A/N: Very, very NC-17, and full of hot Wes/David love. If this doesn't seem to flow very well, that's because it was originally written as a practise run for my descriptive writing exam tommorrow, for the prompt: "Describe a room." Well, that morphed into this, and I hope you enjoy it.
Mirrored
Sunlight courses in through the solitary window, the luminescent glow hitting the walls and angles of the room and leaving them almost in shadow. Dust floats in the air, highlighted by the beam still streaming in. They almost seem to dance in the air, twisting and falling so gracefully it could be a ballet, it could be a choreographed show. In one corner of the room lies a bed, its rumpled sheets white and crinkled to the naked eye. Were one to look closer they would see the shapes made into the bed, the fall of an arm or the imprint of a head. But no one is looking closer, and so it goes unnoticed.
On the other side of the room, there is a bookshelf, large and heavy. Its shelves groan and creak under the weight of the volumes it holds, some leather bound and tinged with gold, some softer and new, their spines barely bent. As if that will never change. Were you to trace one finger down the spines of the books, you would find them quite without dust; they are clean and soft to the touch, clearly well loved and well looked after. But no one is there to touch, and so the books stay where they are, longing for the gentle caress that only a human can give.
In the corner of the room is a desk, a heavy set mahogany affair. It is clustered with large volumes, sets of post-it notes and pens all lined up, like soldiers on the battlefield. First come the red pens, tall and strong. Then come the blue pens, ranging in size from the smallest to the largest. And finally the black pens, the best of them, standing proud and high, their dark ink such a contrast to the wood below them. What little surface that can be seen gleams in the early morning sunlight, the dark wood of it beautiful to look at. It would be smooth and hard under one's fingertips, the cool wood perfect to the touch. But there is no one there, and so the desk remains alone in its corner.
From the other side of the room, the sound of rushing water can be heard, hitting tiles and draining and falling in a continuous cycle. There is a door than connects that room to the one with the window in, a door that must be opened and passed through to get into what is a small, compact bathroom. Usually it will be cold, clean, and sterile; everything gleaming, everything with a place, everything perfect. The tiles on the walls and floor will shine with a radiant beauty, their mirrored faces reflecting the harsh strobe light coming from above. A single mirror will line one wall, its clear glass polished and shined until it is clear and true, showing the user only what is there: nothing more and certainly nothing less.
At the moment, the room is rather different. The tiles are opaque, lined with steam and unreflecting of any light. The mirror is the same, fogged up and unusable. Steam and mist swirl around the room, as striking in their own way as the dust in the other room was before them. The air is hot and heavy, delicious in the way that it clings to the skin and hair, dampening and causing sweat to break free. Were one to breathe it in, breathe in the heady air, they would smell lemons, fresh and sharp against the otherwise muggy atmosphere around them. But no one is breathing it in, and so no one notices the scent, so clearly at odds with its surroundings.
And if one chanced a look further, they would see the shower in the corner of the room, the source of the noise and the scent and the steam curling in the air. They would see the boy standing there, his head tipped back as he stands beneath the scalding hot spray, the water hitting his chest and neck and back with a force that should send him reeling. It doesn't. Instead the boy seems to welcome the pressure, spreading his arms and letting the water drip and fall down the hard planes of his chest, the strong muscles of his thighs and finally the tender skin of his feet. Were one to look closely, to stare long and hard at the boy's dark, slanted eyes, high cheekbones and wet, black hair, they would pronounce him to be a stunning young man. But no one is there.
Except that suddenly, there is something there. The door to the bedroom opens effortlessly; the boy slipping inside like a cipher, so familiar is he with the layout and style of the room that he doesn't even hesitate. Instead, he strolls leisurely over to the bed, leaning close and smiling at those same imprints that the naked eye might have missed, at the creased lines that show the outline of a young man's body. He crosses over to the other side of the room, his palms stroking down over the books, fingers settling on his favourite one. His dark eyes widen slightly as he takes in the way that it is creased from years of over handling, its owner's hands having smoothed and caressed it a hundred thousand times. And then, with a small smile, he puts it back.
Next is the desk, his dark skin blending almost effortlessly with the wood. His eyes twinkle a little as he sees the pens, fingering them gently before placing them back in their rigid, methodical lines. And then, he seems to hear the water. His ears perk up, his breathing deepens, and suddenly he is striding to the bathroom. The door is useless against him, easily pushed aside as he steps into the room and all but runs to the shower, uncaring of the way that his feet slip skid on the slick floor. His eyes rake over the figure before him, the other boy still unaware that eyes are admiring his body. And then by chance, the boy's eyes open and he gasps, the sound high and breathy in the confines of the bathroom.
"David!" At once David is on him, hands slipping down to the other boy's hips and pulling him from the shower, uncaring of the wetness between them, or the fact that he is fully clothed. They stumble from the bathroom, hands trailing and mouths exploring, fingers probing and tongues stroking. Everything is heightened by the slickness of the water between them, the curls of steam that follow them into the bedroom, voyeuristic. Their senses are on fire as David finally pushes his prey down onto the rumpled sheets of the bed, stepping back to skim his eyes over his boyfriend's body one last time before he descends.
"Wes," David manages to gasp out, before he is pulled down and his lips taken.
David moans slightly, pushing Wes down deeper into the bed, hips snapping forward just to see the contrast of Wes's darker skin against the luminescent white of the crinkled sheets. His hands go to his tie, fumbling with the ends as he attempts to loosen it, the thin material twisting and knotting even under his skilled fingers. A hand joins his, untying the tie swiftly and discarding it over the side of the bed, before the hand moves lower and pushes the buttons on David's shirt through the tiny holes.
David instantly moves to help, pulling at the buttons so fast that they almost fly off before shrugging the shirt from his broad shoulders and throwing it off to one side, unknowing and uncaring of where it lands. Shamelessly, David skims his hands over his boyfriend's body, documenting every moan, every sigh, and every cant of Wes's naked hips. A spot just behind his boyfriend's ear makes Wes cry out in pleasure, so David leans in and sucks on it harshly, intent on leaving a mark there where no one will see, so it's their little secret. Wes's hands move to David's hips, struggling with the belt buckle until he manages to pull it loose and push down the shapeless grey pants that all Dalton boys wear. David's tight black boxers follow, shrugged and shimmied out of until he is lying atop his boyfriend, their naked skin brushing together with every shift, every movement resulting in white pleasure.
"What do you want?" David all but growls, tracing his lips down the side of Wes's neck, sucking on the pulse point hard until he elicits a gasp from the pliant boy under him. Mutely, Wes shakes his head, unwilling to beg, pride preventing him from asking for what he really wants, what he needs. One sharp twist of David's hips against his change that, and soon curses and litanies of begging are falling like water from his lips.
It seems to be good enough for David, who presses one last, hard kiss to his boyfriend's lips, and then presses his fingers inside Wes's plaint, open mouth. At once Wes swirls his tongue around them, lathing them and sucking as hard as he can. He can hear David's gasps, feel the fingers in his mouth tremble with desire but he keeps going, desperate to do the best job he can before the fingers are pulled free and he loses them.
Reluctantly, David slips his fingers out of Wes's lips, marvelling at the way they shine in the morning light. And then he trails them down his boyfriend's body slowly, smiling at the way Wes's stomach tenses and contracts under the light pressure of his touch. Wes moans when the first finger finds his entrance, the wet digit rimming around quickly before delving inside in one harsh stroke. Gasping, Wes tries to push back for more but David is there stopping him, other hand firmly holding Wes in place as he works the second finger into Wes's body.
Wes moans wantonly, desperately attempting to push back onto the fingers filling him despite the fact that he is helpless against the onslaught. He arches desperately under David's skilled fingers; breathing heavy and laboured, chest flushed a pretty red. His head is flung back, and David can see him taking deep breaths, trying to keep calm and still.
"Let me in, baby," he whispers softly, rubbing his fingers inside Wes until his boyfriend whines and bucks up against him, pleasure flushing through his body. Smiling in satisfaction, David adds another, three of his fingers disappearing into his boyfriend's body, the sight of them making his mind shut down just a little bit. He twists them, revelling in the moans and curses and David David David's spilling from Wes's lips like a mantra.
"Please," Wes moans, pushing back against David's hand shamelessly, silently and verbally begging for more, for anything. David just smiles again, before pulling out his fingers and slicking one hand up with his own saliva, before running it down his cock to coat it. He gasps slightly at his own touch, prompting Wes to moan slightly under his breath.
Slowly, David slicks himself up, and then lines his cock up at Wes's entrance.
"Ready?" David asks, waiting for Wes to answer. He doesn't, he just pushes back again, forcing the tip of David's cock to brush against his entrance. They both gasp at the sensation, the barest touch sending them both into near bliss. Deciding that is response enough, David pushes himself forward slowly, watching as his length is swallowed by Wes's pliant body. When he is fully inside, he waits, breath taken by just how hot and tight and amazing Wes is.
"David, please, need you… move," Wes moans loudly, and that's all David needs to hear. His eyes roll back at his first thrust, pleasure shooting through his body in hot little sparks.
Underneath him, Wes pants loudly, his lips pink and bitten roughly. David leans forward, capturing them in an open mouthed kiss. It lacks his usual finesse; it lacks the gentle stroke of tongues that they are accustomed to. Instead, it is hot, and wet and primal. David can feel himself coming apart at the seams, can feel himself letting go to all of the base instincts of possession he felt when he first saw Wes. Desperately, he breaks their kiss and lowers his lips instead to Wes's collarbone, nipping and sucking and licking it until a dark purple bruise has formed, contrast beautiful against Wes's gorgeous, flushed skin.
Wes's vocalisations have become overwhelmed, choked moans as David picks up the speed, pulling out of Wes almost completely before plunging back in. Wes moans as each stroke, each pull brings him perilously close to the edge, but not quite tipping over.
"David… please…" he begs, usual composure gone as he writhes and pleads for more.
"What, Wes?" David asks softly, leaning down again, this time to lick a stripe along his boyfriend's ear. He can feel Wes shudder underneath him, and he smiles. One of his hands travels to Wes's lower stomach, touching his warm belly and caressing his thighs, but going nowhere near his cock.
"Touch me," Wes whimpers and David can't resist, not when the other boy's voice is so high and needy.
His hand is barely over Wes before his boyfriend is crying out, coming hard. His arse clenches down on David's cock, sending David falling after him, filling him up. Unable to hold himself up, he collapses onto Wes, bodies fitting together perfectly, like two puzzle pieces.
Later, as they're lying in the bed, legs tangled and fingers lazily intertwined, David will look up at the dust dancing through the air and smile.