Word request from DropsofJupiterinher-hair
All he could feel for the blond beneath him was a terrible rush of anger, a searing rage for the missionary whose mouth spoke only intelligence and gospel. His heavily calloused fingers wound in his hair, gripping hard as he yanked the handful of light strands backward. There was a responding breathlessness, a cry that came from a strained throat as his back dipped into a curve, his head trying to follow the forceful hold. All he could do was growl at the other, his teeth bared in a snarl akin to the very animals that he hated so much as his dark eyes watched the others sun tanned form tremble and rock with every forceful thrust he threw his way.
It had been easy to lure the gentler male, to trap him. He wanted nothing more than to strip the other of his dignity, his innocence and morality, to squash the perfection Gary carried with him without even realizing.
And it infuriated him, that the blond could be so modest, so intelligent that his manner of speaking irritated him further by reminding him of the English blooded man he’d known for so long, had harbored as his partner, his other half until the failed mission that took him. The failed mission that confined him to this house half blinded by a bandage that obscured the wound he’d taken to his eye.
The Frenchman growled again, his voice hateful, grating with harsh insults as he leaned forward, holding the slighter blond almost possessively now.
He hated him, he hated his smile and his charm that was nothing like Gregory’s. Even his body was different, built lean for sports and tanned from the sun that he smelled of and all he could do was feel rage that the Mormon could go outdoors and enjoy himself while he sat stuck in a house with half his eyesight missing.
The missionary was his to destroy now, to desecrate the holy meaning of his position, his mission. The blond would groan, murmur quietly as he touched him, shout loudly, shout in alarm and pleasurably pain as the mercenary fucked him and all it served to do was encourage the brunette, to drive him to be harder, rougher. He would scratch him, restrain him as he gripped his throat tightly in a show of dominance to see the alarm in Gary’s face.
And yet there was never fear in those hazel eyes.
It only served to fuel his hatred further.
Christophe gripped the back of his neck roughly, nails digging in as he pushed the blond down into the floor without warning, holding him there angrily as he continued his pace. He was getting sloppy, careless in his rhythm as release neared.
Why was it the blond kept coming back to visit him?
There was a startled jerk from the man below him, the spasm of muscles around him that could only signal a sudden orgasm drawing forth a guttural moan.
He wanted to tear him apart, shatter his happiness and yet-
A groan caught in his throat, an angry swear passing his lips as his body locked up pleasantly with the euphoric rush that came with release as his hold began to lessen.
Yet he didn’t want the blond to stop showing, to stop looking at him with that endless amount of patience he seemed to hold.
Christophe pressed his forehead between the Momon’s shoulder blades, feeling the muscles flex with each heaving breath, each shudder that rocked his spine.
He infuriated him, he hated him and yet Gary showed him nothing but soft words and affectionate smiles that made his blood burn each time his lips spoke of his religion.
“You.. you beetch.. I ‘ate you.”
And he knew the look Gary would give him in return, that same soft gaze that seemed to know what was tangled up within his very being, those hazel eyes that seemed to see the truth of it all, the vulnerability of his rage and the guilt of his anger.
Gary was his to destroy, to shatter and tear apart.
Only if Gary didn’t destroy him first.
turnnoffyourmind
yousharknotpass
theartofmadeline
stormborns
