Grapefruits and Pomegranates
James Patrick March x gn!reader
word count: 2.1k
content: whiny subby needy james smut, little bit of overstimulation, james begs, mentions of murder, reader is stated to be dead and a murderer but it’s not really plot relevant, penetration, reader rides james, brief oral (reader receiving, still gn!reader), once again whiny subby needy james you have been warned, mans had a 70 year celibacy streak. mdni on this one.
@authorsofghosts after 20 billion years here we are
also everyone thank @marchsfreakshow for giving me the inspiration to finish this fic + just for having top tier jpm fics in general
Ever since the Countess had officially severed their love, James had been in a bit of a purgatory.
On one hand, he could finally breathe again- at least metaphorically. Even though the breaths had been painful at first, each one an inhale of glass shards.
On the other… he had nothing left to do. Sure, he could kill people- and anyone could testify that he did. But even then, it was a limited past time, one he saved for special occasions, and it would remain that way until the year of 2026. Really, all things considered, he really had very little to look forward to.
At least when Elizabeth had humored him, he’d had one night a month to look forward to- even if she had been merely toying with him.
And even John had died- off the grounds, no less, so James couldn’t even look forward to John.
But then you’d come along.
You’d been alive, at the time, though that had since changed. Had he been the religious sort, he might’ve called you a gift from above. But he wasn’t, and if anything, much like him, you would’ve come straight from hell.
He hadn’t been this taken with anyone since Elizabeth. You may as well have been a drug- one that outrivaled any past addiction of his, save for murder. Which, in the largest stroke of luck, you shared his hobby.
Really he’d stood no chance at all when he looked at it that way. Not when you’d grinned at him in such a way that he swore he was looking at sin personified.
If there was ever a precise science to ensuring he fell deeper than the deepest depths of hell, he was sure you’d learned it. How else could you have enraptured him with such devastating ease?
He considered you a gift, a miracle after decades spent pining over his ex wife. And what more? You yearned for him in every way he did you. You matched his devotion.
Out of habit, he’d expected you to humor him with one dinner a month. Maybe two if he was lucky. But you wanted weekly- more than that you wanted nightly. More than that, you’d requested he kill you, so that you’d be bound to the Cortez- and by default him, forever.
His hunger for you knew no bounds. He wanted to consume you and be consumed by you all at once. In fact, for the most fleeting of moments, he swore he understood why Sally had sewn herself to her lovers- though as noted it was a fleeting thought.
To love you, and worse, be loved by you, was an experience James worried he’d never get tired of. You’d been so accepting of his greed for you- reciprocated it even.
The dinner date had started like every other. He’d poured you a drink, had your favorite meal brought in. Your face had lit up. He couldn’t experience the sun anymore, save for through a window, yet when you smiled at him none of that mattered.
James had put on a record- a compilation that had been put together in 1923, a favorite of his even to this day. And at the end of the night, he’d kissed you at the door to your suite. It was routine, sure, but a routine he relished.
Elizabeth had rarely kissed him, even in their marriage. You, on the other hand, regularly indulged him. Beyond that, you even initiated it at times. It was a heady feeling, to have a creature such as yourself love him in such a way.
But then it wasn’t the routine, not even a little bit.
You tugged him closer as he tried to pull away. He’d tried to keep it chaste, he truly had. But you were having none of that, tugging him by the suspenders into your room and licking at the seam of his lips, which he parted oh so eagerly.
As much as he wanted to take control of the situation, to pin you and take everything you were willing to give, to hollow you out and fill that empty space with himself, it had been so long since he’d indulged in such a way. A 70 year celibacy streak made him a weak, weak man.
You licked into his mouth, familiarizing yourself with him as he did with you. A groan tore from deep in his chest, it had been so long. In a moment of weakness, his hips rocked almost of their own accord, and a high little sound tumbled from his lips.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t orgasmed in the past 70 years, but the difference between those nights and having you right now was a starkness that rivaled night and day. And really, he was hurtling to that landmark embarrassingly quickly.
With great effort, he pulled away, blinking in a daze as he stared at you in awe. Tongue darting out out wet his lips, he murmured, “My dear, if we continue with this, I must warn you, it’s been ah… many years since I’ve been with someone in this way.”
James watches your pupils dilate in real time, lust eating away at your irises as acid eats away at flesh.
“How long?” You breathe out.
“70 or so years.”
You’ve got your hands at his suspenders, tugging him back into a deep kiss before he can even blink. If your touch was firm before, it’s demanding now and he couldn't get enough of it even if he tried. The way your hand travels to the buttons of his shirt, undoing one at a time until he shrugs it off, is affecting him in ways he doesn’t want to admit.
An almost embarrassing sound leaves him as you kiss down the column of his throat, then his chest, nipping at the skin a bit too hard. He hadn't felt this way in decades,
"You, my dear, are a devil of a being." He breathes out, coal-dark eyes fluttering for just a moment.
"Hush up," You murmur in return, hands trailing down his torso before reaching the crotch of his pants.
If the earlier cant of his hips against yours had felt euphoric, it was nothing compared to the way you cupped his crotch through the fabric of his suit pants. And to think, he hadn't even felt you yet- not truly, not in the ways he wanted to.
A blessing, or maybe a curse, was that you seemed to be almost as impatient as he was, and truly he didn't have to wait long. You had his pants off so quickly that it was almost enough to get his head spinning.
In that moment, the feel of your hand wrapping around his achingly hard cock, he swore he could've cried from the sheer relief. Though your hands were calloused from years of handling blades and all sorts of other delicious weapons, a trait acquired by your shared hobby, in that moment they were the most incredible thing he'd ever felt.
"Aghh!" A strangled sound tore from him, falling forward into your shoulder as you worked your grasp over him.
In that moment, James has to think about the most unpleasant experiences of his undead existence, simply to stop from embarrassing himself. Not that he was sure you'd have minded, you'd seemed… to say you'd seemed aroused at the revelation of how long he'd gone without a lover would be an understatement.
"Feels good, doesn't it, lover?" You coo, an almost mocking lilt to your voice.
Though he's aware you don't actually mean to mock his reaction, the tone is enough to coax another groan from his throat. He barely processes that you've removed your hand from his cock until that beautiful, blinding pleasure dwindles suddenly and rapidly.
Your hand hoovers just below his lips, "Spit."
There's no need to ask him twice, already collecting the saliva in his mouth and aiming for the palm of your hand. There's a look of delight on your face at how he so easily complies. You lean your face closer to his, lips barely ghosting over his ear, "Beg me."
James would grovel if you asked him, head already spinning. He's practically chomping at the bit, frothing at the mouth even, all over a bit of groping and the authoritative lilt in your voice.
"Please," His voice is hoarse, a deliciously desperate rasp to it, "Please, my dear. I would kill a thousand men. I would walk miles on miles on broken glass. My lips will only ever know your name. Please, you must take pity on your poor, weak, man. I'm only a man, a weak, weak man."
"I'm not satisfied." There's a hint of distaste to the way you announce it and it has him weak in the knees.
So weak, in fact, that he falls to his knees in front of you, kissing feverishly at your thighs, mouthing frantically at the fabric covering your crotch, a whined, "please" between every frantic kiss.
He's so hard, so desperate. His body aches in such an unpleasant way that it's run all the way back around into pleasure once more. He practically shoves your bottoms off, tongue at the fabric of your undergarments in a way that leaves an ever growing patch of wetness, beyond just your own reaction to the man below you.
Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, you take pity on him, "Up."
Like a well trained dog, he's at his feet, then practically pushing you down onto the bed with him, "Please, please, you must."
He's rocking against you so desperately, so frantically that the bed creaks. To call him a selfish man would be an understatement, everyone who’s crossed paths with him knows this to be true. And with the way he ruts against you? It’s never been more clear.
You look down at him with hazy, wanting eyes as he tugs at the last bit of fabric covering your skin, until it too pools around your feet. Barely a moment passes before he’s got his fingers slicked up and probing your hole, stretching you out in preparation for the inevitable.
Once you deem he’s stretched you out enough, you roll him over so that you’re now straddling his hips- something he doesn’t protest in the slightest.
A few firm pumps of his cock has him writhing already, and the exquisite sensation of your sinking down has him gasping, eyes squeezed shut as he does everything in his power to avoid bucking up and bottoming out in one thrust.
His head drops back like a puppet with cut strings, a loud moan falling from his lips. You feel his hands digging into the flesh of your hips, the cool metal of his rings quickly warming at the stark temperature difference.
The ‘rhythm’ at first can barely be described as a rhythm, more accurately it’s the stuttering rise and fall of yourself on his cock, while his own hips buck up half of the way without fail before realizing that he’s making it all the harder to get a steady pace going.
And then a sound tears from you.
To say James is obsessed would be an understatement. It very quickly becomes a need of his to hear it again. And again. And again.
This new goal allows him something to focus on aside from how good you feel, something which would've had him cumming within seconds, he decides.
He begins to meet you half way, thrusting up as you fall down, the accompanying sounds of heavy breaths and mutual pleasure filling his ears and taking up a permanent space in his brain. When you lean down to place a messy kiss on his lips, he swears his brain short circuits.
It's all he can do to hold on as you fuck yourself down on his cock, bouncing up and down and gradually increasing your pace until he can't do anything but take it. And then all too soon, he's done for.
The orgasm is blinding, eyes rolling back and a loud, unashamed moan tearing from his throat. Though he knows it couldn't have lasted longer than a few seconds, it's almost a timeless experience. He's barely aware of your own release coating his skin, too lost in the sensation of coming down from that high.
But you don't stop. You keep going. And going, and going, and going until the pleasure has long since turned to pain and back around again.
You use him until you’ve had your fill and he stares up at you, a fucked out haze in those black eyes of his, and a smile on his lips. There’s a silence in the room, filled only by the panting of two ghosts who really don’t need the breaths they take.
Only once the ghost of what should be an ache settles into his bones does James speak a breathy,
“Again.”
