(no subject)
Title: Sandstorm
Pairing: Roy/Hughes
Rating: R maybe?
Warnings: Spoiler-free!
Summary: Surrounded by destruction, they clung to anything beautiful. Just an excuse to write R/H porn, really. For mistr3ssquickly for threatening encouraging me. And because she wrote me this hot little number. Personalized porn: Does it get any better than that? XD
They tumbled onto the cot, hands in hair, lips on flesh, clothes half-on, half-in-a-pile. Sand had made their skin rough and itchy, their eyes red and watering, but their lips still felt the same as ever, still hot and inviting, and pressed over pulse and old wounds.
The desert night was falling, bringing with it a chill that drove them under scratchy blankets and darkness, grasping the edges of the cot, the edges of their restraint, until one or the other cracked.
There was no war inside the tent, aside from that of tongues and hands and apparel that had yet to give up the ghost; no ache, except the painful desire to be nearer, covered, filled, warm; just sweat and small gasps and need.
Hands slid over skin, finding remaining sand where they hadn't yet passed. Not until every grain had been swept free, not until every patch of skin was smooth for the morning sun would they stop. Not until their throats were sore, their cries hoarse, their bodies weak and forgetful of what they did in the daylight. Forgetful of everything but a tongue sliding up a pale throat, a brow creased in concentration on every stinging point of contact, every place where fingertips, knees, teeth pressed into flesh.
The cool desert breeze ruffled the flap on the tent and Hughes' breath slid warm over his chest, making goosebumps rise in sandstorm waves on trembling flesh, making hair stand on end, making his insides clench and his mind leave. A tongue slipped downward, pushing dark hair out of the way, making abdominal muscles ripple, leaving a trail of cool moisture leading straight to the rattlesnake coil of tension in Roy's gut
The tension was spiraling outward as the tongue swirled in circles on his abdomen, reminding him of what it felt like to be at home, away from the sand and the heat and the death. Reminding him of the first time they'd lain like that, not in the cold, dry air, but in a warm, damp basement. Home.
It had been nothing like this. There hadn't been any of this haste, this desperation, this sand beating loud against the canvas; no pretty, little blonde sniper waiting outside, pretending not to hear the soft cries from the tent. Their hands hadn't been so rough then, their bodies hadn't been so parched for distraction.
There had been none of this clinging together against the quicksand in their guts, waiting for the bottom to drop out, gasping for breath and life and hope in the chill darkness of a fucking military tent in the middle of the fucking desert. Gasping and grasping until they ached, but still teeth nipped at attentive flesh and wide, strong shoulders slipped between admissive thighs. And nothing could stop them; not the horror outside, nor the chill inside, nor the sand slipping through a glass that maybe held fewer minutes than they had thought.
A cry escaped and bodies arched into the dry desert dark.
Blame The Mistress for the abrupt ending. She wanted a snapshot feel to it and I hope this achieved that. :)
Pairing: Roy/Hughes
Rating: R maybe?
Warnings: Spoiler-free!
Summary: Surrounded by destruction, they clung to anything beautiful. Just an excuse to write R/H porn, really. For mistr3ssquickly for threatening encouraging me. And because she wrote me this hot little number. Personalized porn: Does it get any better than that? XD
They tumbled onto the cot, hands in hair, lips on flesh, clothes half-on, half-in-a-pile. Sand had made their skin rough and itchy, their eyes red and watering, but their lips still felt the same as ever, still hot and inviting, and pressed over pulse and old wounds.
The desert night was falling, bringing with it a chill that drove them under scratchy blankets and darkness, grasping the edges of the cot, the edges of their restraint, until one or the other cracked.
There was no war inside the tent, aside from that of tongues and hands and apparel that had yet to give up the ghost; no ache, except the painful desire to be nearer, covered, filled, warm; just sweat and small gasps and need.
Hands slid over skin, finding remaining sand where they hadn't yet passed. Not until every grain had been swept free, not until every patch of skin was smooth for the morning sun would they stop. Not until their throats were sore, their cries hoarse, their bodies weak and forgetful of what they did in the daylight. Forgetful of everything but a tongue sliding up a pale throat, a brow creased in concentration on every stinging point of contact, every place where fingertips, knees, teeth pressed into flesh.
The cool desert breeze ruffled the flap on the tent and Hughes' breath slid warm over his chest, making goosebumps rise in sandstorm waves on trembling flesh, making hair stand on end, making his insides clench and his mind leave. A tongue slipped downward, pushing dark hair out of the way, making abdominal muscles ripple, leaving a trail of cool moisture leading straight to the rattlesnake coil of tension in Roy's gut
The tension was spiraling outward as the tongue swirled in circles on his abdomen, reminding him of what it felt like to be at home, away from the sand and the heat and the death. Reminding him of the first time they'd lain like that, not in the cold, dry air, but in a warm, damp basement. Home.
It had been nothing like this. There hadn't been any of this haste, this desperation, this sand beating loud against the canvas; no pretty, little blonde sniper waiting outside, pretending not to hear the soft cries from the tent. Their hands hadn't been so rough then, their bodies hadn't been so parched for distraction.
There had been none of this clinging together against the quicksand in their guts, waiting for the bottom to drop out, gasping for breath and life and hope in the chill darkness of a fucking military tent in the middle of the fucking desert. Gasping and grasping until they ached, but still teeth nipped at attentive flesh and wide, strong shoulders slipped between admissive thighs. And nothing could stop them; not the horror outside, nor the chill inside, nor the sand slipping through a glass that maybe held fewer minutes than they had thought.
A cry escaped and bodies arched into the dry desert dark.
Blame The Mistress for the abrupt ending. She wanted a snapshot feel to it and I hope this achieved that. :)