Love doing this to you.
So fucking perfect a way of dealing with you
when you've been working my last nerve all fucking day.
I've never asked if you like it. Don't care if you do or you don't, to be honest. Not this. It's enough that you let me and don't ask why, the same way I don't ask when you want me to -- yeah. That.
Besides, what would I say? What could come close to explaining without making me sound like a freak?
I can take your clothes from you, tear them away, buttons popping, you whining, eyes snapping shut, because cotton's tough, and it sounds romantic, but it can hurt getting stripped like this, and you're not sure whether to protest or not. Don't bother. I might stop. Your dick's always hard. I know you like it. Like it when I peel them off slowly, too. Didn't know how patient I could be, did you? Or maybe the trade-off of you fucking whimpering in my ear is worth the wait until I can see you bare-ass.
Yes, I can do that. And I can take your control in so many ways there's no point in counting, have you wide-eyed, heart hammering with a whispered word, a single touch. God, your face when I do that... Wish I didn't have decades of training stopping me from doing it on a mission, or in a briefing, but that leaves plenty of time.
So, yeah, I can fuck you and fill you, mark you and make you beg -- I like that -- but you're never mine until I take your voice. That reasonable, argumentative, know-it-all, drawl. That excited splutter. That condescending civilian chatter.
That soft, breathy moan, that long, drawn-out groan where my name gets as many syllables as a dozen Goa'uld rolled into one -- going to take them all, Daniel.
And even then, God, look at you! Won't stay still. Wriggling your ass, eyes on mine, hands busy, like jerking yourself off is sign language for something profound and fucking meaningful. Have to blindfold you, get those blue eyes staring at darkness, have to tie you still to get what I want.
Silence. A failure to communicate. Finally.
We're equals then. Equally dumb.
Because I can't tell you that. I can't tell you anything.
And I'm not sure you want me to, or I probably would have by now.
So I just hold up the gag, fingering the place your gasped breath will leave spit-dark and clinging, and wait for a nod that's never a 'yes' because we've already started.
And maybe this time I'll get it right without help from you, and the first words your freed mouth gives me won't make my reply be an apology for making you come too soon, too late, for hurting you too much, not enough...
Got to happen one day.
That, I want to hear.
You really are a pain in the ass, you know that?
I say that aloud as I touch you, watching your skin heat and tighten, but you don't answer back.
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