![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
[ficlet] Inside-Out and Across [NC17: Danny/Martin]
Title: Inside-Out and Across
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Ratings/Warnings: NC17 for the obvious reason. PWP, no redeeming value whatsoever.
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer et al.
Advertisements: Imperious!Martin, nipples
Notes: The sole reason for this ficlet's existence is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lillyjk, who wanted something containing this particular sentence, and seeing as she sent me "Lonestar" on DVD, I owe her :D
Title is from Elvis Presley/BB King's "You're the Boss."
INSIDE-OUT AND ACROSS
The few functional brain cells belonging to Danny Taylor are currently engaged in wondering if he’s gone home with the pod person clone of Martin Fitzgerald. The horny pod person clone, at that.
Because in the office, Martin is oblivious and asexual and so very frustratingly Fitzgeraldian: all work and no play, aside from a few smart remarks and his infuriating habit of letting his tie drape over Danny’s shoulder every now and then. And there are times when Danny catches Martin looking at him, and those blue eyes are utterly transparent for a heartbeat before all that heat and fire is locked back up inside.
The second they hit the lobby in Danny’s building, though, Martin’s right hand lands in the small of Danny’s back, propelling him toward the elevator, like Danny needs any encouragement at this point – he’s been ready to go all day, has been obsessed with the thought of this moment ever since he’d woken up.
Now Martin has Danny right up against the elevator wall, mouth on his neck, sly fingers pulling his shirt free of his pants.
“Seven, right?” he asks, breath sighing against Danny’s lips.
“Nnnnh,” Danny agrees around Martin’s tongue.
They waltz unsteadily down the hall, Danny’s arms tangled up in his overcoat and his fingers knotted in Martin’s tie and Martin’s mouth is practically fused against his own. Once or twice they bang into someone else’s door, until Martin pushes Danny through the door and into his apartment the second Danny manages to get the door unlocked.
Somehow, they make it to Danny’s bedroom without injury, although Martin almost falls over himself getting out of his pants and Danny bangs his elbow on the bedpost trying to pull Martin down on top of him.
Now Martin’s naked – naked, hard, sweat-slicked, eyes dark and glittering – wearing an expression that’s both lustful and imperious, and Danny is draped atop him, bracketed by Martin’s thighs, but despite the leverage he’s got, Danny’s pretty much doing whatever Martin tells him to.
Martin usually doesn’t say anything, just directs him with gestures and sighs, encouragements like moving provocatively against him whenever Danny hits a good spot.
(They call this positive reinforcement, Danny thinks hazily as Martin’s cock brushes, wethardohGodpleasedon’tletmecome, against his own. Very positive reinforcement.)
“God, yeah... Right there,” and Martin manages to make even incoherence sound like an order as Danny’s mouth traces down the curve of his inner arm. The fingers of Martin’s free hand are playing through Danny’s hair, teasing and commanding at the same time.
Sometimes, though, Martin likes to be more explicit. Like now when he tugs Danny’s head up to look him in the eye.
“Nipples, Danny. Now.”
And it’s a good thing he really likes Martin, Danny thinks as he obeys, breaking off his exploration of Martin’s bicep to lick and suck at his right nipple, loving the taste of salt and sweat, faint bitterness of soap, smooth skin under his lips and all of Martin – all of Martin’s wonderful, beautiful, muscled body – arching up into his mouth. He can taste the low, satisfied growl deep in Martin’s chest, feel the thunder of his heartbeat under the fingers of his other hand – sudden, violent skip when he pinches Martin’s left nipple and grinds down into him, and he smiles into the hard muscle under his lips.
“Christ,” Martin gasps, and all of him is bucking up into Danny, burning against him, like fire, like sunlight – everywhere, burning everywhere and Danny doesn’t know if he can take it.
Apparently Martin can’t take it, either, because when Danny looks back up Martin’s gaze is stripped, raw and hot, and all Danny can see in his eyes is want. He knows the same thing is written right there in his face, sees it register as Martin’s eyes darken and he leans up as though to press a kiss against Danny’s cheek.
“Fuck me.” The words are whispered, secret.
Crazy how, even with Danny’s fingers in him and Danny’s body forcing him down into the mattress Martin manages to take charge, because Danny never goes along with anybody, doesn’t like authority or being told what to do, but Martin is magnetic – compelling, inexorable, inescapable Martin – and pulls him along, past himself and whatever reservations he once had about what they have between them.
Lust like alcohol in his veins, and he’s high on it, invincible and addicted as he enters Martin – no, not invincible, but caught and trapped as Martin yanks him down for a kiss, tongue and hot breath twisting in Danny’s mouth, body locking tight around him. He moves, helpless, thrusting into Martin’s body, hard as Martin urges him on with moans and whispered, rough encouragement. Slide of muscle under him, Martin’s chest heaving for breath as the pace picks up, all of him aglow – blood flushing pale skin, and Danny loves that, can’t get enough of how Martin looks like when he’s gone like this, and even when he’s past all control Martin still has this hold on Danny.
Always has.
Danny thrusts once more, reaches for Martin’s cock, feels Martin’s hand closing around his, fingers sliding into the small indentations of his knuckle. Thrusts again and a cry breaks from Martin’s lips, half-muffled against Danny’s neck.
Again and again, trying to make it last, and he feels his breath coming short and ragged in his chest, each one filled with the tangled-up scent of him and Martin, electric rush building in his spine, and he can feel the rush coming; his heart pounds against his chest, every nerve ending alive with it, and everything is so very clear – every subterranean quiver of Martin’s muscles, eyes glazed and dark, each whisper tactile, heat around him and heat below, and Martin fucking everywhere.
He comes almost before he knows it, caught by a wave that snatches away his breath and being and throws him out of himself. Dimly he hears Martin grunt once and quake violently, liquid heat between them, and that’s the last thing he registers before darkness rolls over him.
When Danny comes to, he’s on his side, pressed against Martin, boneless and satisfied. He knows he’s got a stupid, post-sex grin on his face, but Martin does too, so it doesn’t matter.
They laze there for a bit, and they never really say anything after sex, which is fine with Danny. It means he gets to see Martin like he never really gets to during the day, relaxed and off-guard, edge of Fitzgerald control softened by pleasure, as they trade kisses and casual, lingering touches.
There’s a red mark below Martin’s left nipple and Danny’s fingers drift over it.
Martin, predictably, blushes even as he shifts, encouraging Danny’s further exploration.
“You really do like this, don’t you?” Danny asks, smirking a bit.
“Shut up,” Martin says, pink deepening into scarlet.
“Any other fetishes I should know about?”
“I said,” Martin says as he rolls over on top of Danny, taking his wrists in both hands and pinning them by his sides, “shut up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Got that right.”
-end-
In other news: I have good blood pressure. It's true. I do. *nods*
And happy (somewhat belated) birthday todragonlady7 and evremonde!
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: Danny/Martin
Ratings/Warnings: NC17 for the obvious reason. PWP, no redeeming value whatsoever.
Disclaimer: Without a Trace belongs to Jerry Bruckheimer et al.
Advertisements: Imperious!Martin, nipples
Notes: The sole reason for this ficlet's existence is
lillyjk, who wanted something containing this particular sentence, and seeing as she sent me "Lonestar" on DVD, I owe her :DTitle is from Elvis Presley/BB King's "You're the Boss."
INSIDE-OUT AND ACROSS
The few functional brain cells belonging to Danny Taylor are currently engaged in wondering if he’s gone home with the pod person clone of Martin Fitzgerald. The horny pod person clone, at that.
Because in the office, Martin is oblivious and asexual and so very frustratingly Fitzgeraldian: all work and no play, aside from a few smart remarks and his infuriating habit of letting his tie drape over Danny’s shoulder every now and then. And there are times when Danny catches Martin looking at him, and those blue eyes are utterly transparent for a heartbeat before all that heat and fire is locked back up inside.
The second they hit the lobby in Danny’s building, though, Martin’s right hand lands in the small of Danny’s back, propelling him toward the elevator, like Danny needs any encouragement at this point – he’s been ready to go all day, has been obsessed with the thought of this moment ever since he’d woken up.
Now Martin has Danny right up against the elevator wall, mouth on his neck, sly fingers pulling his shirt free of his pants.
“Seven, right?” he asks, breath sighing against Danny’s lips.
“Nnnnh,” Danny agrees around Martin’s tongue.
They waltz unsteadily down the hall, Danny’s arms tangled up in his overcoat and his fingers knotted in Martin’s tie and Martin’s mouth is practically fused against his own. Once or twice they bang into someone else’s door, until Martin pushes Danny through the door and into his apartment the second Danny manages to get the door unlocked.
Somehow, they make it to Danny’s bedroom without injury, although Martin almost falls over himself getting out of his pants and Danny bangs his elbow on the bedpost trying to pull Martin down on top of him.
Now Martin’s naked – naked, hard, sweat-slicked, eyes dark and glittering – wearing an expression that’s both lustful and imperious, and Danny is draped atop him, bracketed by Martin’s thighs, but despite the leverage he’s got, Danny’s pretty much doing whatever Martin tells him to.
Martin usually doesn’t say anything, just directs him with gestures and sighs, encouragements like moving provocatively against him whenever Danny hits a good spot.
(They call this positive reinforcement, Danny thinks hazily as Martin’s cock brushes, wethardohGodpleasedon’tletmecome, against his own. Very positive reinforcement.)
“God, yeah... Right there,” and Martin manages to make even incoherence sound like an order as Danny’s mouth traces down the curve of his inner arm. The fingers of Martin’s free hand are playing through Danny’s hair, teasing and commanding at the same time.
Sometimes, though, Martin likes to be more explicit. Like now when he tugs Danny’s head up to look him in the eye.
“Nipples, Danny. Now.”
And it’s a good thing he really likes Martin, Danny thinks as he obeys, breaking off his exploration of Martin’s bicep to lick and suck at his right nipple, loving the taste of salt and sweat, faint bitterness of soap, smooth skin under his lips and all of Martin – all of Martin’s wonderful, beautiful, muscled body – arching up into his mouth. He can taste the low, satisfied growl deep in Martin’s chest, feel the thunder of his heartbeat under the fingers of his other hand – sudden, violent skip when he pinches Martin’s left nipple and grinds down into him, and he smiles into the hard muscle under his lips.
“Christ,” Martin gasps, and all of him is bucking up into Danny, burning against him, like fire, like sunlight – everywhere, burning everywhere and Danny doesn’t know if he can take it.
Apparently Martin can’t take it, either, because when Danny looks back up Martin’s gaze is stripped, raw and hot, and all Danny can see in his eyes is want. He knows the same thing is written right there in his face, sees it register as Martin’s eyes darken and he leans up as though to press a kiss against Danny’s cheek.
“Fuck me.” The words are whispered, secret.
Crazy how, even with Danny’s fingers in him and Danny’s body forcing him down into the mattress Martin manages to take charge, because Danny never goes along with anybody, doesn’t like authority or being told what to do, but Martin is magnetic – compelling, inexorable, inescapable Martin – and pulls him along, past himself and whatever reservations he once had about what they have between them.
Lust like alcohol in his veins, and he’s high on it, invincible and addicted as he enters Martin – no, not invincible, but caught and trapped as Martin yanks him down for a kiss, tongue and hot breath twisting in Danny’s mouth, body locking tight around him. He moves, helpless, thrusting into Martin’s body, hard as Martin urges him on with moans and whispered, rough encouragement. Slide of muscle under him, Martin’s chest heaving for breath as the pace picks up, all of him aglow – blood flushing pale skin, and Danny loves that, can’t get enough of how Martin looks like when he’s gone like this, and even when he’s past all control Martin still has this hold on Danny.
Always has.
Danny thrusts once more, reaches for Martin’s cock, feels Martin’s hand closing around his, fingers sliding into the small indentations of his knuckle. Thrusts again and a cry breaks from Martin’s lips, half-muffled against Danny’s neck.
Again and again, trying to make it last, and he feels his breath coming short and ragged in his chest, each one filled with the tangled-up scent of him and Martin, electric rush building in his spine, and he can feel the rush coming; his heart pounds against his chest, every nerve ending alive with it, and everything is so very clear – every subterranean quiver of Martin’s muscles, eyes glazed and dark, each whisper tactile, heat around him and heat below, and Martin fucking everywhere.
He comes almost before he knows it, caught by a wave that snatches away his breath and being and throws him out of himself. Dimly he hears Martin grunt once and quake violently, liquid heat between them, and that’s the last thing he registers before darkness rolls over him.
When Danny comes to, he’s on his side, pressed against Martin, boneless and satisfied. He knows he’s got a stupid, post-sex grin on his face, but Martin does too, so it doesn’t matter.
They laze there for a bit, and they never really say anything after sex, which is fine with Danny. It means he gets to see Martin like he never really gets to during the day, relaxed and off-guard, edge of Fitzgerald control softened by pleasure, as they trade kisses and casual, lingering touches.
There’s a red mark below Martin’s left nipple and Danny’s fingers drift over it.
Martin, predictably, blushes even as he shifts, encouraging Danny’s further exploration.
“You really do like this, don’t you?” Danny asks, smirking a bit.
“Shut up,” Martin says, pink deepening into scarlet.
“Any other fetishes I should know about?”
“I said,” Martin says as he rolls over on top of Danny, taking his wrists in both hands and pinning them by his sides, “shut up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Got that right.”
-end-
In other news: I have good blood pressure. It's true. I do. *nods*
And happy (somewhat belated) birthday to
dragonlady7 and evremonde!
no subject
This comment and I come bearing a nice little shrubbery... would it be ok if I friended you?
Of course! Lovely to have you :D