One shot - Bellybutton
Bellybutton
”Are you coming to bed?”
Sullivan leans against the study’s doorframe with his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans and waits for a reply from the man sitting hunched over his desk, writing by candlelight. The scratch of pen on quill does not slow at the sound of his voice. He rests his head on the sturdy wood of the doorframe and watches Anton’s broader shoulders, the salt and pepper hair that is tied back in a tidy ponytail, the hand that moves fluidly across paper.
“I’ll be done soon,” he says, tone indicating finality.
Mild irritation passes over Sullivan’s face at the answer. He resists the urge to sigh. Anton seldom allows anything to come between him and his work, and he has been pulling all nighters and late evenings lately, leaving him to go to bed by himself. Often, he falls asleep before the man files away his papers and slips under the covers with him, and it is not entirely uncommon for him to wake alone, too, on those mornings that he sleeps in.
He misses him.
Not to mention that he has quite a bit of pent up frustration of the sexual kind. Normally, Anton is the one in his position- Sullivan likes sex, enjoys it, but he does not have the drive that his lover does. He thinks he might understand a little better now, though.
He crosses the room and comes to stand behind his chair. “Come to bed with me,” he murmurs, hands coming up to rest on Anton’s shoulders.
“Sullivan.”
The firm tone causes him to shiver. His hunger stirs lazily, enticed by Anton’s voice. He slides a hand down to his collarbones, the tips of his fingers brushing skin lightly, and bends to nuzzle the man’s right ear with his nose. Anton tenses under his hands, but he pretends not to take notice and flicks his tongue at his ear, suppressing a smile at the way he sits up a little straighter in the chair. Teasingly he slides his tongue along the rim of it, from earlobe to the very top, teeth nipping gently at the cartillage. A shaky breath leaves Anton’s lips when he takes the earlobe into his mouth and gives it a slow suck, dragging teeth over it.
“Please?” he whispers. “I’ll make it worth your time.” Another long lick. “I promise.”
“Sullivan…”
Anton wants to give in, he can tell, but at the same time he is reluctant to because of his sense of obligation. If Sullivan is pent up, Anton must have it worse. A little push is all he needs, he thinks, and steps around to the side of his chair to seat himself in his lap, hands reaching up to splay over his chest. “I want you.” He rolls his hips to get his point across and presses up against him so there is no way the man can miss the fact that he’s aroused. “It’ll be good, and you know it,” he says with confidence.
He reaches back to loosen Anton’s grip on the pen and brings the hand to his mouth to kiss the tips of his long fingers, tongue darting out to moisten his lips before sliding one inside. His tongue slides along the underside of the finger, teasing. And all the while he holds Anton’s gaze, sees the way it darkens with arousal.
Under skin, his heart picks up speed. That warm, familiar feeling wakes low in his abdomen and spreads.
The finger comes free from his mouth. Sullivan leans down to press a kiss to his wrist and lets go of the hand. It comes to settle on his hip, thumb slipping under his t-shirt to rub absent mindedly over skin.
They stare.
His heart pounds, and he knows Anton can tell.
“Bed,” the man demands.
Sullivan moves away from his lap and waits for him to stand.
Anton pins him with a look, that look, and he forgets to breathe, because he loves the way Anton looks like he wants to devour him whole, the unspoken need to possess that lies there. There is a heartbeat, and then…
They’re kissing. It’s a clash of lips and teeth and tongue, needy, and Sullivan moans into the kiss when arms wrap themselves around his middle and pulls him right against Anton’s chest. He buries his hands in his hair and tugs, pulls, frees it from its tie to let it come tumbling free so he can touch it more easily. Vaguely he notices that they are moving, half stumbling through the open door and down the hallway to the bedroom that lies at the end.
Hands claw at the t-shirt he’s wearing and grab the hem of it to drag it up his chest. A whimper of protest comes out when Anton breaks the kiss, but it’s to pull the clothing over his head, and the moment he comes free of it they’re kissing again.
He is pushed back and down and comes to land on his back against their bed.
Anton follows, not wasting a second in dragging his jeans down skinny hips and legs, throwing them away before he latches onto his throat. Teeth sink in harshly; Sullivan groans and pushes his head back, diggins nails into the man’s shoudlerblades as Anton sucks and swallows.
“Anton-“ He whimpers, arching up to find relief but finding none, and clings to him. His lover’s name comes tumbling from his lips, and it makes Anton suck harder at his throat, laving his tongue over the bite marks, then breaking off to make another bite. Hands skim over his sides, open palms pressed flat against pale, scarred skin. They grip his hips tight enough to leave bruises. “Touch me, damn it,” he hisses. “Fucking tease.”
The growl that sounds in the back of Anton’s throat makes lust coil tightly in his stomach. It is purely possessive and demanding, and he loves that. It lets him know that he does belong to him.
Anton breaks away from his throat to kiss a trail of hard, biting kisses downwards, letting teeth scrape against skin and sink in to draw blood that he laps up. He stops at a nipple to bite, to suck it into his mouth and lavish it with attention, and as soon it’s sore and puckered he moves on to the other to give it the same treatment.
And through everything Sullivan is moaning and hissing, wrapping naked legs around his middle to grind their cocks together. It’s anything but successful, but he can’t help but try; his skin feels too hot, his head light, and he can’t breathe properly whenever those teeth sink in and the soft, wet tongue follows. It’s perfect. He sneaks a hand between them to touch himself, but Anton won’t have it. It’s pinned to the bed before he has the chance to get more than halfway.
Anton moves on, kissing and licking at his stomach, drawing circles around his bellybutton with his tongue. The saliva cools on his skin, and Anton blows hot air on it just to see him squirm. A smirk plays on his lips when Sullivan looks down at him with heavy lidded eyes.
He wants to tell him to hurry the fuck up and stop teasing, to get on with it, but the man lowers his head and dips his tongue into his bellybutton just then, and all thought flies out the window.
He tenses.
Sudden laughter bubbles in his throat. He bursts into laughter with his eyes squeezed shut.
What. The. Hell?
That seems to be what Anton is thinking too. He stops, raising his head to stare at him with a look that says ‘did you just laugh?’
Sullivan blinks down at him, confused, because he doesn’t understand what just happened.
Understanding makes Anton blink back at him, surprised. And then he’s dipping his tongue into his bellybutton again, and the same thing as before happens; Sullivan can’t stop himself from laughing out loud. He can’t explain why, but it’s impossible not to, and he squirms, trying to get away.
“You’re ticklish,” Anton says.
“Ticklish?” He swallows. The word is not unfamiliar to him- Frikk’s ears and feet were ticklish. This is the first time he has felt anything like this, though.
A smug smirk plays on Anton’s lips, and Sullivan gets a really bad feeling about it. He wriggles to get out from under him, but the man uses his weight to pin him down.
“Anton…” he warns.
Anton dips his head down again.
Sullivan is arching up and squirming at the same time, trying to free his hands to push at the man’s head, to no avail. He laughs, loud and forced, until he’s breathless and begins to hiccup. It drains every bit of strength from him, and soon he can’t even find the strength to fight back.
“An…ton! Stop! Stop!”
It’s only when he has no more breath left to plead that Anton takes pity on him and pulls his head up, smirking.
He glares. “Fuck…you…Anton,” he gasps.
Anton moves up his body and comes to res half of his weight on top of him, reaching up to brush hair from his sweaty forehead. “I don’t think that’s quite how it goes, Sullivan,” he says huskily, smirk widening.
“Then shut up and fuck me.” He fists a hand in his lover’s hair and yanks.
Arousal flashes in yellow eyes, hot and heavy.
Anton is more than happy to oblige him, and any unvoiced complaint dies on his tongue when the man crushes their mouths together and drags nails down his chest.
In the aftermath they rest together, Anton pressed right against his back with an arm wrapped loosely around his waist. He sighs and presses his face into the pillow. A thin layer of sweat gleams on his skin and his hair is a mess, tangled from Anton’s hands, but he is as content as he will ever be, boneless and sated and safe in the arms of his Bonded.
The hand pressed to his chest, just above his beating heart, glides down to his stomach, fingers outlining and stroking every scar they meet on the way. He thinks nothing of it and relaxes into the touch. A finger circles his bellybutton lazily, almost as if Anton doesn’t realise what he is doing.
He cracks open an eye and debates whether to be irritated with him for tickling him earlier or not.
Anton strokes his stomach, drawing invisible circles on skin, and Sullivan thinks, just for now, that he’d rather have that hand keep stroking him.
He smiles into the pillow and drifts off to sleep.
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a/n: This is what happens when I'm bored and I miss Anton and Sulli. XD. I think Anton has a newfound love for his bellybutton now, don't you agree?