CHASE THE DRAGON
“Have a taste, Mister. I got plenty more, if you want it.”
MARATHON, Mister; READER, Fem. Sexual (supe)
you're looking for a specific type of lover, and you find him at Herogasm.
c. post-seven, pre S05.e05 wc. 2k
cw. canon-typical depravity, herogasm, drug use, smut (piv. cunnilingus.)
“I hear you're fast.”
It was quiet where the room was loud, the chaotic orgy-din that surrounded you almost drowning out your words. It took him by surprise, which was surprising in and of itself. He was fast, which meant people rarely got the drop on him.
He almost didn't notice you, standing just beside him, kimono draped over your shoulders, open. It covered your tits, barely, but its missing sash meant nothing between your legs was left to the imagination. He bent to the tray on the marbled countertop, rolled bill at his nostril, angled just enough to appreciate what looked like dampness on your plush thighs, glistening in your tidy curls.
In other circumstances, he wouldn't be above a whiff of pussy, up close, he was still fast enough to get a good one without a woman noticing he'd really moved at all. But this was Herogasm, that sort of covert perversion wasn't necessary here, unless that was your thing.
It wasn’t his. He was into something else.
“I heard you were big, too, and.” Your tongue peeked out, swept across your lower lip, drew his out like a magnet, mirroring the action.
He laughed, straightened as he leaned back, spreading his arms wide, spreading his legs wider, waiting for your assessment, though he didn't need it. “And?”
He was big. And thick. And long. And hard.
“And, talk is cheap.” Your slow and sultry smile made his nose twitch, his cock too. You stepped in, somehow closer to him without seeming to move at all, your hand ghosting up the length of his thigh. “Except when it's not.” It would be disconcerting, if it wasn't so hot. “So, I wanna know. If you’re fast.” Your fingers brushed the base of his shaft, whispered up his length, swept across his tip to collect the bead of precum that had collected there. “Are you really a Marathon, or just a sprint?”
“You wanna find out? Have a taste.” You were looking at your fingertips, lip caught between your teeth, and he jut his chin up, toward your mouth. “I got more where that came from.”
You were closer still, the outside of your hips softer than silk against his inner thighs, his vision tunneled around the wet velvet of your open mouth, your fingers slipping inside, painting the surface of your tongue before disappearing behind the purse of your glossy lips. His breathing slowed, long heady inhales gave way to slow dizzying exhales. His heart, usually a thrum in his chest, like a hummingbird's, actually slowed and, finally, he knew something about you.
“You're Stillpoint.” His voice was deeper, mellow, drugged, and you nodded slowly as your fingers slid from your mouth to trail across his chest. “Heard about you. Walking tranq.” He sniffed, swallowed to dispel the chemical drip from the drugs he’d snorted at the back of his throat, the delirium from the drugs you were dosing him with making his head swim. Something gurgled behind his Adam's apple. “Fuckin’. Roofie Girl, huh? Hn. Hn.” He let out a halting, grunting laugh, blinking rapidly. “That what you're doing to me?”
“You like it?” He leaned into your touch, wanted to wet his lips with yours. “Have a taste, Mister. I got plenty more, if you want it.”
“That's not my name.” He could feel his body adjusting to your influence already, just like any drug, his metabolism made half life merely a suggestion. Still, the push pull of your power against his made him feel thick, and sticky, and slow.
“I don't care.” Your hand was around him, pumping him, soft and firm and warm. He caught your face between his palms, engulfing you with his hands, and then his mouth. The kiss was wet, cold molasses, hard and hungry, but no matter how he wanted to devour you, the exertion of your will kept his voracity leashed.
His lip curled, half sneer, half snarl. He bent, grabbing your thighs and lifting, spreading them to wrap around his hips, using handfuls of your ass to keep you there.
“Taking you upstairs.” His whole body flexed, preparing for speed, and he handled you roughly until his cock was safely pinned between your bodies, your limbs locked around him. He knew better than to bolt unsecured, had no interest in making his dick part of this year’s casualty list out of carelessness.
“Hurry up, then.” You rocked your hips against him, finding a friction that made you moan and him grunt with a shock of euphoria as you did.
Now that was interesting.
“Hold on.” He felt the ebb of you until you were just a body in his arms and not a substance in his veins, and then he ran.
It felt like hours, fucking you. Being fucked by you. Getting fucked, on you.
He pinned you to the wall with one arm across your chest, leaned back, looking down enough to watch himself move in and out of you. He shifted angles, snapped his hips, and felt a rush of blood to his head, both of them, and that pleasant-unpleasant wave of nausea that so often accompanies a high. He did it again, groaned as another wave of dizzying pleasure washed over him, huffing in the smell of you, not sure if the hint of solvent there was real, or imagined.
The third time he did it, he fumbled, nearly dropped you. He caught you almost immediately, but you felt it anyway, urged him toward the bed. He stumbled across the room with you, just uncoordinated enough for you to laugh at him, tell him you thought he had a tolerance.
“I do.” He growled, tossing you onto the bed face down, legs closed, zipping to the ensuite to douse his wrists and face in cold water to centre himself, and was on you again before you could even scramble up the bed. The sight of you, squirming beneath him, made him feel high all over again. Not under any influence but want. “Fuck, you’re somethin’ else, though.” He slapped your ass, two sharp cracks in rapid succession, and alertness punched through him, exhilarating confidence coursing through his veins. “You controlling that, or is that just.” It made him move fast enough that he felt himself start to blur, had to force himself to slow down, at least a little. “Ngh. That just you?”
Breathing hard, cock harder, dragging your ass up to meet him at the edge of the bed. Wide stance, leg up beside you to bracket your hip, his grip was so hard it bruised. He tapped his cockhead against your slit, rough, mean, teasing you before he lined himself up again. Another hit of you slammed into him and he grit his teeth, using his dick to slather your wetness all over your lips and crack.
“Christ, you’re needy.” He breached your entrance, just his tip, and laughed as you grunted, tried to thrust back into him. “How long’s it been since you been fucked, huh?” He could see your fist gripping the covers, felt you twitching as he stretched you around him. “What happens?” His hips met your with a soft little squelch. His vision swam. “They all pass out on you?” He withdrew, slowly. “Or OD, before you can come?”
A sharp snap of his hips rocked you forward and it made him see stars.
He railed you. Fast and hard. Harder and faster. Every stroke more punishing than the last, every drive home a fresh explosion of greasy, iridescent colour across his vision. He’d definitely tripped balls while balls deep, but not like this. Nothing was like this. Like you.
You were all wet sounds and whining, you cunt hungry for his cock in a way that had you gripping him tighter than he’d felt in a long time, made him feel like he was going to pop. He grabbed your wrist, dragged it between your legs, fumbling your digits in the general proximity of your clit and telling you to Do a little work for me. He felt your fingers flex, finding your rhythm, knew it was taking you higher, because it was taking him higher. He was starting to lose his coordination, starting to feel you overwhelm his metabolism, a rare occasion where he couldn’t keep pace.
Almost.
You were half-collapsed beneath him, humming into the bedding, muffling and nasal, like a bitch in heat, and he kept taunting you in stuttering, gasping barbs, goading you towards release. You turned your head just enough that he could hear you, you face red and streaked with tears and snot and, probably, drool.
“Don’t fucking die, before I’m done.” Your eyes went white, his vision too, as your climax took hold of you both. The high was an onslaught, like a salvia trip, but better. Orgasmic transcendentalism.
Fucking you made him a man, converted. Taking ayahuasca in the Amazon had him thinking he’d seen God, bleeding through the rainforest, but this. This was the only God he really wanted, of cock and pussy and every high imaginable, combined, contained within the covenant of your cunt.
He didn’t even know if he came until he felt the evidence of it leaking out of you and down his balls, all the proof he needed dripping onto the bed. He pulled out, fast hands catching it all the sticky wetness they could, stuffing it back into you, scooping whatever wouldn’t stay there onto his fingers and shoving them into your panting, open mouth.
You suckled and nipped and lapped up every trace of you from his knuckles, and as you recovered yourself his mind cleared. He took a deep breath, chest heaving, watching you work your mouth around his hand and realized, he wasn’t going soft. Not even a little, not at all.
“You do that, too?” He cradled your chin, tipped your face up to look at him, your smile that met him an act of predation. He groaned with want, renewed even faster than he was used to, squeezed your cheeks, puckering your lips, felt his cock dip and bob with how full you were making it. “Yeah, you do.”
“On your back.” You let him keep hold of your face, words still pinched by his fingers. You rose to stand on your knees, he still towered over you, and you stayed there, your silent challenge and his achingly hard cock between you. “C’mon, Mister. Play nice.”
“That’s still not my name.” He liked the feeling of looming over you, the barely-there clarity of mind you were allowing.
“And I still don’t care.” You grin, cruel and distorted, your face twisting around his grip. “Seriosuly. I don’t wanna drop you to ride you, but I will.”
He choked on a mixture of lust and pride and rage, his hand becoming a vice for a moment before letting you go roughly. He barked a laugh at the dazed and stupid look on your face when he was just gone a second later.
“Come on then, baby.” Stretched out behind you on the bed, his erection proud and weeping, he folded his hands behind his head, smug and self-satisfied. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.”
You turned, eyes dark, and started crawling up his body. Your cunt grazed the tip of his hard on, but instead of stopping, settling, sliding down on him to take him for a ride, you kept going. He smirked, figuring it out, and scooted down, making space for you as you arrived, knocking his hands out of the way as you straddled his face, hovering over him until he gripped your thighs and pulled you down.
Somewhere, he thought he could smell smoke, sweet and dank, but as your cunt descended, his world became the stink of sweat and pussy and spunk.
When he started eat, he felt the buoyant numbness of morphine spread throughout his limbs, giving way to the sweet oblivion of China White when you started to ride.
His last coherent thought was that he was absolutely ratfucked from there on out. Nothing, no combination of drugs or porn or hookers, would ever come close to this. To you.
He’d have to be fast. If he wasn’t, he’d be chasing this dragon forever.
a/n : for @ambiguous-avery, who's jonesing for a fix. thank you for inspiring this!
Thank you for your patronage of The Roadhouse Library. Please consider supporting out project with likes, comments and reblogs.
Follow @roadhousearchives to stay current with new additions the archive's holdings.
(1. Mudstone palette in the form of a ram (4000-3600 BC), 2. Glass eggs in a nest by Andy Hudson, 3. Replica plate from the collection "Ancient Mimbreno Indian-Burgundy" by Pipestone, 4. Fly illustration from medieval manuscript (MS. Ashmole 1423), 5. Art by Ivor Cutler (1966), 6. Cat illustration from "The Cat whose Whiskers Slipped and Other Stories" (1938), 7. Handmade zoetrope by Al Columbia, 8. "Axel" by John Morris, 9. Apple with nails)
#lana del rey
#cats of tumblr
#horror movies
#bloodymary
#photography
