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fic: I'll Love You In The Morning
Title: I'll Love You In The Morning
Series: Hetalia
Character/pairing: France/Canada
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3000
Author's note: Melly reaaally wanted hurt/comfort and so she gets it. This was actually started for a request she once related to me that went unfilled in some sort of exchange of hers that I got ideas for.
Anyways, porn battle 12.
When Matthew came to his doorstep, he looked beaten down. Francis' heart ached for the younger nation. He was so delicate. Francis had to remind himself that it wasn't the little sickly colony he had fussed about until Angleterre had taken him away.
"How much wine will you need?" Francis asked.
"A lot," Matthew replied.
When Matthew was in his cups, he got a bit weepy. Francis himself did as well, but it too a lot of wine to go from 'fun, charming' Francis to 'I failed as a father and no one loves me' Francis. Matthew drank less, had less of a tolerance so that a few glasses and he'd go directly to that unpleasant side. However, Matthew looked like he needed to be sad tonight.
"Did something happen, cher?" Francis asked as he prepared the wine. He didn't look up from his task.
"Nothing bad," Matthew said.
"Then why are you unhappy? Did they forget your name again?"
"No, it's just...."
"Just?"
"I spent the whole time with Al and Arthur," Matthew said. He had his arms about his chest now, hugging himself. He looked down at his navy university hoodie.
"And?" Francis prompted.
"That's just it. They were happy and I could barely stand to watch them," Matthew said.
Francis felt as if his whole chest was being compressed. He tried to act concerned, but as if the concerns were not so near and dear to his heart that he could barely think, barely breathe with the thought of it.
"...Matthew, are you in love with one of them?" Francis asked.
"What? No! They're like family to me," Matthew said. He flushed.
Francis took a long drink to calm his nerves. He felt a pleasant warmth settle in his stomach, and a slight loosening of his taut muscles.
"And aren't I part of your family?" Francis said.
"You...you're different. You're special," Matthew said. He didn't look at Francis as he said it.
"Good to know," Francis said, his expression unreadable.
At least he had that.
"It's just...I'm never going to have someone like they do," Matthew said, spilling it all out at once. It tangled like a dropped spool, like yarn, and it took him a few moments to unravel its meaning. When he did, he was faintly amused by all this.
"So you want someone to fight with? Someone to break up with every other month with?"
"No, it's just...T-they've been so focused on each other for so long. I-it's very intense."
Francis brushed the hair from his face gently. "Mon cher, you are not cut out for such things. You are very delicate and do not want fighting and bickering or breakups," Francis said.
Matthew shook his head. "No, not that..."
"What you want is someone to love you. To take care of you To notice you and tell you what a beautiful person you are. Is that it?"
"Doesn't everyone?" Matthew asked. "I don't think I've ever had that. Not really..."
Matthew pushed his fists against his eyes as he lost the battle. A sob choked up in his throat.
Francis didn't realize it until this moment. When he saw Matthew there, curled on the couch and trying to stop himself from crying. He felt something inside himself begin to clench so tight it was physically painful.
How many times had he comforted Matthew tears through the many years? Matthew always has been a good child. When he told Matthew to lift his chin up and be strong, he did with a quivering lip. Then he'd kiss him on his forehead and give him a bit of maple candy which he would suck away at.
But Matthew was not a child any longer.
Francis gripped Matthew's shoulders. "You're beautiful."
"You're just saying that to cheer me up..." Matthew said. He coughed, and tried to hold back the last sob that escaped in side of himself. He reached out and clung to Francis' periwinkle silk shirt, wrinkling it in his grasp.
"Mmm, no, I have always thought so."
He'd never let anyone bring him into the bloodbaths. He was always shifting away the attention–even pulling off his shirt and being lewd should someone notice. He always told himself he was making up for leaving Matthew then–by protecting him from anything or anyone he deemed unsavory. But in the end he was being selfish, not selfless.
He was keeping Matthew for himself without ever admitting it to himself.
"Someone loves you," Francis said.
He'd never really gotten past a cursory, even polite grope. The kind he gave everyone at Christmas when he'd had a little too much spiced rum. When he looked at Matthew he saw his darling colony who'd cried and cried every time he left, especially the last time. Matthew was looking at where he'd placed his hands like he didn't dare to hope.
"Francis...?"
He had suspected, but never known so clearly until this moment at the sight of Matthew's tears. He had pushed it back over wine, denied it, called it fatherly and said he is not what Angleterre has accused him of being.
But he was, and is and will be.
"You are important to me," Francis said.
Matthew wiped at his tears. His eyes were ringed with red. He sniffled and shook his head.
"Yeah, papa, I know."
"You don't know," Francis said. His voice was low, filled with building emotion.
He pulled Matthew close against him.
"You are so very important to me, Matthew. Not simply as a former colony, or a child. You've grown up so much in these years, you've turned so handsome and mature..." He trailed off. Matthew's lips were slightly parted and oh so kissable. He couldn't help himself. The kiss was light, hardly the passionate, grinding fucking of his clubbing one-night stands.
"Are you sure?" Matthew asked. "Because if you're not, if y-you're just going to go off later I'll–"
Francis put a finger to his lips. "Hush. I'm not leaving," he said in a soothing tone.
"Francis–"
"I promise."
He gently pushed Matthew down to the couch. He was more gentle than he had perhaps ever been, as if Matthew would break should he make a wrong move. He lifted off Matthew's glasses and set them on the table.
"Can you still see me?"
"Yeah, I'm nearsighted..."
"Good," Francis said. He kissed at Matthew's collar bone, pushing his shirt up as he did. Matthew reached out to touch him, holding onto his arm as if he might disappear if Matthew ever let go.
Francis let him. He'd had to pry away Matthew's little fingers every time he left, had to promise to return and that next time, next time he would stay.
In the end, it was only his fault that Matthew didn't believe him at first, that Matthew clung to him. It ached, but that was the way of life. Sometimes God sent hard trials and more often than not, things weren't fair. All one could do was the hold on to the good things in life: art, beauty and love.
This was no conquering, no clash of wills. It was forgiveness, it was coming home. Matthew returned his kisses, slowly becoming more trusting. He leaned up enough for Francis to pull his t-shirt off. Matthew's fingers were hesitant at the buttons of Francis' shirt. When Matthew paused, Francis kissed his fingertips, one by one. Matthew flushed, but pressed on to take off the last few buttons until Francis' white dress shirt parted, revealing his unshaven chest. Matthew reached out and pressed both hands to Francis' chest, tangling there and nuzzling his face close. He possessively nipped at Francis, a surprise.
"Are you going to leave marks all over me, mon chou?"
"M-maybe," Matthew said.
Matthew pulled on him, and Francis happily obliged him. He leaned in and began to undo Matthew's belt, pushing his jeans down. Matthew's hands were working, working, working on him as well. Soft flutters as he undid the zipper, a faint blush over his cheeks.
"You're beautiful," Francis said again. It was a simple stating of the fact, no flattery contained within.
This time Matthew didn't blush, but seemed to accept it for what it was. There was a serenity to him, a brightness around the edges. He did not hold on quite so tightly, as if his life might depend on it. Francis stroked his cheek. He'd never gone so slowly before. He let his touch linger on the muscles of Matthew's neck, kissed there at the crook of the neck. He rested his fingers on Matthew's Adam's apple, and felt the rise and fall.
When he kissed down Matthew's chest, it was between breaths. Matthew was twisting his hands into Francis' hair–he'd probably leave it tangled by the end of the night, but for once, Francis didn't mind.
It could be untangled later.
He left a let trail with his tongue as he went lower. Matthew was making little moans by now, twisting Francis' curls in his fingers between gasping breaths. Francis didn't bother with underwear most of the time, but Matthew still wore boxers. Francis pulled them down with the rest of Matthew's jeans as he began to strip Matthew the rest of the way.
Matthew was already quite hard, with precum leaking from the tip. Francis licked it up, and heard a rustle, and felt a slackening of pressure as Matthew let go of his hair and clung to the cushions instead.
"Very nice, mon amour," Francis said with a devilish grin.
"Francis!" Matthew protested, his face flushing.
"What? I only say the truth. It is one of the best cocks I've ever seen," he said. "And I've seen quite a few." Matthew's protest was cut off as Francis sucked the side, running his tongue down over the throbbing veins.
Matthew leaned back, his expression that of incoherent pleasure. He breathed Francis' name in a way that made his cock twitch and sent a tingle all the way down through his spine. He'd never thought simply the repeating of a name could make him this hard.
Francis did not rush things. He languidly began to take Matthew's cock deeper inside of his mouth, wetting it with saliva, and savoring every moment. There was no hurry, really. He'd always loved giving head. It was such a sensual, arousing experience, even for him. There was a certain smug pleasure in him as he heard Matthew's cute little whimpers, heard his name breathed so reverently. He wanted to know every variation, every way to elicit those little sounds from him.
He'd never given such an intimate blowjob. An odd thought, to come up while he began to palm Matthew's balls. Matthew was a quivering mess on the couch, and Francis had never felt so turned on to have a cock in his mouth. He savored everything. From the mix of fragileness and the firmness of his skin, to the slightly salty taste. He wanted to rub his face all over Matthew's cock, but his beard would probably leave an unpleasant roughness. Instead, he took a hold of the base of Matthew's cock with one hand and rubbed his face between Matthew's thighs.
Matthew's legs were resting on his shoulder, almost hesitantly, as if he was afraid of being too heavy or hurting him. However, at this new stimulation, he hooked his heels together and pressed his thighs tight against Francis' face. He was rutting, rolling his hips in the most wanton manner. By now, he'd lost all sense of control and had begun to beg in one long stream of words and moans.
"Oh pleasepleaseplease— Papa–Francis!"
Francis pressed and held his tongue to the tip of his cock. Matthew's muscled thighs were tight against his cheeks. He pumped Matthew at the base at the same time. Matthew thrust deeper into his mouth with a grunt. He began to tease Matthew, lapping up drops of precum and sticking his tongue as deep into the slit of Matthew's cock as he could physically manage.
Matthew was coming unhinged now, rolling his hips faster and practically screaming his name. His nails dug into the couch as he clung for some kind of hold.
"Papa..... Oh Francis," he gasped.
Francis wanted to come at the same time–because deep down, he was a horrible romantic for things like that–he pushed himself as hard on the couch as he could, and began to rub himself against it. He ground his erection there, even though it felt like he could get off just on sucking Matthew's cock alone.
He tried to move his head back, just a bit to wet his fingers, but Matthew tightened the grip of his thighs and held him there. Francis managed to pull back just enough to wet his fingers with a mix of saliva and precum, and then slowly began to push his index finger into Matthew.
Matthew shuddered, his hips jerking upwards and driving his cock so deep into Francis' mouth that not for the first time, Francis was glad he didn't have a gag reflex. Francis took a long breath through his nose and began to take Matthew in his mouth entirely.
It could be an uncomfortable position, truly something only for experts. It was hard to breathe, and if you had a gag reflex, it could end horribly with the night ruined. But for Francis, it was a sensual experience, feeling Matthew all the way in his mouth. It was a certain smugness, a happiness at feeling so full and at the same time a peaceful experience.
He could live with this being the last cock he ever sucked, with Matthew being his last. Save the best for last, he thought with some amusement.
He thrust in a steady rhythm, angling up towards the prostate in time with the slurpy sounds of him swallowing as much as Matthew's cock as was physically possible. He ground against the couch with more urgency, and felt the adrenaline rush of an oncoming climax.
In the end it wasn't a scream, but a breath, a shaky murmur of F-Francis as he came. The grip slackened as Matthew gave a few last jerks of his hips. His cock twitched, and there was a warmth running down his throat. That, and one last desperate grind of his pelvis to the couch made him go over the edge.
So it wasn't exactly the same moment, as he had hoped to try, but it was close enough that they could both enjoy that last sweet moment, the pinnacle of sex. It was like a drug high, but oh, no Absinthe could ever match this kind of release.
Even when Matthew started to become soft, he didn't entirely let go. He climbed up to rest with him on the couch, even if it was cramped. He kept his grip at the base of Matthew's cock, slackened now, and simply held him close.
"That....that...." Matthew gasped.
Francis licked his lips. "That is only the beginning."
Matthew was quiet, and Francis kissed his shoulder.
"Mon chéri....I promise you this isn't a one night thing, or an ending," Francis said.
Matthew leaned back into him more, but still did not reply.
"Trust me," Francis said gently.
"...I just keep thinking that I'm going to wake up and then I'll feel horrible because this dream is so good that I want it to last."
Francis nipped at his neck. He flinched, and lifted his hand to rub at the place, the new mark Francis had left on him.
"Morning will change nothing," Francis said.
He let go of Matthew's cock and let his arm rest over Matthew's chest. Matthew enfolded his hand Francis and they lay there, all tangled up in each other.
Love, like sex, had an afterglow. He basked in the feel of it all as the first new vines of trust began to bind them together into an us, a we, a pair of likenesses and opposites pulled together by forces Francis never bothered to attribute to science or magic.
Love was a deeper thing than words could convey, a mystery, a cat who couldn't be tamed, but would find you all the same.
And curled up with Matthew, the last of his orgasm leaving him feeling calm and unfettered with worries, he knew it had finally found him.
~
When I'm with you I am calm
a pearl in your oyster
head on my chest, a silent smile
a private kind of happiness
you see giant proclamations are all very well
but our love is louder than words
I'll love you in the morning
when you're still hung-over
I'll love you in the morning,
when you're still strung out,
I'll love you in the morning
Sunday,
Bloc Party
Series: Hetalia
Character/pairing: France/Canada
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3000
Author's note: Melly reaaally wanted hurt/comfort and so she gets it. This was actually started for a request she once related to me that went unfilled in some sort of exchange of hers that I got ideas for.
Anyways, porn battle 12.
When Matthew came to his doorstep, he looked beaten down. Francis' heart ached for the younger nation. He was so delicate. Francis had to remind himself that it wasn't the little sickly colony he had fussed about until Angleterre had taken him away.
"How much wine will you need?" Francis asked.
"A lot," Matthew replied.
When Matthew was in his cups, he got a bit weepy. Francis himself did as well, but it too a lot of wine to go from 'fun, charming' Francis to 'I failed as a father and no one loves me' Francis. Matthew drank less, had less of a tolerance so that a few glasses and he'd go directly to that unpleasant side. However, Matthew looked like he needed to be sad tonight.
"Did something happen, cher?" Francis asked as he prepared the wine. He didn't look up from his task.
"Nothing bad," Matthew said.
"Then why are you unhappy? Did they forget your name again?"
"No, it's just...."
"Just?"
"I spent the whole time with Al and Arthur," Matthew said. He had his arms about his chest now, hugging himself. He looked down at his navy university hoodie.
"And?" Francis prompted.
"That's just it. They were happy and I could barely stand to watch them," Matthew said.
Francis felt as if his whole chest was being compressed. He tried to act concerned, but as if the concerns were not so near and dear to his heart that he could barely think, barely breathe with the thought of it.
"...Matthew, are you in love with one of them?" Francis asked.
"What? No! They're like family to me," Matthew said. He flushed.
Francis took a long drink to calm his nerves. He felt a pleasant warmth settle in his stomach, and a slight loosening of his taut muscles.
"And aren't I part of your family?" Francis said.
"You...you're different. You're special," Matthew said. He didn't look at Francis as he said it.
"Good to know," Francis said, his expression unreadable.
At least he had that.
"It's just...I'm never going to have someone like they do," Matthew said, spilling it all out at once. It tangled like a dropped spool, like yarn, and it took him a few moments to unravel its meaning. When he did, he was faintly amused by all this.
"So you want someone to fight with? Someone to break up with every other month with?"
"No, it's just...T-they've been so focused on each other for so long. I-it's very intense."
Francis brushed the hair from his face gently. "Mon cher, you are not cut out for such things. You are very delicate and do not want fighting and bickering or breakups," Francis said.
Matthew shook his head. "No, not that..."
"What you want is someone to love you. To take care of you To notice you and tell you what a beautiful person you are. Is that it?"
"Doesn't everyone?" Matthew asked. "I don't think I've ever had that. Not really..."
Matthew pushed his fists against his eyes as he lost the battle. A sob choked up in his throat.
Francis didn't realize it until this moment. When he saw Matthew there, curled on the couch and trying to stop himself from crying. He felt something inside himself begin to clench so tight it was physically painful.
How many times had he comforted Matthew tears through the many years? Matthew always has been a good child. When he told Matthew to lift his chin up and be strong, he did with a quivering lip. Then he'd kiss him on his forehead and give him a bit of maple candy which he would suck away at.
But Matthew was not a child any longer.
Francis gripped Matthew's shoulders. "You're beautiful."
"You're just saying that to cheer me up..." Matthew said. He coughed, and tried to hold back the last sob that escaped in side of himself. He reached out and clung to Francis' periwinkle silk shirt, wrinkling it in his grasp.
"Mmm, no, I have always thought so."
He'd never let anyone bring him into the bloodbaths. He was always shifting away the attention–even pulling off his shirt and being lewd should someone notice. He always told himself he was making up for leaving Matthew then–by protecting him from anything or anyone he deemed unsavory. But in the end he was being selfish, not selfless.
He was keeping Matthew for himself without ever admitting it to himself.
"Someone loves you," Francis said.
He'd never really gotten past a cursory, even polite grope. The kind he gave everyone at Christmas when he'd had a little too much spiced rum. When he looked at Matthew he saw his darling colony who'd cried and cried every time he left, especially the last time. Matthew was looking at where he'd placed his hands like he didn't dare to hope.
"Francis...?"
He had suspected, but never known so clearly until this moment at the sight of Matthew's tears. He had pushed it back over wine, denied it, called it fatherly and said he is not what Angleterre has accused him of being.
But he was, and is and will be.
"You are important to me," Francis said.
Matthew wiped at his tears. His eyes were ringed with red. He sniffled and shook his head.
"Yeah, papa, I know."
"You don't know," Francis said. His voice was low, filled with building emotion.
He pulled Matthew close against him.
"You are so very important to me, Matthew. Not simply as a former colony, or a child. You've grown up so much in these years, you've turned so handsome and mature..." He trailed off. Matthew's lips were slightly parted and oh so kissable. He couldn't help himself. The kiss was light, hardly the passionate, grinding fucking of his clubbing one-night stands.
"Are you sure?" Matthew asked. "Because if you're not, if y-you're just going to go off later I'll–"
Francis put a finger to his lips. "Hush. I'm not leaving," he said in a soothing tone.
"Francis–"
"I promise."
He gently pushed Matthew down to the couch. He was more gentle than he had perhaps ever been, as if Matthew would break should he make a wrong move. He lifted off Matthew's glasses and set them on the table.
"Can you still see me?"
"Yeah, I'm nearsighted..."
"Good," Francis said. He kissed at Matthew's collar bone, pushing his shirt up as he did. Matthew reached out to touch him, holding onto his arm as if he might disappear if Matthew ever let go.
Francis let him. He'd had to pry away Matthew's little fingers every time he left, had to promise to return and that next time, next time he would stay.
In the end, it was only his fault that Matthew didn't believe him at first, that Matthew clung to him. It ached, but that was the way of life. Sometimes God sent hard trials and more often than not, things weren't fair. All one could do was the hold on to the good things in life: art, beauty and love.
This was no conquering, no clash of wills. It was forgiveness, it was coming home. Matthew returned his kisses, slowly becoming more trusting. He leaned up enough for Francis to pull his t-shirt off. Matthew's fingers were hesitant at the buttons of Francis' shirt. When Matthew paused, Francis kissed his fingertips, one by one. Matthew flushed, but pressed on to take off the last few buttons until Francis' white dress shirt parted, revealing his unshaven chest. Matthew reached out and pressed both hands to Francis' chest, tangling there and nuzzling his face close. He possessively nipped at Francis, a surprise.
"Are you going to leave marks all over me, mon chou?"
"M-maybe," Matthew said.
Matthew pulled on him, and Francis happily obliged him. He leaned in and began to undo Matthew's belt, pushing his jeans down. Matthew's hands were working, working, working on him as well. Soft flutters as he undid the zipper, a faint blush over his cheeks.
"You're beautiful," Francis said again. It was a simple stating of the fact, no flattery contained within.
This time Matthew didn't blush, but seemed to accept it for what it was. There was a serenity to him, a brightness around the edges. He did not hold on quite so tightly, as if his life might depend on it. Francis stroked his cheek. He'd never gone so slowly before. He let his touch linger on the muscles of Matthew's neck, kissed there at the crook of the neck. He rested his fingers on Matthew's Adam's apple, and felt the rise and fall.
When he kissed down Matthew's chest, it was between breaths. Matthew was twisting his hands into Francis' hair–he'd probably leave it tangled by the end of the night, but for once, Francis didn't mind.
It could be untangled later.
He left a let trail with his tongue as he went lower. Matthew was making little moans by now, twisting Francis' curls in his fingers between gasping breaths. Francis didn't bother with underwear most of the time, but Matthew still wore boxers. Francis pulled them down with the rest of Matthew's jeans as he began to strip Matthew the rest of the way.
Matthew was already quite hard, with precum leaking from the tip. Francis licked it up, and heard a rustle, and felt a slackening of pressure as Matthew let go of his hair and clung to the cushions instead.
"Very nice, mon amour," Francis said with a devilish grin.
"Francis!" Matthew protested, his face flushing.
"What? I only say the truth. It is one of the best cocks I've ever seen," he said. "And I've seen quite a few." Matthew's protest was cut off as Francis sucked the side, running his tongue down over the throbbing veins.
Matthew leaned back, his expression that of incoherent pleasure. He breathed Francis' name in a way that made his cock twitch and sent a tingle all the way down through his spine. He'd never thought simply the repeating of a name could make him this hard.
Francis did not rush things. He languidly began to take Matthew's cock deeper inside of his mouth, wetting it with saliva, and savoring every moment. There was no hurry, really. He'd always loved giving head. It was such a sensual, arousing experience, even for him. There was a certain smug pleasure in him as he heard Matthew's cute little whimpers, heard his name breathed so reverently. He wanted to know every variation, every way to elicit those little sounds from him.
He'd never given such an intimate blowjob. An odd thought, to come up while he began to palm Matthew's balls. Matthew was a quivering mess on the couch, and Francis had never felt so turned on to have a cock in his mouth. He savored everything. From the mix of fragileness and the firmness of his skin, to the slightly salty taste. He wanted to rub his face all over Matthew's cock, but his beard would probably leave an unpleasant roughness. Instead, he took a hold of the base of Matthew's cock with one hand and rubbed his face between Matthew's thighs.
Matthew's legs were resting on his shoulder, almost hesitantly, as if he was afraid of being too heavy or hurting him. However, at this new stimulation, he hooked his heels together and pressed his thighs tight against Francis' face. He was rutting, rolling his hips in the most wanton manner. By now, he'd lost all sense of control and had begun to beg in one long stream of words and moans.
"Oh pleasepleaseplease— Papa–Francis!"
Francis pressed and held his tongue to the tip of his cock. Matthew's muscled thighs were tight against his cheeks. He pumped Matthew at the base at the same time. Matthew thrust deeper into his mouth with a grunt. He began to tease Matthew, lapping up drops of precum and sticking his tongue as deep into the slit of Matthew's cock as he could physically manage.
Matthew was coming unhinged now, rolling his hips faster and practically screaming his name. His nails dug into the couch as he clung for some kind of hold.
"Papa..... Oh Francis," he gasped.
Francis wanted to come at the same time–because deep down, he was a horrible romantic for things like that–he pushed himself as hard on the couch as he could, and began to rub himself against it. He ground his erection there, even though it felt like he could get off just on sucking Matthew's cock alone.
He tried to move his head back, just a bit to wet his fingers, but Matthew tightened the grip of his thighs and held him there. Francis managed to pull back just enough to wet his fingers with a mix of saliva and precum, and then slowly began to push his index finger into Matthew.
Matthew shuddered, his hips jerking upwards and driving his cock so deep into Francis' mouth that not for the first time, Francis was glad he didn't have a gag reflex. Francis took a long breath through his nose and began to take Matthew in his mouth entirely.
It could be an uncomfortable position, truly something only for experts. It was hard to breathe, and if you had a gag reflex, it could end horribly with the night ruined. But for Francis, it was a sensual experience, feeling Matthew all the way in his mouth. It was a certain smugness, a happiness at feeling so full and at the same time a peaceful experience.
He could live with this being the last cock he ever sucked, with Matthew being his last. Save the best for last, he thought with some amusement.
He thrust in a steady rhythm, angling up towards the prostate in time with the slurpy sounds of him swallowing as much as Matthew's cock as was physically possible. He ground against the couch with more urgency, and felt the adrenaline rush of an oncoming climax.
In the end it wasn't a scream, but a breath, a shaky murmur of F-Francis as he came. The grip slackened as Matthew gave a few last jerks of his hips. His cock twitched, and there was a warmth running down his throat. That, and one last desperate grind of his pelvis to the couch made him go over the edge.
So it wasn't exactly the same moment, as he had hoped to try, but it was close enough that they could both enjoy that last sweet moment, the pinnacle of sex. It was like a drug high, but oh, no Absinthe could ever match this kind of release.
Even when Matthew started to become soft, he didn't entirely let go. He climbed up to rest with him on the couch, even if it was cramped. He kept his grip at the base of Matthew's cock, slackened now, and simply held him close.
"That....that...." Matthew gasped.
Francis licked his lips. "That is only the beginning."
Matthew was quiet, and Francis kissed his shoulder.
"Mon chéri....I promise you this isn't a one night thing, or an ending," Francis said.
Matthew leaned back into him more, but still did not reply.
"Trust me," Francis said gently.
"...I just keep thinking that I'm going to wake up and then I'll feel horrible because this dream is so good that I want it to last."
Francis nipped at his neck. He flinched, and lifted his hand to rub at the place, the new mark Francis had left on him.
"Morning will change nothing," Francis said.
He let go of Matthew's cock and let his arm rest over Matthew's chest. Matthew enfolded his hand Francis and they lay there, all tangled up in each other.
Love, like sex, had an afterglow. He basked in the feel of it all as the first new vines of trust began to bind them together into an us, a we, a pair of likenesses and opposites pulled together by forces Francis never bothered to attribute to science or magic.
Love was a deeper thing than words could convey, a mystery, a cat who couldn't be tamed, but would find you all the same.
And curled up with Matthew, the last of his orgasm leaving him feeling calm and unfettered with worries, he knew it had finally found him.
~
When I'm with you I am calm
a pearl in your oyster
head on my chest, a silent smile
a private kind of happiness
you see giant proclamations are all very well
but our love is louder than words
I'll love you in the morning
when you're still hung-over
I'll love you in the morning,
when you're still strung out,
I'll love you in the morning
Sunday,
Bloc Party