greenapple: sufjan plays the typewriter (writing)
[personal profile] greenapple
Fly Bright Feathered Sometimes
Stargate Atlantis
Sheppard/Lorne
1200 words
May 2009
Adult content: explicit sex, language
Note: second person, pwp
Summary: his mouth is softer than you imagined it would be



His mouth sliding on your dick is softer than you imagined it would be. Had imagined that John Sheppard, lean, sharp, ragged at the edges, would suck cock the same way he went into a firefight -- with a ferocity meant to override an innate weightlessness, to obliterate with sheer determination the way he never quite seemed to fit inside his own skin. If you'd been a better observer, you could have predicted this: the boneless way he fell at your feet, graceless and beautiful as a wounded, long-necked bird. Would have remembered: how the only times he ever looked comfortable were on his knees.

His mouth sliding on your dick is soft, the inside of his cheek, where you press against the hollow to feel yourself move inside of him. His tongue half rasp half slick tease, licking you just there; following you down, base to tip and back again, like an intimate fingertrace, like he's committing you to memory. His eyes half-shut, the dreaming, roving look of them underneath; lashes like little wings beating. A fever-flush bloom across his face, so open, so changeable, you wonder how he ever manages to hide anything.

If you'd been a better observer, you could have predicted this: the way he opened his mouth over you, breathing in nylon, cotton; breathing out heat and something beyond hunger, and the guttural, muffled plea: "Please." Head knocking back as if he'd been shot, the worn arrowhead of his throat knotting, unknotting. His eyes shut, a courtesy, so you wouldn't have to see too much of him. His lips parting, invitation. And the memory of the heat of his mouth curling over you, a taste of ownership. A promise, that he'd be getting more than he'd be giving.

His hand on your dick is hard, where he's got you anchored, gripping you tight and moving only enough to let you feel how secure is his hold on you. A constant tug and pull that you feel root-deep, while his mouth slips over you, while you try to bury yourself inside of him. You feel bound, harnessed, and the need to hurt him is sharp and insistent. Your fist in his too-long hair, knuckles digging deep, and he arches, whole body trembling, exhalation like a laugh and he's saying yes, with his whole body like a stretch toward sensation, he's saying yes.

**


You maneuver him onto your lap, where he's leant up, poised. You dick aching, feeling yourself stutter a thready stream of slick in anticipation of how he's going to feel. A skitter like static on your skin, every shaking (nerve muscle bone), the whole cage of your body held barely in check, waiting for his go-ahead. You'd watched him, before, spread apart, his own slippery fingers inside. Quiet, concentrated. As if you hadn't been there; as if he were alone. Shockingly intimate in a way you hadn't anticipated. Then, you'd wanted to kiss him. To open yourself up to his mouth, press your lips to his eyelids, to the bridge of his nose, his chin and jaw and feel the way you caught together, jagged and rough. To his throat, the long, tender line of it. Tug with your teeth at the silvering, wild hair in the hollow of it. Now, his thighs hard and quivering under your hands; now, you just want to fuck him.

He lowers himself down on you, his fingers around your shaft almost too tight, too painful, holding you steady, keeping you in place while the small shutter of his hole opens to the blunt press of your dick, the doubled grip of the muscle inside him, and you have to hold on, can hear yourself sucking air between your teeth, to think of something else, anything else but him, anything else but coming inside of him while he settles down around you. And now he's smirking down at you, what a total bastard he is, and how beautiful, and what a contradiction he is, moving now like he'd never loped awkward and angled on land, as if sex were like taking flight.

Oh, fuck me, you're telling him, but it's surprise, not a command. You clutch at his hip, his waist, his stomach, the star of hair around his navel. Avoiding his cock to make a cup of your hand around his balls -- a protective, secretive gesture. He flexes, velvet around you, and he feels deep and good and when you hitch and jerk up into him, he leans his weight forward with his hands on your chest, leverage to fuck you with, screw himself on your dick, and you can't think except the repeated ache and silent shout in your head of his name, and a thousand thousand curses.

And he watches you come apart, dark sliver of eye and red bitten mouth, and he says Yeah,

And the shock of your climax hits you,

And you are all light.

**


"Come here," you're saying, because he's jacking himself two-handed, and you want to be the one to do this. He scoots forward on his knees, like he's shy again, like this wasn't part of his plan. You have a hand wrapped around his wrist, and you're guiding him toward what you want without speech.

You don't do this as often as your occasional partners think you should. You're guarded, a little careful with it, but not because you dislike it, the taste of another man, the feel of him changing shape inside the clutch of your mouth. The smell of sex and sweat and semen fresh on him, the force of it unavoidable with your nose brushing the soft spring of his pubes. If anything, because of how secretly, how sacredly, it undoes you. How it makes you feel. Like his protector, his lover, his confessor, his, and his and all his. You think, sometimes, at your most romantic and hopeful, that you recognize a submerged and seminal catholicism in each other, that he might even understand if you told him how sucking cock more than anything you've ever done still makes you feel filthy, and holy.

He's not a hairpuller, like you. You think he might be a bedsheet clencher, and a head-tosser, but the way he's kneeling now keeps him mostly still. His breath quick, belly trembling like a live thing apart from him. Only one long, curved thumb on your temple, touching damp and stroking you softly while he pushes in, slow, slow, and pulls out. His breath snagging on a moan, behind closed teeth, tight jaw, and then he's fucking your mouth, and you can do nothing but let him ride himself out.

When he comes, you feel him pool slick on the back of your tongue, and pull off before he's done, letting his come mark your lips.

And when you look up, into his wide open eyes, you are unprepared for the look of peace you find there.


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