seen from France
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Macao SAR China
seen from Yemen
seen from Germany
seen from Canada
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Japan
seen from Netherlands
seen from Morocco
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
Chapters: 6/6 Fandom: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes Additional Tags: Virginity, Post-Movie(s), Modern Era, Oral Sex
Summary:
Steve has criteria for losing his virginity. Bucky knows somebody who meets them.
♥♥♥
Mind the tags! Not for minors!
Kiss me in the rain
The knife was his. He was sure of that, at least. It lay, just beyond the tips of his fingers, where they curled into the warm, damp leaf mould of the forest floor.
There were other certainties. That he was surrounded on all sides by trees, trees and more trees. That he was entirely alone. That his head ached with the ghost of remembered agony.
And also, that he had no memory of who he was or how he had got here.
He drew his arms toward him, their heavy drag releasing fungal scents of decay, and bent his elbows, palms flat on the ground.
He paused. His limbs were weak, his skin scraped and torn, and a sharp pain came from high up on the inside of his left arm. Even lying motionless on the ground his head pounded and swam.
Someone would come. He must be missing from somewhere. There must be people looking for him - people that knew him, even when he didn’t know himself. He closed his eyes tightly, but no images came to mind, no friendly faces, no echoes of voices that would draw him back to whoever he might be. He was alone.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
**Mature Chapter Excerpt***
Ineffable Timing by Mordelle on Ao3
Chapter 6 excerpt
The demon had one goal and one goal in mind only. Fuck his hand raw. It was a miracle he didn't just rub one out in the car. Literally. He miracled himself into his flat and collapsed to his knees, back arched against his front door, and desperately but gingerly tearing at his trouser button and fly with a hiss.
"You didn't say goodbye," reprimanded Aziraphale who was suddenly standing a few feet away from the tortured demonic soul.
Crowley lurched forward, cupping one hand to his barely clothed crotched and fisting his other hand in his mouth to keep from screaming. He was going to cry. "For Go - Sat - fuck' s-SAKE- AziraPHALE ," he screeched into his dented hand.
"Good lord, what are you doing?" There was genuine concern in the angel's voice. "Did you have another bad dream?"
He was at his wit's end. "NOPE!" Crowley whipped his arms wide open, revealing his open trousers and tented pants. "Just a vivid, living, bloody nightmare! " He shrugged dramatically and waited for the horrific realization that would dawn on Aziraphale's face in three-two...
Aziraphale's eyes scanned him top to-- "OH."
Crowley plastered a mirthless smile on his visage and nodded stiffly. With one word, he tried to get the message across as politely as possible. "Leave-uh. "
Lawlight (for prompts list) 41, 53, 93
(this fic is in the same hotel au as the previous prompt, so go read that before you read this one!!)
How it started, Light couldn’t forget. In the long swelledhallway between the hotel’s conference room and the lobby, where those crystallinewindows reaching to the vaulted ceiling let in near-white panels of sunlightcast over sleek, just cleaned wood flooring, he had turned with surprise when Ltapped his shoulder. Light stood centered in the hallway with a crest of redacross his cheeks after running from the lobby. Embarrassment, in hisrecollection, consumed him. After his entire life at his family’s hotel—doing chores,waiting on people who gave him less notice than God, smiling from every praisethat did come—he should have known better than to have been so shocked to seeL.
But that wasn’t the start. Those events—the prance of antagonisticflirtation they’d shared in his late teens and L’s early twenties, his hollowchest as seasons passed without the detective’s usual visit to the hotel, thecoat that slipped from his hands the moment he saw once again L’s slouchedfigure—were set dressing. As they stood staring at each other in the hall, snowmelted and dripped from Light’s coat that L clutched between knobby hands. Lightstepped back and then forward again. L lifted the coat.
“You dropped this,” he said. “It’s a little soggy, if I’m being honest.”
“I was having a walk.” Light cast his gaze on L’s dirtyshoes, his jeans, and the unfamiliar but warm looking sweater wrapping up his torso—lankyin a way that he’d never outgrown. “Just around the property, before the snowgets too thick. I’d suggest it, but you’re not much for outdoor activity, hm?”
“I’d be open to it.” L tilted his head, one long strand ofhis dark hair brushing the tiny uptilt of his otherwise Roman nose. “Winterbrings out something in me that Watari calls spritely. I think he means that Ibehave childishly when snow appears, which is true enough. What is moreyouthful than a long walk with a friend through nippy weather?”
This startled a rough laugh from Light, who found small joyin the words L obviously picked up from his time around an older whiteEnglishman. Smiling in return, L shook the coat free of leftover snow. Itclumped onto the floor and sunk into a clear puddle, sure to be derided byLight’s mother later for ruining the wood varnish. L raised the coat up andwith one hand, held the front flap open for Light like a doorway into his ownsilk lined clothing.
Quiet pulsed through Light’s blood and he moved withoutsound in his ears. In his deafness, Light slipped first his left arm and then hisright into the coat as L lifted and angled the garment until it finally heldall of Light. His skin blazed at each wool-blunted brush of L’s hands. The coatwas at once delicate while held aloft, and then a pound of bricks once Lsettled it on Light’s shoulders. At that moment, Light knew a shift occurred thatcouldn’t be taken back, that could never be undone or twisted free of hisspirit. The shift was unnamed when it happened and as L patted him, swung toLight’s side and started them back toward the lobby, he lost track of thesensation which moved him so much until that night. He lay in bed, bare skinsizzling, and knew that what changed was the power between he and L.
Power was something Light noticed in the world from a youngage, and now as a young man, power was something he coveted. Not in the ways hesaw many guests covet power with their secrets and deception—though he loved agood hat trick, done exquisitely—and not in the way people outside the hotelslavered over small title changes and bigger offices. When Light desired power,he wanted the bend of will that made others turn to him, made them ask hisfavor. He saw that power in his father, a man who unwillingly retired from hispolice work after not taking bribes from a powerful gang that the rest of hisforce seemed eager to please. His father ran the entire hotel on his earnest,firm, and forthright power that even the most slippery of guests respectedabove their scruples.
In L holding his coat out and Light letting himself bedressed, Light knew that where power once rested in an equal measure betweenthem was now an unstable factor. It was just like L, who clouded Light’sthoughts more than anyone, to perform an act of waiting on the man serving himand somehow suffuse his movements with gentle yet excruciating dominance. Thatcoat, held open and worn warmly, was where everything started—a point ofsubmission for Light to allow another man to serve him, a point of command forL to dictate what the service was.
Light rested his hand on the crown of L’s dark hair andtwined his fingers through it. Every bobbed motion as he licked across Light’scunt and small cock brought with it a low, rumbled sound. Those sounds rangedbetween fervent gulps and softer gasps, both of which vibrated though Light ashe imagined thunder rattled the clouds. He pushed L further down, rocked hiships into the wet kisses layered upon his center, his thighs, and for a briefmoment, his asshole. The sensation stunned him in how delicate the flick of L’stongue was, how his muscles fluttered in response and wanted more.
“Oh, fuck!” Light hummed, sweat on his cheeks trickling anddissolving salt onto his lips. “Don’t stop.”
When they’d kissed in the dining room, Light imagined beingswept into the same bent over position as the previous night. Although he wasn’topposed to fucking again—his exhilaration that they both reached ages andmindsets ready enough to copulate overshadowed any logical thought—the dullache haunting his pelvis and cunt after being rammed for longer than they wereused to made him beg off penetration. Still, he didn’t expect L to listen. Theystumbled into L’s room of one-oh-eight with Light knocking over an ornamentalvase in his haste to break open the bedside drawer for lube. L grasped his fumblinghands, took them from the drawer and set them on Light’s chest, pressed downfirmly by L’s own cool fingers.
As the same mouth devoured him below, Light shut his eyesand recalled it whispering into his ear to stay still and let L get things.Wildfire across his skin rekindled the surrender of slipping one arm afteranother into a held open coat and Light lay back, unbuttoning himself until hisclothes puddled on the familiar green sheets every hotel bed wore. L going downon him was just the first in their evening excitement and while his own insidesprotested penetration, L had, of course, known a perfect alternative.
“If you’re up for it,” he had said. “I’ve been thinking ofthat lovely cock you wore the other night, and what a shame it didn’t get used.”
taylor swift // i did something bad
The Flame of Hope Among the Hopeless
This is a follow up to "The Last Night of the World", which should probably be read before this one. It takes place after The Abominable Bride. It's mostly/simply a study of relationships (because I am perversely character driven rather than story driven.) Warning: EXPLICIT!
The sun is too bright. It hurts. His eyes water, he rubs them. Stares out the window again.
The others sit in their cocoons of silence. Mycroft and John tightly wrapped in their righteous indignation, Mary aloof, watching the others carefully. Thank God for Mary, at least one of us has a cool head.
He drifts, still in/out, high. They’re all so concerned for me he thinks, and laughs inside. He wants to cry, wants to rage, claw, scream, rip the car apart. They have no idea, can’t imagine what any of this is really about. His hands burn, his heart races wildly, his mouth is too dry; for a brief moment he wonders if his heart will give out this time after all, if he’s finally taken that one step too far. He rests his head against the cool glass of the window, hating this tedious delay. He has things to which he must attend, important, so important…he closes his eyes, wishes that simple act could blot out the roaring mass of turmoil tearing through him.
Barts looms, the others stir, ready to parade him through the harshly lit corridors, punish him with the humiliating examinations. All for his own good. For their own satisfaction. In his best interest. He is tired, exhausted bone deep. And the worst is still to come.
He is shutting down. Overdrive in short time spans - not good. The forced stillness has leeched what small reserves he had left, and the loss makes him reel. Here it comes, he thinks, and wilts on the cold tile floor.
He wakes briefly to more harsh light; worried eyes in half faces cry “Clear!” and sweet oblivion claims him once again.
The second waking is dimmer, quieter, but almost as brief. He struggles against the dark, loses the battle. The third waking: the ceiling spins but his fight against the dark is rewarded with pain as his ally - in his head, stabbing his eyes - and the dark is vanquished for a time. People mill around him but the smallest movement of his head turns the pain to an enemy. He lies still, listens. Voices murmur; a hand touches his arm, rustles an object near his head. A voice that might be pleasant elsewhere screams/whispers in his ear, “Just lie still Mr. Holmes, we’re taking you upstairs now” and he tries very hard to will himself into stone, but every tiny movement of the trolley is an excruciating earthquake, and he moans as it cracks open his skull. The voice keeps screaming at him, “Just a few more minutes, we’ll have you set up…” Set up? What does that mean? He wishes for the dark again but now it’s denied him. The pain is enemy after all.
Then merciful stillness. More movement around him, feeling distant now, like movement glimpsed through a veil, and the familiar easing of the torment begins. Morphine seeps through him, gentle fingers gift him with a weapon to vanquish the enemy pain and he sinks into dark one more time.
*****
She bounces between disbelief, wanting to rip her heart out of her chest, and blessed numbness. Occasional fits of rage send her to the floor, wailing and pounding her fist. Her body is on fire, the flames flash up her arms, legs, down her back. Uncontrollable tremors wrack her. She moves from room to room, aimless, vision blurred. Her tears are spent for a moment. There simply are none left. Then she folds in on herself and the torrent begins again.
By evening she has worn herself down and lies on the cool kitchen floor, staring at nothing.
How can there be a world without him in it? It isn’t possible. Her heart will stop beating any second now, broken, battered, pitiful thing that it is.
It took several hours before the walls fell in and the truth shoved itself through her. At first she clung to hope: maybe, just maybe, there might be a chance. He could do it. He could survive. And the echoes of his voice, the certainty there, shredded her. He would never have told me, would never have come here, if he thought there was any doubt.
She dozes, drifts in a haze of pain. Surfaces to feel the loss all over again. She finally rummages in her nightstand drawer, finds the small bottle of pills and shakes two into her hand. Just for tonight. Just to help for tonight. Into the bathroom, water from the tap. She can’t look at the deranged woman in the mirror, can’t face the bed where he…they…she drags herself to the sofa and sinks into the blessed pill birthed limbo. The small bottle is still in her hand.
*****
The voices that wake him are worse than the piercing of hot white light in his eyes would have been: too, too bright, hateful brittle shards of false cheeriness that make him want to scream. He has no idea how long he’s been here. A flutter of panic in his chest. I have to get out! and he levers himself up in the bed, surprised that there are no wounds in his body, no stitches, no bandages…oh. Right. The memories are jumbled, colorful little blocks with fragments of words and phrases and pictures on them, rolling about in his head. But the struggle is internal, his alone. The wounds are invisible. Not injured then, and he automatically catalogues the movements of personnel, locations of objects, openings for exits. He wonders if there are clothes, if he’ll be spared the indignity of escaping with his backside hanging out…there, a little niche of a cupboard, that’s where they would be. Shift change over, nurses busy with meds and patient complaints…he is slightly unsteady but that should pass quickly. The shirt, trousers, jacket are hung neatly in the niche, shoes and socks and pants in the plastic carryall underneath, with watch, wallet…he dresses quickly, makes the changeling body in the bed with pillows and sheets. A quick peek from the door: one nurse at the desk, a few oblivious orderlies in the corridor. Distraction, distraction, what…there is a sudden flurry of activity in a room down the hall, cries and confusion, and the desk nurse hurries to help. He breathes a quick sigh of relief and slips down the hall to the lift. There are no guards, but he hasn’t time to stop and consider this.
On the street he stops. He needs to think, needs caffeine. No one but Molly and his executioners - as they will be labeled forever in his mind - know about the death sentence. For that is what it was. Mycroft knew it weeks ago, tried to warn him. Mycroft the traitor, turncoat. Brother Mine has so very very much to make up for this time. Money still in the wallet - they really didn’t think he would run? Really? He walks on, searching for a place to sit and think safely - preferably with caffeine in hand.
*****
When she wakes, it is still dark. Still, or again, she doesn’t know which. It all settles slowly back into place, and she gasps, crushes her hands against her mouth, pressing the plastic bottle against her lips…the pills. She took pills. She stares at the small white circles, turned amber in their plastic prison. Perhaps fifteen left in there. The pain is physical and she wonders again how anyone survives this kind of anguish, this horrible bleeding wound she has become. Distantly a thought is unfolding inside her head, an understanding, still nebulous and floating far away, but she feels it. She pulls herself up, bends forward, looks around the room. Her face is wet, no surprise. She wonders if she will continue to cry now and not notice, if she will walk down streets and hallways with her face forever wet and raw, and not think twice about it, not care if people see her red-faced and gasping - if this is how life will be from now on, just hurt and longing forever.
But she made a promise. To him, for him. Nothing will keep her from it. If living the rest of her life screaming inside is the price, so be it. She can do it. For him.
*****
Dark again. His head still throbs. He suspects that more occurred in the hospital than he knows. He could feel it coming on in the car, the racing heartbeat, mouth full of wool. It’s possible; his heart had been sorely taxed by the drugs. He remembers pain but it isn’t localized. Everything was pain then. His head…that combination would have left him shattered.
He wonders at the morphine. They would have had no choice. Either leave him screaming for hours or give him something for relief. Luckily he is a better judge of his capacities than even Mycroft knows.
Walking is too slow, but he can’t risk a taxi at this point. It isn’t so very far now. Caffeine and a bit of food has helped. The nervousness is anxiety. They won’t send him away again soon, they need him too much. He’ll have just a little time until they come for him, but this is the most important thing he has ever done. The rest can wait; the rest is nothing. He feels his chest swelling, filled with…what? He can’t identify it, he has no words for these things. Molly would know.
Molly. She is inside him now. She is his blood, his heartbeat, every thought will go through her first. And then he stops, and must lean against the cold brick wall of a building, gasping. He remembers. The feel of her under his hands, the terrible anguish in her eyes when he told her. What must she be going through? For him it was done, the decision already made, the future, what little there was left of it, mapped out and known. For her it would have been…he can’t imagine the shock, the pain, the desperation she must have felt, that she had to struggle with in such a short span of time. That she accepted it - him - at all was a miracle. It’s not over. We still have time. We still have each other. Glorious relief for him; what will it do to her? He straightens, breathes, moves on, nearly running. He has to get to her.
*****
The report that Sherlock is gone again comes as no surprise. It is all part of the plan, as were the clothes in the cupboard, the money in the wallet. Mycroft knows exactly where Sherlock is, what Sherlock is doing, just as he knows how much time he can give them before everyone flies into a panic and demands Sherlock be brought to heel.
He rubs his eyes. He is so tired. The shock at the airstrip, finding Sherlock so deep in the drugs on the plane…he knows now that Sherlock never planned to make it to his destination; it has always been a shock to find him that way. Just as well. He had hoped against hope that there would be some way out, that Sherlock could have found a way to survive his banishment. He had steeled himself against the loss, had done his duty while his heart screamed inside him. He had given Sherlock his one night with Miss Hooper, partly as a way to ease his conscience the tiniest bit. Partly. The other part was the hope that she might give Sherlock the impetus he needed to find a way to survive. Strangely, he hadn’t counted on the drugs. Sherlock was always so sure of himself, he had thought…but he knew the odds when this option was given him. Hope again. Damned hope.
Mycroft sighs and rubs his eyes again. If he could only sleep for a little while, just an hour or two…he looks up as the door opens and Anthea arrives bearing a tray laden with coffee and food. He gives her a half smile as she deposits the tray on the desk. Coffee he needs. The food will go to waste.
*****
It seems like days, months, since he last stood here at this door. He has never had a clear sense of time. It has always been now for him, this minute. He lived in the world as it presented itself to him, did whatever was in front of him to do. He often had trouble understanding that other people - normal people - didn’t live this way. It was only through Molly that he had come to understand about pasts and futures, about waiting.
He had been so desperate to get here, to her, and now he hesitates. The horrendous rush of feelings. He is terrified again, astounded that anyone could live with this kind of surging and crashing inside them from day to day, every day of their lives. He had found the peaceful side of it, with Molly against him, had sunk into the depths of it with her and learned that he could survive it, he could live in it. With her, he could have explored it without terror, at his leisure. She could have been his anchor, his tutor, his tether to safety when it all became too much. The discovery had come too late, he had thought then. He suspects that there is something else he should be feeling right now, something that a normal person would feel. Guilt. All those years he could have been with her, all that time wasted because he had been so afraid, so wrapped up in himself. Guilt is not in his makeup, however, and besides this anxiety over how she will receive him, he is filled with the longing to see her and touch her again. He shivers, raises his hand, and knocks on the door.
*****
She barely hears the knock, lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. The pill bottle is still clutched in her hand. She is trying to decide whether or not to take two more and sink into unconsciousness again when the second knock comes. Go away, she thinks. I’m not here. I’ll never be here again.There is something comforting in that thought, that she would never have to face another day, hour, minute of this monstrous evil thing that seems to be devouring her from the inside. She stares at the pill bottle and for the first time in her life, understands that longing for a final darkness. She sits up and stares at the small plastic savior in her hand. Is this what it’s like? There is again that tiny glimmer of a thought, some resolution of clarity floating in her awareness, just out of reach. The knock comes at the door, grows into a regular pounding and a voice demanding entrance. The voice sounds like his and she bursts into tears again. I’ll hear his voice everywhere for a long time, maybe forever, she thinks, as her breath hitches and the pain fills her.
There is no way she is answering the door.
She lies back on the couch, curls herself into a tight little ball, still staring at the amber colored bottle in her hand.
*****
He is panicking. He knows she is in there. She has to let him in. He calls her name, pounds his fists on the door, wills her to answer. Is she asleep? She’s always woken to let him in before - or he’s picked her lock and broken in. A frantic search of his coat gives him nothing; his tools are all back at the flat. They had searched him before he was taken to the airstrip, a perfunctory search, else they would have found the drugs sewn into the lining of his coat. He has no pins or wires with which to work. He searches the hallway. Nothing. Returns to pounding on the door, calling for her to answer. Surely she hears him, surely she knows it’s him…
A door opens across the hall and a face peeks out. Olivia, Molly’s new friend. Her eyes widen and then she frowns, recognizing him.
“Do you have a key?” He is nearly shouting, realizes he must be frightening her. He walks toward her door, but control is impossible at this point. He is too afraid.
“Please, I have to get in, I’m afraid something has happened to her!” The face in the doorway disappears and he nearly explodes. Then it is back and the woman is holding out her hand.
“Thank you!” he gasps, and grabs the blessed key from her. She nods once at him, makes a decision, steps back and closes her door.
His hands are shaking. Inserting the key takes forever. He shoves the door open, takes a few hurried steps into the room. Sees her lying on the sofa, curled into a tight ball. Breathes her name.
*****
When the dark figure bursts into the room, she is too distant to understand. She is far away, lost in the land of pain and grief, being torn in her struggle against the dark pit she sees opening in front of her. When he kneels in front of her, she thinks she is imagining him, projecting him from her longing and need. It’s only when he pulls her up, presses her face against the rough fabric of his coat that she begins to come back into the world, this world, that suddenly makes no sense whatsoever.
He is touching her, stroking her back, cradling her head against him. Kissing her temples, her wet cheeks, whispering her name. She is stunned. Numb. Unable to accept this as real, so she remains silent, unresponsive. It is only when the smell of him registers that she starts to waken, the familiar smell of that coat, of his clothes, the smell of him trapped in the fabric. She struggles, pulling away from him, looking up into that face, those eyes, and it all begins to solidify, starts to fall into place. His name on her lips is barely there, a mere breath. She reaches up and touches his face, wet with tears, touches his hair…he is really there, he is truly standing there, holding her, it is really his voice saying her name over and over. She leans against him, slides her arms around him, feeling his warmth, his heartbeat…her hands clutch his shirt, she presses herself against him and cries until her breath leaves her and her body goes boneless and limp.
Sherlock lifts her up, sits with her across his lap, rocks her, murmuring and whispering. He is blind with tears, his entire body aches for her. He strokes her hair, kisses her face, her hands…and finds the bottle of pills she still clutches tightly in one hand. He pulls it away, reads the label. The ground slips away, he is falling, the surge of outrage, of anger, blooming into a red haze. No. No. Molly would never…
He grips her chin roughly, tilts her face up, staring wildly at her. Eyes bleary, red, still leaking tears. Pupils dilated. How many did she take? He looks at the bottle; the label says thirty pills. He shakes it, counting, perhaps fifteen left. Did she take them all at once? Please, please, don’t let this be happening. He tosses the bottle away, shakes her hard, roars at her.
“How many? How many did you take?”
“Wh..what…why are you…what?” She is confused, but not incoherent. She is able to shove his hand away from her face, struggle to sit up and look at him. Not all of them at once then. She is pushing at him, trying to get up.
He gulps air, tries to breathe, fights for calm.
“Molly. I have to know how many pills you took.” His voice is shaking. He holds onto her tightly, unwilling to let her go.
“Two. I took two. To be able to sleep.” She is still distant, hazy, but her head is starting to clear and she stares at him, then buries her face in his coat, throws an arm around his neck, trembling. “Oh God. Sherlock. I thought…I thought you were gone. I thought I’d lost you.” The last word is a wail, and she clambers up then sits astride his lap, holds his head, kissing his face, his hair, his throat, finally burying her face in his neck, sobbing.
The relief is too much. His body wants to run, to flee the overwhelming sensations coursing through it. His mind rebels at this much feeling, the sea of emotion churning him into nothing. He wants to push her away, run into the street, keep running, running, exhausting himself, wiping it all out. Instead he clings to her, holds her too tight, closes his eyes and pictures them as they were last night, tangled together, emptied, beyond feeling anything except each others bodies. He buries his face in her hair, breathes deep that familiar scent. He rocks them slowly back and forth, still murmuring her name, and gradually the panic stills. The tumult dies away and he is left with only her small self against his chest, her breath and her tears against his neck, and that is all he needs. This one small person holding him safe from it all.
*****
It is almost dawn before they’re able to speak to each other without losing their voices in the tears. They cling together after Sherlock shrugs out of his coat, even that very brief parting almost unbearable. He tells her everything, every detail of what’s happened, leaving nothing out, the story spreading over hours. She listens carefully. When he tells her of the drugs, she looks down, but nods, accepting it without judgement. She understands. Looking into his eyes, she lets him know with touches and tears that she knows why, and she clings to his hand, simply thankful that she didn’t lose him after all. She will hold on to that, and let the rest go. He leans back on the sofa, Molly across his lap, her head against his shoulder, and tries to accept that it’s over. He will not die in some God-forsaken place alone. Moriarty is truly dead.
And Molly is his. Anything beyond this, they will face together and he knows her strength will make him an even more formiddable enemy to anything that would seek to harm them. The rest of the world be damned.
They are both far beyond exhaustion. He wants a shower and bed. She stands and pulls him up, much as she had before, leads him into the bathroom. He chuckles as she starts to undress him, and she glances up at him with a coy smile. It will be different this time, they both know. When he is undressed, he steps into the tub, pulls the curtain closed and turns on the water, making sure it’s not too hot or too cold. She quickly shucks her clothes and steps in behind him, sliding her arms around him, and holding him tight. He puts his hands over hers, closes his eyes, letting the warm spray sluice away everything but his memories of being with her.
They tend each other like children, gently washing, drying, combing. She leads him into the bedroom, hair still dampish but dry enough. He is already half hard when she pulls him into the bed, but he only lies down beside her, pulling her close. He holds her so gently, as if she is fragile, exquisite porcelain, touches with fingertips. The planes of her face; her mouth, her throat and shoulders. He kisses her small ears, her temple, the corner of her mouth. She sighs, makes small noises that bring a smile to his lips. He rolls her over on her back, raises himself on one elbow beside her, uses the flat of his hand to trace the contours of her body. Shoulder to breast, down across the ribs to her soft belly, over the hips. He is hard now, but wanting to draw it out, make it last as long as he can. He wants to enjoy the wanting.
She is content to let him explore her, even as the heat builds in her belly. He is hard against her hip, but he continues simply touching, sliding his warm hands over her. She knows it won’t last very long. His hands linger at her breasts now, and he whispers her name before bending his head to take a rouched nipple in his mouth. He doesn’t suck or pull, simply holds the nipple there and slides his tongue slowly around it, pressing it lightly once or twice against his teeth. The sensation is like nothing she’s ever felt before. It is both stimulating and comforting at once. His mouth is hot, his tongue teases like a finger. When he takes his mouth away, his breath cools her wet nipple and it hardens even more. He bends his head to it once again, this time suckling at it like a baby - continuous, hard. She feels her uterus contracting and a surge of wetness between her legs. She moans and strokes his hair, sliding her fingers deep into the thick curls as he leaves her nipple and kisses the sweet swell of her breasts, nuzzles between them.
He moves lower, stroking with his hands, taking mouthfuls of skin as if he is drinking her in, pressing against her now with his body. He strokes her thighs, kisses her belly. He slides his body lower, then suddenly, roughly, urgently pushes her legs apart. He kisses her cunt as he would her mouth, slips his tongue into her wetness, rubs his lips against her vulva before holding her apart with his fingers. He makes a sound in his throat, part moan, part growl, and sucks delicately, then harder, his tongue finding her swollen clit, making her cry out. He tongues the sensitive area just below her clit and she convulses, pulling her legs up and spreading them wide, inviting him. As his tongue probes, slips inside her, she gasps; he moans and quickly pulls away, moves his body over hers.
His penis is heavy, distended, purplish, the swollen head shiny. He’s never felt this before. It’s primitive, savage. He wants to shove himself into her as deeply as he can, rut her like an animal, hurt her, make her cry out. She is moaning his name, whispers “Now, please, now…” and he rubs his penis against her cunt, then shoves it into her, hard, as deeply as he can, surprising himself with the sounds coming out of him. He holds his upper body away from her, his arms straight, watches her face contort and he thrusts, deep, hard, again and again. The noises she makes are torn from her throat and he answers them with growls, harsh cries of his own. She arches her back, her body stiffening as her cunt pulses, throbs around him, squeezing and releasing. One last deep thrust and he shudders, his hips loosing rhythm, jerking, pushing, pushing, as he pours into her with a deep gutteral exhalation. He is trembling as he lowers his body on top of her, gasping, and he spasms with small afterquakes. She is panting, her legs shaking, and he feels wetness on her cheeks as he kisses her.
“Are you all right?” He is slightly alarmed by the tears. He strokes her cheek with a finger, watching her closely.
“I’m fine.” Her lips quiver a bit, but she smiles at him, blinks as more tears trail from her eyes. “It’s just something that happens when it’s…when it gets really intense like that. Like a reflex. It’s okay. Really.” He is not sure about this, but he takes her word for it for now.
She slides her hand down his back, up again, rests it on his shoulder. He blinks slowly, like a cat, lowers his head and kisses her cheek, laps up the wetness with his tongue. He pulls out of her, reluctantly, slips off her to the side, pulls her tightly against him, sighs deeply. He is in awe of what he’s just experienced. There is a part of him that wants to talk about this with her, now, while the rest of him is slowly fading into a supremely relaxed twilight. She is soft against him, sweetly breathing against his chest. Sleep now, he thinks. We both need to sleep. We can talk about it tomorrow.
Tomorrow. The word seems to echo in his head, vibrate through his body, and makes him smile as he drifts away.
50 for the ask thing!
50. favourite picture of your idolbehold
