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fellowshippers2002-07-14 11:06 pm
gloriamundi.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2002-07-14 11:06 pm
FIC: Hand in Glove (implied OB/SB, R, 1/1)
TITLE: Hand in Glove
AUTHOR: Gloria Mundi
PAIRING: none, really. (Implied OB/SB)
RATING: R
SUMMARY: On borrowing a single glove that doesn't even fit.
ARCHIVE: List Archive and CTB only, please
DISCLAIMER: Not true. I made it up for fun. (Actually, I made it up for Jen).
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Dedicated to Jenwyn, for several reasons - not least that feeble old adage about imitation being the sincerest form of flattery. A poor imitation, but mine own.
It's his lover's glove and his hand's too big, too broad to fit inside without stretching and straining the leather: but it smells of his lover, of his lover's skin and his lover's sweat and his lover's breath and cologne and the makeup that's just another part of the costume. He thinks that, like a dog, he could take a scent and track his lover with this glove.
He wonders if the glove would have the power to arouse him if he didn't know who'd worn it, didn't know whose skin it had hugged and clung to, hadn't hugged and clung to that same skin himself: if the glove's smell is aphrodisiac in itself, if the smell alone would have been aphrodisiac before all this, would have sent his blood rushing, melted him, reduced him to wanting his lover, or maybe just reduced him to wanting, to sheer want, made him want.
The glove doesn't smell of leather, doesn't just smell of leather: the smell of leather is buried underneath the smell of the wearer, the smell of it not being new. The smell of use: and the thought of use, of familiarity, of a habituated touch, is as erotic now as a kiss or a caress. The thought of having touched before, and of touching again: the thought of familiarity, continuity, a time that's neither first nor last but just another time ... he shivers, brushing warm worn leather across his face, brushing his hand across his cheek, such an ordinary gesture that makes him shiver.
The inside of the glove, when he turns the inside out, is stained with sweat, darker around the crease between thumb and palm where the hand inside the glove - his lover's hand - would have curled, curled around the hilt of a sword, curled around an arm, a hand, a face. There's blood on the outside of the glove, blood and sweat there too, but the blood's not real.
The inside of the glove, the rougher side of the hide, has been skin-to-skin with his lover, so that when he strokes the soft leather across his cheek like this it's his lover stroking him through a single degree of separation. Skin-soft. His lover's felt this too, palm against face as he wipes away sweat, brushes hair from his eyes. The outside of the glove has touched many things: sword, arrows, leaves, shield, Ring, skin. It's not the first time this glove has touched him, but before this there's been another's hand, his lover's hand, inside the leather. His lover's felt his skin through this leather, and from inside the glove he can feel the resistance of his own flesh, his own cheek, as though it's not his own. Stolen touches: stolen glove.
The outside of the glove has touched him before. Now he's on both sides of the leather, inside and outside the glove. It's the inside of the glove which is hallowed, which is private and secret and liminal, which has been touched only by his lover until now. But the outside has been treated and tempered to resist blood and sweat and mud, and he doesn't want to leave a mark, a trace, doesn't want his lover to smell him on the glove: so he turns the glove right-side out. Stretches the leather with his big, elegant, tanned hand, remembering skin and muscle he's stretched with that same hand, before he wraps the glove (hand inside where his lover's hand has been) around his own soft and velvety skin. And almost moans aloud at the feel of cured skin against his skin, fine leather against his bare skin, touching him intimately, touching him as though it's a stranger's hand, a lover's hand, not his own hand that's covering him, covering his cock.
His lover's hand is neater, squarer, more compact than his own: the glove is tight around his hand as he winds that hand tightly around himself, the skin stretching taut as he thinks of his lover's hand in the glove, in this glove, wrapped around him. Imagines his lover's teeth at the glove's fingertips, pulling it off. Remembers his lover's teeth on his lip, his earlobe, his own live fingertips: remembers the taste of sweaty, leather-tainted fingers - minutes freed from this glove - as he licked them, slicked them with saliva.
Strokes faster, his hand sweating in the glove. Sweat springing on his face at the friction.
He feels the seams inside the glove pressing against his skin, leaving marks like the marks they've left before on his lover's hands. On his lover's hand, singular, because though gloves come in pairs, this is a single glove, a left-hand glove, that he's pulled on as he kneels here alone in the dark. He's not left-handed: the strangeness of having his left hand on his own hot, hard flesh is almost like the spontaneity, the unexpectedness of another person's touch.
He's alone here, no one near enough to touch him, no one close enough to touch him the way he's touching himself, and he remembers being paired, being touched. He remembers the marks the gloves left on his lover's hands, the marks he's left on his lover's body, on naked skin once the clothes were peeled away. Remembers peeling the clothes away: licks his dry lips.
The skin of his cock is still stretching, elastic over the blood that's pulsing through him, making soft flesh as hard as the fingers he wraps around his erection, stroking, pulling skin against skin: skin, inside skin, against skin. The layer of leather between palm and cock is at once insulating and invigorating, as though the glove too remembers his lover's skin inside it, transmits that touch instead of his own, short-circuiting instead of protecting: he wonders for a moment if his lover's hand is tingling from the tension growing in him. Strokes harder, makes a ring with thumb and forefinger (where the leather creases and the sweat stays damp) and feels his lover's hand, his lover's mouth, his lover's body tight around him. Remembers his lover's saliva-slick fingers pushing into the openings of his body, sheathing themselves in him, stretching him as though his whole body was a new, tight glove.
Flexes his fingers in the too-tight glove that isn't his.
Comes with his eyes closed and his lover's name on his lips, comes into the empty darkness, a single creamy semenous spurt hitting the leather.
He breathes hard and rubs it in.
***
Later, tidied and even-breathed, he presents this single glove like a hunting dog delivering game.
"This yours, Sean? I found it on the path out back."
And his lover takes it, strokes the leather, looks at him and says nothing, says nothing with words except, "Thanks, Orli".
His hands on the leather make promises.
-end-
AUTHOR: Gloria Mundi
PAIRING: none, really. (Implied OB/SB)
RATING: R
SUMMARY: On borrowing a single glove that doesn't even fit.
ARCHIVE: List Archive and CTB only, please
DISCLAIMER: Not true. I made it up for fun. (Actually, I made it up for Jen).
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Dedicated to Jenwyn, for several reasons - not least that feeble old adage about imitation being the sincerest form of flattery. A poor imitation, but mine own.
It's his lover's glove and his hand's too big, too broad to fit inside without stretching and straining the leather: but it smells of his lover, of his lover's skin and his lover's sweat and his lover's breath and cologne and the makeup that's just another part of the costume. He thinks that, like a dog, he could take a scent and track his lover with this glove.
He wonders if the glove would have the power to arouse him if he didn't know who'd worn it, didn't know whose skin it had hugged and clung to, hadn't hugged and clung to that same skin himself: if the glove's smell is aphrodisiac in itself, if the smell alone would have been aphrodisiac before all this, would have sent his blood rushing, melted him, reduced him to wanting his lover, or maybe just reduced him to wanting, to sheer want, made him want.
The glove doesn't smell of leather, doesn't just smell of leather: the smell of leather is buried underneath the smell of the wearer, the smell of it not being new. The smell of use: and the thought of use, of familiarity, of a habituated touch, is as erotic now as a kiss or a caress. The thought of having touched before, and of touching again: the thought of familiarity, continuity, a time that's neither first nor last but just another time ... he shivers, brushing warm worn leather across his face, brushing his hand across his cheek, such an ordinary gesture that makes him shiver.
The inside of the glove, when he turns the inside out, is stained with sweat, darker around the crease between thumb and palm where the hand inside the glove - his lover's hand - would have curled, curled around the hilt of a sword, curled around an arm, a hand, a face. There's blood on the outside of the glove, blood and sweat there too, but the blood's not real.
The inside of the glove, the rougher side of the hide, has been skin-to-skin with his lover, so that when he strokes the soft leather across his cheek like this it's his lover stroking him through a single degree of separation. Skin-soft. His lover's felt this too, palm against face as he wipes away sweat, brushes hair from his eyes. The outside of the glove has touched many things: sword, arrows, leaves, shield, Ring, skin. It's not the first time this glove has touched him, but before this there's been another's hand, his lover's hand, inside the leather. His lover's felt his skin through this leather, and from inside the glove he can feel the resistance of his own flesh, his own cheek, as though it's not his own. Stolen touches: stolen glove.
The outside of the glove has touched him before. Now he's on both sides of the leather, inside and outside the glove. It's the inside of the glove which is hallowed, which is private and secret and liminal, which has been touched only by his lover until now. But the outside has been treated and tempered to resist blood and sweat and mud, and he doesn't want to leave a mark, a trace, doesn't want his lover to smell him on the glove: so he turns the glove right-side out. Stretches the leather with his big, elegant, tanned hand, remembering skin and muscle he's stretched with that same hand, before he wraps the glove (hand inside where his lover's hand has been) around his own soft and velvety skin. And almost moans aloud at the feel of cured skin against his skin, fine leather against his bare skin, touching him intimately, touching him as though it's a stranger's hand, a lover's hand, not his own hand that's covering him, covering his cock.
His lover's hand is neater, squarer, more compact than his own: the glove is tight around his hand as he winds that hand tightly around himself, the skin stretching taut as he thinks of his lover's hand in the glove, in this glove, wrapped around him. Imagines his lover's teeth at the glove's fingertips, pulling it off. Remembers his lover's teeth on his lip, his earlobe, his own live fingertips: remembers the taste of sweaty, leather-tainted fingers - minutes freed from this glove - as he licked them, slicked them with saliva.
Strokes faster, his hand sweating in the glove. Sweat springing on his face at the friction.
He feels the seams inside the glove pressing against his skin, leaving marks like the marks they've left before on his lover's hands. On his lover's hand, singular, because though gloves come in pairs, this is a single glove, a left-hand glove, that he's pulled on as he kneels here alone in the dark. He's not left-handed: the strangeness of having his left hand on his own hot, hard flesh is almost like the spontaneity, the unexpectedness of another person's touch.
He's alone here, no one near enough to touch him, no one close enough to touch him the way he's touching himself, and he remembers being paired, being touched. He remembers the marks the gloves left on his lover's hands, the marks he's left on his lover's body, on naked skin once the clothes were peeled away. Remembers peeling the clothes away: licks his dry lips.
The skin of his cock is still stretching, elastic over the blood that's pulsing through him, making soft flesh as hard as the fingers he wraps around his erection, stroking, pulling skin against skin: skin, inside skin, against skin. The layer of leather between palm and cock is at once insulating and invigorating, as though the glove too remembers his lover's skin inside it, transmits that touch instead of his own, short-circuiting instead of protecting: he wonders for a moment if his lover's hand is tingling from the tension growing in him. Strokes harder, makes a ring with thumb and forefinger (where the leather creases and the sweat stays damp) and feels his lover's hand, his lover's mouth, his lover's body tight around him. Remembers his lover's saliva-slick fingers pushing into the openings of his body, sheathing themselves in him, stretching him as though his whole body was a new, tight glove.
Flexes his fingers in the too-tight glove that isn't his.
Comes with his eyes closed and his lover's name on his lips, comes into the empty darkness, a single creamy semenous spurt hitting the leather.
He breathes hard and rubs it in.
***
Later, tidied and even-breathed, he presents this single glove like a hunting dog delivering game.
"This yours, Sean? I found it on the path out back."
And his lover takes it, strokes the leather, looks at him and says nothing, says nothing with words except, "Thanks, Orli".
His hands on the leather make promises.
-end-
no subject
- *has a bloody eneurysm* Good fuck. That was beautiful.