themagnificentME, Goldpen, Crazy-Lil-Yume-Chan, Anything, DeiDeiArtistic, 1silentmouse, Madee-Chan, EmoChickOfDeath, graysam, Shizuka Aralia, KajiMori and Tala, thank you all so much for reviewing!
My Sweet Prince – Placebo
In unrelated news: I have a job now that I'm finished high school, so updates may be slower. But I also have a laptop now (don't hate on my pink laptop, yo) so they might come faster. What? I don't even.
Also, today at work (which is the best job ever. I found a trail of unidentifiable bodily fluid leading towards the morgue!) I met a Canadian. I fucking knew he was Canadian before I met him, because I've seen his book at home and I was told. And yet somehow I still thought he was American for a minute. I'M SORRY MATTIE! I DIDN'T MEAN IT, I SWEAR!
~====o)0(o====~
Never thought you'd make me perspire
Never thought I'd do you the same
Never thought I'd fill with desire
Never thought I'd feel so ashamed.
Me and the dragon can chase all the pain away,
So before I end my days
Remember
My sweet prince, you are the one.
My sweet prince, you are the one.
~====o)0(o====~
Matt felt relief thunder over him like a tidal wave as Francis nipped at his lips, the hand that wasn't supporting his weight slipping under the Canadian's t shirt, finding all the most sensitive spots almost immediately. So he was wanted. Desired. He wasn't unlovable. Not that he presumed Francis loved him. He responded to the soft lips pressed against his own slightly chapped ones, answering each question that they asked.
He shivered as a large, rough hand swept across his waist, fingers playing across his ribs and leaving his skin tingling deliciously. He hummed, letting Francis' tongue brush against his own, twirling them together in a mock-battle before giving in and letting the Frenchman taste and explore his mouth. His own tongue arched into the touch, hooking Francis in still further, inviting him to take possession of his mouth. One of Matt's hands wove itself into the elder man's hair savouring the texture and the smell of roses heavy in the air.
And that air was fast becoming hot and heavy; not fully satisfying either of their ragged gasps for breath. Francis pulled away, panting for air, a faint smile ghosting about his kiss-red lips. Slowly, that smile widening every second until it became a giddy grin that stretched from ear to ear. He pressed soft kisses to the corners of Matthieu's mouth, and then again to his lips. This kiss didn't have quite the same flash-burn of desire, but it communicated similar feelings. I want you, the kiss said. I need you, it told him. More than I want any drug. It was a scary prospect, and Matt knew that if he didn't want to get into anything serious that he should back the fuck out of this now. But he couldn't bring himself to care. The ever-present stubble that graced Francis' chin like the permafrost of lore added just the right prickle to those sweet, too sweet, kisses. He always had liked a little pain with his high. It kept him grounded, and Matthew Williams was nothing if not a grounded individual.
More soft kisses rained down upon his face, his lips that even after they had caught the reigns of oxygenation couldn't quite seem to pull enough oh-two from the air. It made him feel dizzy and lightheaded the way every fairy-tale kiss is supposed to; an intangible, soul-stirring meeting of lips. Of course, fairy-tales, at least the kind Matt had read to the younger children, were all PC and PG. Everything was chaste; the prince got the princess home by 8:30pm and no-body really died. The evil witch saw the error of her ways and became good. No rehab involved. But this was no fairy-tale. This was hot, sweaty, lust-filled kissing. This was more than a peck on the cheek. This was a mess of teeth and tongues, scraping, nipping and laving against each other.
The kisses left a warm, damp trail across Matthew's jaw and down his neck, leaving a rapidly cooling path in their wake. Somehow, Matt couldn't seem to begrudge the spit on his skin as he felt teeth press into his skin, sparking adrenaline in his veins. Just like the thrill of shooting up. It was probably a terrible thing that he was comparing making out with Francis to getting high, and if the elder man knew then he most likely wouldn't be thankful for the comparison. But Matt couldn't bring himself to care as a pink tong laved over the bite, pushing firmly against the flesh before sucking it into his mouth and leaving a possessive mark, the shape and colour of the petals of the roses that the Canadian had given him; ruby red fading to bruise purple.
Francis whispered something into the mark that Matt couldn't quiet discern, but it sounded quite suspiciously like, "Mine." The Frenchman taunted a shy nipple until it stood, its defiance raising it from the goose-bump spangled flesh of Matt's pale chest. The elder man let out a wicked chuckle that did nothing to dispel his racing heartbeat. Matt watched as the pink tongue slid from between those smiling lips and gave his stiff flesh a languid lick. It was a cheap imitation of fellatio; not quite so pleasurable, but somehow the gesture was a lot more intimate; all of you is beautiful to me, even something so insignificant as this. And though it was less of a thing; Matt had always thought those buds of flesh to be superfluous on a man and done his best to avoid them at all costs, there was something so endearing about the way Francis attended to the areolas, making them contract delightedly, drawing small moans and gasps from the strangely reluctant Canadian, the way he drenched each dear stiffened nub of flesh with attention as though it was Matthieu's most fetching feature. With every soft touch of Francis' lips to his skin, the horny Canuck felt more and more reluctant. This was not quite what he had envisioned. He was after a quick fuck. This was beginning to feel suspiciously tender. Scratch beginning, Matt thought as the Frenchman's mouth left another rose-petal hickey just under his ribs, that time he definitely said 'mine.'
And he had. Francis just couldn't help himself. His Matthieu, willing and supplicant beneath him. The young man's fluttering breath gusting over his hair. Each little sigh was possession. He wanted to enjoy this. He wanted Matthieu to enjoy this. He wanted to enjoy him enjoying it. And he would. He kissed the hem of the Canadian's jeans, letting his tongue flick under the material, eliciting a sharp intake of air and a soft sigh of,
"Francis."
"Oui, Matthieu?" he purred, a finger tracing the wet path his tongue had made and further. He stroked the coarse ribbon of curls that would in time lead him to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
"S'il vous plait," he groaned as nimble and practised fingers popped the button on his pants. Matt closed his eyes. He didn't need to see this. Not the look of utter rapture of Francis' face. He certainly didn't need to see the slow descent of his zipper. Not when the dragging buzz rang so loudly in his ears. Not when he could feel the release of the tight fabric peeling back from his erect cock. What sweet relief.
"Please what, chou?" the Frenchman hummed. He was teasing him of purpose, Matt was sure of it. He just wanted to get his rocks off and there was Francis, his face hovering above his crotch with a shit-eating grin plastered all over his face. Did he get some kind of kick from this? The Canadian, at this point, neither knew nor cared. All he knew was that is someone didn't touch his dick soon; he wouldn't be responsible for his actions.
"Touch me!" he demanded, his hips jerking upwards slightly to prove his point. Francis' grin faltered into a warm smile; sweet, tender and loving and Matt had to close his eyes again. He didn't want to see that face. That amounted to more than just desire. That was love, surely. He didn't want to be loved today. Today he just wanted to have sex. Hot, sweaty jungle sex. He didn't want feeling, emotions or strings. He was going to have to move out of this flat if this kind of emotion continued. This desire to let Francis make love to him rather than just urging him into a quick – satisfying – lay.
"Like this?" the heel of the Frenchman's hand pushed firm circles into the base of Matt's cock while his strong calloused fingers wrapped around everything they could reach through the fabric of his boxers and the annoyingly still-present jeans.
"Hmmm! Harder," the Canadian breathed happily, groaning as his host complied with a will, slowly divesting him of pants and undergarments, pulling Matt's shirt over his head with one hand, with the aid of the suddenly co-operative young man. Matthew returned the favour with gusto, his fingers running through the buttons on Francis' shirt faster than either of them would have thought possible had they really been focusing on silly little things like buttons. The Frenchman paused in his actions and began to sit up, a searching look in his misty eyes as his head turned toward his bedroom. Matt clicked to what he was looking for and flushed red, partially from irritation that he wasn't the centre of attention even when they were about to get it on, and partially because he had just realised that aside from the boxers hanging around his ankles, he was completely naked and Francis was still mostly dressed.
"Francis," he said, causing the other's head to snap around to face him, his expression once more unbearably tender.
"Yes, chou?"
"If you get up now; I don't care if it would be more comfortable somewhere else, I don't care if you want to get lube, then I will take you so hard that you'll have to call in sick for the rest of the week, do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal," Francis' grin became a leer as Matthieu took his right hand and put it too his lips. The Frenchman watched in delight as the Canadian took his ring-finger into his mouth, tongue sliding slowly from base to tip, returning his earlier act of mock-fellatio. Matt sucked the digit into his mouth, laving it with saliva before doing the same to its two brothers. Francis thought he might go mad. The sweet, somewhat shy boy he had taken in had such skill with his mouth and tongue, no wonder he didn't waste it on words. He wondered what that, sultry mouth would feel like on his member. How would those sweet, chapped lips feel against the blood-warm flesh of his hard cock?
A string of saliva followed Francis' fingers from Matt's lips before it spiralled down, breaking and leaving its cold trail across that truly northern chest. His heart beating apace, the Frenchman touched his lips apologetically to the base of Matthew's manhood before teasingly tracing the ring of his entrance with an index finger. The elder man pushed in gently, moving cautiously and immediately seeking out the spot that would make this so much better for his partner.
It felt good to be able to apply that word to his Matthieu; partner. Equals. In this together.
He knew he had found it when the Canadian arched his back, a sound, part grunt, part moan wrenching itself from his vocal chords. Et voila.
Another finger was added, and another, teasing and stretching as they caressed Matt from the inside out. The Canuck closed his eyes, hoping to close off this too-sweet sensation that was overwhelming him. It didn't block it out, if anything the feeling was heightened by his lack of sight, on sense becoming acute to make up for the absence of another. He didn't want to feel his heart aching like this. He wanted forget about heartache and love and all those stupid fairy-tales that told him a white knight was going to come galloping in to save him from himself. He had been a white knight, hadn't he? A fucking retard, but a good person none the less. He didn't deserve Matt's hatred, but he had it completely. And Francis, dear, sweet, Francis was only trying to help, had been inadvertently attracted to him. That was a little puzzling; the Canadian knew he was reasonably attractive, but nothing especially special. Not like the Frenchman, who was classically beautiful. Not quite rugged enough to be handsome, but lacking in the femininity that would make him womanly. He didn't need to be treated as the woman to his host's gender confusion. He knew that that wasn't what the other man was going. He knew that Francis only had the best, purest intentions. That made the stinging pain, the kind that the singing blade leaves in its wake, that much worse.
"Not a virgin, Francis," he grunted as the three fingers stretching him pulled apart a little painfully.
"Such a pity," the Frenchman purred huskily, his deep accent throbbing through is digits and by extension; Matthew, "I would have taken great pleasure in deflowering you, chou. You would have been spoilt for any other lover." And you will be, he added silently, you will never want anyone else physically. Let me be the one to satisfy you.
"I'll believe that when I feel it," Matt said shortly, hoping the other man would take the hint.
"Lube-" Francis was cut off by Matthew's savage growl of,
"For fuck's sake!" and then his own wanton moan as he was pushed back and his pants practically ripped from his hips. The younger man felt a victorious grin of his own grace his lips before he opened them, blowing cool air over the hot tip of the Frenchman's cock, running his tongue over the crown and then just under the head; licking precum from it like drips from an ice-lolly.
It was Francis' turn to let loose with gasps and moans as Matthieu pressed the tip of his tongue to the thick vein that underscored his manhood before relaxing his throat and swallowing, the muscles of his trachea pulsing around the hot flesh. He had wondered what it would be like to feel those slightly roughened lips against the sensitised skin of his erection, and now he knew. It was better than he could have imagined. Even if jealousy boiled in his blood; this was obviously a skill learned of long practise.
"Dieu!" Francis choked out, grabbing Matt a little more forcefully than he had intended and pulling him from his cock. He glazed at the Canadian's blow-job lips, his flushed cheeks, his disarrayed hair and his heavy-lidded eyes; now almost midnight blue in their lust.
"Can we fuck now?" he demanded a little breathlessly.
"Bien sûr," the Frenchman panted dazedly, pushing Matt back the way he had come, slinging one long leg over his shoulder and wondering where exactly the most-times (but not in the sack, apparently) shy Canadian had learnt to blow cock like a professional whore. And he had seemed to enjoy it. Lining himself up, carefully he surged his hips forward, burying himself balls-deep in the demanding young man beneath him.
Listening to Matthieu's laboured breathing and the occasional keening sighs was not something he would have considered to be torturous a few minutes ago, but now? Worse than most hells he had lived through. Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to move, but he refused; not until he was given the all clear.
The 'all-clear' came in the form of the one of Matt's legs that was not slung over Francis' shoulder snaking about his waist and pulling the pleasure-drunk Canadian even closer to his French friend.
With a will, Francis pulled back and thrust back; revelling in the heat that stole is heart and his breath. Together they worked in tandem, creating a sweaty friction that was steadily driving them both, if not over the edge then at the very least insane. Matthew pushed his hips back to meet the Frenchman's in a desperate attempt to get him deeper inside, to feel the frantic possession of his body in every corner of his being. Every nerve in his body was a live wire, striped of its insulation and left bare to the horrifically delicious tortures of electric pleasure.
Francis, to his credit, had taken the hint and wasn't taking it easy on his lover, taking every opportunity he could to drag yells and moans from those lush, bitten lips, silencing him with kisses and teasing his nipples, never slowing in his juggernaut's pace.
Matthew could feel the crackling of his orgasm building up in his belly like the static of a coming storm.
"Fr-fuck-Francis!" he yelled hoarsely, his muscles clenching around that delightful intrusion, clamping down on its movements. The Frenchman grunted his assent and drove the head of his cock home into Matt's prostate. The younger man's vision flooded with static and starbursts as he came, a whisper of the elder man's name on his lips.
Francis pulled out, the constriction of his own release strangling any exclamation he may have made. He let his head drop back, panting for breath. After about a minute, in which his heaving chest calmed, the French whore looked down at Matthew, a complacent grin on his face. The Canadian was still gasping for air, his face and chest stained with the pink of debauchery.
"Well? Have I proven myself?"
Matt nodded breathlessly, "I feel like I should pay you for that. Wow. Thanks for not, you know, inside me. . ." He trailed off, his shyness coming back to him, "I hate the mess," he mumbled.
Francis nodded, "I understand it gets everywhere." The Canadian hummed his accent, frown lines marking his contemplation.
"Franc for your thoughts?" the elder asked, cleaning up their combined ejaculations. The nice thing about always being prepared for a nosebleed was that there was a box of tissues handy in every room to clean up the blood. Or the semen, you know; whatever. Speaking of, he could feel the tickle in his nose that signalled blood flow where there shouldn't be.
"You know how Antonia thinks you have at least thirteen STDs?" he asked, reality crashing down around him now that the fog of lust had burnt from his mind. The Frenchman laughed heartily;
"Speculation only. I have myself checked regularly; I'm clean. What about you?" Matt smiled ruefully,
"Spotless. I'm a neat freak. I've never even really done this," he waved a hand at Francis, "before."
"I doubt it," the elder blonde grinned, "it takes years of practise to get as good as I am."
The Canadian shook his head, sweaty hair sticking to his face, "I meant the whole spontaneous sex with a stranger thing," he muttered, looking away. Francis leant in, cupping Matthew's cheek in a calloused palm,
"Matthieu, amour," it felt so good to call him that after endless months of having the endearment perched on the very tip of his tongue, "We aren't strangers." His fingers moved to brush the damp, strawberry-blonde waves behind an ear, but Matt batted his hand away.
That was too sweet, too sincere. It was polished and refined, not like the clumsy, childish sincerity that had preceded it, but it was still too much. He wasn't ready. Not for this kind of sweetness. Francis didn't deserve such blatantly damaged goods, and he didn't deserve to feel unworthy again.
He looked at his host's hurt, confused face, wishing that he didn't need space to breathe right now. Wishing that he could just forget pain and fall onto that broad chest and snuggle. He liked to snuggle after sex. But not now. He didn't want the kind of intimacy that that implied. Or did he? He did? Didn't? He was too confused right now. He was dead tired, but he needed to take a run. He needed the adrenaline to clear his head and let his muddled thoughts flow into a cohesive unit. One that made sense of these feelings.
"I can't do this now, Francis. I'm sorry," He stood up, pulling his jeans and boxers stuffed down the side of the couch, he tugged them on, wrestling into his shirt.
Francis sat in icy stillness watching his perfect dream recoil in on itself and implode. Matthieu. Why are you getting dressed? Where are you going? Why are you leaving me? When will you be back? Will you be back at all?
"I'm going for a run. I need to think."
Please, Matthieu, please. Think about staying. Think about staying with me, exactly as we were, naked and laughing, basking in the fading strains of our lovemaking. Please. Stay with me.
"Je suis a toi," the word's slipped from the Frenchman's numb lips without his heed. I'm yours.
"I know," said Matthew as he shrugged on his jacket, shoving his feet into his shoes, sounding as though the statement weighed heavy on him, "That's what I need to think about."
~====o)0(o====~
Never thought I'd have to retire
Never thought I'd have to abstain
Never thought all this could backfire
Close up the hole in my vein.
Never thought I'd get any higher
Never thought you'd fuck with my brain
Never thought all this could expire
Never thought you'd go break the chain
Me and you baby
Used to flush all the pain away
So before I end my day, remember.
My sweet prince, you are the one.
My sweet prince, you are the one.
You are the one.
You are the one.
~====o)0(o====~
3000 words porn, 230 words plot. I am SO ashamed. So ashamed.
For my sake, just pretend this never happened, right? Okay. Just ignore the bad sex and the feeble attempts to salvage my story line. They never happened, neither of us were here. A big boy did it and- oh fuck, I have a dirty mind.
The next chapter will be the last.
~RutheLa