Drabble: A Thousand Times
Title: A Thousand Times
Author: altyronsmaker
Rating: PG 13
Word Count: 250
Summary: They've done this a hundred times. A thousand times, even. But every time is different.
Challenge: #23 Talents
They’ve done this a hundred times. A thousand times, even. A brief touch of pink skin on pink skin. The rub of stubble across the other’s chin. The scrape of a fingernail on sensitive skin. Sometimes, John will feel a fistful of his hair tugged, and he’ll groan, low and long. Other times, John will mark Rodney. Bite and suck and pull on the tender skin on Rodney’s shoulder and it’ll be Rodney’s turn to moan, to growl. It’s all so old and familiar. And comfortable.
But every time is also different.
Last week, it was ritualistic, in front of hundreds of native witnesses who cheered when John bent his head and pulled Rodney’s bottom lip into his mouth.
Three days ago, it was frantic. Fists wrapped in wet material that clung, with teeth biting and nails scraping paths on pale arms. “Don’t ever do that again,” whispered against swollen lips, and “No. I won’t. I’m sorry,” replied with broken sobbing breaths. The heat of an unexpected explosion still blistering on their backs.
Today, it’s a slow exploration, a rediscovery of old territory. John’s talented mouth making Rodney arch and grind against him. Rodney open to it, inviting. It’s “the mess is out of coffee, I hope this wakes you up” and “Oh god, if you ever stop I think I’ll die a thousand deaths.”
They’re skilled at reading each other, at guiding each other, knowing each other. Loving each other. And all with lips and teeth and tongue.
Author: altyronsmaker
Rating: PG 13
Word Count: 250
Summary: They've done this a hundred times. A thousand times, even. But every time is different.
Challenge: #23 Talents
They’ve done this a hundred times. A thousand times, even. A brief touch of pink skin on pink skin. The rub of stubble across the other’s chin. The scrape of a fingernail on sensitive skin. Sometimes, John will feel a fistful of his hair tugged, and he’ll groan, low and long. Other times, John will mark Rodney. Bite and suck and pull on the tender skin on Rodney’s shoulder and it’ll be Rodney’s turn to moan, to growl. It’s all so old and familiar. And comfortable.
But every time is also different.
Last week, it was ritualistic, in front of hundreds of native witnesses who cheered when John bent his head and pulled Rodney’s bottom lip into his mouth.
Three days ago, it was frantic. Fists wrapped in wet material that clung, with teeth biting and nails scraping paths on pale arms. “Don’t ever do that again,” whispered against swollen lips, and “No. I won’t. I’m sorry,” replied with broken sobbing breaths. The heat of an unexpected explosion still blistering on their backs.
Today, it’s a slow exploration, a rediscovery of old territory. John’s talented mouth making Rodney arch and grind against him. Rodney open to it, inviting. It’s “the mess is out of coffee, I hope this wakes you up” and “Oh god, if you ever stop I think I’ll die a thousand deaths.”
They’re skilled at reading each other, at guiding each other, knowing each other. Loving each other. And all with lips and teeth and tongue.