In which I learn I have no patience
Jul. 21st, 2010 12:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kylezy800 words of B/C porn that has been sitting in a locked entry, mocking me for ages.
PART ONE
"Wanna watch you get hard, Bradley."
Colin sits up on his knees and stares, waiting for him to comply. Bradley wishes this didn't affect him, tries to stare back effortlessly but his body betrays him; he's already at half-mast by the time he scratches his short nails over the pale flesh of his stomach.
"Untouched," Colin demands, two steps ahead of Bradley's thought process. He's confident in his command, in the direction he wants to take this, until he has to add, a second later, "if you can." They're two months into this, still very much testing waters and boundaries. Sometimes Bradley hears the tremor in Colin's voice, dumb wonder he's even allowed to ask these things. There's fear there also, a fear that one day something will be too much.
Bradley understands. He feels these things too.
So he's quick to comply, eager to alleviate any doubt. He waits for Colin to make a move but he's only going to touch himself, apparently. That's okay. Bradley can work with that image; the surreal, indecent picture Colin Morgan makes as he shifts his knees wider, naked as the day he was born, and strokes his cock to full attention. Bradley's fingers twist in the sheets as he puffs frustrated air between his teeth.
Colin's pulling himself, long, slow, singular strokes on the up as his eyes drag over Bradley, from his face to his untouched, hardened cock and back to his face once more. Bradley stares back, biting down a curse or a whimper, whichever one looks most likely to escape past his lips first and just like that, as if he can sense the spike in Bradley's desperation, Colin's hips buck into his hand. His right hand increases its rhythm while his left snakes out to grip Bradley's knee, steadying his balance as he shuffles closer to Bradley's midsection. He keens, high and urgent and Bradley murmurs his encouragement, "come on, yeah, right here, Col, right here," and that's all it takes.
His cheeks burn with shame and desire as Colin groans and spills himself over Bradley's chest. He can't understand how they can co-exist - shame and desire - those two emotions that sit so far apart on the spectrum and yet go hand-in-hand together, masterfully complimenting each other as they make his gut twist and his skin ache with a tense, prickly heat. He's panting just as hard as Colin, exertion from restraint, but there's a violence that flares alongside his salacious thoughts, a primal instinct that rages inside him. It smashes itself against his ribcage, a helpless, desperate fury that screams how unnatural this is: submission without a fight. He's an alpha, he could hurt Colin right now and maybe his instincts call for him to do just that - snap and snarl and bite and rip - but instead, he claws his hands through the cooling mess on his ribs as his cock jerks and precome drips down to the fine hair below his navel.
Colin doesn't look up from Bradley's chest for a few (long, deep) breaths. There's a question on his lips when their eyes finally meet but Bradley doesn't want to hear it, hurries out a plea of "please, fuck, touch me," and it's the most honest answer he can give to whatever Colin was going to ask.
PART TWO
Colin likes to press that first finger in dry. He likes to take it slow, to savour it, Bradley supposes, wiggling it in then twisting with short, shallow strokes just to the first knuckle, before withdrawing carefully. Bradley never remembers it later as an overwhelming pleasure, he can't describe it as feeling anything more than nice but it's blatant need, heavy in his chest and groin, that has him reaching for the headboard behind him, pushing himself down, searching for that feeling again; pushing himself against Colin's finger in silent plea. Colin traces the digit around his entrance in dry, catching circles, before pushing in again and Bradley's hips lift off the bed as his legs part obscenely wide, seemingly of their own accord.
He wants, god, how Bradley wants. Sometimes he goes crazy with it. He can't (won't) speak when he's being fucked open - raw, frightening thoughts teeter dangerously close to the edge of articulation and he's not ready for himself or Colin to acknowledge what remains unsaid - but he often thinks of possession and omnitude and unity and of how right he feels when he has this man by his side; when he can taste him in the air and smell him all over his skin.
Colin adds a slicked second finger and Bradley fucks down on them until they're all he knows.
PART ONE
"Wanna watch you get hard, Bradley."
Colin sits up on his knees and stares, waiting for him to comply. Bradley wishes this didn't affect him, tries to stare back effortlessly but his body betrays him; he's already at half-mast by the time he scratches his short nails over the pale flesh of his stomach.
"Untouched," Colin demands, two steps ahead of Bradley's thought process. He's confident in his command, in the direction he wants to take this, until he has to add, a second later, "if you can." They're two months into this, still very much testing waters and boundaries. Sometimes Bradley hears the tremor in Colin's voice, dumb wonder he's even allowed to ask these things. There's fear there also, a fear that one day something will be too much.
Bradley understands. He feels these things too.
So he's quick to comply, eager to alleviate any doubt. He waits for Colin to make a move but he's only going to touch himself, apparently. That's okay. Bradley can work with that image; the surreal, indecent picture Colin Morgan makes as he shifts his knees wider, naked as the day he was born, and strokes his cock to full attention. Bradley's fingers twist in the sheets as he puffs frustrated air between his teeth.
Colin's pulling himself, long, slow, singular strokes on the up as his eyes drag over Bradley, from his face to his untouched, hardened cock and back to his face once more. Bradley stares back, biting down a curse or a whimper, whichever one looks most likely to escape past his lips first and just like that, as if he can sense the spike in Bradley's desperation, Colin's hips buck into his hand. His right hand increases its rhythm while his left snakes out to grip Bradley's knee, steadying his balance as he shuffles closer to Bradley's midsection. He keens, high and urgent and Bradley murmurs his encouragement, "come on, yeah, right here, Col, right here," and that's all it takes.
His cheeks burn with shame and desire as Colin groans and spills himself over Bradley's chest. He can't understand how they can co-exist - shame and desire - those two emotions that sit so far apart on the spectrum and yet go hand-in-hand together, masterfully complimenting each other as they make his gut twist and his skin ache with a tense, prickly heat. He's panting just as hard as Colin, exertion from restraint, but there's a violence that flares alongside his salacious thoughts, a primal instinct that rages inside him. It smashes itself against his ribcage, a helpless, desperate fury that screams how unnatural this is: submission without a fight. He's an alpha, he could hurt Colin right now and maybe his instincts call for him to do just that - snap and snarl and bite and rip - but instead, he claws his hands through the cooling mess on his ribs as his cock jerks and precome drips down to the fine hair below his navel.
Colin doesn't look up from Bradley's chest for a few (long, deep) breaths. There's a question on his lips when their eyes finally meet but Bradley doesn't want to hear it, hurries out a plea of "please, fuck, touch me," and it's the most honest answer he can give to whatever Colin was going to ask.
PART TWO
Colin likes to press that first finger in dry. He likes to take it slow, to savour it, Bradley supposes, wiggling it in then twisting with short, shallow strokes just to the first knuckle, before withdrawing carefully. Bradley never remembers it later as an overwhelming pleasure, he can't describe it as feeling anything more than nice but it's blatant need, heavy in his chest and groin, that has him reaching for the headboard behind him, pushing himself down, searching for that feeling again; pushing himself against Colin's finger in silent plea. Colin traces the digit around his entrance in dry, catching circles, before pushing in again and Bradley's hips lift off the bed as his legs part obscenely wide, seemingly of their own accord.
He wants, god, how Bradley wants. Sometimes he goes crazy with it. He can't (won't) speak when he's being fucked open - raw, frightening thoughts teeter dangerously close to the edge of articulation and he's not ready for himself or Colin to acknowledge what remains unsaid - but he often thinks of possession and omnitude and unity and of how right he feels when he has this man by his side; when he can taste him in the air and smell him all over his skin.
Colin adds a slicked second finger and Bradley fucks down on them until they're all he knows.
