Inspiration: I've just spent the past 4 days dying from the stomach flu. 3:< Go, go and lavish in this random assortment of Canadian smut!! Oh, and Happy Easter, hope no one else is sick to their stomachs!
Matthew is not as content. "Come on," he says, holding out his hands for you as he slides to a stop two feet away. You quirk a smile and tell him, "Are you sure? I'll likely fall on my butt." You've had bad experiences with ice in your childhood and you're not the type of person who forgets easily. But Matthew only nods and heaves you up, immediately catching you against his chest when you accidentally stumble.
You laugh and wait for him to fix your hat, pat your gloves, fiddle with your scarf. Then he grins, and it so fully encompasses his features that it takes your breath away. "Ready?" he asks, clasping your hand in his. You dare not say how unready you actually are, with him making your heart all fluttery. You barely have time to nod before he's pushing off and sliding away, dragging you behind him. A bit faster than you're ready for.
"Oh!" you cry, tripping forward. He is just able to catch you before you fall face first onto the ice. When you peer up at him in embarrassment, you can see that he's trying not to smile. "Oh shut up!" you exclaim, not really angry. This is, after all, one of the things Matthew is innately better at. You have many talents in many things, so you're pleased when he can one up you in some way. And the way his eyes sparkle, all bright violet, all smiling, makes you want to kiss him.
"We'll take it slower," he promises, and can't stop the chuckle that drifts into the air. You scowl, just for the show of it, and he helps you back on your feet. "You sort of have to walk backwards to move forward. Here," he slides around to face you, taking both your hands. In this position, you suddenly realize how taller he is than you, a feat that is often covered up by his under confidence. But in his element, Matthew blossoms.
It gets better after that, but you can tell that the slow pace makes Matthew restless. So after a couple minutes of him guiding you around, you untangle your hands from his and say, "I think I've got the hang of it." (Even though you definitely don't and maybe never will.) Nonetheless, he seems pleased and starts to slide away so gracefully, all agile and lithe, that you don't even bother to get annoyed at how easy it had been.
You watch him as you flounder forward, inch by dreadful inch. You find yourself smiling as you wonder how he can move like that, so beautifully on the ice, and why he doesn't bring some of that gracefulness with him on land too. You're so deep in your thoughts, your attention diverted from keeping balance, that it's really no surprise when you end up on your back. You cringe cause your body is all aching from the fall, but when you open your eyes at the sky, the pain barely registers. It is a beautifully blue and white mess of clouds, threaded through with the nettles of the branches.
"[Name]! Are you alright!?" Matthew's suddenly kneeling next to you, hovering over you, leaning down to look at you. You're so overcome by that sky and his face and everything else that you start to laugh. And suddenly you're aware of how ridiculous you are, laying on the ice. And how this is probably how Matthew feels in social situations, in the face of your peculiar talents for getting out of sticky situations.
"I'm fine," you mumble when your laughter edges away. His eyes soften and you raise your hand to his cheek, suddenly aware of his proximity and the lovely fact that you are both alone. "Matthew…?" you whisper, noting at the way he seems to be unconsciously drawing nearer. He breathes out a short, "Hmm?" and his eyes drop to your lips, which he desperately wants to kiss. You prompt him by murmuring, "…Kiss me…?" And he does, gratefully.
His kiss his soft and cherished, all mixed in with snow and ice and blue skies and crisp mountain air. And then he's kissing you harder, slipping his hand beneath your head and pressing you into the ice. And you're sliding your arms around his waist, clutching at his jacket, tangling your legs with his. You don't feel cold anymore. You only feel intense, lovely heat pooling everywhere, setting the air between you afire.
The kiss dissolves. He pulls away for a very brief moment, takes one look at you (the way you're splayed out beneath him), and then delves back against your mouth because he can't possibly help himself. Not when you're looking at him like that, not when he's so high on the powerful feeling of doing something he so terribly good at.
"Mmm," you sigh against his mouth, cupping his neck and pulling him closer. His touch is both gentle and invigorating, the perfect meld of emotion and desire. And the way the cold ice presses against your back, countered only by his body as it presses flush against yours, makes your heart skip in giddy delight. You'd like to suggest that you move somewhere more private, but unfortunately your kiss is interrupted in a much more embarrassing way.
"Mommy, are they kissing?" a young girl's voice asks, loudly. Immediately, Matthew pulls away with a gasp, his face a furious red as he hurries to pull himself off of you. You slowly sit up, feeling morbid embarrassment as well, and glance toward the mother and daughter. It doesn't exactly surprise you that you've got company. This is a mountain resort, and a very sprawling one at that. You're more surprised at the lengthy amount of time you and Matthew got to spend alone.
The mother clears her throat awkwardly and begins to quietly scold her daughter. Meanwhile, Matthew pushes himself onto his feet and reaches down to help you up, still blushing. You let him pull you up and softly ask, "Wanna head back to the lodge?" Because you could do with a cup of hot cocoa right about now. (Or something stronger.)
He looks relieved at the suggestion, which makes you giggle a little. The mother and daughter are now putting their skates on, and so as you both move to the edge of the lake, you give them a small, apologetic smile. Then you hurry to put your shoes back on. You can't get to the lodge fast enough.
When you finally do, fifteen minutes later, you sit down with a tired sigh. Matthew gives you a small, knowing grin and you bite your lip to stop from laughing. Looking back on the situation, you suppose it had been a little funny. You take a deep sip of the hot chocolate Matthew bought you and nudge his foot with yours. He smiles boyishly and wraps both legs around your shins, a move that both surprises and excites you. Here, in this winter resort miles away from home, you are both able to shed some of your inhibitions. It is a lovely feeling.
"Tomorrow, I'll take you up the mountain," he tells you, reaching forward to play with your hand. He threads his fingers with yours and rubs his thumb over your palm. Then he asks, slowly, sort of hesitantly, "…Are you having fun?" And the end of his sentence seems to rush into the silence. 'Are you having fun with me?'
You look at him for a moment, then slide both your hands into his and keep them there. He blinks at you. You murmur a soft, simple, "Yes." And he can't stop the relieved smile from forming on his face. When he sees the smirk that's curling up your mouth, though, he pauses. His curiosity is blown away when you lean forward and suggest, in a voice of molded eager desire, "Let's go back to our room, Matthew." The way you say his name is like nothing he's ever heard, all wrapped up in the promises of heat and skin and closed doors and privacy. He suddenly can't wait to see those promises to fruition.
Though he doesn't give you a 'yes' or a 'no', you can see his answer boldly making its way onto his expression. He likes your suggestion. It makes you smile and stand up, taking your winter coat into your arms, your skates into your other hand, and looking expectantly at him before starting on the path to your rented room. He follows quickly.
In the elevator, you wrap your arm around his waist and fit yourself to his side. It's a normal move, for a couple. Completely innocent. And yet, there is something so exotic about touching someone you love in a public place, even if the touch is simple and common. Matthew swallows down a burst of desire (to move you closer, to press you against the elevator wall, to kiss you like he had before), and you smile because even in this silence you can read him like an open book. What you see doesn't merely amuse you: it excites you too, with the sort of passion that a person gets from the anticipation of it all.
The elevator dings and you head out into the hallway, still tucked to his side. It is fairly empty but that doesn't surprise you. Most of the guests spend their days skiing or skating or by the heated pool and it is still the middle of the afternoon. Matthew fishes out the key card when you step up to your room and slides it in. Then he reaches for the handle, peers down at you, and meets your eyes. Violet crashes behind his gaze, impatient and steady. When the door opens, you hurry inside and immediately turn to him. Before the door closes all the way, you're wrapping your arms around his shoulders and dragging him into a kiss.
His cheeks flush with gentle pink, but the way he returns your kiss cancels out all hints of his own shyness. Normally he would have spluttered and slowed. Now, with all the confidence that comes from a much needed vacation, Matthew sinks into the kiss and pulls you closer, tipping your head back as he explores the contours of your mouth.
There is little room for hesitance between the movements of his lips and the slow drag of his fingers, which snake beneath your shirt and press touches into your spine. You find yourself clutching onto him tightly, his shirt crumpled in your grasp. When you murmur, "Matthew…" he muffles the noise, swallows it, lets it shiver down his body and ignite the arousal spreading thickly through his veins. He gathers you up closer and the kiss slowly dissolves. When he opens his eyes, you're already watching him, and the sight of your bruised mouth and wide eyes and erratic breathing has his body turning to fire.
His cheeks turn to fire too, a bright red that engulfs his delicate pale skin. And you laugh a little at the sight of him, but your laugh is dark and twisty and doesn't ring with innocent amusement like it usually does. You push your body closer to his. Your lips careen, graze past his mouth but you don't kiss him. He watches you carefully, breath mingling with yours, hands hot around your waist and against your back. And then you're whispering the most lovely set of words into a breathless kiss and it makes him feel like water breaking through the constraints of a glass cage.
"I'm in love with you…Matthew…" the words merge against his skin and it sounds like little bells have been attached to the letters of his name, because he swears he's never liked hearing it so much before. His heart feels like it'll beat right out of his chest and he can't breathe, can't breathe. But then he feels your hands rubbing warmth and desire into other parts of him and his inability to breathe is pushed aside for, frankly, more important things.
Matthew has never put much stock into physical desire. Perhaps that's because he's never had anyone to be physical with. But he simply cannot get enough of your touch, of the way you're able to take his shyness and turn it into brilliant, dazzling control. He moans when you rub his erection through his pants, which bulges slightly into the air. He buries his face into your hair and stumbles against you and clenches his fists into the back of your shirt, which is still unfortunately splayed against your body.
You kiss over his jaw and press power into his skin, like little pinpricks of sharpened stars that edge over the blurry line of his vision. Then you're moving your palms up his body and lifting his shirt over his head, because there's only so much you can take right now and clothing isn't one of those things. He lets you, and when the shirt tumbles past his head, his hair and glasses become skewed in the most adorable way, and you giggle because it's so counterproductive, that adorableness. It's supposed to be hot and erotic and sensual, but being with Matthew always turns into something that transcends that. Something that has more to do with comfort and zealousness and yes, a shred of that sensuality.
You splay your fingers over his bare chest, still smiling. You watch him push his glasses back into place, run a hand through his hair. Then he glances down at you and gives you a little pouty look that makes him even more adorable, and you can't stop yourself from laughing. Because in this hotel room, a million miles from home, that comfort and zealousness all careen into you and him. And it doesn't even matter that you can never seem to get the erotica down pat like other lovers can. It doesn't matter because it's easier like this, smoother, like white wine and snow stretched as far as can be seen.
"What is it?" Matthew asks after a moment. The way you're looking at him makes him curious, maybe a little hesitant. He watches your smile crease up into your eyes and you hum pleasantly. "You're cute," you tell him, closing the space between your bodies. He swallows a little, tries to push down the butterflies that always, always erupt within him when you're near. Then he smiles a little and shakes his head, looking down at you and murmuring, "Aren't we supposed to be making love?"
It's the closest thing to kinky that Matthew's ever said. He seems to have realized this as well and blushes. But you only smirk, lean up and kiss the edge of his mouth, thumb over the heat of his blush. Then you nod and say, "You're right." And you chuckle because before Matthew came hurtling into your life, you'd never gotten caught up in someone's smile. But when he smiles you're lost like a lone ship at sea, and you forget about everything else you'd planned to do with him. But now you remember.
You slide your hands down his arms, you light touch tickling into his skin. The tips of your fingers gently slip down his hands, brush into his palms, his knuckles, before your arms drop to your sides. You tilt your head back and look at him, and in a sultry-but-lighthearted sort of voice, you breathe, "Undress me." Then you watch his reaction to your words, the delicious shiver that he cannot control, the gentle blush that tips against his neck and ears, the sheen of bashful interest that turns his gaze into a beautifully scintillating promise.
"Undress you…" he whispers, like he can't quite believe the words. Like he isn't sure how to go about it, because now that he thinks of it, he's never just undressed you before. You'd always had a part in it, and you'd always been pressed up against him and kissing him and in the heat of the moment. But it had never been like this: dry like a desert and a million times more callow.
You raise an eyebrow and smirk. "Mm. Undress me." You step forward and he can feel the heat of your body invade his skin. And he wonders if you can hear his heartbeat because it's so loud, to him. And it rattles right through his flesh like torrid, barren bones that clack into a jumbled, incoherent, skeletal mess.
His fingers are shaking when he raises them up to touch your waist. He steps closer, looking down at you with those bright eyes. And you smile, this time softly, like you're trying to convey to him that he doesn't have to be afraid of you, that he can touch you as much as he likes because you like it, too. He sighs out (torrid, barren), and slips his fingers around the hem of your shirt. He pulls it up and off of you, and you gently circle your arms around his waist.
His violet eyes lurch into yours just as his fingers trim around your waist. Carefully, like he's inhaling all the stars in the sky, Matthew leans down and presses his lips against yours. You don't kiss him back. You only immerse yourself in the delicate, sweet way he tucks kisses against your skin, lightly pulls at your bottom lip, scraps his teeth softly at your sensitive flesh. And as he kisses you, distracts himself, falls into the promise of your love, he slowly unbuttons your jeans and jostles them down over your hips.
This time, you help him. Your jeans hit the floor and you kiss him back, mirroring the slow passion of his movements. Kissing him like this is like sitting in a dark theater listening to opera. The thrill of the pitch, the way it zigzags through the atmosphere, like you can physically feel the song digging into your skin and nerves and sinew. And the way the reverberations chill down your spine and glide, break, attack, whisper. And immersed in the imperfect beauty of a gentle but robust and raw and ragged darkness, kissing and breathing and making love seems to be the only course of action one should ever need to take.
His fingers pepper touches along your thighs, the tops of them, the sides of them, like he's blinded by the warmth of your body, the way it crushes into his. Then he tumbles that touch to your panties, drags them down over your hips. The kiss dissolves into silence, into an intermission, and the last note of the opera rings into his gaze as he directs it at you. Your panties drop to the floor. He raises his hands to unclip your bra and watches your every movement as he removes it. The atmosphere is suddenly not adorable any more. It is loaded, smoky like a slowly smoldering incense, creased with the empowered quiet that often accompanies sex.
You raise your fingers to his temples, curl them into his hair, bring his head down. You press your breasts against him and he sighs out at the feel of your bareness pressed against his bareness. Then you kiss him and the opera shatters into the dangerous lilt of deep baritone and you can't stop kissing him because it's so addictive.
"Mmm…you're still…wearing…those jeans…" you hear yourself whisper, but it's more like a dark murmur twisted through with the growling reverberation of passion. And Matthew shudders at the sound of your words, the way they sink into the air and make it sizzle against his skin.
You push him back, gently, until the bed is looming up behind you and Matthew's falling backwards onto it. He looks surprised to be suddenly laying down. His eyes are messy with desire and wide, so wide as he looks up at you. His hair is strewn across his forehead and splayed against the sheets. His glass are skewed again. And there is no way he's adorable anymore, not at all. Not when his jeans are hanging low on his hips. Not when the tent of his pants has grown and his body has turned into a flushed and unmistakably aroused mess.
You follow him down, hook your legs around the both of his and straddle him. Then you sinks against his core, rub circles against his erection and watch him gasp and clutch the sheets hard. Your body hums in anticipation. The reminder that your lover is hard and aroused and yours makes you feel delirious and crazy. So it's no surprise that you waste little time in unzipping his pants.
"Help me out," you murmur to him. He lifts his hips and helps you shimmy his jeans down his thighs. You leave them hanging off him like that, not particularly caring that they're still clinging to his legs. He doesn't care much either, because then your hand is pumping his length and he's too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
"A-Ahh…" he gasps, staring down at you. The sight of your hand around his cock is almost too much for him to handle. He bucks his hips up and clenches his teeth hard when your thumb brushes over his tip. "[N-Name]…ahh, pl-please hurry…up…!" And you can't possibly deny him when he's begging for you like this. So you give him one last pump and crawl up his body, slowly starting to take him inside you.
His shaft is hard like iron and spears into you like nothing else. Matthew's eyes are blown like twin eclipses, and he watches you closely as his cock is pressed ever further into you. His chest rises and falls hurriedly and you splay your hands against it, brushing your touch over his nipples. Then, when he's fully immersed within your core, you lift your hips and drag him out of you, then slam back down. He crumbles, deteriorates, fragments into a thousand little pieces and sinks right into the mattress. His mouth parts and his eyes turn into molten purple. You're quick to press yourself against him, and quicker to take his mouth with yours.
The movements of your lips are sloppy at best, but then again you don't really care about being neat at this point. The wind rushes at the window outside and rattles the glass. The bed starts to creak from your thrusts and the weight of your bodies. But all you can think about is Matthew, laying prone beneath you, gasping against your mouth neck the hollow of your ear, clutching at your waist and hips like he's drowning.
In some ways, he is. He's drowning within you, searching and yearning and giving into the mesh of emotion that clings like raindrops to his flesh. And he wants to drown, so so badly. He wants to fall into that sliver of peaceful, dark silence and come. And perhaps it's the loaded atmosphere, but already Matthew can feel his end approaching.
He gasps and thrusts up, meeting your hips halfway and rattling a moan from you. You bury your face into his neck and the mattress below. His fingers reach up and he tugs at your hair, pulling gently but firmly with one hand. His other hand clenches over your rear, pulling at your skin as his orgasm begins to shake through him.
"[Name]!" his back arches just a little, just enough to make you feel yet another push of satisfied desire at the sight of his helplessness. "I can't stop! I can't -- nng!" His coming before either of your are prepared, but if anything it's utterly sexy and you have to pull away so you can watch him. His hips buck up into yours senselessly, his face crumples with desperate emotion, and his body spins off into a brilliant, flushed display of his finish. It's so erotic that you can't stop your own body from reacting to it.
You feel the crease of your own end infiltrating your body, but it's not enough. Your thrusts quicken. You push down his hips and milk him clean and feel his release saturate the very deepest part of you, and you watch him gasp and pant as you gloriously drag out his orgasm and search for your own.
It comes to you like a lone star dazzling across the sky, poignant and bright. All at once you're moaning and thrusting harder and he's touching you reverently as he watches from below, eyes wide like he's witnessing the most lovely thing in the entire world. And when finally it's over, all you can do is fall against his chest and try to find the breath that you've long ago lost.
He wraps his arm tight around you and sighs. The both of your are numb with satisfaction, hot and diluted with the fullness of sex. You raise your head just a little and look down at him, and Matthew gives you a soft, small smile that makes you chuckle. You run your hand through his hair and brush your thumb over the edge of his glasses, still skewed on his face.
"I like going on vacations with you," you decide, grinning crookedly. He hums, closes his eyes, and falls back. You follow, snuggled up as close as a lover, comfortable and hungry for his presence.
"We should do this more often," he says tiredly in response. You're unsure if he's talking about the actual vacation or the mindblowing sex that accompanies it, but then again you don't suppose it matters. So you hum in agreement and press a kiss to his jaw, sighing out in exhaustion.
Outside, the wind shrieks and rattles, and the daytime sun forms dove gray shadows over the floor. Inside, you fall into a gentle sleep that is made out of bare skin and tired sighs and comfort and zealousness. And somewhere, sometime, in some dark theater, a curtain slowly drops in a powerful clutch of heavy velvet, and the last note of a tragic story splits through the quiet stillness of the audience like two comets colliding.