ficletting
Got kind of frustrated with the number of longer stories I'm working on right now, so. Someone kept bugging me for this, ages ago. Probably offspeed? Anyways.
Gary Sheffield/Magglio Ordonez (yes, I went there). NC-17, PWP. 845 words.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
watch closely
Sheffield leans back against the headboard, arms behind his head. He's always so careful to keep his hands away from Magglio's hair, like he's afraid that once he gets his fingers into it he'll never be able to get them back out again. It's a little weird for Magglio to be going down on someone and not feel hands in his hair, tugging or pulling or even just stroking. It seems to be the kind of thing that most people can't resist. He's not sure if Sheffield doesn't like his hair, or if he's afraid of liking it too much. It's not the kind of thing that Sheffield would ever bring up on his own, and it's certainly not the kind of thing that Magglio is going to ever ask.
Sheffield's eyes are always partially shut, but his face still somehow gives the appearance of watchfulness. Something in the hard line of his mouth, maybe, the set of his chin and jaw. Maybe it's just the way that Magglio can tell he's being tracked even from underneath Sheffield's half-mast eyelids and thin black lashes. The lines at the corners of Sheffield's eyes twitch as the tiny muscles shift to follow every motion Magglio makes.
It's less intense with Sheffield's cock in his mouth, actually. Then he's preoccupied, too busy trying to stop himself from choking or drooling or accidentally biting, his eyes locked on Sheffield's stomach, because the shudders there are the best way to tell how he's doing. Sheffield's pretty much silent: no help at all. The only things Magglio can hear when he's got Sheffield's cock in his mouth are the rasps of his own harsh, labored breathing, and the wet slurpy sounds he's making with his lips and tongue. They seem loud in his own ears, but he's never sure how much Sheffield can hear.
That he can do, though. He's not unused to blowjobs, receiving or giving, and Sheffield is a nice size-- large enough that he feels like he's really accomplishing something, but not quite large enough to pose a problem. He can be comfortable on his knees between Sheffield's legs, his hands on Sheffield's thighs, the short curly hairs remotely crisp under the calluses on his palms. He can kind of zone out when he's sucking Sheffield's cock, not thinking about the team or his hitting or anything, really, just concentrating on the motion and strategy of it. It's almost relaxing.
The problem is when he looks up and catches sight of Sheffield's face. Catches sight of Sheffield watching him. Even with Sheffield's eyes reduced to slits, the weight of his gaze is palpable. Magglio's never naked when he sucks Sheffield off, but he always ends up feeling more than naked, like Sheffield's eyes are stripping away his clothes, his skin, baring him down to something so deep at his core that he doesn't even know what it looks like.
That's what gets him, every time. He could be perfectly happy to get Sheffield off with his mouth and walk out of the room, relaxed and smug. It could-- maybe should-- be easy. He looks up, though, raises his gaze from the short hitching jumps of Sheffield's stomach and drags them up to his face, and he's screwed.
Magglio purses his lips around the head of Sheffield's cock, pushing the flat of his tongue up against the soft-hard flesh. The lines at the corners of Sheffield's eye tighten as his gaze zeroes in, focuses. He catches Magglio's eyes and, silent as ever, stares directly into them. Magglio groans, his entire lower body feeling like it's catching on fire, slow warmth blazing down his spine, the backs of his thighs, hardening his cock and tightening his balls.
Sheffield never says anything, doesn't make a sound, but his eyes will slowly open as he gets close to coming. It's the opposite of everyone else: most people can't keep their eyes from closing, like a sneeze. Sheffield's always the exception to the rule, though. His eyes will open up, dark dark dark and wet, tiny lights reflecting back and shifting as he tightens his focus on Magglio's mouth, Magglio's face. He comes with his fists clenching behind his head, his eyes locked on Magglio.
Magglio tightens his fingers on Sheffield's thighs, hoping to leave bruises and knowing he never will. He's so hard that it hurts, throbbing in the base of his cock and the center of his balls, hips twitching hopefully against empty air. Eventually Sheffield's eyes slide closed and he slumps down a little, his knee edging further over the side of the bed, putting his shin within humping distance for Magglio. With Sheffield's eyes shut Magglio can relax enough to edge forward, hump up against Sheffield's leg until he comes in his pants.
It never takes long. Not once Sheffield's looked at him.
It could be easy, simple, cool and controlled, but it never is, with Sheffield. His boxers get cold and clammy on the ride home, but Magglio's still not sure he'd ever want it to be otherwise.
Gary Sheffield/Magglio Ordonez (yes, I went there). NC-17, PWP. 845 words.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there is no connection or affiliation between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
watch closely
Sheffield leans back against the headboard, arms behind his head. He's always so careful to keep his hands away from Magglio's hair, like he's afraid that once he gets his fingers into it he'll never be able to get them back out again. It's a little weird for Magglio to be going down on someone and not feel hands in his hair, tugging or pulling or even just stroking. It seems to be the kind of thing that most people can't resist. He's not sure if Sheffield doesn't like his hair, or if he's afraid of liking it too much. It's not the kind of thing that Sheffield would ever bring up on his own, and it's certainly not the kind of thing that Magglio is going to ever ask.
Sheffield's eyes are always partially shut, but his face still somehow gives the appearance of watchfulness. Something in the hard line of his mouth, maybe, the set of his chin and jaw. Maybe it's just the way that Magglio can tell he's being tracked even from underneath Sheffield's half-mast eyelids and thin black lashes. The lines at the corners of Sheffield's eyes twitch as the tiny muscles shift to follow every motion Magglio makes.
It's less intense with Sheffield's cock in his mouth, actually. Then he's preoccupied, too busy trying to stop himself from choking or drooling or accidentally biting, his eyes locked on Sheffield's stomach, because the shudders there are the best way to tell how he's doing. Sheffield's pretty much silent: no help at all. The only things Magglio can hear when he's got Sheffield's cock in his mouth are the rasps of his own harsh, labored breathing, and the wet slurpy sounds he's making with his lips and tongue. They seem loud in his own ears, but he's never sure how much Sheffield can hear.
That he can do, though. He's not unused to blowjobs, receiving or giving, and Sheffield is a nice size-- large enough that he feels like he's really accomplishing something, but not quite large enough to pose a problem. He can be comfortable on his knees between Sheffield's legs, his hands on Sheffield's thighs, the short curly hairs remotely crisp under the calluses on his palms. He can kind of zone out when he's sucking Sheffield's cock, not thinking about the team or his hitting or anything, really, just concentrating on the motion and strategy of it. It's almost relaxing.
The problem is when he looks up and catches sight of Sheffield's face. Catches sight of Sheffield watching him. Even with Sheffield's eyes reduced to slits, the weight of his gaze is palpable. Magglio's never naked when he sucks Sheffield off, but he always ends up feeling more than naked, like Sheffield's eyes are stripping away his clothes, his skin, baring him down to something so deep at his core that he doesn't even know what it looks like.
That's what gets him, every time. He could be perfectly happy to get Sheffield off with his mouth and walk out of the room, relaxed and smug. It could-- maybe should-- be easy. He looks up, though, raises his gaze from the short hitching jumps of Sheffield's stomach and drags them up to his face, and he's screwed.
Magglio purses his lips around the head of Sheffield's cock, pushing the flat of his tongue up against the soft-hard flesh. The lines at the corners of Sheffield's eye tighten as his gaze zeroes in, focuses. He catches Magglio's eyes and, silent as ever, stares directly into them. Magglio groans, his entire lower body feeling like it's catching on fire, slow warmth blazing down his spine, the backs of his thighs, hardening his cock and tightening his balls.
Sheffield never says anything, doesn't make a sound, but his eyes will slowly open as he gets close to coming. It's the opposite of everyone else: most people can't keep their eyes from closing, like a sneeze. Sheffield's always the exception to the rule, though. His eyes will open up, dark dark dark and wet, tiny lights reflecting back and shifting as he tightens his focus on Magglio's mouth, Magglio's face. He comes with his fists clenching behind his head, his eyes locked on Magglio.
Magglio tightens his fingers on Sheffield's thighs, hoping to leave bruises and knowing he never will. He's so hard that it hurts, throbbing in the base of his cock and the center of his balls, hips twitching hopefully against empty air. Eventually Sheffield's eyes slide closed and he slumps down a little, his knee edging further over the side of the bed, putting his shin within humping distance for Magglio. With Sheffield's eyes shut Magglio can relax enough to edge forward, hump up against Sheffield's leg until he comes in his pants.
It never takes long. Not once Sheffield's looked at him.
It could be easy, simple, cool and controlled, but it never is, with Sheffield. His boxers get cold and clammy on the ride home, but Magglio's still not sure he'd ever want it to be otherwise.