"The Deep Well" Author: pre_raphaelite1Characters/Pairings:
Gideon/Fabian (mmm Prewett twincest! Of a sort.) Rating:
Erotographomania, fingering, magical charms, and sensory deprivationOther Warnings:
dub-con, slight d/s, slight food smut, orgasm denial, oral sex, rimming, incest!Word Count:
In which Fabian experiments on Gideon and many letters are exchanged. Author's Notes:
I'm clearly teaching too many epistolary novels this summer.
Found it yet? Or still hunting? You never were very good at this.
Fabian you utter prat,
No. I've not yet. Where the hell did you put that thing? I swear I will hex your balls to the bottom of your feet for this.
G, my love, my darling!
Such words of love and endearments. Certainly enticing me to tell you where it is.
Your ever faithful, ever adoring,
I hate you.
No, you don't. You love me. You want to tell me all about how much you love me. In detail. Glorious detail. Detailed detail even.
No. No I don't. I want you to tell me where that bloody charm is before I go completely barking from this.
Most Illustriously Aggravated Brother~Dog~Tree~Thing,
No love. No revelation.
You're mad. What does that even m- oh very funny. Har har.
I can't hear a damn thing, I may as well not have a nose, and do you have any idea how many quills I've broken already because I've been reduced to this? Do you? No. No you don't. Because you're too busy being a smug prick to help your brother out.
This is not funny.
Gideon, darling, tell me of your deepest love and darkest lust for me first. And all will be revealed. Without laughter.
I wouldn't be able to hear it anyway.
You are a filthy pervert.
And this is why you're the pretty one, Pretty One.
~The Smart One
PS: I'm waiting. Lots of love. Detailed love.
To Fabian, the Idiotic One,
Fine. Have it your way. But you'd remember I'm only doing this because I have to.
I love you. You're my favourite brother. Wonderful. Lovely. Sublime.
I love your dazzling smile that you turn on a whole classroom of students, that one that falters so perfectly when you realise that your zip is down. I love how your hair floats in the breeze wafting off the London docks. I love how your sweat glistens over the freckles on your pale, freckly chest after you've been battling the fearful Back Garden Gnome.
I shall love you until the end of time, until we both die in a blaze of triumphant glory, until you give me back my dignity, my senses, and my belt that you borrowed in sixth year.
All of this love and more- so damn much more- Most of the more involves violence, retribution, and revenge. But oh how I'll love it. Every damn minute of it. Sweet revenge. And love. Lots of detailed bloody love.
My dearest Gideon of the Delicate Quill,
A gallant try. Yes. Perhaps slightly less than honest, especially that bit about the belt. And distinctly the wrong kind of love. You want your senses? Try a related type of love. One with better words that might be more suited to your favourite brother. Who is a related type of love.
You know you want to. I know you can.
Make me hard.
You fucking bastard.
I want your fucking fingers in my fucking arse. I want your tongue shoving into my mouth. I want to feel your cock against mine. Hard. Stiff. Unyielding. I want to rub against you while you fuck me with your fingers. I want to hear you moan. I want to hear myself moan. I want to hear anything at all actually.
Feeling something would be good too. Really anything at all. Your face behind my knuckles. Your throat under my hands. Your chest pressed between me and a wall. Your breath panting against my cheek. Rising faster, hotter. Desperate. I want to feel you struggle and twist and fight me. I want to feel you given into it. Into me.
I want to taste your surrender. Taste the Irish cream sweet of it. Mix it with the whiskey heat of desire and let it spill over me and make you lick it clean. Watch your tongue slide over me, drawing through wine and submission, over every last inch of me. I want you to taste the weight of my balls, the wait of my cock, and the tightness of my arse.
--- I want you to end this, to finish me with the press of your fingers. Oil them, slick them, coat them, then thrust them into me. One. Two. And three inside. Seeking. Probing. Knowing. Always knowing just where to go, where to touch. And I'll make you cry out for your own release even as I leave mine in drips and splashes over waiting, freckled skin. Make you beg for it.
And if you're damn good, and you know what is damn good for you, I'll be able to hear you.
Maybe then you'll get what you deserve.
Fuck yes. That's what I wanted. That's what I needed from you. You did it, you know. Made me hard. Made me want every bit of that, every touch and taste of it.
Especially the whiskey part. Inspired, that was. No wonder you're so popular at that magazine of yours.
Must shower. Back in a flash or three.
I'LL DRAG YOUR WET WELSH ARSE OUT OF THERE IF YOU DON'T TELL ME WHERE THE HELL THAT CHARM IS AFTER I DID WHAT YOU WANTED- WHAT YOU MANIPULATED ME INTO DOING EVEN! YOU RAGING PERVERT! I CAN'T EVEN FEEL MY COCK! WHERE IS THAT CHARM?
Yelling won't help you hear yourself any better. All it does is enrage the paper and make my ears ring.
Now, the calm, rational thing to do is to lay your quill down and check your inkwell. Seems to have developed an odd sort of lump~ vaguely pebble shaped maybe? Yes, that's it. Oh dear~ you didn't just pour it out on your desk and use your fingers to pull it out, did you?
Of course you did. That's my pretty brother.
A simple Finite will do the trick. Genius, isn't it? Aren't I?
Just one more thing~ wash your hands before you see if you can feel your cock again. And yes, I noticed that. The implication there.
Of course you didn't. It's all about careful use of words with you. Can't use them carefully when all you feel is that pesky urge to smash your beloved brother's face in.
If it turns out you still are having trouble feeling your cock after smearing it and your trousers with ink, let me know. I expect I know a way of helping you out with that.