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Entry tags:
Fanfic100-Fire
Title: Pyromania
Fandom: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Characters: Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent
Prompt: 052. Fire
Word Count: 248
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s a flameless combustion.
Table
It starts with a touch.
Arthur is stretching and his shirt is moving up higher, higher, higher and when he puts his arms down, the shirt is still up. Ford’s a nice guy, who likes to help out his friends.
So Ford reaches out to smooth down that crumpled fabric, and his palm brushes over the pale skin of lower back.
It’s a spark, a flash, a bolt of lightning that shakes them both to the bone.
Ford presses his hand flat; half on fabric, half set on a patch of skin. A tremble goes down Arthur’s spine and Ford feels it to his toes.
“Ah…F…Ford…”
Ford’s going in reverse, pushing the shirt back up, up, up and revealing more skin. He lays the heel of his hand on the small of Arthur’s back, a perfect fit, and splays his fingers as wide as they’ll go. Touching as much as he can.
Arthur’s head is caught in a rush. He’s being deafened by the pounding of his own heartbeat. There’s already so much, too much, and then there’s more. Electric fingertips dancing up his arms, over his shirt, resting on his neck.
They need to be near, closer, and suddenly they’re crowding each other, white heat dissolving the rest of the world. Ford’s fingers are curling, pushing, pulling, ripping the breath right out of Arthur with every little movement. Everything is aching and Ford presses his lips to Arthur’s; tongues sliding, teeth nipping, eyes closing, hearts on fire.
Fandom: Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
Characters: Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent
Prompt: 052. Fire
Word Count: 248
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s a flameless combustion.
Table
It starts with a touch.
Arthur is stretching and his shirt is moving up higher, higher, higher and when he puts his arms down, the shirt is still up. Ford’s a nice guy, who likes to help out his friends.
So Ford reaches out to smooth down that crumpled fabric, and his palm brushes over the pale skin of lower back.
It’s a spark, a flash, a bolt of lightning that shakes them both to the bone.
Ford presses his hand flat; half on fabric, half set on a patch of skin. A tremble goes down Arthur’s spine and Ford feels it to his toes.
“Ah…F…Ford…”
Ford’s going in reverse, pushing the shirt back up, up, up and revealing more skin. He lays the heel of his hand on the small of Arthur’s back, a perfect fit, and splays his fingers as wide as they’ll go. Touching as much as he can.
Arthur’s head is caught in a rush. He’s being deafened by the pounding of his own heartbeat. There’s already so much, too much, and then there’s more. Electric fingertips dancing up his arms, over his shirt, resting on his neck.
They need to be near, closer, and suddenly they’re crowding each other, white heat dissolving the rest of the world. Ford’s fingers are curling, pushing, pulling, ripping the breath right out of Arthur with every little movement. Everything is aching and Ford presses his lips to Arthur’s; tongues sliding, teeth nipping, eyes closing, hearts on fire.