing.
He knows the sadness of her eyes and the sternness of her mouth when she is not smiling. He knows that he cannot envisage her as an old woman, and that as a young girl she climbed trees and skinned her knees, and never had enough food. He knows that she guards the food on her plate, as if he is going to steal it, and that prison is not something she will ever talk about. He knows that if she could, she would run barefoot through the forest for the rest of her life, and that captivity has not tamed all of her wildness. He knows the taste of he fingers, and how the underside of her breast is one of the few warm parts of her. He knows the taste of her tears, the fire of her anger, and yet-
And yet.
He knows he doesn’t really know her at all.
He wakes sometime after three to her fingers stroking his neck, just the side. He does not move, does not show any sign of being awake, as those pale cool fingers move to his carotid artery and rest there lightly. She did the same at Fortitude pass, and even when the danger was over, even when they were within sight of the steeple, she slept in his arms with her ear to his chest, checking he was alive still, even though it would be easier for her once the danger had passed if he wasn’t.
His Adam’s apple, up to his jawbone, fleetingly, a butterfly kiss of a touch, then pressing into his windpipe, thumb one side, forefinger the other.
“I know you’re awake.”
Her voice is sweet, as if she were just looking at him, as if she were playfully tickling him awake, chiding him for staying abed for too long.
He wonders whether to continue feigning sleep, how long she will keep her hand there. If she will choke him. He opens his eyes, looks into hers. Her face is partly in shadows, her body pale in the darkness that is nowhere near as all-pervading as the darkness of his home. Her lips are curved into a half-smile, her frown thoughtful.
“If I didn’t let go, would you save yourself?” she asks, trailing her free hand down his shoulder. His eyes slide shut again as he keeps his breaths slow and shallow. Across to his nipple, light scraping of the nail and he’s jerking up into her hand, a sharp pain in his throat like something lodged there. Her smile is sympathetic, impersonal. He does not know when he became hard, only that arousal wars with survival. He tries to moan, darts out his tongue to lick drying lips.
She hushes him, putting a finger to his mouth, then pushes him so he is completely on his back and kicks away the sheets, letting them fall in a bundle onto the floor. Goosebumps ripple across her skin as cold air swirls around her; he watches their progression with rapt fascination. Her hair brushes against his chest as she straddles him. He brings his hands up to her waist, strokes down her flanks. Her feet are cold, tucked up against his thighs, but her centre is warm, and she is already wet, her arousal scenting the little air he is breathing.
There are condoms on the nightstand, a strip of them. He bought them because-
He isn’t sure why he bought them. She rips open the packet with her teeth, but loosens her grip on his throat slightly. He does not gasp; he takes in slow gentle breaths, feeling his chest start to loosen slightly, his heartbeat easing into its regular slowness. Then the hand tightens again, mid-breath, and she hands him the condom, waiting as he reaches around her, schooling his mind to blankness, to smooth efficiency. It works; he does not fumble or tear it, and he takes the quirk of her eyebrow to mean she is impressed.
“I do love you, you know,” she says, as if to make up for breaking one of his toys, a disinterested mother to a wailing child. He says nothing, nothing is required of him. He just has to lie there as she lowers herself onto him, bracing her other hand against his chest, heedless of the nails she is digging into his skin. She is hot and slick, and grips him tightly, closing her eyes briefly as she is filled. He gasps, tries to gasp, and suddenly the amused detachment is gone, it’s back to fire and ice as she moves catlike into the hands he runs down her back, biting her lip in concentration as she raises and lowers herself, somehow maintaining a steady pressure on his throat.
Everything is clearer, sharper, more intense, like the fever-dreams of a childhood illness. She tests him, playing with speed and force, lowering herself onto him in hairsbreadth increments, or thrusting down with a force that makes her cry out, loud in the sleeping quietness of the apartment. She uses him and he lets her, lets her- lets her fuck him. Other words for the act are too gentle, too tender for this. He lays himself on the altar and hands her the knife, and he does not know if it is weakness or strength that sends his hands to her nipples, her hips, her clitoris, rather than to the hand that cuts off his air supply. He can feel his pulse thudding against her hand, strong, not like the trapped-sparrow fluttering he expects from his wilful helplessness.
Her hand tightens, and she moves faster, a pace he helps her sustain with his hands on her waist, lifting as she rises, letting go as she falls, and she’s kissing him, leaning down and taking what little air he has, giving none in return as the edges of his vision grey and she tightens and arches against him, making whimpering noises in the back of her throat that he wants to soothe. She pulses around him, moving through her orgasm, and it is as if every nerve in his body is thrumming, alive, as if something is being pulled from behind his spine, from his toes, as if the need to climax and the need to breathe were coalescing, spiralling upwards, lifted by thermals, soaring .
He brings his hand to his throat, prises her finger and thumb off his neck and takes them into his mouth, running his tongue over them as he comes with a hoarse, wrenched out breath that slams him back into his body, back into reality, his other hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise as his skin sticks to sweat-drenched sheets. She collapses onto him, shivering, shuddering, clinging to him with her eyes shut tight, tears mingling with the sweat on his chest. He soothes her, strokes her back as she is wracked with sobs, as she whispers ‘I hate you’ in a voice more breath than sound. He whispers ‘I know’, choked with too many things to speak clearly. He knows-
He knows she will never let go. Her hair is soft against his chest, and snow falls outside. And that is all he knows. His breaths are visible in the cold, steam marking every exhalation. The last candle flickers, gutters, and goes out.
End.
And I tag.....
lordessrenegade ! Porn them hard, porn them fast, feel free to kill me *g*
Author:
llassah
Pairing: Fraser/Victoria
Rating: NC-17
Kink: Breathplay
Notes: Hugemassiveginormous thanks to
zellieh, for a quick, insightful beta *snuggles* Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.
She never asks him if he trusts her. He isn’t quite sure if that is because she thinks he doesn’t, or if it isn’t relevant to her. He will try and do the right thing whatever his feelings towards her, trust or otherwise, and she knows this. She will continue to follow the path that she has chosen, and he will stumble along a darkened passage, sometimes catching up with her, sometimes ahead, but never sure of what her eventual goal is.
He doesn’t know what he would say if she asked.
He only knows the softness of her hair, that wild tumbling mass of curls that he expects to coil like snakes at his touch. He knows her collarbone, the way the skin seems paper-thin there, translucent and beautiful. He knows that sometimes she ducks her head as she laughs, looks up at him through those long dark lashes, and that he is lost, hopeless, and that the idea gives him a wrenching sort of joy. He knows that when she pushes him away, he will always catch her, draw her closer, and that he will never be able to do anything else. He knows her violent words will make him kiss them away, that her kisses will catch him and hold him there, caught between drowning and dancing.
He knows the sadness of her eyes and the sternness of her mouth when she is not smiling. He knows that he cannot envisage her as an old woman, and that as a young girl she climbed trees and skinned her knees, and never had enough food. He knows that she guards the food on her plate, as if he is going to steal it, and that prison is not something she will ever talk about. He knows that if she could, she would run barefoot through the forest for the rest of her life, and that captivity has not tamed all of her wildness. He knows the taste of he fingers, and how the underside of her breast is one of the few warm parts of her. He knows the taste of her tears, the fire of her anger, and yet-
And yet.
He knows he doesn’t really know her at all.
He wakes sometime after three to her fingers stroking his neck, just the side. He does not move, does not show any sign of being awake, as those pale cool fingers move to his carotid artery and rest there lightly. She did the same at Fortitude pass, and even when the danger was over, even when they were within sight of the steeple, she slept in his arms with her ear to his chest, checking he was alive still, even though it would be easier for her once the danger had passed if he wasn’t.
His Adam’s apple, up to his jawbone, fleetingly, a butterfly kiss of a touch, then pressing into his windpipe, thumb one side, forefinger the other.
“I know you’re awake.”
Her voice is sweet, as if she were just looking at him, as if she were playfully tickling him awake, chiding him for staying abed for too long.
He wonders whether to continue feigning sleep, how long she will keep her hand there. If she will choke him. He opens his eyes, looks into hers. Her face is partly in shadows, her body pale in the darkness that is nowhere near as all-pervading as the darkness of his home. Her lips are curved into a half-smile, her frown thoughtful.
“If I didn’t let go, would you save yourself?” she asks, trailing her free hand down his shoulder. His eyes slide shut again as he keeps his breaths slow and shallow. Across to his nipple, light scraping of the nail and he’s jerking up into her hand, a sharp pain in his throat like something lodged there. Her smile is sympathetic, impersonal. He does not know when he became hard, only that arousal wars with survival. He tries to moan, darts out his tongue to lick drying lips.
She hushes him, putting a finger to his mouth, then pushes him so he is completely on his back and kicks away the sheets, letting them fall in a bundle onto the floor. Goosebumps ripple across her skin as cold air swirls around her; he watches their progression with rapt fascination. Her hair brushes against his chest as she straddles him. He brings his hands up to her waist, strokes down her flanks. Her feet are cold, tucked up against his thighs, but her centre is warm, and she is already wet, her arousal scenting the little air he is breathing.
There are condoms on the nightstand, a strip of them. He bought them because-
He isn’t sure why he bought them. She rips open the packet with her teeth, but loosens her grip on his throat slightly. He does not gasp; he takes in slow gentle breaths, feeling his chest start to loosen slightly, his heartbeat easing into its regular slowness. Then the hand tightens again, mid-breath, and she hands him the condom, waiting as he reaches around her, schooling his mind to blankness, to smooth efficiency. It works; he does not fumble or tear it, and he takes the quirk of her eyebrow to mean she is impressed.
“I do love you, you know,” she says, as if to make up for breaking one of his toys, a disinterested mother to a wailing child. He says nothing, nothing is required of him. He just has to lie there as she lowers herself onto him, bracing her other hand against his chest, heedless of the nails she is digging into his skin. She is hot and slick, and grips him tightly, closing her eyes briefly as she is filled. He gasps, tries to gasp, and suddenly the amused detachment is gone, it’s back to fire and ice as she moves catlike into the hands he runs down her back, biting her lip in concentration as she raises and lowers herself, somehow maintaining a steady pressure on his throat.
Everything is clearer, sharper, more intense, like the fever-dreams of a childhood illness. She tests him, playing with speed and force, lowering herself onto him in hairsbreadth increments, or thrusting down with a force that makes her cry out, loud in the sleeping quietness of the apartment. She uses him and he lets her, lets her- lets her fuck him. Other words for the act are too gentle, too tender for this. He lays himself on the altar and hands her the knife, and he does not know if it is weakness or strength that sends his hands to her nipples, her hips, her clitoris, rather than to the hand that cuts off his air supply. He can feel his pulse thudding against her hand, strong, not like the trapped-sparrow fluttering he expects from his wilful helplessness.
Her hand tightens, and she moves faster, a pace he helps her sustain with his hands on her waist, lifting as she rises, letting go as she falls, and she’s kissing him, leaning down and taking what little air he has, giving none in return as the edges of his vision grey and she tightens and arches against him, making whimpering noises in the back of her throat that he wants to soothe. She pulses around him, moving through her orgasm, and it is as if every nerve in his body is thrumming, alive, as if something is being pulled from behind his spine, from his toes, as if the need to climax and the need to breathe were coalescing, spiralling upwards, lifted by thermals, soaring .
He brings his hand to his throat, prises her finger and thumb off his neck and takes them into his mouth, running his tongue over them as he comes with a hoarse, wrenched out breath that slams him back into his body, back into reality, his other hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise as his skin sticks to sweat-drenched sheets. She collapses onto him, shivering, shuddering, clinging to him with her eyes shut tight, tears mingling with the sweat on his chest. He soothes her, strokes her back as she is wracked with sobs, as she whispers ‘I hate you’ in a voice more breath than sound. He whispers ‘I know’, choked with too many things to speak clearly. He knows-
He knows she will never let go. Her hair is soft against his chest, and snow falls outside. And that is all he knows. His breaths are visible in the cold, steam marking every exhalation. The last candle flickers, gutters, and goes out.
End.
And I tag.....
lordessrenegade ! Porn them hard, porn them fast, feel free to kill me *g*