Snow (sweptawaybayou) wrote,

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Um ... sorta Icon Drabble #10

For lady_t_220 and trishabooms
Hugh Jackman/David Boreanaz
Didn't count the words

A long time ago, someone sent me some pictures of Hugh. In a small, crappy looking motel room. Scruffy and unshaven and fucking gorgeous. While drooling over said pictures and exclaiming how incredibly *just fucked* Hugh looked ... I mentioned that I would write that motel!sex for lady_t_220 Well, the bunny didn't bite me until today and I think that this might fulfill her request for a drabble for my Hugh ~ Drool icon that the lovely _tayler made from some of those omg pictures ... I hope.

If not? I'll try again.


Hugh missed the sun. Shooting this movie had been an experience in cold. In mud. In rain and snow and he hadn’t felt warm since he left the States. Since he left Australia. He missed his son. He missed his friends. He shivered, waiting for the photographer to show up. A photo-shoot for some magazine. Something he promised his agent months ago, back when thinking was easy, back when he was warm.

Hugh missed the touch. Lonely, even around the cast and crew. His smile came just as easily, his laughter, his jokes … but it wasn’t the same without the knowledge that when he left the set someone would be waiting for him. Long nights spent alone, huddled under blankets, his eyes wide open. Too cold to sleep. Too alone to rest.

He showed up right before the photographer. 'Just passing through' he said and Hugh shut the door behind them. Hungry, starving, dying. Clothing dropped to the floor. Scattered over suitcases, over hideous carpet that Hugh didn’t think anyone in any country could have appreciated enough to actually buy and install and yet they had. Hands greedy for skin, long, strong fingers reaching, bruising flesh with the desperation for more.

“Touch me.”

“I am.”

The scratch of whiskers and stubble, hard enough to leave a burn, a trail that showed where wet, brutal kisses had landed. His face rubbed across Hugh’s chest, following the soft, curly hair that marked the path to nirvana. The warm lap of a tongue and Hugh’s eyes closed, his fingers dug into the sheets, pulled them free of the mattress. His hands went to the round, muscular shoulders at his hips, slid up into the short, gel stiffened hair as his back arched, his legs spread, knees bent, feet braced in a tangle of blankets.

Hugh felt hands prying him further apart. Spit-slicked fingers that slipped in and curled and he moaned. Sweat beading at his brow, trickling, tickling down his chest and when he came in fast thrusts up into that mouth, Hugh’s blood boiled in his veins. All he could hear was the sound of it rushing past his eardrums, pushed by his heart, pushed by this man.

Then his body was being turned, fingers urging him over on his stomach. A mouth licking up his spine, teeth biting the sharp bones of his shoulder blades as Hugh’s hands came up beside his face, shoving pillows out of his way, off to the floor. Knees pushing his thighs apart, the head of a cock pressing, sliding in the crack of his ass. Hugh’s fingers curled into fists at the hard nudge at his opening, the sharp, bright light of pain, the rush when the body behind him got closer, the cock went deeper. His hips slammed back and forth and Hugh could feel hot breath on his neck, hear the slick slap of chest meeting back.

“Fuck me.”

“I am.”

Filled and taken, covered and bruised. Pushed into the squeak of the bed frame as it shook beneath them. Hugh’s fists, his knuckles white and he felt hands sliding down his arms, palms over his, fingers forcing his apart, twining together. A sudden jerk and twist behind him, a loss of rhythm, a change in breathing and hot come leaking between them, down Hugh’s thighs. Slow, sticky movements, hearts beating in time and quiet, low murmurs of how long has it been and I’ve missed you and you feel so fucking good … like coming home.

A quick shower, groping hands and hot water. Soap covered fingers, shampoo flavored kisses and he was dressed and gone and Hugh turned on the television. Foreign voices filling the room, another knock on the door. The photographer and his assistant and Hugh smiled and waved them in, pretended his bed was not rumpled, ignored the smell of sex and semen and sweat in the air. Posed and joked and posed again over and over and when it was done, when they were gone, he couldn’t even remember their names. His mind stuck on repeat of the last thing David had said before he left. He ate dinner, didn’t watch his paid for pay per view movie and fell asleep that night, warm for the first time in months.

“Love me.”

“I do.”

*hugs and kisses*
Tags: db/hj, drabble, drabbles, ficlets, rps
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