takemura kinktober - day 6: fuck the pain away. for @takemura-events. props to my co-conspirator @miazma
She was naked.
Goro stiffened, eyes widening momentarily before he twitched his head to the side, gaze flicking around the dimly lit room. No clothes, not even a towel — naked, she rounded the kitchen counter and walked straight up to him. He opened his mouth to say something, but Vee was already there, stepping into him, sliding her hands around his waist. Pressing her body against his. Her face tilted up.
He turned his head aside again, before she could kiss him. “Vee…” There was genuine regret in his voice. It made him feel vaguely ashamed.
She huffed, a broken little sound. Took half a step back, her hands loosely fisting his shirt. “Goro— Please. Please don’t— I just. I need this.”
~~~
It was the worst relic malfunction yet.
Except — was it really a malfunction? Anders Hellman had just spelled it out for her: the biochip was working exactly as intended. It was always meant to take over her brain, overwrite her mind with another’s. Like some fucking parasite, a fungus spreading its filaments through her head, inexorable— She heaved her guts out, stumbled down the stairs.
Johnny’s voice was a grating presence. Vee spat at him, angry, hateful. She couldn’t touch him. He was killing her and she couldn’t fucking touch him. She took her omega blockers.
Borrowed time. That’s all she had. Those blue little pills wouldn’t save her, in the end. Hellman hadn’t given her any real answers, just a death sentence.
She wished Goro hadn’t shooed her out of that room. She would’ve liked to watch Hellman suffer. She would’ve liked to help. Instead she was curled up on the concrete outside, trying not to cry, trying not to choke, trying to ignore the flickering static squeezing in from all sides. The very real sense of impending doom.
It hurt. It all hurt so much.
When Goro found Vee, she looked like death warmed over. Not quite as bad as she had in the landfill — there was no bullet hole in her head, for one — but really not that far off. She had already been covered with dust and gore when he arrived. Now there was blood crusted around her nose, her face was drawn, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed, her hands shaking as she reached for him. A note of vomit had joined the general miasma of blood and sweat and gasoline.
She looked as grief-struck as she had when they met in that diner. As he gathered her into his arms, he wondered briefly whom she was grieving for this time. And then she was clinging to his leather duster, and she croaked: “I don’t want to die.”
Goro carried her to his van. She waved at a motorcycle parked nearby, mumbling vaguely. He deposited her in the passenger seat and went back for the bike.
“Are you hurt?” he asked once they were on the road.
She turned aside, stared out the passenger window. “No more than usual.”
By the time they reached her home in Japantown, she had passed out. She roused when he opened her car door, insisted she could walk, but he picked her up anyway. He wasn’t sure why. He tried not to think about it. Just carried her inside with her arms looped around his neck, all the way into her bathroom, where he set her down so she could clean up.
He hovered outside. Heard the shower turn on. Ran a hand over his head, gathering loose strands of hair away from his eyes, sighing deeply. He should just leave. Instead he took off his jacket and tossed it on the couch. Then went back to the kitchenette and started making tea.
Vee showered for such a long time that Goro half thought she had fallen asleep in there. He almost fell asleep himself, sitting on her couch with a cup of tea cooling in his hand. He set it down when he heard the blowdryer, rose when he heard her leave the bathroom.
She was naked.
Goro stiffened, eyes widening momentarily before he twitched his head to the side, gaze flicking around the dimly lit room. No clothes, not even a towel — naked, she rounded the kitchen counter and walked straight up to him. He opened his mouth to say something, but Vee was already there, stepping into him, sliding her hands around his waist. Pressing her body against his. Her face tilted up.
He turned his head aside again, before she could kiss him. “Vee…” There was genuine regret in his voice. It made him feel vaguely ashamed.
She huffed, a broken little sound. Took half a step back, her hands loosely fisting his shirt. “Goro— Please. Please don’t— I just. I need this.” Dark eyes gazing up at him. Beseeching. “If you don’t want to fuck me, then— Then at least hurt me? Choke me, or. Or something.”
Goro’s brows drew together in a frown. “I’m— Not going to hurt you,” he said.
The concern and bewilderment in his voice made it sound almost like a question. Vee pressed her lips together, looking away for a moment, blinking rapidly. Then she swallowed and met his eyes.
“I just—” she said, her voice fraying. “Please, I— I need to feel something, anything, something that’s really real. Something that’s all me.”
There was a moment of fraught silence, where she watched his face intently. Then she lowered her gaze, bowing her head. She didn’t let go, but he felt her hold on his shirt loosen. Goro closed his eyes, swallowed thickly. Reached for her.
Hands settling gently on her back, fingers finding the groove of her spine as she leaned into his embrace. A slow exhale. When he opened his eyes she was looking up at him once more. He lifted his hand to cup her jaw, smooth his thumb over her cheek.
“Wakatta,” he murmured.
I understand. An acknowledgment, an affirmation. He couldn’t fix her. He wouldn’t hurt her. But he might distract her.
(He wasn’t going to justify or rationalise this, not right now. It was easier if he didn’t think of anything but the shimmer of tears in her eyes, the way she needed him. Why he even wanted to fill that need… That was a question for later.)
He leaned in, and pressed his mouth to hers.
Lips nudging against lips, softly, gently. Vee let out a quiet whimper, her eyes fluttering closed, and Goro felt her body soften in his arms, her hands splayed on his chest. He knew she was so much more than what she seemed — a walking fortune in cutting edge technology that would protect and preserve — but in this moment, she was just a young woman seeking comfort. And everything he’d been telling himself about how he was way too old and that it had been way too long since he did any of this seemed irrelevant, because their lips fit together so perfectly.
His hand slid up her jaw, into the cloud of curls still a little damp from her shower, and cradled the back of her head as he deepened the kiss. Her lips parted willingly, her tongue came to greet his. This was nothing like the first time. There was hunger, but none of the greed he had come to associate with her; she simply opened to him.
It was strangely easy, this intimacy, like they were both following the same instinct. When he slid one hand down to her thigh, she hooked her arms behind his neck and jumped to wrap her legs around his waist. Their lips still locked, he carried her through her apartment by feel and memory. She refused to let him go as he deposited her on the bed, and he obliged and joined her, and they were still kissing and—
And Goro realised the full force of his desire for her truly was there, still. Ignored and forgotten for a time, but simmering somewhere underneath. He hadn’t really expected it would wake to this plea of hers; she was broken and needy and had begged him to hurt her and it had made him feel more sad than anything else. He had thought to pleasure her as best he knew how, hoping that would be enough. But now, when it was just their bodies doing the talking — when he propped himself on one elbow so his free hand could roam the curve of her hip, the soft skin of her flank, up to cup her breast — when she moaned quietly into the kiss and one of her hands slid over the stubble of his undercut and the other began unbuttoning his shirt — now, when she arched needily against him, he felt himself stirring, and he gave an answering roll of his hips.
He wanted her. There was no point denying it, to her or to himself.
Their kiss grew more passionate. Between them, they managed to get his clothes off without having to pull apart for more than a moment or two. He kissed his way along her jaw, then down her throat, feeling her pulse against his lips. Ever impatient, she made a faintly plaintive noise as he continued downwards.
“Shh. Relax. Let me,” he murmured in Japanese, and caught her nipple in his mouth. He lingered a moment, let his tongue toy with her piercing, delighting in her gasps and whimpers. Down and down he moved, until he was between her legs, and he was only mildly surprised to find another bit of metal threaded through the hood of her clit.
He might have enjoyed teasing her a little, but by now she had reached down to slide slender fingers into his hair, tugging at him until he leaned in and tasted her. Vee was wet, vocal in her pleasure, her hips tilting and twitching, and when he slid a finger inside her she squeezed around him as if trying to hold on. Soon enough she was pulling at his hair again.
“Please. Please, Goro,” she mumbled between whimpers, “I n— I want you inside me.”
And he wanted to be inside her. Goro let out a quiet groan, somewhat reluctantly pulling away from her cunt so he could crawl on top of her. She didn’t hesitate to drag him down for a kiss, tasting herself on his lips. His cock was hard, achingly hard, and when it slid over her sex her hips rolled, grinding them together. He tilted his own; one smooth thrust and he was buried in her.
This was nothing like the first time. They moved in unison, surging against one another in a tangle of limbs, the space between them slick with sweat, their moans swallowed by kisses. Slow and steady at first, then with growing urgency. Goro relaxed his self-control, let himself start chasing his own pleasure, urged on by Vee’s pleas — demands — for more, yes, more…
“You will be rewarded,” the King promises. His voice is softly resonant, soothing. He kisses the tears from her cheeks, and then tightens her bonds and brushes the last scraps of her dress off her body. “In this life, and the next.”
Tags: Rape/Non-con Elements, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Monsterfucking, Teratophilia, Ritual Sex, Human Sacrifice (sort of), Blood, Violence, Size Kink, Made-up Mythology
(honestly i have nfi how to tag this thing, it's violent eldritch dragon on human action okay)
~~~
Her name is Lamb, but it is also a word for Offering. The girl never considers its meaning until the day she is told she is to be a Sacrifice.
She is bathed and anointed, dressed in white and red, and then the King himself comes to take her out of the temple and into the centre of the forest, to the altar. The King in the golden mask, whom she has seen often throughout her short life, but never spoken to. And she never saw him without a mask before — she doesn’t think anyone has.
He takes it off when they arrive at the altar together. The girl has been weeping quietly all along the way, unable to enjoy the ride through autumn forest aglow with golden sunlight, her first time outside the temple since she was younger than she can remember. But now, she gazes up at the King, shaken out of her growing anxiety. His snow white hair had led her to expect an old man, yet his face is ageless and breathtakingly beautiful; serious, but not unkind. As he ties her to the altar and cuts her dress from her body she weeps again, not out of fear, but out of awe and wonder.
“You will be rewarded,” the King promises. His voice is softly resonant, soothing. “In this life, and the next.”
He kisses the tears from her cheeks, and then tightens her bonds and brushes the last scraps of her dress off her body. She lies bare before him and somehow she cannot think to be ashamed: the King unmasked holds a beauty so profound, so other-worldly, that she cannot think at all.
Thus it is that she doesn’t notice when he reaches into his clothing and exposes his cock; doesn’t look as he strokes it. She is lost in his golden eyes. It isn’t until he closes them with a faint grunt and something hot spills over her belly that she finally looks down — and sees him holding a body part she has only some academical knowledge of, soon tucked out of sight once more.
No longer spell-bound by his beauty, panic resurfaces in the girl. Her breathing hitches and races as the King reaches for his knife. She closes her eyes and cries out as he makes a quick, precise cut down the middle of her chest; not deep, just enough to draw a trickle of blood. She feels it sliding down her belly, pooling in her navel.
When she opens her eyes again, the King is holding a fruit of a kind she has never seen before. He slices it in half and lets its juices drip onto her skin, joining his spend and her blood. Then he leans in. Fingertips swirl the liquids cooling on her body, and for a moment it seems to her as though they catch on fire, a sigil searing her skin.
“This life, and the next,” the King repeats, his nostrils flaring as he sucks those mingled fluids from his fingers. The girl catches herself wondering if he is talking to her, or to himself. The way he looks at her in this moment makes her head spin: writ in his expression there is hunger and longing, greed and resentment, love and fury.
She might have asked him what it all means, but in the next moment his golden mask is back in place, and then the King is gone. And over the darkening forest, a half-moon is rising.
The Sacrifice is alone and afraid. She doesn’t know what is happening. She doesn’t know why she has been taken here, into the heart of the forest; why she has been stripped naked and tied to an altar. She doesn’t know what the sigil drawn on her skin means. But she knows, eventually, that she isn’t alone.
There is something in the forest.
She senses it watching her. Hears a great body shifting in the shadows. A wail of fear builds in her throat and she tries to swallow it, to be still and listen, but she can’t stop crying. Can’t stop shaping pleas with her lips, unvoiced, disappearing into the night.
The altar sits in a clearing, the ground flat and open all around and bathed in the light of the rising moon. The Sacrifice twists and arches her neck, looking frantically about, trying to catch a glimpse of the creature. And a glimpse here and there is all she gets. Even as the creature leaves the cover of the trees, she cannot seem to make out what manner of beast is approaching: it flickers and fades into a shadowy mirage, almost invisible against the dark forest. The girl thinks she sees a long body like that of a serpent, but enormous, with four legs — or two, or six? — and talons tearing up clumps of grass as it slithers around the meadow, circling ever closer. Sometimes it disappears from view entirely, but she still hears it moving, staying low to the ground. It is hugging the altar now, she can sense it winding its body about the slab of stone. She twitches and yelps as she feels the scrape of a talon over her leg, a wet tongue touching her hand, then stillness.
The Sacrifice jerks her head around, straining against her bonds, straining her eyes, wondering if she imagined it all. And then her vision is obscured by darkness, and in that darkness a pair of malevolent green eyes, impossibly bright. She blinks tears from her own eyes and more details resolve out of the black — mane, muzzle, fangs — but they refuse to coalesce into a whole that makes sense.
This is a creature that doesn’t exist. A lion-headed serpent of shifting shadow whips its forked tongue at her, scenting the air. Then it tastes her skin, right above her heart where the King cut her. The girl is rigid, her teeth chattering, too frightened to even cry anymore. The creature hums, licks her again and again, its tongue shockingly hot as it laps at her chest and her belly. The King’s sigil disappears into its great maw and it makes a noise that could almost be a moan, its body heaving over her.
She still cannot perceive the whole of it, but as her eyes travels down its body she sees where fur is replaced with scales. She sees a seam down the centre of its underbelly splitting open as an organ grows out of it, and even in the dark she knows it for what it is—
And she shrieks and struggles feebly against her bonds as the serpent-thing crawls atop her, for she understands now what is about to happen. She is innocent of knowledge but on some deep, instinctual level, she understands . She understands why she was stripped of her clothes, why she was bent back over the rounded stone, why her legs were pried apart and tied open—
The serpent’s body is a furnace above her; she sees nothing but gleaming fur and scales. And then she feels it between her legs, its impossibly large cock nudging up against her—
And then she screams as it splits her in two.
The first release comes fast. He fucks her in a passionate fury, gouging the altar stone with his talons as his body bucks and heaves atop the girl. The girl, the little human girl, his Sacrifice . Crying underneath him, bleeding, writhing, pleading wordlessly in a language as old as time. And all it does is spur him on. He spends inside her with another growling moan.
Pulling out, he shifts his body out of the way, inspects the ruin of her. She is still alive. Still keening. He considers eating her. Her blood is so sweet: sweeter still now that she is his .
Instead he tears her from the altar, and carries her off into the forest. Away from the meadow, deeper and deeper into the forest, and then down, down into the winding tunnels of his den.
There, he curls up with his prize. She is a trembling, whimpering little thing, smelling of fear and blood and dripping with his release. He holds her in his talons, turning her over and around, inspecting her with all his senses. She sobs quietly and he drinks in her misery as he sniffs and licks — licks the tears from her face, the blood from the punctures he’s left on her body. He pushes his tongue into her mouth, tasting her spit, and she gags and squirms. He licks at her chest, her small breasts, her soft belly. He pulls her legs apart, nosing at her sex; she’s leaking blood and spend, soaking her little patch of fur. He laps it all up, invades her without a care for her comfort.
She is intoxicating. He wants more. He wants to devour her, but she is barely even a morsel, and there is a different kind of sustenance he craves, a different kind of relief. There is a hunger in him that hasn’t been satisfied for as long as he cares to remember. So he licks into her, purring, forcing more and more of his tongue inside, and then he pulls out and moves her around so he can thread her up on his cock instead.
She lets out a hoarse shriek; her pain washes over him in a delicious wave. He remains as he is, lazily lounging over his favourite boulder, and he moves her up and down his shaft, feeling the tight hot squeeze of her. Slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. He’d intended to draw it out, to make it last longer, but his patience evaporates in the flood of sensations, and anyway it doesn’t matter: he can go again, and again. As many times as he needs to to feel sated. So he tightens his talons around her body and slams her down on his cock, growling with pleasure as he spends inside her once again.
Then he puts her over the boulder on her belly, laps at her entrance greedily ... and then he mounts her like a beast. His body shortens and thickens, he hunches over her like a great cat, rutting furiously into her as she weeps.
He doesn’t count how many times he takes her, it is not his way. By the end of the night, he is satisfied to lie on his back, her unconscious form draped over his long body as his cock pumps in and out of her. A swollen ridge at its base stimulates her, makes her sex contract around him — he forces unto her pleasure she can’t feel, but he can. He draws it out of her and consumes it just as he consumes her pain, and in return he fills her up with his essence.
He could keep her. Or he could eat her. He could keep using her until he gets bored and then he could eat her. But for some reason, he doesn’t want to. There is something else he wants, now. The memory of a scent lingering on his tongue. Something complicated stirring at the back of his mind. He ignores it with practised ease, but still: he doesn’t eat her, and he doesn’t keep her.
Instead, just before dawn, he leaves his den with the girl cradled against his chest.
~~~
If you enjoyed this please consider dropping me a kudos/comment on AO3 ^^
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
...for every aspect of him, there was a reflection in me. Princess, pupil, plaything, pet. The yin to his yang. And should he reinvent himself tomorrow, burn himself up and rise like a phoenix reborn, I would as well, without hesitation. Because this madness made sense to me like nothing else ever had.
2.6k words, Explicit
Fandom: Far Cry 4
Pairing: Pagan Min/Original Female Character (can be read as Reader)
Tags: Pegging, Established relationship, Bottoming from the top (I guess?), hints of Maledom/Femsub, Praise, Pet names, Fluffy feelings
AO3 link
I searched his expression for mockery, feeling intensely uncertain and out of my depth. But although his eyes were dark and hooded, I could find nothing but affection and tenderness in his smile. It widened when he caught me looking at him. “Mm. You look gorgeous with a cock, love,” he murmured.
(This is a Pagan Poetry side story, but doesn't spoil anything important and works well on its own.)
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can and you will.”
“But I—”
“I’m not asking you to take charge,” Pagan said, his voice firm and gentle, much like his hands cupping my shoulders. “I’m telling you to fuck me with a strap-on.”
I stared up at him, pinned by his intent gaze. Swallowed. My eyes were prickling, and abruptly I felt ashamed. Over the past few months, we had done any number of absolutely debauched things with and to one another, yet I balked at pegging him? It was practically vanilla, in my book. But when faced with the actual thing, it was suddenly terrifying.
Pagan let go of one shoulder and gestured to the strap lying on the bedside cabinet. “You’re going to put this on for me, right now, because I want you to, and you aren’t going to deny me. Are you.” His voice was too flat for it to be a question, but he raised his eyebrows in expectation of a proper response.
“…no, sir.”
He had already helped me out of my dress, and now he sat down on the dungeon bed, evidently expecting me to do the rest myself. I picked up the strap-on, feeling my cheeks burn.
Like so many of his toys, the strap was custom made for me. Not just the harness, which of course fit perfectly, but the cock itself, which skin tone matched mine. And of course there was a smaller one for myself on the inside, curved and moulded to rub against my g-spot.
It was somewhat surreal, looking down to see a lifelike erection sporting from my own groin. Cupping it experimentally in my hand, I felt its counterpart stir, and a ridge on the inside of the harness pressed against my clit. I swallowed and let out a shivering breath. No matter how conflicted I was about the act itself, it was going to give me pleasure.
Pagan was watching me, a faint smile playing on his lips. I searched his expression for mockery, feeling intensely uncertain and out of my depth. But although his eyes were dark and hooded, I could find nothing but affection and tenderness in his smile.
It widened when he caught me looking at him. “Mm. You look gorgeous with a cock, love,” he murmured. He sounded like he meant it.
Sliding off the bed, he sank to his knees before me and lowered his head. Hot breath ghosted over my skin as he brushed his lips against my belly, dipping his tongue into my navel before leaving a trail of kisses down to my groin. His hands slid up my thighs to my hips, holding me steady. And then he bent further, pressing his face close to the base of the strap-on, glancing up at me as he ran his tongue up its length.
I moaned, despite myself. Aside from the way the dildo moved against and inside me, there was something wildly erotic about the sight of Pagan lapping at it, coating it with saliva and then taking it into his mouth. He was good at this, I thought dazedly, I should be taking notes; only it was beginning to get very difficult to concentrate. He wrapped his fingers around the base and slid it — the dildo — my cock — in deeper and deeper, until he’d swallowed it completely, and I marvelled at how he held still for a few long moments, seemingly without effort, before he pulled back with a soft groan.
If I had ever thought there was something inherently submissive about kneeling to someone and taking their cock down your throat, I would have had to recant that belief now. When Pagan looked up at me, eyes black and shining with lust, lips slick with his own saliva parting around a sharp grin, I was in free-fall. Drowning. I rocked on my feet, knees weak, and my cock nudged against his cheek. He chuckled huskily and pressed a kiss to the shaft.
Then he rose, slipping a hand into my hair and kissing me gently even as he undid his trousers and let them fall to the floor, all in one fluid motion. I wavered and whimpered and melted against his lips, and when he pulled back I clung to him, flustered and uncertain. He stepped back to the bed, pulling me with him, and sat down.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he said, tugging me to stand between his knees. He brushed his knuckles underneath my chin until I met his eyes, and gave me a gentle smile. “I’m not tossing you into the deep end. I’ve warmed up already, and that thing is not so big that you’ll hurt me. Even if you get rowdy.”
That brought a smile to my lips, and I huffed faintly, looking down for a moment. “So, um. How do you, uh, want me to do this?”
He peered at me, eyes narrowing in thought. “Well… How about you give me a massage, to begin with, hm? Get us both nice and relaxed.”
I nodded. That sort of service, I knew how to perform.
As I stooped to fetch a bottle of lube from the bedside cabinet, Pagan slid onto the bed and made himself comfortable, lying on his stomach. I climbed atop him, trying to ignore the sensation of the toy shifting inside me as I moved. My cunt was wet already, juices leaking out to smear the harness, apparently completely oblivious to my misgivings over what was coming.
I took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. Focused on Pagan, on the broad expanse of his back stretched out before me, on the bunched muscles of his shoulders as he rested his head on his forearms. I could see the corner of his mouth curving in a smile as I poured a generous helping of lube down the groove of his spine.
He was wearing a plug. It shouldn’t have surprised me, really, but I still felt flustered at the sight of it, nestled between his buttocks. Leaving it alone for now, I ran my hands over his back, spreading the lube over his skin. I leaned into it, pushing the balls of my hands into his flesh, and he groaned appreciatively. It was always a treat, getting to touch him like this — usually, he was the one with his hands on me — and I managed to lose myself in the warmth and the intimacy of it, even if the shifting of my cock as it nudged against his buttocks provided the occasional reminder of our purpose here.
“Time to move on to the main course, darling,” Pagan mumbled at last. He seemed utterly at peace.
I sat back on his thighs, taking another steadying breath. Pagan arched his back slightly, relaxing his glutes. I reached for the plug, eased it out of him. Its base was thick; he really would need no further warm-up. Setting the plug aside, I ran my hands over his ass, squeezing the hard muscle, spreading him open.
Part of me wanted to line myself up, close my eyes and just … get this over with. But I was realising, finally, that that would have been missing the point.
This wasn’t about me topping him. It wasn’t even about me fucking him in the ass. I had been told by a lover of his that being on the receptive end this way was something he just … didn’t do, for the most part. Though I had never asked him about it, I had a strong hunch it was rooted in some complicated tangle of emotions, rather than simple preference. He was, as the plug demonstrated, perfectly capable of enjoying anal play in other ways, but letting someone fuck him was a different beast altogether.
And when I managed to set my anxieties and misgivings aside, I could finally appreciate what he was giving me. Ultimately, this was about trust. He was taking me across boundaries, both mine and his own, in order to share something with me. Letting me see a part of him almost no one got to see.
It was an expression of love no less profound and intimate than that of him allowing me to wash him — or of me handing myself over that he may take my mind apart through pain and fear.
So I didn’t look away. I kept my eyes on him as I trailed a couple of fingers down the waxed crevice of his ass, rubbing them against his opening and pushing inside. He accepted them readily, purring appreciation. Pulling out, I reached for my cock and laid it between his buttocks, thrusting slowly between them to get it coated with lube. And then I angled my hips, pushing down on my cock until it slipped into him.
Pagan moaned, lips parting on a blissful smile. I paused for a moment, eyes darting between his face and his ass, and let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. I steadied myself against his hips, gaze locked on his face as I pushed all the way inside.
“Fuuuuck that’s good,” Pagan sighed, still smiling. “My good girl.”
I started moving. If I was a bit hesitant at first, by now it was mostly to do with having never done this before. It took a little while to figure out how to move my hips, how to tilt my pelvis. Pagan seemed to have all the patience in the world for my fumbling efforts, allowing me to find my rhythm without interfering. He arched his back, but stayed mostly still, and for that I was grateful, as any attempt at meeting my thrusts would likely have thrown me off.
And then, from one moment to the next … I was fucking him. As he had told me I would. And once I’d gotten the hang of it, I was suddenly keenly aware of how every roll of my hips had the toy grinding against my clit and my g-spot. Aware of how Pagan was moaning as I fucked into him, his face flushed, his fingers digging into the pillows. Aware of how hot it was — how intimate, how sensual.
My thrusts grew more forceful, not through any conscious decision but simply because I found myself wanting more of this. Any lingering self-conscious unease fell away as I lost myself to pure lust. I felt like an animal like this, clutching at his hips and grinding into his ass, panting and moaning. Pagan moaned with me, breathing my name, praising me and calling me his good girl.
I was in reasonably good shape, but I had never fucked anyone like this before. Muscles were put to work in ways I wasn’t used to, and soon started complaining. I pushed through, fuelled by my desire to please, urged on by Pagan’s moans and encouraging words. But eventually there came a point where my thighs and back simply wouldn’t obey anymore; my pace grew erratic and my thrusts weak.
“Nnh— Pagan— I, I can’t—” I panted, straining against him, almost sobbing with fatigue.
“Alright pet,” he purred, “get off me.”
I pulled out of him and slid to the side, quivering and dripping with sweat. Worry curled in my chest and my hands and my eyes sought him, clinging weakly, searching his face for disappointment. He hadn’t reached his climax yet; had I let him down? But he was smiling that cat’s smile of his, eyes heavy-lidded. He pushed himself up to sit next to me, and helped me onto my back.
“You’ve been so good for me, love,” he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against mine. “Pushing yourself so hard. My sweet pet. Now it’s my turn, hm? You can just lie back and relax.”
And then he moved to straddle me. Reaching between us to line me up, he sank down onto my cock with a soft sigh. I felt very small like this, bracketed by his muscular thighs, and it eased my tension somehow, made me feel safe. Pagan rocked his pelvis just the slightest bit, gazing down on me. A moan spilled from my lips as the toy shifted inside of me, and he smiled. Pulled strands of hair free of my sweat-slick forehead and smoothed his thumbs over my cheeks.
“There’s my girl,” he said warmly.
He began moving, and I found myself captivated by the roll of his hips, and by the fact that I could see his cock — not just the base where it disappeared into me as was usually the case, but the whole hard, throbbing length of it. Precome glistened on its crown, smeared Pagan’s skin as it bobbed against his belly. I moved my arms to rest my hands on his hips, wanting to feel the way they rolled and flexed.
Pagan smiled, cupped my jaw, rubbed my lips with his thumb, and then he was slipping a finger into my mouth. I sucked on it, and he called me a good girl again, his voice hoarse with desire as he fucked my mouth with his finger and fucked himself on my cock. Though it was hardly necessary for me to move, my hips were still twitching needily against him.
My gaze was drawn to his face, our eyes locked. Pulling his finger out of my mouth, he let his hand rest on my throat, his fingers wrapped around it but not squeezing. It struck me that it didn’t matter whose cock was inside who — he was always inside me. Pagan picked up the pace, my name dripping from his lips like a warm caress, and I was abruptly aware of just how close I was.
“Pagan— Pah— Can I—”
“What’s that, pet? You close?” he asked, his voice husky.
He ground down on me a little harder and I gasped, “Yes, please—”
Pagan guided my hand to his erection, and I eagerly wrapped my fingers around it. He groaned, pace stuttering for a moment, his cock twitching at my touch. “You gonna come for me, hm?” His voice was gravelly now, yet still warm, almost tender. “Gonna come while I ride you?”
Quite unable to answer, I was a quivering, panting mess, staring up at him as he quickened his pace. My climax was sudden and intense, breath catching in my throat as my body seized up for a moment, and then I was shaking and letting out a drawn out, warbling wail of a moan. I was squeezing his cock, hard, and I heard Pagan’s breathless, “That’s it, there’s a good girl—”
And then he was twitching, moaning, shuddering above me, spilling milky white ribbons over my belly, my chest — all the way up to my chin, he painted me.
He lifted himself off my cock and collapsed on top of me, caging me with his entire body. I felt his every heaving breath stream over my neck and shoulder, his hair tickling the side of my face. His cock was still hard in my hand, still throbbing with the aftermath of his climax, even as my cunt kept clenching around my toy.
We lay like that for a time, panting raggedly, clinging to one another, until at last Pagan managed to stretch out beside me. I turned my head to look at him, and then — with some effort and Pagan’s help — rolled over to face him properly. Hooked one of my legs over one of his. Our hands found one another, fingers twining together loosely. Sweat cooled on our skin.
We gazed at one another. Neither of us spoke, because no words were necessary. Both of us were smiling.
1.8k words
Fandom: Horizon: Zero Dawn, Horizon: Forbidden West
Pairing: Aloy/Sylens
Tags: Older man younger woman, D/s undertones, Frenemies to lovers (ish?), First kiss, Fix-it (ish?)
AO3 link
A little drabble I wrote because I was really annoyed with how Sylens was written in Forbidden West, and also I wanted them to kiss. Honestly, the untapped potential of this ship boggles me. HOW is this a rarepair? Spoiler warning for the end of FW.
~~~
He had been there. That’s the reason she can’t let him go, she thinks. The reason she’s relieved when he opts to stay. He had been there — with her, if not for her — when she learned of the fate of the world, of the role she had to play in its future.
He’s been acting like such a monumental ass, though, she doesn’t know how much any of that should matter anymore.
Yet when he chooses to remain on Earth, the flare of hope in her chest almost blots out the betrayal. Hope is just another kind of pain, and Aloy knows this better than most. But it’s a pain she can live with. It’s far preferable to regret.
He’ll stay on the planet, but not in their camp. They’ve left the Zenith compound, setting up their tents near the beach on the mainland to rest and regroup, before their journeys begin anew. And Sylens, of course, insists on keeping himself apart.
On the second night, Aloy catches up to him as he’s leaving for his own camp. “You were wrong, you know,” she says to his back.
A sure way to get his attention.
He stops and turns to face her, cocking an eyebrow. Blue light gleams in his eyes. “About what?”
“About Elisabet. She wouldn’t have gone. She already made that choice — she chose to stay. You know this, and you know I know it. So why did you say it?”
He makes as if to leave again, but she grabs his arm, makes him turn back to her. Though he stiffens, he doesn’t pull away. Small victories.
“Why try to manipulate me, when you knew I wouldn’t fall for it?” she demands. “You knew it would just piss me off more!”
Sylens sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. “What is it you’re after, Aloy? It has been a very long day. And I am sure you have better things to do than pester me with pointless questions.”
(It is so hard sometimes not to be distracted by the way he speaks; his precise enunciation making poetry out of insults. It is hard not to be distracted by the way the light from the cords sewn into his skin play over his features.)
“Why couldn’t you just tell me you’d like me to join you? You disappear for six months and then act like a complete asshole when you come back — it’s like you’re trying to push me away.”
There is a pregnant pause, and then he says, “Ah.” A single syllable burdened with all the quiet disdain of which he is capable. “I see.”
She bristles. “What?”
“This is what you do. You help people. You fix what’s broken. And now, you think you can fix me.”
She scoffs, shaking her head. “I prefer projects that actually have a chance of succeeding. Like saving the world.”
He gives the smallest of smiles, at that. Then: “So, what do you want?”
And Aloy fixes him with an intense stare and blurts, “I want you to kiss me.”
He is momentarily speechless, his expression blank, wiped clean of any hint of haughty impatience. “What?”
“You heard me.” There are twin spots of red on her cheeks, almost glowing in the gloom.
His face does something complicated; minute twitches of his features suggesting some emotional turmoil underneath. With exaggerated calm, he says, “Aloy, you and I—”
“I know! I know. You don’t have to—” She inhales sharply, flattens her lips together for a moment. Then repeats, “I’d just like you to kiss me. That’s all.”
“Why?” he asks, in a way that makes her think that he’s still reeling, expressing incredulity more than an actual desire to know.
“Does there have to be a reason other than me wanting it?”
Sylens says nothing.
She looks away. Drums her fingers on her quiver. “Okay, fine. You like holding your superior knowledge over my head. So — what if I’m asking you to teach me?” Looking back at him, the ghost of a teasing smile flits past her lips. “Assuming you actually have experience with—”
“I do,” he says, curtly.
There’s a long moment of tense silence. He watches her, impassively, and she looks away again, doing her best not to fidget.
“Ask me again when we’re back at the base,” he says at last. “If you still want to, by then.” His tone suggests that he very much doubts that will be the case.
She hesitates, like she’s about to say something, but then closes her mouth and nods. Without so much as looking at him, she turns away, and stalks off towards the main camp.
She goes to his quarters on the second night after their return. Gestures the door closed behind her and locks it.
“Fine,” Sylens says the moment the door shuts. There is no warmth in his voice, no softness, only his usual businesslike detachment. “I will … teach you anything you’d like to know, on one condition.”
Aloy hides her startlement as best she can, rallying enough to ask, “What condition?”
“That while you’re in my room, you do as you’re told.”
It’s a challenge. He’s always been so frustrated with her proclivity for independent thought and decision-making, and now he thinks to use it against her. The way he’s looking at her now, intently, eyes very slightly narrowed — and, she suspects, a triumphant smirk hiding behind his closed lips — he expects her to back down, beg off.
(For once, Aloy, submit to the inevitable.)
Her cheeks feel very hot all of a sudden, a heat that quickly climbs towards her ears. She hates her complexion sometimes, knowing he can see her blush so easily, even without using the heat vision of his Focus.
“Fine!” she says, before she can think better of it. An echo of his own grudging acquiescence. The word snaps between them, a crackle in the air like lightning.
If Sylens is surprised, he hides it well. He merely raises his eyebrows a fraction, and gives her a curt nod before turning away. He pulls off his jacket, tossing it onto his bunk. “Very well,” he says. “Tell me again why you want me to kiss you. The real reason, not some thinly veiled attempt at manipulation.”
Shit. It’s a command, not a question. And she’s agreed to do as she’s told. She paces the room like a caged beast, tugging restlessly at the soft clothes she’s so unaccustomed to wearing. Sylens watches her, arms folded over his chest. After her third pass she comes to stand before him.
“Because when you live constantly at the edge of oblivion,” she says, voice low but as fierce as he’s ever heard it, “when just one slip of your fingers could mean the end of the world, you don’t want your nights haunted by regrets.”
“Regrets?”
Aloy swallows. Finds herself unable to continue.
(Why are her needs and desires suddenly interesting to him now, when he’s always been so keen to stress their relative unimportance, in the grand scheme of things? Then again, the whole point of this ridiculous endeavour is to set the grand scheme of things aside for a little while. Perhaps even Sylens recognises that.)
He relaxes his arms and steps closer to her, and she almost jerks back from him, as though having forgotten he was even there for a moment. Funny, that — she’s so used to him being a disembodied voice, it’s like the flesh-and-blood (and blue-light-cord) apparition in front of her doesn’t quite register as Sylens. But now Sylens is reaching out and cupping her jaw in one rough, calloused hand, and she feels her breath drawn from her lungs like atmosphere vented into a vacuum, her eyes ticking up to his face.
(Or perhaps he recognises the futility of denying this … this thing that has grown between them, like a blue cord stretching through the aether, something intangible and powerful that thrums just below the surface whenever they speak—)
Brows drawing together slightly, he parts his lips as if to speak. Hesitates. Closes his mouth again. And she realises that this is it, this is a moment of no return. They’re about to pivot in some unknown direction and if she wants to pull back, it has to be now.
Aloy doesn’t pull back. And Sylens lowers his mouth to hers. His lips are like fire against her own and she wonders how she could ever have imagined that she knew what warmth is until this moment. Her eyes close of their own accord and he shifts his stance a little, hand sliding into her hair as he shapes his lips against hers in a cadence as silent as his name. The opposite of a disembodied voice.
He exhales through his nose as he pulls back, and she thinks she hears a slight tremor in that slow, controlled breath. She opens her eyes to find that his are blacker than ever.
“Wow,” she breathes, a slow grin lighting up her features.
Sylens rolls his eyes at her and she can’t bring herself to care.
“Would that be enough?” he murmurs. He sounds like he’s trying to be curt, dismissive, but there’s a smile playing on his lips, a purr in his voice, and he hasn’t let her go.
“What is it they say, about repetition and learn—”
He pulls her into him this time, fingertips pressing into her scalp like he wants to burrow into her brain as he crushes his mouth against hers. She hears herself whimper into the kiss and then his tongue runs along the seam of her lips and she parts them for him as if she knows what she’s doing. Somehow, she does. Somehow, it works.
They moan into one another and she realises she’s clinging to him, tugging at his clothes. He lets out a growl and in the next moment he’s pushed her back into a wall, capturing her wrists and bringing them up over her head. Aloy whimpers.
And then he pulls back. Still with her wrists pinned against the wall, and his other hand pressed against her breast bone, fingers resting on her throat. Holding her in place, preventing her from chasing his lips. His nostrils flare with each rough inhale, forehead almost touching hers, eyes dark, intense.
“This is why, Aloy,” he says quietly. “This is why I keep pushing you away. This is a distraction neither of us can afford.”
“Distractions aren’t always a bad thing,” she says, a breathless almost-smile on lips swollen with kisses. She could free herself. He is a scholar first and a fighter … maybe third, after tinker. What she lacks in size, she more than makes up for in speed, flexibility, and far, far too much experience for her years. But she came here for a different sort of dance.
“You know better than anyone that we don’t have time—”
“Maybe it’s time we took some time, Sylens. For ourselves. We’ve earned it.”
She stares up at him with a challenge in her eyes: submit to the inevitable. For once. Sylens returns her look … and smiles.
~~~~
Yes, Aloy's "wow" is taken straight from Seyloy (call it a homage), because that's totally how she'd react to her first kiss.
Pagan in Bolthole (where he is a no good, very bad man).
“Nervous?” he murmurs. His thumb moves idly, stroking her skin.
“Why?” She manages, somehow, to keep her voice neutral.
“Because—” Pagan shifts again until he’s sitting sideways beside her, bringing him even closer to her face. His hand slides up her jaw as he does; she feels his finger just about brush the lobe of her ear and she shivers. “—you know I’m about to kiss you.”
She closes her eyes for a moment and swallows again. It’s hard to think. She’s so warm, the fire and the raksi and Pagan’s body close to hers all make her feel so warm and so relaxed and she just wants to keep feeling good like this. When she opens her eyes again, he’s still only looking at her, still that small, amused smile playing on his lips.
“I don’t want you to,” Amita says, and it sounds weak even to her.
“Oh, I think you do. But it’s alright, I know you couldn’t possibly admit it.” He runs the pad of his thumb over her lower lip for a moment. “Well, tell you what. Just tell yourself there’s nothing you could do to stop me, hm? You’re my prisoner, after all. And…” He leans closer, nose brushing against hers, and his voice is a purr so quiet it’s almost a whisper, “When you kiss me back, you can blame the raksi.”
"I AM NOT WRITING THIS GODDAMN COFFEESHOP AU" ~Cranky, 23-04-14
AO3 link
Pagan Min x gn!Reader
845 words
Coffeeshop AU, barista!Reader, businessman!Pagan, flirting (sort of?), humour (or I tried at least), prologue to a story that may or may not get written...
“Shit!”
You stared at the plate. Or, well, ex-plate. It wasn’t really recognisable as kitchenware after hitting the floor. Pieces had skittered off across the tiles in every direction, like a very sad starburst, made out of shards of probably very expensive china. How the fuck could you be so clumsy? Mindlessly, you dove after the ex-plate, crawling madly around the floor, sweeping your hands over the tiles to gather up the remains before anyone arrived, uttering a string of curses.
“Fuck. Fuck! Shit shit fuck!”
“Such colourful language! Yet somewhat lacking in … vocabulary breadth.”
You whipped around — still on all fours — and were met by the sight of a pair of slightly worn but expensive-looking slippers. Above them, plaid pajama pants. And your eyes travelled up, and up, and past the pajama pants there was an expanse of skin that made your mind white-out for a moment before you took in the face above; its eyes twinkling with what might have been faint amusement. It was very hard to tell from this angle, especially since your mind suddenly snagged on a detail it overlooked before, and your eyes slipped down again — past the chest with its patch of dark hair and down the trail from his navel to the—
“Enjoying yourself down there, hm?”
You squeaked something. There were meant to be words in there but exactly what, you had no idea. You tried again: “I’m sorry— Uh— I broke this plate— I’ll pay for it, of course!”
Which was an utterly ridiculous thing to say to a billionaire. But you were feeling utterly ridiculous at the moment, so.
Pagan, mercifully, twitched his dressing gown closed, and settled back against the kitchen island behind him. Less mercifully, he said, “What if I told you that plate was worth a fortune?”
You stared up at him. Some part of you was a little bit grateful: now that you were blanching at the idea of owing Pagan Min money, you no longer had to worry about him noticing you blushing after having checked out the bulge in his pajamas. From the floor. On your knees.
Fuck.
Okay, alright, okay — backing up for a moment. How the ever-loving fuck had you ended up here?
You’d woken up early, alone in a guest room in Pagan Min’s house. Mansion. Estate? Whatever these things were called, this side of the pond. You’d been cranky and hungry and maybe a bit sad, and absolutely appalled at the notion of approaching the man about breakfast. Or, even worse, using the room phone to call ‘the help’. (’The help’ had been his word for it. He had servants. Fucking servants! In 2014! Jesus.) Like this was some sort of hotel.
So, you’d gotten out of bed and thrown on yesterday’s clothes and shuffled off in search of the kitchen. Or a kitchen, anyway. For all you knew there were more than one. And when you found one, you’d gone looking for a snack, and somehow—
Okay, but none of that explained how you ended up spending the night in Pagan’s guest room in the first place.
“Relax,” Pagan said, lips curving into an amused smirk. “I’m only teasing.”
“Yeah,” you said vacantly. You were still busy reviewing all the questionable life choices that had landed you in this mess.
He cocked his head. “You’re awfully high strung, aren’t you?”
“What?”
Wow. Seriously, smooth. Not like you had any particular hope to impress him or anything — that ship had long sailed, by this point. You felt rather like a stray he’d taken in for the night. Here’s how it happened: Pagan had found you crying outside the Golden Path Café. You were his favourite barista, so of course he would offer you a place to stay after you had been so callously evicted by—
Except that didn’t explain how you came to work at the Golden Path, or why he — the owner of King’s Coffee, the most popular chain of coffee shops in the United Kingdom — frequented the establishment of his competitors/sworn enemies.
“Come on, get up, kid. Can’t have you crawling around on the floor like this. Breakfast and Omelette might get jealous!”
He was smiling now — a nice, friendly smile — and offering you his hand. A perfectly gentlemanly gesture. A host attempting to put their guest at ease with an innocent joke and helping them off the goddamn floor. The way you stared, it might as well have been a tentacle he was holding out to you.
You said, “Uhh,” and took the proffered limb.
So anyway. This would in fact only be the first time Pagan Min rescued you from homelessness, and mortifying as the whole ordeal was, the next would be worse. Perhaps it could all have been avoided if you had come better prepared — if your mother had actually told you anything useful before she died.
Because in truth, for you, it all started with loss. With grief and ashes. With a promise to your dying mother: to bring her back to the UK, and to Lakshmana.
“See that moving light over there?” Pagan pointed the dull glow of our joint at a section of sky. I shuffled closer, peering along the line of his arm. It wasn’t hard to spot what he meant; it easily outshone the stars around it. “That’s the ISS.”
“The what?”
He sighed theatrically, as if I was being a bit slow. Which, to be fair, I probably was, on account of the weed.
“The International Space Station.”
“What? No way. You’re shitting me!”
“Nope.”
“There’s people up there?!”
“Mm-hmm.”
I stared in awe at the moving speck of light, following its trek across the sky over the next several minutes. Pagan told me some facts about it, reading aloud from his phone. I listened with half an ear, forgetting everything the instant he’d said it. Mostly enjoying the sound of his voice. Then he put his phone away, and there was only the gentle waves lapping at the hull of the boat. His arm was warm against mine. Hands found one another; fingers lacing together.
“Do you remember the night with the glowing plankton?” I asked after maybe five minutes or an eternity of silence.
“I do,” Pagan said. “Very well.”
We had both enjoyed a bit of pure, uncomplicated happiness that night, revelling in the marvels of nature. Drowning in each other. Now I wondered if it would be possible to recapture that feeling of awe, of endless possibility, with everything that had happened since then. It didn’t seem so difficult, to me, but Pagan…
“You know,” I said, “I can sort of understand why people believe in astrology.”
“Hmm?”
There was movement in the periphery of my vision as he lifted his head to look at me. We’d turned off all the lights on the boat, yet the milky way was bright enough to see by. I kept my eyes on the stars.
“Some things in life just feel … preordained.” I gestured vaguely towards the sky. “And with the heavens looking like this, I get why one might feel like the stars had something to do with it.”
Pagan huffed, offering me the joint along with his opinion: “Astrology is a load of bollocks invented by people who’d rather blame the stars than deal with the consequences of their own choices.”
An ironically predictable statement. Pagan had always maintained a doctrine of free will, holding everyone ultimately responsible for their own fate. I grinned into the dark, recalling an argument we’d had about it once. I had told him there is no true freedom without agency, no choice without options. The world belongs to people like him; the rest of us have to live according to the whims of the wealthy few. He said that’s rich coming from someone who’d practically begged him to put a collar on her. I said that was patently untrue and also didn’t make sense as an argument, and then he put me over his lap and said I could make sense of—
Well. We’d both ended up feeling like we won that one, in the end.
“I chose to come here,” I said. Lightly squeezed his hand. “I chose to kneel to you. But at the same time, I feel like I was made for this. Like all of this was meant to happen, and I never really had a choice at all.”
“Jesus Christ,” Pagan muttered, rolling over until he was half on top of me. He grinned. “If you ever say the word ‘star-crossed’ in my presence, I will choke you and feed you to the sharks.”
He interrupted my laughter with a kiss.
Excerpt from Pagan Poetry, Act V Chapter 6: Opening
Chloe spent the next morning’s commute reviewing everything she could recall from her rather rushed onboarding process. So many names, so many faces. And as gentle as Jean had been with her (she flushed at the memory and squeezed her thighs together, hoping no one was looking her way), she couldn’t help but worry about unspoken expectations.
She knew waitressing. Excepting a few regulars and celebrities, most restaurant guests were never more than faces and table numbers. Now she would be serving the same people every day. And Jean, she would be serving in more ways than one. Did the others all know what they were up to in his office? Some of them must have been at the restaurant on That Night, and Mrs Forsythe had walked in on them when Jean had his fingers in her mouth…
Everything about this felt strange. She paused across the street outside Ombra Tower, letting her eyes follow it into the sky. She wondered if, perhaps, she was in over her head.
I rolled my eyes and said, "You are not reading Twilight." Obviously he'd just picked the book to troll me. I could easily picture him in a Barnes & Noble, rubbing his chin theatrically as he contemplated which book would piss me off the most. It was a bit of a surprise that he hadn't chosen 50 Shades of Grey, honestly.
Pagan raised his eyebrows, closed the book on his fingers to look at the cover. "Why yes, it seems I am!" he said. His mildly surprised look then slid into a smug grin. "And not for the first time, either."
I peered closer at the book. The dust jacket was gone. There were the telltale signs of past dog ears. Horrified, I repeated, "You. Are not. Reading. Twilight."
A playlist to vibe with A Bird in His Hand, featuring soft jazztronica and triphop. I've found it to work great as a background for cosy evenings at home, as well as something to listen to while I write!
“I confess I was somewhat vexed when I arrived and couldn’t find you,” Amandine said as she laid her hands on Chloe’s shoulders and guided her to stand by the bed. She picked up the roll of tape and peeled the end loose, giving Chloe a considering once-over before she nodded decisively and started applying the tape at her neck. “I’ve had this idea for so long and it’s just never been the right time, you know? Or the right person. But you are perfect for my plan!”
“What’s, um–” Chloe tried to ignore the blush fanning over her cheeks as Amandine wrapped the tape in layers around her chest, creating a sort of bodice that left her breasts exposed. “What is the plan, exactly?”
Amandine grinned, red lips parting to display a row of perfect white teeth. “Oh, well. I’ve been wanting to introduce Jean to the joys of, ah, the full kinky experience, shall we say?”
Jean was removing his suit jacket. He folded it over the back of his chair and proceeded to deftly roll up his shirt sleeves. Her gaze lingered a moment on his forearms — white hair contrasting against warm brown skin — and then dropped to his crotch. His erection made a noticeable ridge under the fabric of his trousers.
Chloe caught her lip between her teeth, chewing nervously, remembering the size of him. Last time, at the restaurant, she’d been on top, and while he’d helped her set the pace he’d largely left her to her own devices. What would it feel like to have him inside her when he was the one thrusting? She fidgeted, unconsciously bringing her knees together.
Jean’s eyes were drawn to the movement, then ticked to her face. Finished with his sleeves, his hands dropped to her knees. She was pinned by his gaze; her breath hitched, stalled, then raced as he parted her legs a second time. He stepped into the gap they made, preventing her from closing them again.
His eyes released her and meandered over her body. Cocking his head, he reached for his desk lamp, bringing it a little closer and angling it towards her. “Perfect,” he said, sounding pleased.
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