This comes from the 64 Damn Prompts on LiveJournal (by rashaka). I will, most likely, be working through all 64, because I can't bear to leave such a lovely thing unfinished. I will also include the song that helped me write it/find inspiration/that I thought fit the mood.
P.S~ This is probably the closest I will ever get to a PWP, being as I am. (If you haven't noticed, I fail at smexyness times. Majorly.)
Prompt 30: Slope
Music: Your Body is a Wonderland, by John Mayer
The curve of his cheek is lovely, the slope of his nose beautiful. His hair falls like a splash of molten midnight against the snowy white of the pillowcase, the skin of his hand—which rests in a loose curl beside his head—a few shades darker than the silk. The half-moon shadows of his eyelashes rest on his skin like delicate feathers of darkness, perfect and oddly serene.
Matt can't get enough of watching Erik like this, gets up insanely early just so he can sit at the foot of the bed with his sketchpad and attempt to capture even a faint shadow of the perfection that is embodied in this man. He looks down at his pad, then back at his lover, and smiles, tugging the sheet down just slightly so that it slides off, and his view is unimpeded.
The perfection isn't only in Erik's face, but the rest of him, as well. His chin is firm and delicately pointed, with only the faintest hint of a dimple. What stubble he does get grows in almost timidly, a bare shadow on his otherwise flawless skin. His neck is long and elegant, the Adam's apple a mere suggestion rather than a protuberance. Matt follows the line of it down to sharp collarbones and surprisingly broad shoulders, firm with muscle. For all that he's a real estate mogul and probably one of the richest men in the country, Erik is as fit as a martial artist, and just as muscular. He's not one to waste his time, when he does get a chance to work out.
Matt loves his shoulders, the width of them, the way they look in a suit, the way they hold so much of the tension that is Erik. He'll run his hands over them, or grip them when they make love, loving the feel of tendons and sinews shifting under his fingertips, the play of light and shadow and the dip of the armpit. Erik's arms are like his shoulders, leanly muscled and strong, strong enough to pull Matt up off the ground the way Erik did when they first met, when Matt was nothing but a street punk getting his ass kicked by some punks who took offense at the way he looked at them.
Though, come to think of it, stealing their weed to sell some other drugged-out smoker probably had something to do with it, too.
The graphite in his hand traces out the lines of the other hand, resting peacefully on Erik's chest—beautiful hands, elegant and long and finely boned, as though he should have been a painter or a surgeon or a piano player. Those fingers are rarely still, even though Erik is a calm, ever-composed man; they're always writing or typing or gesturing or doing something, as if all of a human's normal nervous energy has been condensed into Erik's fingertips.
The chest that his right hand rests on is also muscular, with a thin trail of hair the leads from between his nipples straight to his groin. The rest is smooth and firm, the skin stretched taut over sinews that Matt could run his hands or his tongue over for hours. His nipples are tempting copper disks that Matt marks on his paper with a quick flick of the graphite, wondering what Erik's reaction would be if Matt abandoned his sketching and slid up the older man's body to lick and bite at them, to kiss them with the barest edge of teeth like Matt knows he loves.
But it's too early. Matt suppresses those thoughts with a quick, deep breath and keeps sketching. His eyes slip past the shadowy dip between Erik's thighs, deciding it is too soon to face that temptation, and slide over long legs, lightly dusted with dark hair. Firm thighs, smooth knees, elegant calves, neat ankles, and beautiful feet. Even the toenails are perfect, as smooth as the inside of a seashell and a lovely pinkish-white that all but radiates vitality. Matt spends an inordinate amount of time capturing those feet, because they seem to speak for all the Erik is—strong, graceful, elegant, able to move swiftly when needed or not at all, to relax or stride. It's like finding a picture of someone that encapsulates everything about that person in one neat moment.
Only with Erik, it's feet.
Matt decides that he won't say anything about that to Erik, ever.
His eyes trace back up Erik's body to the place between his thighs, where his penis rests in a nest of black curls. It's flaccid right now, lying against his paler skin, but Matt can see it in his mind, erect and full, flushed with arousal, and has to take another quick breath to keep from moving forward. Erik is a little larger than average, a little thicker, straight and beautiful—even more so because it is Matt he wants, Matt who gets to share his bed and his life.
The smell of coffee is filling the air now, the pot in the kitchen having come on automatically. Matt smiles and sets his sketchbook aside, doing as he pictured just moments ago and sliding up Erik's body. He drapes himself over the older man's legs and places a gentle kiss, then an easy lick against the soft penis, which quickly starts to take interest. Matt takes a breath and then slides his mouth over the hardening shaft, taking it in deep and laving it with his tongue. The precum tastes salty and bitter with an edge of Erik, and he swallows greedily, flicking his tongue against the soft head as he slides his mouth back up.
A soft sound makes him flick his eyes up to meet a heated, storm cloud-blue gaze. Erik's deep eyes are fixed on his face, his mouth, and there's a sharp hunger in them, a desire for more that Erik rarely voices. Matt can't grin with his mouth so full, but he tries to put into his eyes all the heat he feels, all the want that's building between his legs, and rubs himself against the sheets with a quiet groan.
Erik groans in turn, his hips jerking up off the mattress and sending him sliding a little further down Matt's throat. Matt simply changes the angle and swallows more, going down until Erik's cock bumps the back of his throat and his nose is almost touching the black curls at the base of the shaft, Matt's throat working around it as he uses his tongue as much as he can. Erik is making sounds now, small, quiet noises that in another man would be a sign of complete abandon. He's near the edge, but not quite there, so Matt brings one of his hands up and cups the older man's balls in one hand, testing their weight as he squeezes gently.
A sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a groan tumbles from Erik's lips, and he arches under Matt's hand. Matt loves it, this simple, overwhelming power, this ability to take this strong, beautiful, perfect man and make him lose control—loves him, period. He swallows again, applies the barest edge of teeth, and then pulls back enough to swallow as Erik groans again and comes down his throat. The sight of it, the feel of it, the taste and smell and overwhelming emotion in this usually all-but-emotionless man is nearly enough to push Matt over the edge as well, and he moans as he lets Erik's shaft slip from his mouth, one hand sliding down to grip himself. A few quick tugs on the oversensitive organ and he's coming as well, spilling over the sheets with a gasp before he collapses against Erik's legs again.
There's a moment as they both recover, and then Erik reaches down and pulls Matt up to lie beside him, curled together with the younger man half-sprawled over his chest. They lie quietly for several minutes as they recover, and then Erik asks, a trace of amusement in his voice, "Is that your way of saying good morning?"
Matt smiles into those sharp, elegant collarbones, too relaxed to raise his head. "Weekend greeting. Haven't you noticed?" he asked dryly. "After two years of living together?"
"I have learned never to assume," Erik says, with that arrogant arch to his brows that Matt knows is actually his equivalent smile. "Especially where you are concerned, Matthew Gladstone."
Matt glances over to where his sketchbook lies on top of the bedside table, still open, and hums in contentment. That book is almost full. Soon, it will join the others like it in his closet, two years worth of mornings captured in loving detail. He kisses the slope of Erik's aristocratic nose, settles into the warmth of the body beside him, and closes his eyes.
Two years, he thinks with a small smile. Not bad for a street punk artist and a cutthroat businessman.
Not bad, indeed.