#nat txt | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

snapdragonling · 15 days ago

Text

the truth will out

imbris/sorrel, 1.9k, childhood friends AU, rated M for the prompt 'accidental i love you's during sex'

Sleeping with Sorrel was a little like putting his hand on a hot stove; bad for his health, and you’d think Imbris would’ve learned his lesson the first time but no, it takes more than one mistake to teach ol’ Imbris a lesson, it takes a few hard hits on the head before he learns anything, he’ll need the whole relationship to blow up in his face before he stops making stupid decisions and clinging to any scrap of warmth he’s given, even the ones he most definitely doesn’t deserve.

In his defence— nothing. He has nothing to say in his own defence. He’d invited Sorrel up again, like the selfish, weak-willed piece of shit he was.

(And Sorrel said yes, is the other side of this equation, but it still adds up to being Imbris’ fault according to his working, scrawled in the margins of his spiralling thoughts.)

So here he is, fucking his best friend again, his formerly-estranged, only-recently-rediscovered best friend, who’d shown up and parted the miserable sea of Imbris’ life like bloody Moses, who’d been the bright light he cleaved to like a moth for the past year, whose friendship he would have done anything to hold onto. Except, apparently, keep it in his pants.

True to form, he ruined all the most important things.

It might have been a bad decision but at least Imbris was applying himself diligently. Sorrel’s lips were kissed red, his hair was wildly askew, and now Imbris was giving him head with more focus and determination than he’d put towards anything else in his entire life, eyes closed in concentration, lovingly mapping every inch (of which there were a fair few) with his tongue—

—until suddenly he’s not giving Sorrel head at all, because Sorrel has manoeuvred him — practically manhandled him — so that he’s lying on his back where Sorrel had been lying moments ago, and Sorrel is kneeling over him with his hair a little sweaty and his eyes unsure and hazy, saying “Can I— do you want to—” with one hand against Imbris’ ass.

And Imbris says “Yes please Jesus fuck” so fast he’s practically babbling, barely restrains himself from saying I want you inside me so fucking bad which is a little forward even for him, and then Sorrel is leaning over him to rearrange the pillows.

Imbris almost laughs at the absurdity of it: his best friend thoughtfully organising the bed so that he’d be more comfortable while they fucked, as if he wouldn’t have settled for a bathroom stall or a car or an alleyway. Who would’ve thought, all those years ago? Who would’ve thought even one year ago? (He’d definitely thought about it, but that’s different.)

He knew Sorrel was an attentive lover from their first accidental night together (which probably couldn’t be called a one night stand anymore, given that he was back for seconds) but this was a new level of hell— bliss— whatever. Sorrel was so gentle with him Imbris could’ve screamed. He kept kissing the inside of Imbris’ knees as he worked, free hand stroking his thigh, brow slightly furrowed in concentration.

Imbris casts his eyes to the ceiling with a reedy moan.

See, sleeping with Sorrel was like putting his hand on a hot stove, but it was also a little like staring at the fucking sun. Imbris couldn’t look at him for long, for health reasons, and the sight was still seared into his eyelids whenever he glanced away; Sorrel’s beautifully dishevelled hair, the beautiful flush high on his cheekbones, his beautiful eyes dark with desire and something almost like reverence. Angels were real and there was one in his bed, working him open with his fingers.

Twice he has to call for a time out, which (based on his apologies) Sorrel clearly thinks is because he’s doing a bad job. Really it’s because Imbris keeps toeing the line of his climax just from the feeling of Sorrel’s careful attentions, and the mere thought of what would happen next, and the blatant, burning want on his best friend’s face. He gasps and squirms and tries to think about unsexy things, a difficult task in his current predicament.

It crosses his mind that Sorrel’s incorrect read on the situation might make him stop. Can’t have that.

“Need a second or I’m gonna come,” he says, to clear things up, and Sorrel says “Oh” with his eyes wide, and Imbris realises suddenly that that’s the problem, it’s Sorrel’s big fucking eyes, he can’t do this with Sorrel looking at him like that, at least not where he can see.

He wiggles around onto his front, mashes the pillows into a different shape, slides one a little lower and lies down again. “This is easier,” he says over his shoulder. “Carry on.”

There’s a long, long pause, a solid five seconds, may as well have been an eternity. Then Sorrel’s hands are on him again.

And that was better, there was Imbris’ strategic mind at work, now he could finally focus on the sex without Sorrel’s beautiful eyes boring directly into his, flaying him to the bone. He could pretend that it was someone else behind him, not the man he was in love with.

He’s very proud of his plan until Sorrel finally caves to his demands to “hurry up and get on with it”, at which point nothing on God’s green earth can help him.

It’s slower than he’s used to. It’s maybe the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. Imbris knows he’s being loud and can’t help it. Sorrel keeps saying he’s doing good, he’s so good, he feels incredible, which is frankly very nice of him, but has the side effect of making Imbris feel like he’s gonna combust or implode or something of that nature, a heat like the sun burning in his chest. There’s nothing much he can do about his own moans except try to stifle them in one of the pillows, which doesn’t really help.

He has one hand splayed out on the mattress to steady himself. Sorrel leans down to lace their fingers together, kissing Imbris’ shoulder on the way there, then his neck, then the top of his spine. His lips feel like a brand against Imbris’ skin.

“I wanna look at you,” he says breathlessly. “Can I—”

Beautiful bruising eyes be damned, Imbris would have granted him anything in that moment. He immediately reneges on his strategy. “Yeah, yes,” he manages, and then Sorrel’s pulling away and they’re rearranging themselves again, weird game of Twister, and Imbris is on his back and Sorrel is leaning down to kiss him, and Imbris can’t remember ever feeling so much, can’t remember sex ever feeling like this, can’t remember thinking his heart might burst from how badly he needed someone, not just now but always, needed them forever, wanted this for the rest of his life, and all he can think is I love you I Iove you I loveyouIloveyouIloveyouI

“What?” rasps Sorrel, face and voice coloured with shock.

“Oh fuck,” says Imbris, and then he can’t say much of anything because of course now he comes, absolutely terrible timing, grasping the sheets and Sorrel’s shoulders and making a sound like a wounded animal. Dimly he registers Sorrel curled up over him, rocked by the waves of his own pleasure.

Really bad climax, after all that. He can’t even attempt to enjoy it. What a fucking waste.

Afterwards, they go to separate sides of the bed like actors taking their places in a scene, the silence a loud and living thing. Imbris feels sick beyond belief; slightly disconnected from his body. He considers making a run for it, from his own damn apartment. He considers diving out the window. That would give the neighbourhood something to talk about — naked man plummets from fourth storey, manages to look pretty guilty on the way down.

But of course he’s too much of a coward even to flee, after a fuck-up of this magnitude. Maybe if he lies completely still Sorrel will forget he’s here, and forget what happened, and forget what he said.

“Was that true?” Sorrel asks quietly.

Imbris thinks, suddenly, that he might cry. There were those post-coital emotions hard at work, hammering against all the keys of his internal piano, making him feel everything at once. Here it was, here was the reckoning, here was the price he paid for his stupidity. May as well own up to it now, go out in a blaze of glory.

“Yeah, Sorrel,” he says, and hates the way his voice cracks in the middle. “Yeah. It was true.”

No reply.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, and now he really is going to cry.

Someone beats him to the punch. He hears the sound of quiet sniffling from beside him.

Imbris’ stomach drops right through the bed, right through the floorboards, down four storeys into the ground. “Oh, no,” he says, rolling onto his knees, hands hovering above Sorrel like he’s afraid to touch him, which he is. “I’m so fucking sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll leave, I’ll book flights in the morning, you’ll never see me again, I’m so sorry, you mean so much to me, I never meant to say anything—”

Sorrel puts his hands on either side of Imbris’s face and drags him down into a kiss.

It’s not a very good kiss. Sorrel is half-crying, face wet with tears, and Imbris is too startled to kiss him back, just sort of kneels there like a stunned mullet, hands still frozen in the air above Sorrel’s chest, heartbeat rabbiting wildly. Some part of his brain is trying to do the mental arithmetic: confess love, make Sorrel cry, get kissed. It didn’t add up. He was never very good at maths.

When Sorrel lets him go he’s smiling shakily. Imbris stares down at him like he’s never seen him before.

“I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen,” says Sorrel. “I thought I’d moved on, and then you were back in my life and I fell in love all over again, even harder. I didn’t want to spook you so I didn’t say anything. It was killing me, not saying anything.”

“What,” Imbris says faintly, not really a question, mostly a plea.

One of Sorrel’s hands is still at his face, cupping his cheek. He looks so beautiful it hurts Imbris’ heart. “Couldn’t you see that I loved you?”

Well, no, thinks Imbris. Clearly not.

But maybe that wasn’t entirely true. Maybe there’d been hints along the way; hints he’d ignored for fear of fucking it up, better not to have it at all than to have it and lose it. Maybe he’d convinced himself that what he’d seen was too good to be real. Maybe he’d been too scared to look at it fully, like staring at the sun. Maybe Sorrel was right; maybe he would’ve bolted like a spooked horse.

He doesn’t know what to say. He opens his mouth and snaps it shut again.

“For real?” he asks at last, voice ragged.

Sorrel’s smile is the brightest thing in the universe, and that’s all the answer he needs.

Imbris screws his entire face up, he’s not gonna cry, he’s not gonna cry, and Sorrel laughs and pulls him closer, kissing his nose, his damp cheeks, his wavering lips, wrapping his arms around Imbris’ back so that he can bury his face in Sorrel’s shoulder and start rethinking the shape of his life, the shape of his future, the shape of his heart.

It’s funny, how little effort it takes. Turns out Sorrel slots right into place.

#writing #r: a one time thing #ch: imbris #txt: imbris #SO i realised i misread some of the prompts i received and nobody actually prompted this 😭#BUT i did make nat cry so it was worth it :)))#they're both in their late 20s in this #and they are very very very in love :)

7 notes · View notes