fic: The Form Will Hold You
Sunday, 16 May 2010 23:27![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
extemporallyThe Form Will Hold You
Johnny/Stéphane
NC-17
3721 words
Written for, and partially filled at this prompt at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wintergameskink. A sequel to Aptly Laced!
Title from Kate Light's How Sonnets Are Like Bungee Jumping.
Betaed bynova33, who was a lovely rockstar as always. ♥
The corset cuts lower than Johnny expected – there’s a whole expanse of bare skin from the top of Stéphane’s shoulders, down to the valley of his chest.
I disclaim.
“This hurts,” Stéphane says. His voice sounds kind of constricted.
Johnny stops tugging at the strings and slides a hand around to the front of Stéphane's body. He holds Stéphane lightly, but enough to make sure Stéphane can still feel it, through the ribbing and fabric of the corset. Johnny's places his mouth lightly on the shell of Stéphane's ear, where Stéphane can feel his breath coming hot on against his skin.
“Awww, poor baby,” he coos, and Stéphane turns his head and casts a slightly irritated look at Johnny. “Does it really?”
“... no,” Stéphane admits. As Johnny goes back to tying up the ribbons on the corset, Stéphane takes one or two deep breaths, as if he's trying to figure out how much space his lungs have. Not a lot, Johnny thinks. But it's okay. It should be okay.
“Done,” Johnny says, making the last knot on the little bow at the end. He straightens up and looks at Stéphane. Stéphane has good posture – all figure skaters do -- but now his back seems even straighter. Johnny pushes at Stéphane's hip and there's no give. Stéphane can't cock his hip and he looks at Johnny, eyes liquid.
“It's hard to move,” he says. “And we are going out dancing.”
“Yes,” Johnny agrees. “But look at you.”
He cups Stéphane's jaw, as if Stéphane is a doll he can play with, just for today, and makes him look in the mirror. Johnny looks in the mirror too, and sees his own reflection there. Then he shifts his gaze to Stéphane's image in the glass.
It works well, the fabric richly blue against Stéphane’s collarbones. The corset cuts lower than Johnny expected – there’s a whole expanse of bare skin from the top of Stéphane’s shoulders, down to the valley of his chest. Johnny shifts his eyes down. Perhaps it's just a psychological thing, but Stéphane really does look like he has a smaller waist already. He's got his black jeans on, the pair made out of quality denim and cut well, and they show off Stéphane’s legs. Johnny picked those out for him in Tokyo.
“It has to be tight,” Johnny says, kissing Stéphane's cheek, “Because you don't have any breasts. Do you think the corset's going to fall down?”
Stéphane laughs. Actually, it's halfway between a laugh and a groan. “I don't think that’s going to happen any time soon.”
He picks up his t-shirt from the bathroom counter and puts it on, before shrugging on his blazer. Then he turns to leave. “Shall we get a taxi?” he asks.
“Wait a moment,” Johnny says, and steps forward, pinning a brooch to Stéphane's lapel. Stéphane blinks in surprise. “I bought it in Camden,” Johnny says. “I thought you'd like it.” It's a ladybug, and the red of its enamel shines brightly as Stéphane gazes down on it.
“Thank you, Johnny.” Stéphane squeezes his hand and leans forward for a kiss, but he can't incline his body without a lot of awkwardness, so he stops after a moment and simply lifts his face, eyes closed. Johnny pauses for a moment, makes Stéphane wait, before moving closer and kissing him quick, tongue darting against Stéphane's lips. Stéphane opens his mouth, but Johnny darts away again.
“Let's go,” he says. “The night is still young. And no, we're taking the train.”
---
London is dark, foggy and cold at this time of the day.
Not here, Johnny thinks, squeezing Stéphane’s hand as they wait for the train. The underground feels cavernous, but it’s warmer than it was outside, partly because the station’s crowded. Stéphane leans close.
“I want a mangotini,” he says, nuzzling at Johnny’s jaw. “You’re going to buy me so many mangotinis, and then we are going to get very, very drunk, and we’re going to dance and then you’re going to bring me back to the hotel and you are going to undo this damn thing and we’re going to have sex.”
“Have it all planned out already, don’t you,” Johnny says. He isn’t irritated by this – not exactly, but he wonders how Stéphane would react if he was, how Stéphane would be if Johnny looks at him sternly. He can feel his blood buzzing in his veins.
The real Stéphane hums happily, snuggles further in.
Johnny slips a hand under Stéphane’s blazer and moves his hand up Stéphane’s back, stopping to press at Stéphane’s shoulderblade, the part of it where satin meets skin. He knows, he knows it’s one of Stéphane’s erogenous zones, and he knows Stéphane’s going to react. True to form, Stéphane’s eyes widen and he jerks back, looking at Johnny.
“Stand up straight,” Johnny says.
When Stéphane draws in his eyebrows like that Johnny’s reminded of them as teenagers, the way Stéphane used to look before he grew into his eyebrows. He looks so very young. And Johnny wonders, again, if this time he’s gone too far.
But Stéphane obeys anyway and his posture goes ramrod, chin out, staring straight in front of him. Johnny reaches up more and curves his fingers around the hollow of Stéphane’s neck and shoulders. He hopes it says what he means, because he can’t trust himself to say it right now, exactly. He drops his hand.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Stéphane nods, still looking straight ahead. Still in that military pose.
“Look at me,” Johnny orders softly.
Stéphane turns his eyes on Johnny, and Johnny has to collect himself. Stéphane’s fringe is flopping into his eyes – his hair’s too long, Johnny knows he meant to go for a haircut but forgot – but he doesn’t move to sweep it out of his eyes like he normally would.
Johnny runs a thumb under Stéphane’s fringe, and Stéphane closes his eyes and presses closer, while still maintaining the same pose.
“If I tell you what to do,” Johnny says, “How to move and what to drink and where to go for the rest of tonight, do you think you’d like that?”
Stéphane’s quiet, for a long long while. Johnny’s vaguely aware of the crowds jostling near him, but he doesn’t really care about that, all background noise. Where it really counts, all is silent.
“Yes,” Stéphane says, tongue parting the seam of his lips. “Yes, Johnny.”
“Okay,” Johnny says. He really wants to say something else, something like if you’re sure you’re fine with it or if you trust me, but he doesn’t, and the train arrives.
---
It’s a serendipitous experience, but for the three stops of their train journey, they actually get seats. Johnny sits on Stéphane’s left and lays his hand on Stéphane’s thigh, fingers pressing on the inside, against the trouser seams.
---
The club they’ve chosen is big and crowded and has flashy neon lights, and suddenly there’s nothing Johnny wants more than to throw himself into the middle of the dancefloor and grind with Stéphane, loud and obnoxious and dirty, but he refrains for the moment. His hand loosely encircling Stéphane’s wrist, Johnny leads him over to the bar where there’s a cute blonde guy bartending.
“He’s cute,” Johnny murmurs into Stéphane’s ear. “You should flirt with him, I think it’d be hot.”
Stéphane doesn’t say anything, but he looks at Johnny with barely-disguised disbelief, and Johnny rolls his eyes. “Not fuck,” he says, “I mean just flirt,” and damn Stéphane, because he’s not saying anything but he’s smiling.
When they slide onto their barstools the man comes over and says, “And what do you want, guys?”
Stéphane looks at Johnny. Johnny looks back pointedly. “What do you want?”
It’s a trip, deliberately given to make Stéphane stumble – obviously he was meant to order, Johnny knows this, part of the whole what to do and how to move and where to go thing also involves what kind of drinks they order – and Stéphane actually blushes, but he doesn’t open his mouth and he thinks a little bit and then he says, “Martini, please.”
It isn’t enough. “I think you should order for me,” Johnny says, and then he hooks his ankle around Stéphane and Stéphane jolts, “because I’m not really sure what I want.”
Johnny hopes Stéphane doesn’t order anything too outlandish.
Stéphane orders a raspberry mojito – he turns to Johnny and says, “You like raspberries,” in a voice that isn’t quite tentative – and the man moves off.
“Fruity,” Johnny says, and laughs a little bit. He leans back on the backless bar stool, arching and rolling his spine. Stéphane, he’s noticed, is still completely arrow-straight. Johnny wonders if anyone on the outside would be able to tell. He can feel the tension emanating from Stéphane, and feels slightly chastened. He puts his hand on Stéphane’s back and rubs his spine, once, twice, three times. Stéphane looks at him, eyes questioning and mouth not actually smiling.
The moment’s broken when the man places their drinks in front of them, announces their names and makes as if to break away. Johnny presses on Stéphane’s spine, hard enough that he’s sure Stéphane can feel it, through the two layers and the boning of the corset. Time to act, quick. Flirt.
“Do you, uh,” Stéphane says, “Do you work here all days of the week?”
The man’s surprised, but not, Johnny thinks, because he doesn’t enjoy this attention. No, it’s more because of the fact that this guy’s got someone whom the bartender read as his boyfriend sitting next to him. But he answers civilly, politely. Friendly, even.
“No,” he says. “Just three nights a week, I’m afraid. I’d like to work more, but things are how they are.”
“It is very sad,” Stéphane agrees, cheekbones prominent when he smiles. “I will be hoping you work more here, too,” and Johnny has to marvel at how easy Stéphane’s charm, how beautiful he is.
The man laughs, and studiously avoids looking at Johnny. Clever, Johnny thinks, and feels a little bit bad. “Thanks,” he says. “Are you in London for long?”
“Oh, yes,” Stéphane says, and Johnny blinks. “I just moved here, for my – for my job,” – a fact which Johnny was previously unaware of; he smiles wryly – “and I want to meet new people. Your name?”
“Joshua,” Joshua says. “I could show you around the city sometime, if you’d like that.” Stéphane smiles, but before he can say anything Joshua’s called off to another corner of the bar by some people.
"Just moved here for your job," Johnny says, nudging Stéphane with his elbow.
Stéphane smiles. "You told me to flirt, so I made up something," he says. It's true. Stéphane lies a little bit every time he does something he doesn't want to do, or he shuts down and goes blank, polite. It's harder when you're flirting, Johnny thinks.
Their corner of the club's dark, but still Johnny watches Stéphane's face carefully when he says, "Didn't say you could speak," and misses, almost misses, the small tremor that runs over Stéphane. His face is non-committal, eyes half-closed and mouth open.
Johnny slides off his stool and pats Stéphane's hand softly. "Stay here," he says. "I'm gonna dance."
As he hurries off to the dance floor, he can feel Stéphane's gaze on the back of his neck. Johnny isn't looking, but pictures Stéphane twisted around from the bar, legs opened wider than he'd like.
---
Johnny tries to lose himself in the push of the crowd. He ends up next to a girl whom he winks at cheekily, and they grind against each other casually for a while until her girlfriend comes and whisks her away to some other part of the club. Johnny can feel the sweat pooling on his collarbones and rolls his hips in a loose jive, experimentally, not really used to it yet. He wonders if Stéphane can afford to dance, if the corset wouldn’t be too restrictive. Because he's a selfish fuck, he decides to make Stéphane dance anyway.
Johnny wends his way through the crowd and returns to the bar. He's kind of surprised to see Stéphane alone, still -- usually Stéphane gets picked up really easily, judging from those times they hung out after Worlds, or Skate Canada, or whatever. One time a guy even kissed Stéphane’s hand, and Stéphane had laughed and thought it charming.
“Hey,” Johnny says, leaning over Stéphane. Stéphane looks up, and Johnny's even more conscious of his bodily sweat, from his brief half-hour on the dancefloor. Stéphane smells of alcohol, but beneath that, still soap and cologne.
“Want to dance?”
Stéphane nods, grasps Johnny's outstretched hand and gets up.
“Can you?” Johnny asks, suddenly concerned. “Will you be okay?” They're standing close, now.
Stéphane smiles, evidently decides it's okay to speak. “I'll be fine,” he says. “Johnny.”
Johnny knows it's ridiculous, but he's careful, still, as he leads Stéphane down to the dance floor.
---
Johnny finds himself cradling Stéphane awkwardly, shielding him from the push of the other dancers. It's kind of stupid -- Stéphane's strong, and he can fend for himself, corset or no, but Johnny does it anyway. Eventually he lets go and allows his hands to drop to Stéphane's hips, dancing up close to him and meeting his eyes.
Stéphane's looking at Johnny, eyes intense, and Johnny allows himself to lean in further for a kiss. Stéphane's lips are warm, and his mouth is wet. When Johnny pulls away his head's buzzing from the alcohol he had, shared on their tongues. They could go home now, or. Johnny doesn’t know exactly. He stays where he is, close to but still separate from Stéphane, weighing his options.
“Go to the bathroom,” Johnny says. Stéphane looks at him quizzically. “And wait for me there. Okay?”
Stéphane nods, and Johnny can't resist it, even though this isn't part of the game. He leans forward and kisses Stéphane again, quick, and mutters, "I love you." Then he turns Stéphane around, both hands on his shoulders, and pushes at his back in the middle of his shoulder blades. “Go now,” Johnny says.
Johnny dances by himself for a while, waiting for the song to finish and feeling mildly stupid. Someone rolls by and roars in his ear, gibberish, and that jerks Johnny out of the headspace he's in. He holds his ear and glares at the drunk. It's a guy with broad shoulders, stupid t-shirt.
“Sorry, sorry,” his friend says, steering Asshole away. “He's drunk.” And then they're off.
“I couldn't tell,” Johnny says, to no one in particular. Then he pulls out his phone, checks the time. The song changes.
He wheels around and makes for the bathroom.
---
Johnny raps sharply at the bathroom before he pushes in anyway, just to be careful. He opens the door and Stéphane's there, alone, perched on the sink. He hadn't made any move towards the door, and as Johnny locks the door behind him, he remains still. It's a single-cubicle bathroom.
“Are you having a good time?” Johnny murmurs. Then: “Wait, no. Don't speak.”
A strange look passes across Stéphane’s face, and Johnny can tell that he wants to say that he hadn't planned to. As it is Stéphane just tosses his head petulantly before he nods.
"That's good," Johnny says, stepping closer. He pushes at the hem of Stéphane’s t-shirt, and crouches down, steps into kneeling position and looks up. From this angle Stéphane’s chin is prominent, and Johnny suddenly wants to kiss it.
Stéphane's t-shirt's all rucked up, revealing the blue satin of the corset beneath.
“Did anyone see?” Johnny murmurs. “Your corset. Did anyone see?”
Stéphane just shakes his head.
“So that's why you were so careful,” Johnny says, considering. “It wasn’t the tightness, was it, it was the fact that you didn't want anyone to see.”
Stéphane looks up, and Johnny can tell he's gearing up for a -- something, a confrontation maybe.
“S'good,” Johnny says. “I didn't want anyone to see, either.”
He leans forward slowly, as if for a kiss, but he's kneeling and Stéphane’s still nearly sitting, braced, on the sink. Johnny places his hands behind his back deliberately and looks up again, resting his cheek on Stéphane’s thigh. Eyes wide, Stéphane reaches down, undoes his pants. Then he curls a hand around Johnny's cheek and guides him to his dick.
Johnny bears down, trying to take as much as he can into his mouth. His hands aren't there to steady him, but Stéphane is, his own feet just barely touching the floor and his body tense, scared to scrabble for firmer purchase.
Johnny flattens his tongue against the underside of Stéphane’s cock and gasps, ugly, because he's nearly out of breath but he doesn't want to give up. Not yet, not ever. Stéphane’s trembling beneath him and Johnny can tell he’s close, already.
Stéphane’s hand lands on Johnny's head.
He doesn't tug Johnny closer, just moans louder, and the sound goes straight to Johnny's dick. He wants this, he wants this. Johnny thinks about reaching down a hand to get himself off while he sucks Stéphane, the weight of him heavy in Johnny's mouth, but he resists. His hands stay behind his back, because he can hold back on this. He knows he can.
Johnny looks up and Stéphane's eyes are screwed shut, knuckles white against the porcelain of the sink. He bobs his head a little and Stéphane opens his eyes, looks at him. Johnny breathes in through his nose, takes in the smell of Stéphane's cologne and the sharpness of his sweat. Carefully -- oh so carefully -- he presses in a little further, going as deep as he can.
Stéphane arches his back and comes, his body one long line from the tip of his chin down to his stomach. Johnny swallows then pulls off, grinning. He rocks back on his heels and starts palming at his dick desperately. He can’t wait, not now. Why did he ever wait?
“I could help you with that,” Stéphane observes, voice lazy, leaning against the sink. His feet are firmly on the ground now.
Johnny can't even bear to look up, because he's edged down the zipper on his jeans. He's stroking his dick, fast. His jeans are probably all but ruined, knees dirtied by the unclean floor but he can't bring himself to care about that yet. Regrets are for later.
Stéphane seizes Johnny by the wrist and drags him up, and says, “No, I'll do it.”
He's edging Johnny against the door and puts his right hand to Johnny's mouth. Johnny spits, and Stéphane smiles. He brings the hand down and then he's touching Johnny, quick and fast and sure, and Johnny's mouth drops open. He immediately regrets every time he's ever made fun of Stéphane's sex faces, because he's sure he looks even more ridiculous now.
Stéphane stops. Johnny moans a little, his hips urging him upwards. Stéphane's hand is still there, a loose circle around Johnny's dick.
"Move," Stéphane says in his ear. Somehow he’s maneuvered himself behind Johnny, and he's pressed all along behind Johnny's back. Johnny can’t even bring himself to think. He just thrusts into Stéphane's fist over and over again, Stéphane urging him on up out everywhere, and then he comes and sags against Stéphane, who sneaks an arm around his waist.
“Urgh,” Johnny says, pushing at Stéphane, who hums happily and holds on even tighter. His afterglow's kicked in and he feels slightly gross and sweaty, the way he always does after sex. Stéphane's learnt that it isn't anything personal.
“You should clean up,” Stéphane says, nodding over at the taps, and fuck but Johnny loves his boyfriend, because he understands.
Johnny washes his face, his hands. Then he grabs a paper towel and puts it under the tap, cleans up his dick. Stéphane watches from the side, and he's grinning amusedly.
“You should clean up too, Stéphane,” Johnny says as prissily as he can.
Stéphane shakes his head and comes forward, wrapping his arms around Johnny and tucking his head into Johnny's shoulder. Johnny squawks, mock outrage, and tries to bat him off, but Stéphane holds on so tight Johnny couldn’t possibly succeed. He never does.
“It's so unfair,” Stéphane mumbles, still speaking into Johnny's skin, “We had sex earlier today as well and I got two blowjobs, and you didn't have one.”
Johnny smiles. It's hard not to when Stéphane keeps count. He's also oddly touched, and he swallows past it, brings a hand up to touch Stéphane's hair.
“Well, I got to fuck you,” he says instead. “More than makes up for it.” Stéphane raises his head, and Johnny watches his beam through the mirror.
---
They go home in a cab. “Gloucester Hotel, please,” Johnny tells the driver, and they move off silently through the London streets. Stéphane settles his head comfortably in Johnny's lap, and Johnny would protest, only he just. Doesn't. He looks out of the window instead and sweeps his thumb over Stéphane's eyebrows again.
Stéphane mumbles sleepily. Johnny resists the urge to start a tickle fight right there in the cab.
---
By the time they're actually back in their room the fatigue kicks in, and Johnny's swaying on his feet as he swipes the keycard into the slot. The door whirrs, opens, and they stumble in.
Stéphane shucks his t-shirt off quickly, folds it up and puts it on the dresser. Johnny notices and feels pleased, then turns his attention to Stéphane.
Once again Johnny can't stop staring at the way the shining blue stands out against his chest, pale and sticky with vestigial sweat. He wants to smudge kisses all along the part where the satin meets skin. Johnny reaches out again, leading with his right hand. He touches the boning right above where Stéphane's ribs are. Stéphane makes a soft noise, something that sounds like a cross between hrrmph and Johnny. Johnny turns and looks at him questioningly.
“When I was wearing it,” Stéphane says, “It felt -- special. It was so great, my feeling of belonging to you, Johnny.” Johnny can tell that from the careful way he shapes his mouth, that Stéphane spent a long time thinking of how to parse what he just said, in this moment, now.
“Me too,” Johnny says. He turns Stéphane around and finally undoes the ribboned lacing there, eases the corset off him.
Johnny/Stéphane
NC-17
3721 words
Written for, and partially filled at this prompt at
wintergameskink. A sequel to Aptly Laced!Title from Kate Light's How Sonnets Are Like Bungee Jumping.
Betaed by
nova33, who was a lovely rockstar as always. ♥The corset cuts lower than Johnny expected – there’s a whole expanse of bare skin from the top of Stéphane’s shoulders, down to the valley of his chest.
I disclaim.
“This hurts,” Stéphane says. His voice sounds kind of constricted.
Johnny stops tugging at the strings and slides a hand around to the front of Stéphane's body. He holds Stéphane lightly, but enough to make sure Stéphane can still feel it, through the ribbing and fabric of the corset. Johnny's places his mouth lightly on the shell of Stéphane's ear, where Stéphane can feel his breath coming hot on against his skin.
“Awww, poor baby,” he coos, and Stéphane turns his head and casts a slightly irritated look at Johnny. “Does it really?”
“... no,” Stéphane admits. As Johnny goes back to tying up the ribbons on the corset, Stéphane takes one or two deep breaths, as if he's trying to figure out how much space his lungs have. Not a lot, Johnny thinks. But it's okay. It should be okay.
“Done,” Johnny says, making the last knot on the little bow at the end. He straightens up and looks at Stéphane. Stéphane has good posture – all figure skaters do -- but now his back seems even straighter. Johnny pushes at Stéphane's hip and there's no give. Stéphane can't cock his hip and he looks at Johnny, eyes liquid.
“It's hard to move,” he says. “And we are going out dancing.”
“Yes,” Johnny agrees. “But look at you.”
He cups Stéphane's jaw, as if Stéphane is a doll he can play with, just for today, and makes him look in the mirror. Johnny looks in the mirror too, and sees his own reflection there. Then he shifts his gaze to Stéphane's image in the glass.
It works well, the fabric richly blue against Stéphane’s collarbones. The corset cuts lower than Johnny expected – there’s a whole expanse of bare skin from the top of Stéphane’s shoulders, down to the valley of his chest. Johnny shifts his eyes down. Perhaps it's just a psychological thing, but Stéphane really does look like he has a smaller waist already. He's got his black jeans on, the pair made out of quality denim and cut well, and they show off Stéphane’s legs. Johnny picked those out for him in Tokyo.
“It has to be tight,” Johnny says, kissing Stéphane's cheek, “Because you don't have any breasts. Do you think the corset's going to fall down?”
Stéphane laughs. Actually, it's halfway between a laugh and a groan. “I don't think that’s going to happen any time soon.”
He picks up his t-shirt from the bathroom counter and puts it on, before shrugging on his blazer. Then he turns to leave. “Shall we get a taxi?” he asks.
“Wait a moment,” Johnny says, and steps forward, pinning a brooch to Stéphane's lapel. Stéphane blinks in surprise. “I bought it in Camden,” Johnny says. “I thought you'd like it.” It's a ladybug, and the red of its enamel shines brightly as Stéphane gazes down on it.
“Thank you, Johnny.” Stéphane squeezes his hand and leans forward for a kiss, but he can't incline his body without a lot of awkwardness, so he stops after a moment and simply lifts his face, eyes closed. Johnny pauses for a moment, makes Stéphane wait, before moving closer and kissing him quick, tongue darting against Stéphane's lips. Stéphane opens his mouth, but Johnny darts away again.
“Let's go,” he says. “The night is still young. And no, we're taking the train.”
---
London is dark, foggy and cold at this time of the day.
Not here, Johnny thinks, squeezing Stéphane’s hand as they wait for the train. The underground feels cavernous, but it’s warmer than it was outside, partly because the station’s crowded. Stéphane leans close.
“I want a mangotini,” he says, nuzzling at Johnny’s jaw. “You’re going to buy me so many mangotinis, and then we are going to get very, very drunk, and we’re going to dance and then you’re going to bring me back to the hotel and you are going to undo this damn thing and we’re going to have sex.”
“Have it all planned out already, don’t you,” Johnny says. He isn’t irritated by this – not exactly, but he wonders how Stéphane would react if he was, how Stéphane would be if Johnny looks at him sternly. He can feel his blood buzzing in his veins.
The real Stéphane hums happily, snuggles further in.
Johnny slips a hand under Stéphane’s blazer and moves his hand up Stéphane’s back, stopping to press at Stéphane’s shoulderblade, the part of it where satin meets skin. He knows, he knows it’s one of Stéphane’s erogenous zones, and he knows Stéphane’s going to react. True to form, Stéphane’s eyes widen and he jerks back, looking at Johnny.
“Stand up straight,” Johnny says.
When Stéphane draws in his eyebrows like that Johnny’s reminded of them as teenagers, the way Stéphane used to look before he grew into his eyebrows. He looks so very young. And Johnny wonders, again, if this time he’s gone too far.
But Stéphane obeys anyway and his posture goes ramrod, chin out, staring straight in front of him. Johnny reaches up more and curves his fingers around the hollow of Stéphane’s neck and shoulders. He hopes it says what he means, because he can’t trust himself to say it right now, exactly. He drops his hand.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Stéphane nods, still looking straight ahead. Still in that military pose.
“Look at me,” Johnny orders softly.
Stéphane turns his eyes on Johnny, and Johnny has to collect himself. Stéphane’s fringe is flopping into his eyes – his hair’s too long, Johnny knows he meant to go for a haircut but forgot – but he doesn’t move to sweep it out of his eyes like he normally would.
Johnny runs a thumb under Stéphane’s fringe, and Stéphane closes his eyes and presses closer, while still maintaining the same pose.
“If I tell you what to do,” Johnny says, “How to move and what to drink and where to go for the rest of tonight, do you think you’d like that?”
Stéphane’s quiet, for a long long while. Johnny’s vaguely aware of the crowds jostling near him, but he doesn’t really care about that, all background noise. Where it really counts, all is silent.
“Yes,” Stéphane says, tongue parting the seam of his lips. “Yes, Johnny.”
“Okay,” Johnny says. He really wants to say something else, something like if you’re sure you’re fine with it or if you trust me, but he doesn’t, and the train arrives.
---
It’s a serendipitous experience, but for the three stops of their train journey, they actually get seats. Johnny sits on Stéphane’s left and lays his hand on Stéphane’s thigh, fingers pressing on the inside, against the trouser seams.
---
The club they’ve chosen is big and crowded and has flashy neon lights, and suddenly there’s nothing Johnny wants more than to throw himself into the middle of the dancefloor and grind with Stéphane, loud and obnoxious and dirty, but he refrains for the moment. His hand loosely encircling Stéphane’s wrist, Johnny leads him over to the bar where there’s a cute blonde guy bartending.
“He’s cute,” Johnny murmurs into Stéphane’s ear. “You should flirt with him, I think it’d be hot.”
Stéphane doesn’t say anything, but he looks at Johnny with barely-disguised disbelief, and Johnny rolls his eyes. “Not fuck,” he says, “I mean just flirt,” and damn Stéphane, because he’s not saying anything but he’s smiling.
When they slide onto their barstools the man comes over and says, “And what do you want, guys?”
Stéphane looks at Johnny. Johnny looks back pointedly. “What do you want?”
It’s a trip, deliberately given to make Stéphane stumble – obviously he was meant to order, Johnny knows this, part of the whole what to do and how to move and where to go thing also involves what kind of drinks they order – and Stéphane actually blushes, but he doesn’t open his mouth and he thinks a little bit and then he says, “Martini, please.”
It isn’t enough. “I think you should order for me,” Johnny says, and then he hooks his ankle around Stéphane and Stéphane jolts, “because I’m not really sure what I want.”
Johnny hopes Stéphane doesn’t order anything too outlandish.
Stéphane orders a raspberry mojito – he turns to Johnny and says, “You like raspberries,” in a voice that isn’t quite tentative – and the man moves off.
“Fruity,” Johnny says, and laughs a little bit. He leans back on the backless bar stool, arching and rolling his spine. Stéphane, he’s noticed, is still completely arrow-straight. Johnny wonders if anyone on the outside would be able to tell. He can feel the tension emanating from Stéphane, and feels slightly chastened. He puts his hand on Stéphane’s back and rubs his spine, once, twice, three times. Stéphane looks at him, eyes questioning and mouth not actually smiling.
The moment’s broken when the man places their drinks in front of them, announces their names and makes as if to break away. Johnny presses on Stéphane’s spine, hard enough that he’s sure Stéphane can feel it, through the two layers and the boning of the corset. Time to act, quick. Flirt.
“Do you, uh,” Stéphane says, “Do you work here all days of the week?”
The man’s surprised, but not, Johnny thinks, because he doesn’t enjoy this attention. No, it’s more because of the fact that this guy’s got someone whom the bartender read as his boyfriend sitting next to him. But he answers civilly, politely. Friendly, even.
“No,” he says. “Just three nights a week, I’m afraid. I’d like to work more, but things are how they are.”
“It is very sad,” Stéphane agrees, cheekbones prominent when he smiles. “I will be hoping you work more here, too,” and Johnny has to marvel at how easy Stéphane’s charm, how beautiful he is.
The man laughs, and studiously avoids looking at Johnny. Clever, Johnny thinks, and feels a little bit bad. “Thanks,” he says. “Are you in London for long?”
“Oh, yes,” Stéphane says, and Johnny blinks. “I just moved here, for my – for my job,” – a fact which Johnny was previously unaware of; he smiles wryly – “and I want to meet new people. Your name?”
“Joshua,” Joshua says. “I could show you around the city sometime, if you’d like that.” Stéphane smiles, but before he can say anything Joshua’s called off to another corner of the bar by some people.
"Just moved here for your job," Johnny says, nudging Stéphane with his elbow.
Stéphane smiles. "You told me to flirt, so I made up something," he says. It's true. Stéphane lies a little bit every time he does something he doesn't want to do, or he shuts down and goes blank, polite. It's harder when you're flirting, Johnny thinks.
Their corner of the club's dark, but still Johnny watches Stéphane's face carefully when he says, "Didn't say you could speak," and misses, almost misses, the small tremor that runs over Stéphane. His face is non-committal, eyes half-closed and mouth open.
Johnny slides off his stool and pats Stéphane's hand softly. "Stay here," he says. "I'm gonna dance."
As he hurries off to the dance floor, he can feel Stéphane's gaze on the back of his neck. Johnny isn't looking, but pictures Stéphane twisted around from the bar, legs opened wider than he'd like.
---
Johnny tries to lose himself in the push of the crowd. He ends up next to a girl whom he winks at cheekily, and they grind against each other casually for a while until her girlfriend comes and whisks her away to some other part of the club. Johnny can feel the sweat pooling on his collarbones and rolls his hips in a loose jive, experimentally, not really used to it yet. He wonders if Stéphane can afford to dance, if the corset wouldn’t be too restrictive. Because he's a selfish fuck, he decides to make Stéphane dance anyway.
Johnny wends his way through the crowd and returns to the bar. He's kind of surprised to see Stéphane alone, still -- usually Stéphane gets picked up really easily, judging from those times they hung out after Worlds, or Skate Canada, or whatever. One time a guy even kissed Stéphane’s hand, and Stéphane had laughed and thought it charming.
“Hey,” Johnny says, leaning over Stéphane. Stéphane looks up, and Johnny's even more conscious of his bodily sweat, from his brief half-hour on the dancefloor. Stéphane smells of alcohol, but beneath that, still soap and cologne.
“Want to dance?”
Stéphane nods, grasps Johnny's outstretched hand and gets up.
“Can you?” Johnny asks, suddenly concerned. “Will you be okay?” They're standing close, now.
Stéphane smiles, evidently decides it's okay to speak. “I'll be fine,” he says. “Johnny.”
Johnny knows it's ridiculous, but he's careful, still, as he leads Stéphane down to the dance floor.
---
Johnny finds himself cradling Stéphane awkwardly, shielding him from the push of the other dancers. It's kind of stupid -- Stéphane's strong, and he can fend for himself, corset or no, but Johnny does it anyway. Eventually he lets go and allows his hands to drop to Stéphane's hips, dancing up close to him and meeting his eyes.
Stéphane's looking at Johnny, eyes intense, and Johnny allows himself to lean in further for a kiss. Stéphane's lips are warm, and his mouth is wet. When Johnny pulls away his head's buzzing from the alcohol he had, shared on their tongues. They could go home now, or. Johnny doesn’t know exactly. He stays where he is, close to but still separate from Stéphane, weighing his options.
“Go to the bathroom,” Johnny says. Stéphane looks at him quizzically. “And wait for me there. Okay?”
Stéphane nods, and Johnny can't resist it, even though this isn't part of the game. He leans forward and kisses Stéphane again, quick, and mutters, "I love you." Then he turns Stéphane around, both hands on his shoulders, and pushes at his back in the middle of his shoulder blades. “Go now,” Johnny says.
Johnny dances by himself for a while, waiting for the song to finish and feeling mildly stupid. Someone rolls by and roars in his ear, gibberish, and that jerks Johnny out of the headspace he's in. He holds his ear and glares at the drunk. It's a guy with broad shoulders, stupid t-shirt.
“Sorry, sorry,” his friend says, steering Asshole away. “He's drunk.” And then they're off.
“I couldn't tell,” Johnny says, to no one in particular. Then he pulls out his phone, checks the time. The song changes.
He wheels around and makes for the bathroom.
---
Johnny raps sharply at the bathroom before he pushes in anyway, just to be careful. He opens the door and Stéphane's there, alone, perched on the sink. He hadn't made any move towards the door, and as Johnny locks the door behind him, he remains still. It's a single-cubicle bathroom.
“Are you having a good time?” Johnny murmurs. Then: “Wait, no. Don't speak.”
A strange look passes across Stéphane’s face, and Johnny can tell that he wants to say that he hadn't planned to. As it is Stéphane just tosses his head petulantly before he nods.
"That's good," Johnny says, stepping closer. He pushes at the hem of Stéphane’s t-shirt, and crouches down, steps into kneeling position and looks up. From this angle Stéphane’s chin is prominent, and Johnny suddenly wants to kiss it.
Stéphane's t-shirt's all rucked up, revealing the blue satin of the corset beneath.
“Did anyone see?” Johnny murmurs. “Your corset. Did anyone see?”
Stéphane just shakes his head.
“So that's why you were so careful,” Johnny says, considering. “It wasn’t the tightness, was it, it was the fact that you didn't want anyone to see.”
Stéphane looks up, and Johnny can tell he's gearing up for a -- something, a confrontation maybe.
“S'good,” Johnny says. “I didn't want anyone to see, either.”
He leans forward slowly, as if for a kiss, but he's kneeling and Stéphane’s still nearly sitting, braced, on the sink. Johnny places his hands behind his back deliberately and looks up again, resting his cheek on Stéphane’s thigh. Eyes wide, Stéphane reaches down, undoes his pants. Then he curls a hand around Johnny's cheek and guides him to his dick.
Johnny bears down, trying to take as much as he can into his mouth. His hands aren't there to steady him, but Stéphane is, his own feet just barely touching the floor and his body tense, scared to scrabble for firmer purchase.
Johnny flattens his tongue against the underside of Stéphane’s cock and gasps, ugly, because he's nearly out of breath but he doesn't want to give up. Not yet, not ever. Stéphane’s trembling beneath him and Johnny can tell he’s close, already.
Stéphane’s hand lands on Johnny's head.
He doesn't tug Johnny closer, just moans louder, and the sound goes straight to Johnny's dick. He wants this, he wants this. Johnny thinks about reaching down a hand to get himself off while he sucks Stéphane, the weight of him heavy in Johnny's mouth, but he resists. His hands stay behind his back, because he can hold back on this. He knows he can.
Johnny looks up and Stéphane's eyes are screwed shut, knuckles white against the porcelain of the sink. He bobs his head a little and Stéphane opens his eyes, looks at him. Johnny breathes in through his nose, takes in the smell of Stéphane's cologne and the sharpness of his sweat. Carefully -- oh so carefully -- he presses in a little further, going as deep as he can.
Stéphane arches his back and comes, his body one long line from the tip of his chin down to his stomach. Johnny swallows then pulls off, grinning. He rocks back on his heels and starts palming at his dick desperately. He can’t wait, not now. Why did he ever wait?
“I could help you with that,” Stéphane observes, voice lazy, leaning against the sink. His feet are firmly on the ground now.
Johnny can't even bear to look up, because he's edged down the zipper on his jeans. He's stroking his dick, fast. His jeans are probably all but ruined, knees dirtied by the unclean floor but he can't bring himself to care about that yet. Regrets are for later.
Stéphane seizes Johnny by the wrist and drags him up, and says, “No, I'll do it.”
He's edging Johnny against the door and puts his right hand to Johnny's mouth. Johnny spits, and Stéphane smiles. He brings the hand down and then he's touching Johnny, quick and fast and sure, and Johnny's mouth drops open. He immediately regrets every time he's ever made fun of Stéphane's sex faces, because he's sure he looks even more ridiculous now.
Stéphane stops. Johnny moans a little, his hips urging him upwards. Stéphane's hand is still there, a loose circle around Johnny's dick.
"Move," Stéphane says in his ear. Somehow he’s maneuvered himself behind Johnny, and he's pressed all along behind Johnny's back. Johnny can’t even bring himself to think. He just thrusts into Stéphane's fist over and over again, Stéphane urging him on up out everywhere, and then he comes and sags against Stéphane, who sneaks an arm around his waist.
“Urgh,” Johnny says, pushing at Stéphane, who hums happily and holds on even tighter. His afterglow's kicked in and he feels slightly gross and sweaty, the way he always does after sex. Stéphane's learnt that it isn't anything personal.
“You should clean up,” Stéphane says, nodding over at the taps, and fuck but Johnny loves his boyfriend, because he understands.
Johnny washes his face, his hands. Then he grabs a paper towel and puts it under the tap, cleans up his dick. Stéphane watches from the side, and he's grinning amusedly.
“You should clean up too, Stéphane,” Johnny says as prissily as he can.
Stéphane shakes his head and comes forward, wrapping his arms around Johnny and tucking his head into Johnny's shoulder. Johnny squawks, mock outrage, and tries to bat him off, but Stéphane holds on so tight Johnny couldn’t possibly succeed. He never does.
“It's so unfair,” Stéphane mumbles, still speaking into Johnny's skin, “We had sex earlier today as well and I got two blowjobs, and you didn't have one.”
Johnny smiles. It's hard not to when Stéphane keeps count. He's also oddly touched, and he swallows past it, brings a hand up to touch Stéphane's hair.
“Well, I got to fuck you,” he says instead. “More than makes up for it.” Stéphane raises his head, and Johnny watches his beam through the mirror.
---
They go home in a cab. “Gloucester Hotel, please,” Johnny tells the driver, and they move off silently through the London streets. Stéphane settles his head comfortably in Johnny's lap, and Johnny would protest, only he just. Doesn't. He looks out of the window instead and sweeps his thumb over Stéphane's eyebrows again.
Stéphane mumbles sleepily. Johnny resists the urge to start a tickle fight right there in the cab.
---
By the time they're actually back in their room the fatigue kicks in, and Johnny's swaying on his feet as he swipes the keycard into the slot. The door whirrs, opens, and they stumble in.
Stéphane shucks his t-shirt off quickly, folds it up and puts it on the dresser. Johnny notices and feels pleased, then turns his attention to Stéphane.
Once again Johnny can't stop staring at the way the shining blue stands out against his chest, pale and sticky with vestigial sweat. He wants to smudge kisses all along the part where the satin meets skin. Johnny reaches out again, leading with his right hand. He touches the boning right above where Stéphane's ribs are. Stéphane makes a soft noise, something that sounds like a cross between hrrmph and Johnny. Johnny turns and looks at him questioningly.
“When I was wearing it,” Stéphane says, “It felt -- special. It was so great, my feeling of belonging to you, Johnny.” Johnny can tell that from the careful way he shapes his mouth, that Stéphane spent a long time thinking of how to parse what he just said, in this moment, now.
“Me too,” Johnny says. He turns Stéphane around and finally undoes the ribboned lacing there, eases the corset off him.
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Date: Sunday, 16 May 2010 23:41 (UTC)