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amulyTitle: Draw You
Pairing: Eliot/Hardison
Word Count: 3,323
Rating: R
Summary: Hardison wants to draw Eliot nude. Devolves into PWP.
Warnings: minor Classical Studies/Art History nerdiness.
A/N: On the road traveling across the UK atm!! Had this fic in my WiP folder forever, and just now finally had the time/motivation to finish it. Also: SAW HADRIAN'S WALL TODAY. :DDDD
Eliot finished the last of his crunches, wincing at the pull in his side. The bruise he had received during the last job had faded, but the muscles beneath the skin were still tender.
He grunted as he rolled to his feet, grabbing his water bottle and towel from the bench. Gulping half the bottle, he poured the rest of it over his head, shaking vigorously and splashing water everywhere.
“Look like a dog,” Hardison's voice teased from behind him. Eliot turned, narrowing his eyes at the other man. He was smirking as he started stalking forward. “Like a dirty, sexy dog.”
Eliot snorted, edging away as Hardison tried to wrap his hands around his waist. “You think dogs are sexy?”
Hardison laughed, leaning in for a kiss. “English class wasn't my forte, alright?” he mumbled.
They kissed, Eliot pulling away after just a moment. “I'm sweaty. Let me shower.” When Hardison seemed like he might protest, he continued in a rough whisper, “Then I'll come back and fuck you into the headboards.”
He felt Hardison melt deliciously beneath him, opening himself to the next kiss in imitation of how he wanted to open himself for Eliot. Self-satisfied, Eliot started to head to the shower, when a firm hand on his wrist stopped him. He turned, frowning as Hardison chewed his lower lip and looked anywhere but Eliot.
“Listen, I'm gonna ask you something, and just hear me out, okay?”
Eliot stiffened, knowing even as he did that he was making Hardison even more nervous. He forcibly relaxed his muscles, nodding.
Hardison stared up at the ceiling, licking his lips before he spoke. “Iwannadrawyou.”
Eliot hesitated, trying to make sense of the jumble of noise that had burst forth from Hardison's mouth. “What?”
“Sorry, sorry. It's stupid; whatever. Listen, I'm gonna go get lubed up, so...” Hardison started away, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Eliot snatched his hand as he went, pulling him back to him.
“Wait, man! I couldn't understand a word that came out of your mouth.” Hardison laughed nervously as Eliot kept hold of his hand. “Now just tell me. If I don't like it, no big deal.”
Taking a deep breath, Hardison more slowly said “I wanna draw you.”
Eliot paused, frowning. Immediately Hardison started to pull away, mumbling apologizes as he went. Eliot kept his grip on Hardison's hand, tugging him back. “Will you just wait a second, man? Give a guy a minute to process this.” So Hardison waited as Eliot swept sweat-and-water-soaked hair from his face. All things considered, it wasn't the strangest thing Hardison could have asked for – not by a long shot. It was just... sort of embarrassing. Narcissistic. Eliot shifted where he was standing. “Why'd you want to do that?”
Again Hardison tried to pull away, shaking his head. “Sorry man. Just forget it, okay?”
But Eliot kept hold of Hardison's wrist, pulling him back in against his body. “I didn't say that.” Eliot waited for a moment, scanning Hardison's eyes. “You want me naked?”
Hardison's sharp inhale made Eliot smirk. He'd be willing to do a lot of things to make Hardison react like that – not that Hardison needed to know that. Hardison nodded. “Yeah. Yeah: naked. I mean...” Hardison's eyes roved down Eliot's body as his hand reached up to trace the path of his eyes. “'Course I wanna sketch you naked. You're fucking gorgeous.”
Eliot glanced down, letting his hair fall in front of his face. He wasn't sure what expression might be on it right now, but whatever it was, he didn't want Hardison to see. “Well, get your... stuff, whatever, ready. I'm gonna grab a shower, then meet you in your studio?”
Hardison's answer was to lean down and kiss Eliot, slow and deep. Probably too quickly Eliot broke it, walking hurriedly over to the shower and shutting the door behind him. As he waited for the water to heat up (a luxury he always indulged in when he could, due to the severe lack of hot water he'd experienced over the years) he contemplated Hardison's request. It wasn't so much weird in it of itself – Hardison liked to indulge his creative side once in a while, Eliot knew that – but it bothered Eliot that Hardison wanted to draw him. Why not some mountains or a skyscraper or... a dragon, or something? Why'd Hardison wanna draw him?
As Eliot stepped into the shower and let the boiling hot water wash over him, he tried to push such questions out of his mind. He was doing this for Hardison, after all. It'd be better for both of them if he just humored him.
**
Eliot stepped into the studio, bare feet cold on the wood floors. Hardison was already there, pencils at his side and thumbing through the pages on his easel. As he caught sight of Eliot, he grinned: eyes trailing down Eliot's bare chest until they settled on the juncture of torso and towel, slung low on Eliot's hips.
“As sexy as you are just standing there,” Hardison started, “lose the towel and stand over on the rug.”
Eliot gratefully walked over onto the rug, bare feet happily sinking into the plush, warm fibers. With some trepidation he slid the towel off his waist, hanging it over the back of a spare chair. Hardison's eyes were already raking over his nude form, but instead of the lust that normally filled them – rather, in addition to the lust – his eyes held the practiced criticism of a skilled artist. Eliot sort of wanted to disappear under the gaze, but he held firm, flipping his hair out of his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you have a pose or something for me?”
Hardison nodded, getting up from his chair and walking over to Eliot. “Yeah, yeah. Put your legs like...” he nudged at Eliot's feet and knees until one knee was bent, the other straight. “Like that: one leg supporting the weight. Okay, now just put your hand on your thigh...”
Belatedly Eliot realized how he was standing. “This is Hermes, second century, isn't it?”
Hardison blinked, then nodded. “Yeah. Wait, how'd you-”
“I am also a thief, Hardison. I picked some things up, and second century Hermes posing style isn't exactly obscure.”
Hardison backed up, hands raised in surrender. “Alright, alright.” Once back over at his easel, Hardison made an appreciative noise in his throat as he looked Eliot up and down again. “I knew you'd look good in that pose. The Greeks: they knew how to pose their muscly men, I'm telling you.” He stared for a moment longer, eyeing Eliot carefully. “I mean, have you seen your thighs recently? Hot damn!”
Eliot growled. “Could we just get on with this?” His hand already felt itchy on his thigh, his muscles tense and uncomfortable.
As Hardison worked, Eliot did his best not to shift or move a muscle. It should have been no problem: he had sat for days with a sniper rifle trained on a building, not moving to eat or sleep until he had completed his mission. Standing for an hour or so for Hardison shouldn't have been difficult. Yet every muscle felt like it was on fire; every inch of skin was hypersensitive to the smallest changes in the air.
To his surprise, as Hardison continued to rake practiced artist's eyes over his body, Eliot felt his cock twitch in interest. He shifted slightly, frowning as he tried to will it away. He had no lack of gruesome mental images to use in such situations. And yet, Hardison's gaze – not even lusty, just considered and concentrated – beat away all the terrible, erection-wilting mental images he drew up. It was with great embarrassment that Eliot felt himself swelling, growing visibly turgid.
He shifted again, and this time Hardison noticed his movement. He opened his mouth to say something – correcting Eliot's fidgeting, perhaps – when his eyes locked onto Eliot's erection. A slow grin spread across his face, and Eliot rushed to explain. “Sorry. Just... gimme a minute.”
Hardison hummed as he shook his head. “No, no, man. That's... that's just...” he swallowed thickly. “That's gorgeous.”
Eliot made to cover himself, to walk away. But then Hardison was there, long fingers encircling his wrists, those baby-soft palms smooth on his skin. They stood there for a long moment, Eliot's erection refusing to flag. “Don't call me gorgeous,” he finally mumbled. “Not a girl.”
Hardison laughed at that, leaning in close to Eliot, so that their lips nearly touched. “Oh, baby,” he drawled, “don't need to be a girl to be gorgeous.” They kissed, Eliot nipping at Hardison's lips to reassert his manhood. Hardison let him, slackening beneath Eliot's grip. He pulled away just as Eliot moved to deepen the kiss, winking slyly. “Just hold still a bit longer. And don't worry about this,” Eliot grunted as Hardison's hand snuck out and squeezed at his erection. “You're perfect like this.”
With that, Hardison sat back down in front of his easel, pencil scratching over the page as his hand moved quickly. Eliot's erection refused to wilt, still hard and pointed straight up as he tried to maintain his pose and will the blush from his cheeks. He wasn't even sure how he was blushing, considering that all his blood seemed determined to pool in much more southern climes. But his face and ears were hot, so he knew he was blushing bright red. Real hot, he grumbled mentally.
When he next glanced at Hardison's face, however, Eliot noticed that he wasn't just looking at him with an artist's eye anymore. With the relatively small distance between them, Eliot could see Hardison's pupils were blown, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than just moving a pencil over a page should really warrant. When Hardison's pink tongue darted out from just a moment to wet his lips, Eliot felt himself grinning and growing less embarrassed. So maybe his body's reaction wasn't such faux pas. At least, not when it was Hardison drawing him.
Ten minutes in and Eliot was surprised to find himself cramping. At first he tried to just ignore the sensation, much as he would were he sitting in the jungle with a sniper rifle in front of his eye, waiting possible days for a target to come into his sights. But cramping while posing for Hardison proved to be an entirely different test of his will than when he used to lay in wait for an assassination. For one, he wasn't generally quite so rock-hard when waiting to shoot someone in the head. For another, he wasn't under such devoted scrutiny as he was now: Hardison's dark brown eyes raking over ever limb, muscle, line of his body.
Eliot growled. “We done yet?”
Hardison's hand stilled, his eyes turning to look at his page as if it was the first time he was really seeing it. A slow grin spread across his face. “Hot damn, Eliot. Wait 'til I finish this. I'm sending this to my nana to hang in the front hall.”
Eliot flushed. “What?!” Breaking pose, he stormed over to Hardison to take a look at the page. “Why in the hell would you show your nana-”
He stopped as he caught sight of the sketch for the first time. Hardison was good, there was no question of that. But Eliot had seen Hardison's work before, so it didn't really come as a surprise. What really gave Eliot pause wasn't the skill with which Hardison had captured the lines of his body, or even his state of obvious arousal. Rather, it was the expression on Eliot's face in the sketch: vulnerable, almost. Exposed. Open.
Eliot didn't know how to feel.
If he had really looked like this when Hardison was looking at him, then... well, then Eliot seriously needed to work on his poker face. But it was more than that: no one got to see Eliot vulnerable. That just wasn't how he worked. And yet here he was, laid bare and exposed for Hardison, this geeky hacker kid he'd been sleeping with on and off for a couple years. How did Hardison end up doing that to him? How did he get under Eliot's skin so bad without him ever realizing it?
Abruptly Eliot realized that Hardison was waiting for a reaction to his piece. “It's good.” When Hardison's face fell before he could school it into careful indifference, Eliot backtracked. He wrapped his arm around Hardison's shoulder, pulling him in close. “It's scary good, man,” he growled into Hardison's neck. “Don't play dumb: you know you're a fucking modern Da Vinci. ADD hobbies and all.”
Beneath his arm, Hardison relaxed into Eliot. “Oh. Right. Thanks.”
Before Hardison could get insecure again, Eliot yanked him until they were chest-to-chest, gripping the back of Hardison's neck hard. “Know what else you have in common with Da Vinci?”
Hardison's eyes were confused as he stared down at Eliot. “Wha-”
Before Hardison could embarrass himself by asking, Eliot yanked Hardison forward and into a searing kiss. Hardison's grin beneath his lips a few seconds later told Eliot that he had finally understood what other similarities might be between him and the Renaissance painter.
As they kissed, Eliot found conflicting emotions bubbling to the surface. Hardison, whether he was aware of it or not, made Eliot vulnerable – even worse, he saw Eliot vulnerable. And yet, Eliot couldn't find it within himself to be upset by this. It was entirely new for Eliot to be okay with someone seeing him vulnerable. Even odder, Eliot thought maybe he might want Hardison to see him vulnerable: a desire heretofore unexperienced by Eliot.
In an attempt to stamp out these feelings – or at least ignore them until he could examine them later, alone – Eliot dragged Hardison closer, sliding his hands under Hardison's shirt and feeling that smooth skin beneath his callused palms. Beneath him Hardison moaned, giving himself willingly over to Eliot's need for dominance. It was one of the reasons this weird thing between them actually managed to work.
Tearing his lips away from Hardison's, Eliot wrapped his hand tighter around his neck and started to tug Hardison down. Hardison dropped to his knees almost immediately, hands scrambling for Eliot's hips and cock, mouth already dropped open in anticipation. “You can pull yourself out,” Eliot breathed as the first warm puff of Hardison's breath ghosted over his aching erection. Even though Eliot could clearly see the erection straining against Hardison's jeans, Hardison shook his head. He pressed his face against Eliot's pubic hair, breathing in deeply before rubbing his lips over Eliot's shaft, nose bumping against it as he did. Eliot bit the inside of his cheek as he watched Hardison working his way up, moist lips looking so ready for sucking. He reached a hand down to Hardison's head, stroking gently over the short hairs there. Hardison practically preened under the attention, before opening up his mouth fully and taking Eliot into his mouth. Eliot dug his fingernails into Hardison's head as that perfect tight heat sucked him in.
“Fucking hell, Hardison,” Eliot murmured, head hanging down and hair in his eyes as he gazed at Hardison moving steadily over his cock, sucking and lick as he bobbed up and down it. Eliot knew this wasn't going to last long: he'd just experienced over ten minutes of torturous foreplay – foreplay being something they hardly indulged in at all. As it was, Eliot found Hardison's skillful lips and tongue sucking him closer and closer to the edge with every draw back over his shaft.
Eliot's fingers tightened over Hardison's skull as he tossed his head back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed around his arousal. Fuck, Hardison's mouth felt good: tight and hot and wet in all the most impossibly arousing ways. For how young Hardison was – which Eliot tried his best not to think about, or he might feel a bit old and perverted, currently with such a hot young thing sucking his brains out of his cock – the boy knew how to suck cock. Even their first rushed time in an alleyway outside a bar, hopped up on adrenaline left over from a job almost gone south, Hardison had sucked Eliot's cock like a man dying of thirst sucking water up a straw.
As Hardison increased the pace that his head bobbed at, Eliot's hips began thrusting shallowly into Hardison's mouth. One, two, three of those thrusts and Eliot was coming, knees shaking as he let the pleasure from his orgasm wash over him. At his waist, Hardison was drinking up every last drop of Eliot's come, drawing his mouth slowly off the spent member and lapping at it with long, delicate strokes. With a grunt Eliot pushed Hardison's head, stopping the other man from driving Eliot crazy with overstimulation.
Hardison popped back up to Eliot's level, kissing and sucking at Eliot's neck until Eliot was put together enough to drag Hardison's face around to his, kissing the taste of himself from Hardison's mouth. The stroke of Eliot's tongue was lazy and satisfied, while Hardison's kisses turned more frantic, desperate. Knowing he was still in need of release, Eliot reached a hand down between them and yanked open Hardison's jeans, freeing his aching cock. In the space of one stroke Hardison was melting against Eliot, arms wrapped around his neck and face pressed tightly into his neck. A few more strokes and Hardison was panting against Eliot's skin: those harsh, short, pleading pants that he did every time he was close. Eliot continued to stroke Hardison through his orgasm, listening to the way Hardison cried out against his neck and holding him up with his free arm as Hardison rode out his orgasm.
Eliot found himself grinning at the way Hardison couldn't hold it together after an orgasm: he either needed to go again immediately, or for Eliot to get him back into a bed and catch some sleep. This time was definitely the latter, if the way Hardison leaned the entirety of his weight against Eliot was any indication.
“Come on,” Eliot said gruffly. He thought maybe he managed to keep the affection out of his voice, but then Hardison was pressing delicate little thank-you kisses against Eliot's neck, so he knew he hadn't. “Let's get you to bed,” Eliot continued, ignoring the way those little kisses made him feel. “Let's get you to bed. Even Da Vinci needs some rest every once in a while before he finished his paintings.”
Hardison's grin against Eliot's neck as he manhandled the younger man into his bedroom was all the reply Eliot needed. He made to move away once Hardison was comfortably snuggled beneath way too many blankets, but then Hardison's hand shot out, stopping him. “C'mere.” came Hardison's sleepy mumble.
Eliot hesitated. There was plenty for him to do in the meantime rather than sleep: his garden needed tending to, his ribs some time with an ice pack, and a few of his old contacts looking into, just to make sure they weren't sniffing around. “Move,” Eliot growled. Eliot grumbled as he slid beneath the obscene amount of covers Hardison kept on his bed. Then Hardison's arm wrapped around his waist and the younger man snuggled up to him, legs, arms, and torso all pressed up and wrapped around Eliot's. As Hardison fell quickly into slumber, Eliot stopped grumbling.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-05-10 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-12 05:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-11 01:59 am (UTC)And I really enjoyed the parts where you showed your "Classical Studies/Art History nerdiness" as you call it (nerd pride yay)
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Date: 2011-05-12 05:58 am (UTC)And I do love writing these two bickering. I'm glad you liked it, too ^.^
no subject
Date: 2011-05-12 08:30 pm (UTC)And speaking of nerd pride, I just noticed Rosalind Franklin is your journal name - that is so badass!!!
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Date: 2011-05-12 08:43 pm (UTC)I have always felt a special connection to her... especially since it seems all the boys in her lab hated her and thought she was a bitter - if not also brilliant - bitch. ;P
Plus, you know, she totally got gypped out of a Nobel Prize and then died from ovarian cancer due to the research THAT SHOULD HAVE WON HER THE NOBEL PRIZE. So yes. So much nerd pride for dear departed Rosalind.
no subject
Date: 2011-05-12 09:06 pm (UTC)and you know, a lot of women in history (grumbles)