Christmas Yet To Come | By : kattanon Category: S through Z > The Shield Views: 1099 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do not own The Shield, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
Title: - Christmas Yet To Come
Author: - Katt
Rating: - NC-17
Pairing: - Vic/Dutch
Archive: - Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive
Feedback: - Like it or loathe it let me know
Disclaimers: - I don’t own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX
Dedicated to: - Whipper – defense against "old farts" LOL.
Author’s Notes: - A series of 150 word drabbles
Part 1 – Vic
He lapped at the sweat pooled in the hollow of Dutch’s throat, and was rewarded by the body under him trembling and arching up.
Moving down, skin on skin, slick and hot. Tongue, lips, teeth – licking, kissing, biting. Nipples laved and teased. Small, hard nubs of flesh he traced with his tongue.
On and on, breathy moans, his name whispered in the darkness.
Mouth enveloping the silken hardness of his lover’s cock. Vic taking it as deeply as he could. The soft scrape of teeth, the hard friction of lips. A steady rhythm driving Dutch higher, further.
The musky scent, and heady taste, of his lover driving Vic on. Wanting to give so much pleasure. Wanting to feel, to taste.
His mouth flooded with the bitter, salty essence of his lover. He swallowed, and then with the taste still on his tongue, and lips, he kissed Dutch, sharing, possessing, wanting.
Part 2 – Dutch
His knees bent up to his chest, open, exposed, vulnerable, but safe, relaxed, trusting. Vic had slowly prepared him, fingers thrusting, stretching, caressing. Hard again, a delirium of pleasure, waiting to be completed, filled and taken.
The burn subsiding, urging his lover on. The slow slide of invading flesh, welcomed within.
Movement, sound, rhythm – a dance that the past year had made Dutch familiar with, yet still it never failed to excite.
Words, incoherent moans, silenced by mouths and tongues, urgent, battling, tasting.
Sweat making bodies slick, the slide of flesh.
Hands that touched, craving the feel of hard warmth. Dutch’s hands, one grasping the sheet, the other between them, stroking himself in time to Vic’s lead.
Soaring towards the crescendo.
Flying, white-hot pleasure consuming him. His turn to lead, Vic’s turn to follow seconds later.
Panting bodies inter-twined. No longer joined, but touching, craving the nearness of the other.
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