|Okay, last one for today, promise. ...I think.
||[Sep. 6th, 2011|06:05 pm]
Lauren or Lou, as you like.
|||||Marilyn Manson, "The Beautiful People"||]|
Third fill: With all the Passion of a Convert
Fill for this prompt: "Sam rims Alan, who is a little grossed out at first, but ends up really enjoying it."
Chosen because anyone who knows me from "Salt and Wicked Sweet" - TDS/TCR knows I can DO that shit, yo, and because there needs to be more rimming in the world. Rimming needs converts.
Tron fandom. 2399 words, totally explicit, Alan/Sam.
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When Alan emerged from the shower, towelling off, he could see Sam was still sitting on the bed where he'd left him, a nude and languid blur. And when he slid his glasses back on, and the details swam into focus, he found Sam was looking at him with bright, dark eyes, the wicked little smile that said "you've got no idea what's about to hit you" creeping across his face.
That was usually true; Sam was prone to cooking up things Alan would never have thought of. But then again, Alan's sense of the possibilities between men had been distinctly impoverished, until Sam had started educating him.
That look now had a power of its own to twinge something in his spine, something apprehensive but curious, and deeply prurient. He was Pavlov's dog; Sam looking devilish meant something very scary and very good was about to happen, and Alan salivated on cue with the bell.
He felt himself begin to mirror Sam's smile as the little rush of anticipation crawled up and left nervous goosebumps in its path.
"'Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look,'" Alan murmured aloud, approaching slowly.
"Oh-ho," Sam laughed, eyebrows arched, "you better watch that, or I'm liable to lunge."
"Yes, please," Alan replied, grinning as he closed the distance between himself and the bed and Sam's welcoming body. God, his pulse was already racing and they hadn't even touched.
But Sam fixed that quickly, retreating further onto the bed and grabbing Alan by the hands to pull him forward, onto his knees on the mattress and into a feverish kiss full of trembling and want.
"Lose the towel, man," Sam muttered against his mouth, and Alan complied, deciding not even to care that it landed in a heap on the carpet behind him.
...He'd hang it carefully, later. Not now.
Now, it was more important to straighten up, to press his belly against Sam's, to press the parts of himself that were too cool from the last tinge of dampness trying to evaporate against the parts of Sam that were too hot from languishing alone on the bed.
"Shower took too long," Sam complained, on cue, and Alan dutifully apologized into his mouth, onto his tongue, slid his wrists under Sam's elbows to weave his arms low around Sam's body, locking him tightly up against.
Sam appeared to accept the apology, and slung his arms loosely up around Alan's neck, rumpling one hand into his damp hair, pulling Alan's face even tighter against his, flush and deep. Alan's glasses were mashed a little against his face, then, and he'd have to clean them (again) from where they were smearing under the abuse, and maybe even twist them until the lines ran plumb again, but he too badly needed them to take them off, needed to be able to look at Sam in little glimpses while their mouths tangled, to see a hard shoulder and the light on his hair and the twitching of Sam's cock up between their hips when he shifted enough to let it. Some things were worth it.
There was a precarious moment of tipping, and Alan's heart caught in half a moment of panic, but then they were collapsed easily on their sides on the bed, and Sam's leg was grappling over his hips, pressing him up tight, pressing their dicks together. He stuttered mid-kiss, pulled a breath open-mouthed against Sam's lips to steady himself. And when Sam's hips rolled, he lost the breath on a groan and a growl, rolling on top of Sam, clutching their bodies together.
"Whoa, whoa," Sam gasped breathlessly, "heel, I got--got somethin' else in mind," he promised, shifting to grip the sides of Alan's face, pressing stray kisses to it blindly. "Here, wait," he tried, catching his breath, "let me--out--"
Alan reluctantly did, starting to roll back to his side, to pull Sam on top of him, but Sam stopped him, squirming out from under Alan but keeping him pressed face down, belly to the bed.
Alan reached beneath uncomfortably to rearrange himself, laying his head to the side to spare his glasses, but then Sam was sliding them off and tossing them on the nightstand carelessly. Alan winced, hoping they wouldn't scratch, but when Sam's body slid down on top of his again, molding hot skin to his back, he forgot them just as soon, closed his eyes and let the breath press out of him under Sam's weight.
"You're so warm," he mumbled against the mattress, stunned, gratefully soaking up the heat.
"Yeah," Sam murmured against his ear, and the grin was audible as he kissed and brushed his nose against it on the way to Alan's neck, to tender kisses that startled his skin when they landed, disconnected and stuttering.
"Sam," Alan sighed uselessly, at a loss for better words.
Sam squeezed his hand where it lay curled on the bed, lightly gripping the sheets, so he supposed he'd said enough. His breath shook when he sucked it in, but he stilled himself, willing his body to relax, coaxing his skin to open up to whatever Sam had in mind, to stop twitching under Sam's lips and tongue as they descended down the slope of his back.
Then Sam's knees were nudging between his, guiding his legs apart as as he slid downward, his palms gripping Alan's hips, solid and bracing.
Tension coiled at the small of his back, again, a delicious shiver crawling up his spine. He knew where this was going, he thought, slid his knees a little wider and flattened his palms on the bed, tilting his hips just slightly upwards, waiting for...
...not for Sam's hair to brush over his tailbone, his nose to nudge Alan's coccyx, his lips to press a kiss to the cleft of his ass. What...?
Sam kissed, littering his skin with warm and slightly damp imprints of his mouth, over one hip, curving under one side, brushing his thigh, his cleft, aimlessly.
Or... not aimlessly?
The wet breach of his cleft by the questing tongue shocked him half out of his skin. Alan jolted and inched forward on his belly, attempting escape. "Sam! That's--don't," he stammered, too stunned to formulate anything more eloquent.
"Shut up, Alan." Sam was already back up on his knees, crawling after the retreating body wantonly, settling firm hands on Alan's waist. Pulling.
"Completely--no. Sam, you know where that's been," Alan argued as he slid back under Sam, face twisting in disbelief bordering on repulsion.
"Come on, you just got out of the shower," Sam countered, but Alan wasn't listening.
"--did you even come up with that, who--"
"Lots of people, Alan. Chill," Sam breathed smoothly, and the sound came low from his chest, and Alan's squirming stilled.
Alan's protests mumbled on, uncomprehending, but the certainty had gone out of them on Sam's entreaty. "Any idea.. transfer of..."
"Mm-hmm," Sam agreed, placating, as he gave Alan's tense body one more pull to center his hips on the bed, leaning his face to the tailbone. He took a slow, warm breath against Alan's skin, and Alan's puzzlement was finally too great for him to keep up the litany.
Sam had (almost) always been right before, but he couldn't imagine...
And at first, it made his skin crawl. Alan pressed his face into the mattress, trying to retreat while still lying still, as the first few strange and tickling swipes parted him. And the sound of Sam's breaths, muffled and swallowed against Alan's ass, was too obscene, too... too....
...but it was warm, too, the hot and damp of his breath, and when Alan was reasonably certain not to run, Sam slipped his hands inward, sliding his palms in and then pressing out again to open Alan up a little to his face. And then, when the flat plane of his tongue could finally contact the opening, could lave flat over the tension there, there was a hitch in Alan's chest that surprised him. There was a searing kind of heat over that private spot, like... like nothing else he could think of, really. There was no comparison. Sam had been inside him, with fingers and cock and a few illicit toys, but nothing could be as warm, as soft and strong and yielding at once as his tongue was at that moment.
Alan's eyes opened against the bed in surprise, though there was nothing to see. Experimentally, he shifted to lay his head more comfortably again to the side, so he could breathe a little easier, tried consciously to unclench his fingers from the sheets and relax the rigidness in all of the muscles along his backside. The heat...
The deeply intimate heat...
Sam must have felt him relax, felt him ease, because he moaned, pressed his face in flush with Alan's ass with satisfaction, and his thrill at the thing was so clear, his pleasure that Alan was finally giving a sort of benefit of the doubt, that Alan felt a little dizzy.
'Intimate,' he thought again, his eyelids sinking. There had never been anything like this, anything as vulnerable, as exposed for either of them; there was no combination of places more tender and secret that could be had than this.
And as Sam licked him, again and again smoothing the confused and twitching muscle with his mouth, Alan started to feel unaccountably safe, guarded and protected. There was in impossible sweetness to the thing, a kindness and a worship and a wanting, and Alan was embarrassed by it, but warmth spread over his skin and he tried to trust it.
It was still embarrassing on its own, when he lingered on the mechanics too much. He prayed he was clean enough, that his skin was soft enough for Sam's face, but Sam really left him no room to doubt his feelings about the thing. The soft sounds of reverence that came out of him, the sounds of gratitude and trust... Alan couldn't understand it, but couldn't really choose to not believe it, either. So he shifted just slightly, tilting like he'd planned to before, to let Sam in, to show him it was okay.
And when Sam's tongue pointed, pressed at him in gleeful acknowledgment, Alan gasped, one leg twitching under him.
His groan was swallowed up in the mattress, but Sam had heard it, gently squeezed him, kneading his fingers into the muscles of Alan's hips, and Alan shuddered. He murmured wordlessly to Sam, confused but warm, overwhelmed.
There was an endlessness to it, like he was a shoreline against the sea with the roll of the ocean lapping up against him, into him, a pulse of peace and eternity, obliterating his tension and leaving him painless and boneless and buzzing all over with the thrum of his nerves. He thought he might swoon, but then he couldn't really think anymore, couldn't do anything or be anything but be right there, infinitely present and solid and ethereal at once. He barely heard the soft hiccoughs of breath catching in his throat every time he breathed, seeming only ever to breathe in, rolling with every curl and dip of Sam's genius tongue.
When it finally, slowly receded, he sank, thought he would drown in the buzzing of his skin, shivered at the loss until Sam crawled on top of him, flattening his body like a blanket onto Alan's, nose buried in his shoulder.
"Oh..." Alan managed, barely, melting, sure he was losing all basic structural integrity. "Oh, Sam..." he sighed, full of wonder.
"Was that okay?" Sam asked against his back, sounding almost shy, but Alan could feel the nervous curve of his grin. Alan tried to focus his eyes, but only Sam's eyes peeked down at him, the rest of his face obscured, tucked down like he was hiding.
"Oh, Sam," he mumbled again, twisting under him until he was on his side, free enough to reach up, to touch Sam's face with a hand, to pet shakily over his hair, his forehead. He couldn't find any words for it, so he nodded fervently, brows knit, tried to crane to find Sam's face with his.
Sam let him close enough to be forehead to forehead, but when Alan tried to kiss him, some of Sam's fingers found their way between them. "Just... a sec for that," he said, apologetically, and Alan couldn't imagine what was wrong. But Sam pursed his lips in a kiss on the air, and Alan kissed the barrier of Sam's hand before Sam disentangled himself clumsily, stumbling to the bathroom.
Dizzy, Alan scraped for a sheet or blanket, something to draw over his body--he felt flayed and very open and diffuse. There was running water, some rustling in a cabinet, and Alan reluctantly decided he'd just have to wait to understand.
When Sam emerged, his face was pink and damp at the edges, freshly washed, and he slid eagerly under the sheet with Alan, tangling his arms around his waist and freely pressing his mouth to the other's in languid kisses, now. There was a faint bite on his breath that Alan couldn't quite identify, and when he pulled back to ask, Sam said, "Sorry, peroxide," before he could, and cut him off from anything else with another kiss. "Like you said," he added, after another moment of that, teasing lightly, "hygiene."
"Oh," Alan tried to say, but it didn't really come out as he sank back into Sam's (very clean) mouth. He was fairly sure that at that point he would have accepted any explanation, though, and just closed his eyes in heady contentment.
When the kissing wound down into little nips and nuzzles, Sam asked a question that had become by this time very familiar to Alan.
"So... Is that one a keeper?"
It was how he always asked it, checked whether Alan liked whatever they'd done well enough to try it again sometime.
And the tightness at the base of Alan's spine came up, swept wicked delight through him at the thought. He nodded numbly, overwhelmed, and once he found his voice, he agreed. "Definite keeper," he managed gruffly, and in one lunge rolled himself on top of Sam, delving into his mouth with delight and renewed purpose.
Sam laughed giddily beneath him and kissed him fiercely, far, far too pleased with himself.
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