Colors (more than shades of grey)
Title: Colors (more than shades of grey)
Rating: M
Word count: 300
Red.
Lush, unruly locks - he’s almost glad she’s been too busy to get it cut, as he threads his fingers through her hair.
He gives the ends a little tug before sliding his hands down to cup her backside. A moan escapes her perfect red lips, swollen from his kisses, and then they brush against his stubbly cheek.
“Gods, Bill.” Her voice is husky with desire. “I thought that briefing would never end.”
“Mmm,” he agrees as he nips at her throat and takes his time placing tender kisses along the elegant line of her jaw.
“I wanna see you better,” he whispers. She murmurs her assent, leans breathlessly against the bulkhead. He flips a switch.
Yellow.
Lamplight floods the room and warm tones envelop them, allowing them to find the buttons and zippers that are the keys to stripping each other bare. His olive skin has turned golden, his hand so dark against the pale cream flesh of her shoulders as he tugs her shirt down her shoulders.
She steps out of her skirt and pushes him down onto his rack. He’s already hard when she lays down beside him and slips her hand down his pants to start stroking him. He quickly reciprocates, first cupping her gently but then sliding his fingers more purposefully in concert with her hips’ wordless demands.
“Pants off,” she finally pleads.
Blue.
Coarse navy fabric, weighted down by insignia, floats to the ground. Boots and pants follow, and she stretches out leisurely on top of him.
His eyes remind her of sky, from back when she lived on solid ground. Now he’s her solid ground, and she’s looking up from the muscled mass beneath her into the wide-open expanse of his adoring expression.
Their worlds would be unbearably grey without each other.
Jasper Johns, False Start
Rating: M
Word count: 300
Red.
Lush, unruly locks - he’s almost glad she’s been too busy to get it cut, as he threads his fingers through her hair.
He gives the ends a little tug before sliding his hands down to cup her backside. A moan escapes her perfect red lips, swollen from his kisses, and then they brush against his stubbly cheek.
“Gods, Bill.” Her voice is husky with desire. “I thought that briefing would never end.”
“Mmm,” he agrees as he nips at her throat and takes his time placing tender kisses along the elegant line of her jaw.
“I wanna see you better,” he whispers. She murmurs her assent, leans breathlessly against the bulkhead. He flips a switch.
Yellow.
Lamplight floods the room and warm tones envelop them, allowing them to find the buttons and zippers that are the keys to stripping each other bare. His olive skin has turned golden, his hand so dark against the pale cream flesh of her shoulders as he tugs her shirt down her shoulders.
She steps out of her skirt and pushes him down onto his rack. He’s already hard when she lays down beside him and slips her hand down his pants to start stroking him. He quickly reciprocates, first cupping her gently but then sliding his fingers more purposefully in concert with her hips’ wordless demands.
“Pants off,” she finally pleads.
Blue.
Coarse navy fabric, weighted down by insignia, floats to the ground. Boots and pants follow, and she stretches out leisurely on top of him.
His eyes remind her of sky, from back when she lived on solid ground. Now he’s her solid ground, and she’s looking up from the muscled mass beneath her into the wide-open expanse of his adoring expression.
Their worlds would be unbearably grey without each other.
Jasper Johns, False Start