The Wave and the Blaze (RWRB fanfic)

The geese do not bear secrets

[This chapter blends in with the end of chap. 9 of the og Book, look up "Author's notes" for more details. Good reading !]

Henry smiles. He knows the feeling.

His lips go down, tracing a furrow between the brown dunes of Alex's shoulders until they kiss the two little dimples all the way down his back.

They linger there, and when the American thinks he's about to die from desire, the prince goes in.

Henry grunts. Alex bites down into his forearm too late to silence a yearning "motherfucker".

"Tell me if it's too much. We can stop at any..."

"Bragging, huh ?" tries to snigger Alex.

Though he can't see it, he feels the echo of Henry's amused wince, like circles on a lac. In silence, the prince spreads the American's legs and pulls on his hips.

Alex grits his jaw, not quite holding in his cry.

The pain is like nothing he has ever felt, not worse but new. And then an explosion of pleasure wells up in his body.

It's a volcano bursting the ground. A burning tree tumbling into the sea. A hand of ice cupping his cheek.

His lungs crackle with incandescent sparks like lava raining down on the damp leaves of a forest.

Alex's arms weaken. Some water goes into his mouth. He chokes. In the dark, his clenched teeth form a starving grin.

Henry's winded voice raises, tinged with concern, "Alex..."

"Deeper," —cries the young man— "I...please deeper !"

Henry grabs on his waist and pushes himself all the way in.

Again, the same rush of pleasure crashes into Alex. His limbs contract despite him. He scratches his nails on the floor tiles. There's nothing to hold on to. Nothing to tell him where the barrier between their two bodies is anymore.

Alex feels Henry's hand firmly resting on his shoulder, the tension of his muscles slowly melts against it.

Henry has stopped moving, waiting for Alex to adjust. Maybe to adjust, himself. Telling from the panting behind him, the sensation is equally overwhelming for the young British.

"Move," begs Alex.

And the deep thrusts begin. Hard, enflamed. Each time Henry's torso leaves Alex's back, he's being wrenched off of part of himself. And each time the weight of his body crushes back on Alex's hips, he's being tossed and hurled against the rocks of a storm-battered beach.

No coherent thoughts go through the young man's brain. Henry digs his nails deeper into his skin. His other hand travels up Alex's neck, and two fingers slide into the American's mouth. The salty taste of his skin washed out by the chlorine dances on the Texan's tongue. Water droplets fall around them.

The night resonates with their moans—the maddening feeling of electricity following Henry's undulating movements. Alex feels all sense of self, every last wall of sand built within, being shattered by each wave of pleasure coursing through Henry's body to reverberate into his own. Two pearles of blood bead upon the American's smile where his teeth dig into his lip.

Alex can not imagine a world where you could dissociate his arched back from Henry's outstretched arms, their hands intertwined against the wall, the mist of their two breaths rising in the night. Two teardrops in the ocean.

They grunt, they pant. Alex insults all the Greek gods he knows, and it's Henry's turn to forget himself; he rasps, "God, you feel so good" — and, stumbling on his own breath in between moans — "Alex, I— you— you're so... Fuck, it's unfair. It's -HAN !-" and they both climax at the same time.