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Tuesday, November 25, 2014

A Mycroft Holmes Lemon -- Bewilder

Character: Mycroft Holmes

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

OC: [Name], forgiving but blunt

Inspiration: The Diogenes Club :3  

Mycroft Holmes is a very busy man, with all manners of important things to do.  He is, of course, very diligent when it comes to his work, as he really must be due to his high status.  But even a man like him has to rest once in a while, if only to get back the strength to dominate all those around him.  He doesn't do this in a conventional way, however.  Perhaps that's why you eventually decide to do something about it. 
Women aren't allowed in the Diogenes Club, of course, but that doesn't exactly stop you from going in anyway.  It is in fact ridiculously simple to get your own way, if you know how to go about it properly.  This is one facet of your personality that comes quite naturally.  You merely paint on a stressful smile, give the men who stop you big doe-like eyes, and tell them that something dreadful has happened and that you very much need to speak with your husband.  Your husband being none other than Mycroft Holmes.  They of course let you through without a second thought, even though in actuality there is nothing at all dreadful happening at the moment, and the real reason you're here is to be utterly wicked and delightfully evil.  That part (that is, making said wicked plan come to fruition) should prove to be a bit more difficult.
Mycroft doesn't like to be bothered while he is 'resting'.  You've got a problem with this line of thought because of one major reason: he doesn't, under any circumstance, rest.  Not in the way other people do, at least.  His idea of taking a break from society's problems is to actually immerse himself in those problems, just as he's doing now. 
You can see him now, from the threshold of one of the Club's extensive rooms.  He is thankfully alone, and yet not.  He is never free from the demons that chase him, whether they are of his own imagination or as real as the newspaper he holds in his hands.  His back is rigidly straight and though you can't see his face from where you're standing, it is easy to imagine that his face is rigid, too.  No matter.  Soon you will make him rigid in more agreeable places, and he will thank you for it.  (Once he gives in, stops being angry with you, and lets you have your way with him.)
For a very brief moment, you observe him.  You take note of the cellphone laying on the shining mahogany side table.  The way his fingers twitch every other moment, always ready to snatch it up.  The calm but restless way his eyes skim over the contents of the paper.  You wonder what he is really thinking about, other than the Sunday stock market.  A moment later you get your answer.
"Ahh…the Diogenes Club," comes his voice, which at this moment is perfectly dry like a desert or a tumbling of scotch down a barren throat.  He turns his head in your direction, but you're still standing behind him and so he can't catch your eye.  Or see your smirk.  "An engaging operation developed in the 1800s for upper class men."  The words are obviously meant for you, a woman, though how he’d detected your presence baffles you.
You very nearly chuckle and give yourself away.  It is quite clear what he is implying.  Quite clear and extremely exciting that he'd known it had been you and not one of the other members.  Not entirely shocking (his genius started to become ordinary and mediocre after the first few months of your marriage), but definitely impressive.
You press your hip against a nearby chair and cross your arms, not making any effort to walk towards him.  He carefully folds the newspaper back into its original square and snaps it onto his lap, then shifts his body to the side and finally catches sight of you.  His expression is still eternally rigid but there is a spark in interest and maybe even affection in the way his eyes push over yours.  The corner of his mouth twitches, like he's holding back a smile.  "And yet it doesn't surprise me that my headstrong wife has found a way around every single one of them," he drawls, referring to the men who should have posed a barrier, but didn't.
This time, your chuckle does spill into existence, and Mycroft's eyes darken a little bit at the sound.  You allow yourself to nonchalantly have a look around, taking in all the posh leather chairs and end tables and bookshelves.  And you shrug, and tell him, "Except for one."  Your eyes sidle over to crash up against his and his mouth twitches again.  But his expression stays firm and unchanging; a challenge.
He blinks at you as you step around the room, watching your every movement like a predator.  He appears to be extremely proud and unbending, but you take little apparent notice of him.  After a little while, he leans back and asks in that dry-but-curious voice, "Why did you interrupt me on my day off?  There must be something appallingly wrong to bring you all the way here."  It is clear, of course, that he doesn't believe for a single moment that something has gone wrong.  He happens to know his wife very well and you are practically transparent to him.  Everyone is.  That is why he's already got a good idea as to what, exactly, has brought you here today.  But he'll let you speak and maybe even act, because he enjoys your wicked and delightfully evil personality.
You're well aware of your own transparency.  It certainly wouldn't take a genius to figure out your plan, and so you're not at all surprised that a genius has unraveled it.  He probably knows exactly what you're wearing beneath your long trench coat, too.  It's perhaps a bit cliché, but sometimes cliché is exciting.  Especially in a men-only, aristocratic club, where you're technically not supposed to be.
You pass him an easy, amiable grin and stride towards his chair.  "Something appalling has happened, actually," you smoothly say, reaching for the newspaper that's still in his lap.  He lets you, eyes curious but vague, like he has already planned your next ten moves and is now merely waiting for them to play out.  You tilt your head and catch his eye, "Once again, I find you hard at work even on your day off."  You say the last two words like it's all very amusing, the idea of him having a day off.  He seems to think so, too.
He leans back in his chair and knits his fingers together, raising both eyebrows.  "My dear, I am the British government.  Lots of people rely on me to keep the parliament…well-oiled."  It's like he's speaking of the spokes of a wheel rather than a body of people.  You raise your eyebrows (perhaps a little mockingly) and say in return, "Of course, Mycroft, darling.  But it's my job to keep you well-oiled."
You'd very much like to have a private laugh over those words, but you refuse to do so in front of Mycroft, who is now staring at you with that twisted-corner-smile.  So he has enjoyed hearing your rather witty reply, then.  You think he's also a little bit transparent (all men are, in fact), when it comes to this sort of thing.  When you go to untie your trench coat, Mycroft's eyes glimmer with interest even as the rest of him tries to deny its existence.
"Honestly, [Name], I'm a little surprised that you didn't come up with something more interesting.  Breaking into a club in the middle of the afternoon?  Rather unimpressive," he drawls, seemingly idle.  But the rest of him is still rigid, his eyes flashing with every shift of the coat.  And by the time said coat is on the floor, his gaze is positively ferocious and gleaming with unsaid desire.  The rest of him, a blank canvas.  You decide you'd like to break that canvas into tiny little irreparable pieces.
You're wearing lingerie, of a sort.  It's sheer black and stretches tight over the skin of your arms.  After that it's not tight at all, but rather swishy and breezy, and the sheer fabric allows for just a peek at the panties you're wearing underneath.  You can tell Mycroft likes it even though he isn't giving you a clear reaction.  You've learned to read him in other ways, instead.  The slight twitch of his fingers, the appraising way his eyes slip over you, and those eyes -- even if the rest of him denies his attraction, he cannot hide that gaze away, which shifts with blown desire.
You send him a flirty little smile that makes his eyes flash, and stalk towards him.  He doesn't do anything to stop you, even when you swing your legs around his and ease into his lap.  He's warm even through the layers of his suit, and you snuggle into his chest like it's your favorite place to be.
He sighs a little in (faux) impatience, dragging his hands over your back.  The fabric of your little outfit is short and layers over yours thighs, so it's easy to lift up.  When he goes to splay his hands against your skin, you nestle further against him and he eases his head back, shaking it a bit.  "Only you would come and bother me for something so primal."  When he falls silent, you chuckle lowly and swing your head up to look at him.
"Don't try denying it, Mycroft.  You like this."  He glances down at you with dry, raised eyebrows and you smirk.  You're pressing a kissing against his jaw a moment later, gently nipping at him, and in an even lower voice you murmur, "You like that this is different and exciting.  You like the danger of it.  You like the lovely little fact that anyone could walk in at any moment."
That catches his attention.  He stares down at you, at the position you're in atop his lap and at the way he's already got his hands bundled into your silky lingerie.  Then he asks in a seemingly lazy, but actually tense voice, "You didn't lock the door?"
You tilt your head and draw away from him, letting your body arch into the air.  He allows himself to look you over, paying special attention to the way that black lace ghosts over your bare breasts, but then he lifts his gaze back to yours.  You respond with a flippant, "Nope."  Your eyes scream at him challengingly.
It's all part of your plan, of course.  Mycroft's eyes jerk over to the door, which is at this moment closed tightly.  But it is true that you hadn't locked it.  It's also true that anyone could walk in and find you in this lovely, compromising position.  You aren't surprised when this doesn't seem to bother Mycroft (that much).  For a moment he looks like he'd very much like to walk over to the door and lock it himself, but he doesn't.  It is a game, after all: a challenge that he must accept.  Walking over there would mean that he is letting you win.  And Mycroft Holmes does not simply hand over his power to just anyone.  He leans back and stares at you, meeting your eyes with a challenge of his own.
"Hmm…you've passed the first test," you tell him, leaning in.  Your mouth hovers sinfully, inches away.  He keeps his eyes steadfastly peeled to your own gaze and doesn't give into the temptation of looking down at them.  "Are there more of these little tests?" he finds himself wondering, and almost hoping there are.  You smirk and tumble your fingers into his hair, shifting closer.  Before your lips touch his you whisper, "The next one involves staying completely silent."  Then you mouths crash, burn against each other and Mycroft is sitting up, taking you into his arms and kissing you with such fervent passion that you're left almost utterly breathless.
It is difficult, really, to imagine that Mycroft would be as passionate as he sometimes is.  He is so outwardly cold, so calculating and strong.  But when it comes to matters such as this, he tends to be very different indeed.  At least when you have slowly gotten him into the mood. 
His lips dominate yours even from his slightly submissive position beneath you, but you don't complain.  They are delicious, his kisses.  They make you crazy with need.  You let him dominate this kiss because you can't be bothered to try to stop him.  It feels too wonderful, the way he grasps you, pulls you tight against him, lets his hand duck around your rear and drag your lower body over his.  He's already aroused, the slight bulge of his trousers is fairly obvious by now, and you rock your hips as best you can and watch him crumble into the chair.  But he remains silent, for two reasons.  Moaning is not his style, and letting any noise at all slip out would mean failing your next test.  Which would, of course, mean that you are winning.  He cannot stand the thought of going down without a fight.  If nothing else, he is very tenacious.
You fiddle with his tie, smoothly loosen it, but don't take it off.  Instead, you ease your fingers beneath it and start undoing the top buttons of his shirt, all the while immersing yourself in the heady kiss.  You won't try to control that kiss, but you certainly can control the rest of him, or at least try to.  It all depends on whether Mycroft is feeling gracious or not.  Apparently he is, at least a little, because when the kiss slowly dissolves and he turns his eyes to watch the progress of your hands over his clothes, he doesn't try to stop you.  Instead he just sits there like a calm and powerful king waiting for his servant to obey.  You don't mind filling that role, for now.
But there is nothing submissive about you.  Perhaps that is why Mycroft doesn't seem to mind being married to you.  Perhaps it is what caught his attention in the first place.  There is a wild grace to your movements, your smile, that constantly keeps him on guard and curious.  He invests no small amount of patience in you, as well, especially in moments like these.  He will let you have your way, but only until he cannot stand it any longer.  Then he will show you what true dominance is.
If you see that predatory gleam in his eye, you don't comment.  You don't entirely disregard it, either.  You have learned to be wary in the face of that fierce expression, especially when his eyes are flashing in the way they are now.  But even in your wariness you don't like to back down, and it is with a little smirk that you break the kiss and begin to trail your mouth down over his jaw, neck, shoulder.
Your hands have finished with his shirt and you are now enjoying the feel of his chest beneath your fingertips.  Mycroft tangles his hand into your hair as your lips follow your fingers.  He watches silently as your hands dart down to his trousers, notes the mischief in your eyes, and nearly smirks at the sight of it.  Still, he allows you to undo his pants, but that is about as far as he lets you go.
There isn't much room for mobility in that great big chair, but Mycroft is still able to dominate you without question.  He easily catches your fingers and drags them away from his trousers.  Instead he splays them against his chest, then allows his own hands the privilege of running up your arms, which are primed with that delightful lace.  His fingers drift past your shoulders and over your collarbone, lightly grazing over the skin of your neck, until finally he reaches the ties that keep your little outfit together.  They are intimately placed between your breasts, and Mycroft takes his time pulling the bow apart.  You let him smooth the fabric away from your upper body, but you haven't made things easy for him: you're still wearing a bra.
He sighs and looks up at you dryly, as if he's not sure why he's surprised.  You merely tip your head to the side and smirk, and he shakes his head and reaches forward to search for the hooks.  "You, my dear, enjoy making things more difficult than they need to be."  His voice is dry like his eyes, but somehow, tunneled beneath that barren arid tone is a burning desire and an amusement that knows no bounds, none at all.
You chuckle as he finally slips the bra away, and respond with a rather mocking, "A sound analysis."  Your eyes flash promises to him, promises that he is all too happy to take advantage of.  He runs his hands up your sides and you lean forward.  He is quick to do the same, and then your mouths are colliding with a sort of fervent power that makes you tremble into him.
Mycroft is not a passionate man by nature, but you would hardly know it at that moment.  His kisses exude a passion that make you feel as if you're drowning, tossed beneath the tempest of desire as it crashes through the room.  You are unsure exactly where his passion has come from, because Mycroft isn't exactly a let's-fuck-in-public sort of guy.  But perhaps it is simply the fact that this is exciting and new.  The month's hectic schedules could have played a role in it, too.  Regardless, you are quite content with letting this situation play out in whatever way it wants to, just as long as you get to keep kissing him. 
He seems to follow your train of thought, but as usual Mycroft acts it out in a more progressive fashion.  Before you can really follow his movements, he's unhooking your bra and shoving it down your arms.  His lips break from yours and Mycroft pulls away to glance down at you.  He's seen your body so many times in the past, but there is always a gleam of appreciation that burns through him whenever he is graced with the sight of you.  You've got a dancer's form, with petit breasts and slender shoulders and a slim stomach.  Your small hips peek excitably up at him, the jaunting hipbones flashing from beneath a thin layer of black lace.  You're skinny but muscular, and Mycroft pauses briefly to appreciate it.  Very briefly, that is.
"I'm taking you out to eat later.  You're too skinny," he murmurs as you kiss him again.  You hum, though your response is neither agreement nor disagreement.  Speaking is one activity that you are no longer interested in doing (unless it's the dirty sort of speaking), but Mycroft seems adamant.  He keeps kissing you, but says against your mouth, "You hardly touch your food at the assembly dinners.  Don't think I don't notice."  At this, you sigh and frown at him, pausing the kiss to glower at him instead. 
Your mouths brush together as you mutter, rather childishly, "I can't stand eating with those pompous fools.  They make me lose my appetite."  You run your hands down his bare chest, pushing away as much of his dress shirt as you can.  The fabric still hangs around his form, and there it will remain.  It would be too much to remove it at this point, especially in this public place. 
Mycroft tangles his fingers into your hair and says with a reluctance sort of agreement, "…Yes, I know what you mean."  You think he'd like to say more, but you hurry to cut in before he can once again draw the situation away from physical intimacy.  "Besides," you murmur, cupping his face and leaning close.  His eyes flash, especially when you roll your hips against his very hard erection.  You briefly wonder how he can think about feeding you when he's so aroused, but your thoughts stray rather quickly.  (A prime example of how arousal can change the course of a thought.)  "I'm hungry for other things now."  Your words are so cliché that Mycroft smirks.
He chuckles lowly, his voice roughly edging over the lower octaves, which in this moment scream out in erotic passion.  "Are you really?" he wonders dryly, and says, "Your banality is a constant source of amusement."  You find yourself chuckling along with him, because of course he is right (as usual), and you enjoy his dry and smooth way with words. 
When you roll your hips against his, though, Mycroft's amusement dies rather quickly.  He swallows and lets his eyes loiter over your body, which is perched atop him like an unending reminder of spiraling desire.  There is very little which separates you now: just the undone layer of his trousers and the flimsy piece of fabric you call panties.  If this scintillating little fact hadn't been realized before, it certainly is now.  It's your turn to smirk, especially when you raise your hips into the air and murmur, "Help me with these, would you darling?"  And Mycroft narrows his eyes at you just a little, but doesn't argue because he doesn't really have it in him.  Not anymore.
His fingertips are calloused and rough, a testament to the many layers of work involved in his precarious job.  They induce deep shivers to brim up within you when he brushes his hands over your waist.  He moves slowly, as if he wants to treasure the moment, to feel it as stagnantly as you do.  And you think it’s rather strange that you’re so breathless.  Your chest rises and falls quickly as if you’ve just come back from a marathon.  Mycroft watches those little pants with curious, affectionate eyes, trailing their path from your gasping chest to your parted lips, and even further to the way your eyes glisten with impatient brilliance.
He catches your gaze just as his fingers slip underneath the thin layer of your panties and he starts to smoothly push them away.  Something in his eyes makes you pause, a sort of silent tenderness that you see in him only rarely.  Something about it makes you quirk a little smile, as if to say, ‘I know that feeling, every day it pulls me under.’  His mouth slowly pushes into a smirk too and you rise up to kick your panties away.
You are well and truly bare now, and it won’t do if someone does in fact come to interrupt.  Mycroft allows himself all of three seconds to take all of you in before he nods at the discarded trench coat.  He orders a short, “Put that on,” that makes you blandly scowl, but you go to fetch it anyhow.
“It’ll just get in the way,” you sigh, stepping over to the fabric.  As you bend to pick it up, Mycroft makes a noise that sounds half gruffly dominating and half appreciative, and you hide a smile into the collar of the fabric as you slip it up your arms.  Then you’re turning back to him, the coat a frame around your form. 
You’re aware that you’re still got your heels on and Mycroft seems to like the sight of you, standing in all your glory with those dangerous, pointed black pumps.  You decide you quite like the sight of him, too.  He is altogether unkempt, in a way you rarely see him.  Even at home he is always dressed impeccably.  But now, leaning back with his trousers half undone and bulging, with his dress shirt wrinkled and strewn away from his chest, he looks so mesmerizing that you can only stare.
“You’re my wife,” he drawls almost possessively, “therefore I am the only one allowed to see you like this.  Now come here.”  You bite the inside of your cheek as you momentarily battle with another wave of shivers, and step forward as if in a dream.  The next moment, you’re settling back into your previous position and Mycroft is pulling you close, slipping his hands under the trench coat and skimming those rough fingertips up your spine.  You tremble as he kisses you, and you proceed to push all of those delicate shivers into the kiss.  He is a surprisingly adept kisser, for a relentlessly busy politician, and you never tire from the firmness of his mouth against yours.  Like he’s silently telling you that you indefinitely belong to him and him alone.
You trail you fingers down his chest and when you reach his trousers, you don’t hesitate this time in undoing them.  The zipper slides down and Mycroft clenches his teeth as you pull his erection out of the fabric.  The trousers remain where they are for convenience’s sake, something neither you nor Mycroft dares to complain about even though it’s slightly uncomfortable.  You kiss him again, briefly, and then reach into the pocket of your trench coat.  When you pull out a familiar bottle, Mycroft raises his eyebrows at you in mild surprise, but he can’t bring himself to be all that shocked.  Some part of him knew this was coming, especially since this coupling is a rather haphazard one at best.
“Get on with it, then,” he tells you shortly, glancing at the unlocked door with extremely well hidden anticipation.  You chuckle and pop the cap of the lube, upending it and letting the cold liquid drizzle over his cock.  He swallows hard and clenches his hands into your coat at the chillness of it, giving you a firm glare that tells you exactly what he thinks of your thoughtless little move.  But it was, in fact, very much thought out.  You smirk and return the small bottle to your coat pocket, wasting no time as you curl your fingers around his girth and start massaging the oil into his erection.  The sight he makes as you do does crazy things to your heart.
You lean in and kiss him, and against his lips you murmur, “I’ll warm you up, darling.”  And you already are, if his expression has anything to say on the matter.  This early in the game, you know Mycroft doesn’t allow his pleasure to show on his face, but you’ve learned to read between the lines.  The tensing of his muscles and the way his eyes flicker restlessly; the way he swallows and clenches his jaw is all the confirmation you need.  But foreplay is something better saved for the privacy of home, and while you’d love to continue down this path you also know that time is of the essence.
Mycroft is well aware of this fact, too.  Which is why, a few minutes later, he grumbles out a brief, “Hurry up, [Name], I’ve got a meeting in two hours that I now have to change clothes for.”  The little quip makes you smirk triumphantly, which of course makes him roll his eyes in impatience.  But you take his words to heart anyway.  (Mostly because your own body selfishly demands it.)
“Don’t you want to make sure I’m ready for you?  A gentleman would, you know,” you drawl playfully, brushing your thumb over his leaking tip.  Mycroft swallows but doesn’t physically react.  Instead he only raises his eyebrows and says, “You’ve been ready since before you even thought up this awful plan.  You think I didn’t notice the moment you stepped through that door?”
Oh you like where this is going.  With a mock surprised look (because of course he noticed, only the most brainless wouldn’t, i.e. half the city of London), you lean in and roll your hips against his member.  “Oh?” you whisper lowly, “what exactly gave it away?”
He can’t stop the sigh that pushes past his lips when you roll your hips against him again.  You’re so God damned wet that he wonders why you bothered with the lube at all.  His hands clench into your coat and he drags you forward, shifting himself down to accommodate you. 
“Please,” he scoffs, brushing away his embarrassing reactions to you.  Your fingers still tumble over his cock but his mind still whizzes at full speed, as it always does regardless of the situation.  “The use of a trench coat to hide your lack of clothes was about as sneaky as an elephant in the underground.”  You smirk and hum in agreement.  Your fingers guide his tip into you.  Mycroft doesn’t stop talking.  “Your eyes were dilated which means you were either afraid or aroused – not hard to figure out which considering your choice of clothes.  We’ve been married for two years.  I’ve memorized your expressions long before we settled into this mundane union people call a marriage and besides, I could practically hear your heartbeat the moment I saw you – faster than normal which means you were feeling a thrill of some sort, obviously – “ you’re sinking against him and he’s fully inside you.  Mycroft lets out a heavy, sort of pleased sigh before finishing his deduction with a rattled, breathy, “…arousal…”
You smirk.  His way with words and final conclusion has only made you wetter, if that’s possible.  You can’t help it if you think his reasoning is absolutely erotic.  It’s almost as sexy as his reluctant passion, which you can now see crinkling up the edges of his eyes as he looks up at you.
“Mmm…very aroused,” you admit, dragging your hips sloppily over his.  Your position in this chair makes things difficult for you, but you’re nowhere near complaining.  Mycroft scoffs again and sets his jaw as you thrust, sending pleasure shooting up his body in frazzled, uncontrollable shivers.  It’s been weeks, after all.  And it probably would have been weeks more if you hadn’t decided to come collect your rightful dues as his wife. 
Mycroft Holmes is a very logical man, but there is nothing logical in the way he reacts to you now.  His reactions are subtle but honest: the tightening of his expression, the softening of his eyes, the indulgent way his hands force your hips to move faster.  
You can feel his fingers burning through your coat and it makes you dizzy.  You raise your arms and rest them on the top of the chair above his head.  The way you rise up above him makes it the perfect position for him to – “Mmm,” you moan when his mouth suddenly latches onto your breast. 
He knows you very well by now.  All your quirks and not-so-subtle cravings have become utterly transparent to him.  He can read you like an open book, but that’s okay.  It is the mark of a skilled lover.  He’s never thought he would fit into such a role, never wanted to either, but he can’t imagine acting any differently toward you.  And this time, he is not at all wary or embarrassed.  This time, he is empowered.
His hands slip into your coat to wrap around your hips and pull them forcefully against his.  Suddenly you’re not the one in control: he is.  
He guides you around his member with such impatience that you can barely breathe.  Your lack of oxygen might also have something to do with the way his tongue is lapping at your skin, but what do you know?  All you’re aware of is the way he fills you up so perfectly, the way you’re so comfortable against is body, the luxurious way your skin and his meld together like scorching, pliable iron.
His breathing is getting heavy.  Everything about the situation comes together like a well tailored suit and makes your heart race and your body spin out of control.  The unlocked door, the all-men’s club, the scandalous act of you and the country’s most important man fucking in an oversized leather armchair in public.  You almost can’t believe you persuaded him to do this.  But then you suppose that if you’ve been frustrated over the lack of sex, he was probably much worse off as well as utterly unwilling to admit it.
You bury one hand into his hair and pull his head closer.  His teeth gently nip at you in silent retort, and you let out a breezy, careless noise.  The sound makes Mycroft tip his head back and mutter, “There’ll be none of that, [Name], not here – “
You cut him off with a gentle kiss and whisper, “I know.  But you make me crazy Mycroft – “
He smirks and kisses you, cutting you off and murmuring, “I’m well aware of that.”  
Course he is.  You laugh breathlessly and thrust harder, faster.  You know that your finish is going to be very haphazard and maybe not as fulfilling as it would be in the privacy of your bedroom, but you also know it will be perfectly satisfying for the time being.  
The beginnings of your orgasm tilt over your skin and make you move faster in an attempt to encourage them.  Mycroft grunts very softly at the increased speed and shoves his head back against the chair, staring up at you and the way you’re arching into him, half lidded eyes screaming with pleasure.  The sight makes him thrust faster, too, intent on following you as quickly as he is able.
You’re right: your finish is rather lackluster compared to your normal orgasms, but it can’t be helped and you don’t mind anyway.  You come with a shudder and a silent moan that you muffle again Mycroft’s neck.  Your wet heat clenches over him so tantalizingly that it doesn’t take much longer for him, either.  
After barely a minute, he’s shaking into the chair and holding you close, his hips furiously tilting into yours as he feels himself burst.  His seed drips down your thighs and stains the edge of your coat, but neither of you bother with the mess quite yet.  You’re too busy panting against Mycroft’s chest and wondering why on earth you’ve never thought to visit him here before.
As if reading your thoughts, Mycroft shakes his head and murmurs, his voice impressively back to normal despite the short time gap since his orgasm, “Absolutely not.  You’re not coming here again.”  You pout and lean back to look at him, twisting your hips just a little.  He holds his breathe at the movement and you sullenly ask, “Why?  I know you liked it.”
He is silent for a moment longer than necessary, making it fairly obvious that he reluctantly agrees with your little deduction.  Even so, he gives you a pointed glower and says, “Next time we wouldn’t be so lucky.”  You’d like to speak more on the subject, but Mycroft is already sitting up and you sigh.  Seconds later, you’re lifting your hips and easing into the chair beside your lover.  He gives a critical glance to the mess you both made and tsks.
You smirk at the sight of his come staining the leather of the chair.  His trousers are soiled, too: there are stains all over the front of his thighs that make it ridiculously obvious what has happened.  The sight definitely does not bode well and he gives you a rather chilling glance that tells you he considers this to be all your fault.  Your smirk only widens at the sight.
With a clear of your throat and an embellished gesture, you pull out a packet of tissues from the other pocket of your trench coat.  You also accidentally grab onto the condom you’d brought as well, and give an apologetic grimace when Mycroft sees it.  You maybe forgot about it in the heat of the moment, but Mycroft doesn’t seem to appreciate the slip.  He sighs and rubs his eyes.
“Whoops,” you say with a shrug and a grin.  You hand him the tissues and he shakes his head.
“You might’ve mentioned you brought a condom.  It would have spared my trousers and my dignity,” he mutters, wiping the come from his trousers as best he can.  It doesn’t help: there are still dark stains on the fabric that stand out rather obviously.
You tut and stand, taking a tissue to clean yourself up.  He watches for a moment before sighing and grabbing it from your hands, doing the job himself.  The kiss he brushes onto your hip tells you that while he is still upset about the state of his trousers, he will forgive you this time.  When he stands up, you help button his shirt as he tucks himself into his pants.
“Your coat will hide it,” you say, trying to placate him.  You even tell him that you’ll go and find it for him.  He doesn’t say it out loud, but you know he expects you to anyway, regardless of whether you want to or not.  Having someone else see him like this would only induce scandalous articles and make him into a mockery, something that he cannot and will not afford.
After you fix yourself up and button up your coat, you walk through the door and take a few minutes searching for his own overcoat.  Five minutes later, you’re both walking out of the room as if nothing had happened: him with his normal, cold expression; you with your gentle smile and confident stride.  You nearly forget about the excuses you used to gain entrance into the club, but the man at the front quickly reminds you of them when he catches sight of you.
“I thought you were long gone by now, Mrs. Holmes!” he exclaims, and you send him a gracious smile.  Beside you, Mycroft stiffens.  The man glances at your husband.  Mycroft just gives him a chilling smile and says, “We had several things to discuss.  Good day.”  The abruptness of his words isn’t surprising, but the man’s gaze follows the pair for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
“Do you think he knew?” you whisper at him as you step into the car.  Mycroft sighs and gets in after you, tossing his umbrella on the other side of the seat.  He tells the driver where to take them (home, of course, he still needs to change his damned trousers) and then turns back to you with a barely decipherable scowl.  “Hardly.  Though it would have been ridiculously obvious had he taken a moment to observe.”
You know what he’s actually saying between the cadence of his voice and the lines of his words.  It was a close call.  Anyone else might have guessed what you’d been up to.  In fact, if it had been anyone other than Mycroft Holmes (uptight, cold, collected Mycroft Holmes), then it would have been obvious and you wouldn’t have gotten away with it.  The fact that you did only makes you smirk victoriously and lean into your husband’s warm, solid chest.  A moment later, he rather reluctantly puts an arm around you and sighs, shaking his head as he stares out the window.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he suddenly says, quietly, for you only.  He doesn’t spare you a glance as he watches London pass by in a blur of color.  You glance up at him with raised eyebrows.  “I sincerely hope you don’t think that that dismally fast orgasm was anywhere near enough for me.” 
You certainly don’t expect him to say that.  You chew the inside of your mouth for a moment as you look up at his profile, then hum.  “Is that your way of saying you have plans for later tonight?”  He doesn’t need to answer because you already know it is, and that you’re most certainly in for an arousing evening.  His response comes in the form of a light squeeze around your shoulders and a tiny smirk that scrapes over the edges of his mouth.
You bite your lip and chuckle against his coat.  “Then I’ll be ready and waiting, Mycroft, darling.  Do try to come home early, hmm?” 
From the glance he gives you a moment later, you know that he would be more than willing to cut his day short in order to pursue these very pressing matters.  The breathless way your breathing speeds up makes him smirk widely.  Needless to say, you don’t quite catch said breath until hours later, when you’re lying in his arms feeling very much satisfied and not at all inconvenienced.


Sunday, November 23, 2014

Just a little update

Hi everyone!!  Yup, it’s been a while.  Nope, I don’t have a good excuse other than the fact that I happen to be the laziest person in the entire world.  :3

Apparently my writer’s block is worse than I thought, but don’t worry!  I fully intend on finishing the WIPs that are currently taking up space in my documents folder, but first I’ve got a couple things to say…

It has recently come to my attention that someone has been plagiarizing my things on a Wattpad account.  I wanted to set the record straight: I only post my lemons on my blog, so if you happen to see one elsewhere then it has most certainly been copied by someone else.  Here's an update on that if any of your are wondering: the staff took everything down so I'm now a very happy person :3  Thanks so much to everyone who helped out and emailed me/commented.  It was so nice of you all to go out of your way for me!  I really appreciate each and every one of your words.

Now that that's all resolved :)

Christmas requests!  I know I’ve been a total slacker lately when it comes to responding to emails and writing and all that, but I definitely want to keep to tradition and do my annual Christmas requests.  This year I’m thinking of doing something different. 

So some of you might know that I made a DeviantART account a few weeks ago.  I was thinking of writing some oneshots and using that account for things other than lemons.  Quizilla was just recently shut down so I need somewhere else to post things like that.  For Christmas this year I decided it would be a lot of fun to write both lemons and oneshots for people.  What do you think?

I’ll be opening Christmas requests on December 1st (I think, though I might move it back a few days, I’ll let you know soon).  Just wanted to remind you guys of all that.  I’m currently putting up a list of possible prompt ideas like I do every year.  If you have one you’d like me to include, leave it in a comment or send me an email and I’ll do so.  :)

And finally, I’ve recently gotten completely addicted to ABC’s Once Upon a Time and am hoping that I’ll be getting some requests for those characters :3  



Wednesday, October 1, 2014

A North Italy Lemon -- Sing, Sweet Hummingbird

Character:  North Italy

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: Julianne Bonnefoy, represents Paris, flirty

Inspiration: I wanted to experiment with the other side of Feliciano in this one.  It’s long, so pull up a seat and don’t plan on moving for a while :> 

From her window, Julianne can see the world.  It is not the world, just her world.  And it is a bright and scintillating and breathing mass, and her people are very colorful indeed.
It is a cold night, for the middle of summer.  The air is chilly and the moon is full as it hangs in the pale evening sky.  Julianne leans against her balcony railing and peers out over the sprawling city of Paris, at the tenements and buildings and skyscrapers, at the dwindling side roads and crisp street signs.  The scent of food wafts up to her from several floors below, where a restaurant is in the middle of their evening rush.  Several kilometers away sits the Eiffel Tower, which just barely peeks up over the cityscape, as if shyly saluting her.
It's a pretty sight, but something is missing.  She's not sure what it is, and after a few minutes Julianne ventures back into her apartment.  She'd been busy cleaning all afternoon, and so everything looks clean and refreshed.  She looks over her hard work with a lazy smile and goes to pour herself a glass of wine.  She takes it back outside and sits down, enjoying the atmosphere and the wine and the tired-but-energetic day she's had.  And that's the exact moment in which everything falls into place, and that missing something becomes known to her.
It is music.  The lightest drift of guitar coupled with the soft lilt of a man's voice.  It weaves over her ears so delicately that Julianne barely registers it, at first.  But then her eyes are snapping open in surprise because it's all very familiar, that voice, like she's heard it thousands of times, and she suddenly knows that she has to make sure she's not hallucinating.  She stands up, puts her wine down, and heads to her door.
She's not exactly dressed to go out.  She's been working and cleaning all day and is a bit dirty, and her clothes are a little wrinkled.  But Julianne is related to France, after all, and anything she wears is almost always regarded as high fashion.  Even if it is a pair of slightly torn jeans, canvas shoes, and a shirt that's got several dirt stains edging over the hem.  She can pull it off, this off-kilter look, and she strides into the streets with her head high and her back straight.
It's still relatively busy on the streets, even at this time.  Couples rush around going to dinner or to other places.  Tourists huddle together snapping photos off every other second.  And the crowd that gently surrounds that lilting Italian voice is larger than she'd expected.  She pushes through it, calmly trying to peer over the tops of heads, but is unable to get a good glimpse of the man.  All she can see is the gray fedora tipped back on his head.
Then suddenly the person in front of her shifts away, puts a little money into the open guitar case, and all at once Julianne's eyes are crashing against a gaze she happens to know very well.  And Italy's raising his eyebrows just a little as he sings, and shoots her a quick, easy wink that says, 'Just a moment more and this will all be explained.'
She finds herself chuckling at the entirety of it.  The fact that his voice alone had been enough to drag her from her apartment.  And also the fact that he is here now, in Paris on a summer night with the moon full and her heart fuller.  She watches him with eyes that speak of that brimming heart, eyes that glow and shift and flush with those tiny shards of desire.  And whether Feliciano can see them or is simply too involved in his song, he will discover them before the night is through.
His song ends with a soft flourish, and his fingers dance very briefly up the guitar's neck, following the trail of his voice.  When it all crashes to a halt, the small crowd begins to clap and people step forward to deposit money into the case.  He nods and thanks them, his lighthearted voice still lilting with his native tongue.  And Julianne waits, letting the sounds of hurried, "Grazie's" echo over her.  And then they are alone.
It's a little baffling, really, to suddenly watch the crowd dissipate.  To suddenly be standing five feet away from him, an open space gaping where before there'd been people to fill it.  Julianne steps forward and sends him an appraising glance, smiling even though she's a tiny bit intimidated about the situation.  She can't really say why.  This is only Feliciano, after all, who couldn't hurt a fly.
But it is for that reason that she is having trouble breathing properly, and has apparently lost all the courage that she's been instinctually born with, being France's younger sibling.  It is because he is Feliciano, sweet innocent boyish Feliciano, that makes everything different.  And she can't lie to herself: she's been interested in him for a very, very long time.
Being in love makes a person stumble.  It makes her stumble, too, though she won't ever admit to it.  And while she isn't entirely sure that she is in love with Feliciano, she is not the type to ignore her heart, which is at this moment beating ever faster, whispering, 'love him, love him, love him' against her eardrum.
She is France's younger sister.  She is the city of love.  And yet Julianne does not recall a time where she'd ever been in love.  Infatuation and flirting pale in comparison to the brightness that she feels now, and it abounds over her and fills her with hopeful foolishness and a hardy desire to change her fortune.  She has tried so very hard not to be like her older brother, who has frequented so many beds in the hope of becoming the perfect lover.  But she does not want perfect.  She wants flawed, troubled, frightened, graceless.  The rawness of her heart demands it.  Still, she paints on her flirtatious smile because it is all she knows, and steps forward with a swing to her hips and a cheeky sparkle in her eye.
"Feli," she says, glancing at his guitar.  It is strung around his form with a maroon strap and hangs low against his hips.  For a frightened, graceless man he is impeccably dressed, as always.  His trousers are nicely tailored and match his olive dress shirt perfectly.  When she lifts her eyes up to his, he is watching her, almost carefully.  She makes a note of that, tilts her head, and curiously muses, "You didn't tell me you were coming.  Did you not want to see me?"  She asks the last question with that cheeky resolve, like she's outwardly testing him but inwardly afraid of the truth.
But he jumps up at the question, his eyes for once like fire, all intense and suddenly burning like ashy coals.  "No!" he exclaims, then realizes how strange his reaction had been and backs up with a soft chuckle and a softer gaze.  He peers over at Julianne quietly, sort of hesitant, and says a bit more delicately, "It isn't that.  I was planning on coming to see you tomorrow."  He was planning on working up the courage to come and see her, that is, but she doesn't need to know that. 
It doesn't matter anyway.  Julianne only smiles and nods graciously, stepping forward and peering at the money in his guitar.  "You made quite a lot.  Were you here all evening?"  And Feliciano, glad that the subject has changed, says, "An hour."  He crouches down and starts gathering the bills, and after a moment Julianne bends to help because she feels awkward, standing over him like that.
He sends her a smile that makes her heart flutter wildly.  She returns it, hands him her stack of bills, and watches him carefully tip his guitar back into the case.  Then she blurts out a sudden, hastily thought, "Will you have some wine with me?  I was drinking some before…"  The last part is added on quickly, because Feliciano is looking up at her in surprise and she wonders if she perhaps overstepped some boundary that she hadn't known existed.  It is not often that she feels so hesitant, but tonight is special.  Tonight she is not Paris, femme fatale and younger sister of France.  Tonight she is merely a girl who happens to like a boy, and they are both flustered and unsure about their feelings.
To her relief, Feliciano's surprise melts into happiness.  He nods and says, "Let's go!"  Then he stands, holds out his elbow without thinking, and waits for Julianne to grasp it.  She stares at it for a moment, her own surprise coming out to play against her expression.  Feliciano realizes his slip and chuckles, starting to withdraw.  His action had been one of those thoughtless ideas that comes from being comfortable around another person.  Before his arm falls completely, though, Julianne hurries to grasp the fabric, clenching his sleeve in her fingers and giving him a reassuring, pleased smile.  He returns it slowly, his eyes warming easily back to their original happiness.  And then they are off, back through the heady streets of Paris, back to the apartment that waits only a few floors up.
Feliciano had never been inside before.  He is feeling all manner of things by the time they reach her door.  Some of his feelings are mere eagerness, lighthearted innocence that comes from the prospect of getting to know another person.  Most of his feelings have more to do with his own nervousness than anything, though.  He steps inside slowly, looks around, gently eases his guitar case against the wall.  Julianne disappears into the kitchen, which he can just see from his place near the door.  She comes back with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a cheeky smile.  He swallows, smiles back, and tries his best to look more confident than he actually is.
But it isn't all that hard, especially after they have started drinking.  They are nowhere near drunk, but alcohol has this tendency to loosen one up and make them more comfortable.  By his fifth sip, Feliciano is happily telling her about the other cities he's recently visited, and how he's been traveling around with just his guitar and a small backpack stuffed with spare clothes and some other essentials.  (White flag and boxes of pasta, most likely.)  Julianne is sitting back, listening to him with a soft smile, her head leaning against the side of the couch as she soaks up his words. 
She thinks she likes the sight of him in her apartment, sitting so comfortably on her couch.  She thinks she'd like to see him here more often.  Then she starts thinking of other things, things that are less innocent, things that have to do with making him more comfortable, less talkative.  She'd like to drag out his native Italian, make him whisper it, chant it, moan it.  She'd like to see those eyes of his shine with eager pleasure, and to be the one to make that pleasure thrum over him. 
She is dragged back to the present when suddenly, outside in the streets, a car loudly honks and a man's voice angrily yells something.  Whatever Feliciano had been saying (she obviously isn't paying as much attention as she should be), his words are cut off and he stares at the balcony in front of them, whose doors are swung wide and let in all aspects of the night.  Julianne chuckles.  Feliciano gives her a warm smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little bit.
"You certainly live right in the middle of everything," he says offhandedly, and she shrugs.  Every city has its similarities and Paris is no different.  It's loud and overpopulated and dirty, but she loves the streets and the people and the colorful new slang words.  Living here reminds her of who she is, what she is.
She stands up and walks to the balcony doors, but she doesn't close them.  She just stares into the night, leaning against the threshold with her arms crossed.  After a moment of watching her, Feliciano walks forward and joins her, letting himself be immersed in whatever has taken a hold of her.  Several stories below, the cars whoosh by and people chatter away in lilting French.  The sound of glass shattering on pavement sounds some streets away.  Very lightly, the softness of violin music trembles up into her apartment from the restaurant below.  And beside her, she can feel Feliciano's presence like it's some unbreakable wall pushing against her psyche.
The room is dim.  The wine has made them unravel.  The clock behind them gently ticks into the early night.  And suddenly Julianne is aware of it all, and of many other things too, and she thinks her head will explode from all the desires that shift through it, demanding and relentless.
"Where are you going next?" she finds herself asking, softly, like she doesn't really want to break the silence.  But it's too loaded for her, this quiet stillness, and she's too far gone into this strange landscape of bright giddy passion. 
Feliciano looks sideways at her, his eyes drifting over her face and her eyes and the way they gleam in the dull light.  He is closer to her than he'd originally thought.  The inches between them sucker over his skin and it rather feels like a tsunami has fallen against him.  He is unsure if he wants to move closer, or pull away entirely.  For now, he just focuses on answering her question without completely stumbling over his words.  He does rather well, he thinks, when he responds with a gentle, "It depends." 
He expects her next question, and she doesn't disappoint him.  When she wonders, slightly breathless because of his proximity, "On what?", Feliciano softly smiles.  "On where the train is going," is his response, and it's so simple that Julianne raises her eyebrows and laughs. 
"You can't just get on a random train!" she exclaims, though somehow she is unsurprised that Feliciano would.  He is like a free spirit always out of reach, flying higher than she would ever have the courage to go.  Julianne shakes her head and sends him a half smile.  Then she asks reasonably, "What if you end up in Siberia?" 
It is his turn to raise his eyebrows.  He couldn't end up there even if he'd wanted to.  Trains out of Paris went as far as Moscow but there are no trains that delve any farther into that cold country.  He doesn't need to tell her this because she already knows.  The question had been merely a remark on the untrustworthy nature of his plan.  She comes up with another question that pushes from her lips before she can reign it in, and he stares.
"And…when are you leaving?" she asks.  Her voice is lighthearted, simple, and so so hesitant.  She thinks he should stay in Paris for as long as he can.  She thinks he should stay while she's got the courage to ask him.  While she's brave enough to be able to stand next to him in this dim, romantic setting.  Feliciano wants to, too.  But is answer is far simpler and he merely murmurs, "…Depends."  She stares.
His face seems to loom closer to hers.  The shadows of the room have driven over his skin and make his eyes gleam.  A piece of his hair has fallen into his face but neither move to brush it away, not yet.  After a moment, Julianne reaches forward, smoothes the rebel strand away, and whispers, "Depends on what?" 
Perhaps she already knows the answer.  Perhaps this doesn't surprise her.  She is the City of Love and she knows the signs of romance when they're staring her in the eye.  She almost doesn't believe her own diagnosis, but then Feliciano is breathing a very gentle, "…You," and she knows that it's all true.  Which is why she decides that it's really high time she does something about this ridiculous shyness, and so she kisses him.
He does not expect it, though he probably should have.  Julianne doesn't like to be afraid of anything, romance least of all.  She kisses him with the soft zeal that has been pressing up against her heart ever since he stepped into her apartment.  And even as he tries to pull away from the surprise of it all, Feliciano doesn't ever want it to stop.  So he decides not to let it.
He comes back in like a man trying to experience everything at once, but it's endearing.  Julianne smiles against his mouth and he chuckles back at her.  The passion is edged and broken with bits of their laughter, their amusement at the silly desire that moves them.  But it feels very right, the emotions that drive them, and after a moment they seem to settle down and the kiss turns a little more serious. 
Perhaps it is because Julianne has waited for this, but kissing him rather feels like all the little, shattered pieces of her life are drawing closed and being stitched together.  She feels the worn edges of her heart crinkle and explode.  Fire seems to draw over her flesh and she can barely breathe.  She doesn't try to, only focuses all her energy on moving her mouth against his.  Her fingers clench into his shirt and he presses her back into the edge of the doorway.  It's vaguely uncomfortable, but Julianne doesn't complain.  It's a small price for a kiss like this.
She is a firm believer that this kind of burning, feverish passion stumbles very rarely into a person's life, and that when it does you have to grab it.  That is why, when Feliciano begins slowing down and showing signs of pulling away, she only brings him closer and kisses him harder.  She is unwilling to let this stop, unwilling to come back into reality.  He doesn't appear to be very much against it, either, because he makes an appreciative noise and pushes her further into the threshold.
It isn't very comfortable, being pressed against the hard wooden doorway, but Julianne neither notices nor cares.  She is too focused on him, on the way he is kissing her, on the way he is holding her.  His grip is gentle but hot, and fierce, as though he feels that she is delicate but also strong.  His fingertips seem to burn right through the thin layer of her shirt.  She suddenly wishes they would, and that all their clothes would catch fire and crumble away likes ashes left to smolder in a windstorm.
Julianne had heard that Italians make good lovers.  Slow, progressive types.  She can see those attributes now, paving through Feliciano's gentle touches as he strokes over her back and hips.  She can feel the potential of his love in the way his mouth presses over hers.  For a self-proclaimed coward, he is surprisingly bold in romance, or at least bolder than she'd expected.  Not that she is complaining of course.  She can’t find any fault whatsoever in the way he is kissing her.  His lips feel like every single gentle thought he’s ever had has come into contact with fire, and has turned them to melted honey.
Her fingers tumble over his shirt, creasing and uncreasing the folds of fabric.  The material is cool beneath her touch, but warms quickly.  It feels luxurious to be pressed against him.  The night air cascades over their skin and sounds of the city rush through the apartment: cars honking, people laughing, shouting.  It is almost as if the earth has decided to unload the meaning of life right upon her doorstep.  Well, if it has, she will not complain about that either.  If Feliciano is the meaning of her life, it would make her very happy indeed.
The kiss dissolves slowly and leaves her waiting, for what she couldn’t say.  Feliciano’s eyes are closed and she stares up at him, taking in the delicate way the soft moonlight and her apartment’s dim lighting prisms over his features.  He looks as if he’s trying to take in everything at once, like he’s trying to memorize as much of her as he possibly can.  Perhaps he thinks that their kiss is their downfall.  That it will be the first and last of its kind.  She furrows her brow at the thought, wondering if perhaps she should set him straight.  But then his eyes are drifting open and she forgets what she’d wanted to say.
Is there anything as beautiful as Feliciano’s eyes when the sight of them is accompanied with moonlight shards and kisses?  Julianne thinks not.  Nor does she stop to think about the terrifying ‘what-ifs’ of their union.  When her fingers reach up to touch the side of his face, to tumble down his cheekbone, to drag over his mouth, she doesn’t bother considering anything except how very badly she’d like to kiss him again. 
Feliciano rather thinks that his heart is about to rattle completely out of his chest.  Does she know that he can hardly take a breath?  That when she touches him with that reverent softness, he can’t help but think he is wholly unworthy of her?  But it is quite clear that she doesn’t share this belief.  Her eyes are full of life and wonder, and as he looks down at her, he thinks he’d like to share in that blind passion.  So he catches her hand with his, turns hers over, and presses a lingering kiss to her palm.  Then her wrist.  His tongue very gently flicks out to brush along her vein and her eyes flutter earnestly. 
She very much likes that.  He can see it in the way her body almost unconsciously gravitates towards his.  He slides the fingers of his free hand down her arm, to the crease of her elbow, and she watches with odd fascination, wondering at his touch.  But it feels wonderful, and she doesn’t draw away.  Rather, she pushes forward, and says in a low voice that makes his body explode into fragmented shivers, “You said your leaving depends on me.”  The statement is in fact a question, quietly wondered.  The words are a soft tremble of sound that makes Feliciano stare at her, awed for a multitude of reasons.  Mostly he is surprised because apparently the very sound of her voice has his body reacting to her, and the burning between his legs has only intensified. 
Is it supposed to be like this?  Love?  Because that is surely what he feels, what he has felt for what seems like decades, and perhaps even longer.  That he is in love with her doesn’t make him pause, though.  He has known that for quite some time.  No, what makes him stop and stare is the sudden possibility that she maybe feels the same for him.  The thought creeps up on him like a passing knave and pockets all his senses before he can turn around.  But her eyes tell him she loves him, and her fingers which grip at his shirt, and her voice which quivers with that delicate emotion.  And so he draws back, staring, thinking that it can’t be true, that he can’t be so lucky.  He never is.
“…Sì, l'amore [1],” he murmurs, and then promptly blushes, for he hadn’t meant to use those words, or for that matter use his native tongue.  But the answer had come without bidding, and had spilled from his lips feeling perfectly natural.  Julianne doesn’t appear to find fault in the words, at least.  In fact, her cheeks blush a very soft pink that can barely be seen through the darkness, and she smiles.  He smiles back, relieved that his blunder had been so easily brushed aside.
She steps closer, and he can feel the warmth of her body radiate over him.  She reaches for the hand hanging rather uselessly by his side, where it had dropped minutes before.  The sudden touch, the way her fingers boldly curl around his, has Feliciano glancing down at their hands for a brief moment.  Surprise coats his gaze, but it melts away as soon as he meets Julianne’s eyes again.  She squeezes his hand and, with her other, reaches out to splay her fingers over his chest.  Her flirty nature seems to have come out to move things along, because her next move makes him utterly crazy.
“I want you to stay,” she tells him.  Her voice is low, almost husky, riddled with all sorts of promises and delicious hints.  Her words are pebbled with those promises, and every syllable feels like a stone has been tied to his ankles and he’s being dragged down into the imperious nature of her love for him.  He wants to drown in it.
Her hand slides down his chest, as if following the unique crescendo of her voice.  If she knows what she is doing to his poor self control, she doesn’t show it.  Instead she merely looks up at him, almost innocently, as if she is utterly unaware that she is having such an effect on him.  It isn’t true, of course.  She is Paris, after all.  But she doesn’t think serious, solemn love is very fun at all, and avoids it when she can.
Her hand stops at his naval, just above the hem of his trousers, and pauses as she turns her eyes back to his.  There is an unreadable expression on his face, but the eyes tell her all she needs to know.  As if she hadn’t already known.  Dress trousers aren’t very good at hiding erections, but she will ignore that for now, if only because of the panic around his gaze.  She steps closer, curling her hand around his waist, instead.  Her thumb brushes circles against the fabric.  Her other hand, still entangled with his, squeezes his fingers comfortingly, and his eyes soften.
“You want me to stay?” he finds himself asking, hoping.  He doesn’t exactly know how she wants him to stay.  Will he stay in Paris, or in her bed?  But staying is better than leaving, at least, and he’ll take either, so long as it means he won’t have to go so soon. 
They are unconsciously moving forward, centimeter by centimeter, without even realizing it.  Or perhaps they do, in some hidden clandestine part of their minds.  Julianne hums, an agreeable sound, as if she’s not ready to answer him with words.  But moments later she does anyway, and she murmurs, “Stay with me.”  Her hand clenches down over his collar and her mouth is suddenly pushing over his, leaving him with little choice other than to kiss back.  Which, of course, would have been what he’d have chosen anyhow.
Her kiss is like spun sugar, just barely there.  Too-sweet.  Like it’s just the figment of a fantasy, the slide of wakefulness that tumbles so regrettably after a good dream.  Feliciano doesn’t want this to be a dream, though.  He has dreamt long enough of her, wasted too many nights thinking on her, feeling miserable even after the sweetness of his own release suckered his palms.  There had been no happiness in dreams, at least not compared to the simple grandness of this kiss.  And so he wraps his arms tight around her waist and pulls her rather forcefully against him.  His mouth is not hesitant or soft now.  Instead he kisses her with a fervency that makes her feel hot, clammy, and she suddenly knows that the night is far from over.
This time, there is little uncertainly in the way they hold each other.  Many things have been discovered since their first kiss.  Things that have them gravitating into each other in a way neither understands.  But it is not possible to stop it, not now.  Not when Julianne can feel the rigid erection pressing urgently against her.  Not when she can feel the desperate way he is clutching her, and the equally desperate way she clutches him. 
She shifts against him, dragging her body over his, sliding her arms around his neck and easing her hips just a little.  The slight movement is enough to make him sigh out, breathless and heady.  He kisses her harder, takes her down into the brilliant shades of his affection.  His fingers really do burn through her clothes now, tumbling beneath her shirt and splaying out over the curves of her waist.  His touch is innocent but not, just like the rest of him.  It makes her feel haphazard and crazed, like her mind and body has been split apart and cannot get back together.
She doesn’t know how it happens.  One moment they are standing in the middle of the balcony doors and the next she is pressing Feliciano to the wall, furiously overtaking his halfhearted attempts at regaining some semblance of control.  His weak breathing is enough to make her pound.  And the way he breaks the kiss to whisper a reverent, “Julianne … bella donnacome fare il mio battere il cuore! [2]” 
The words leave her aching, aching because his native tongue inspires such wicked thoughts within her.  She leans forward, fisting her hands into his shirt and pushing her hips hard against his.  The grinding movement makes him sag, breathless, against the wall.  His forehead falls against hers and he gasps silently and heaves her hips as close to his hardened length as physically possible.  Still, it isn’t enough.
She pushes her lips over his again, hot and fierce and she forces him against the wall.  Her hands release their hold of his shirt so that they can pull the fabric out of his trousers and slip beneath.  And then suddenly Julianne doesn’t know where to touch him, only that she can’t possibly touch all of him at once like she wishes she could.  Her fingertips race over his skin, up his back, his sides, along the hem of his trousers.  And all the while, their mouths move with an almost animalistic rage, and their lower bodies gravitate and grind, and their breaths are gasping and shallow. 
“Mmm…” Julianne inhales, dragging her teeth over his bottom lip before attacking his mouth once more.  Against it, she pleads, “Tell me more.”  More of his delicious words, bathed in that lilting accent, battered with almost-familiar phrases that she instinctively understands.  The plea has his grasping her ever tighter, slowing the kiss down to a delightful crawl, rubbing his tongue over hers briefly before accepting the challenge.
“Cosa c'è da dire? [3]" he mumbles, taking a step away from the wall.  The movement pushes her back, gently, but he is quick to follow, and quicker to take advantage of the breathless way she stares at him, always wondering what he will do next.  Feliciano is not used to someone looking to him for direction, or hanging off his every word.  He takes great pleasure in bending her to him, in a manner he had not entirely expected of himself.  But how could he resist it, with this lovely creature so willing, so ready?
He steps back, she follows.  Her eyes are wild, like she’s about to pounce on him and have her way.  He thinks he wouldn’t mind if she did.  He also thinks that he’d rather she have her way with him somewhere a little more comfortable.  Which is why he is slowly backing up, backing up, in the direction of the bedroom.
“Dovrei dirti quanto ti voglio? [4]”  Her eyes flash and he gives a tiny smile, half amused but mostly aroused.  There is something ridiculously erotic about having someone want you so badly.  It is perhaps a little unexpected, but Feliciano takes it all into stride because he knows the feeling of wanting to possess someone, wanting to have their body, their mind, and every part in between.
He reaches for her hand.  Julianne holds it tightly.  By now she has guessed at this little game of his.  She thinks it’s all very clever, the way he leads her away, luring her.  She also thinks it’s amusing that Feliciano can be such a contradiction.  He is soft but bold.  Erratic but gentle.  She’d like to unravel more of his personality.  She’d like to unravel other things, too.  But she’s patient.  For now, she will let him have his way, so long as he keeps talking.
He does.  He seems to know the effect it has on her.  It makes him excited and hard.  In the back of his mind, he is a little surprised that he is quite so hard, so ready for her.  Perhaps it is just the emotions of the moment, but he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything quite so much as he does now, and it is making his body crazy and hot. 
They reach the hallway.  He’s got no idea where to go next, so he tries the first door he finds.  As he opens it, he murmurs lowly, “Non ho mai voluto qualcuno così tanto [5].”  It is a bathroom.  He catches sight of the amused smile on Julianne’s face and lets out a very quiet growl.  The next moment, he is dragging her against him roughly, his mouth demanding against hers, his hands shifting all over her body.  She’s only starting to get into it when suddenly he pulls back, nips at her chin, and gives her that small smile again.  The one that says that he’d like to have a little bit of control right about now, so she should stop trying to take it all away.
She humors him.  Or at least that’s what she tells herself.  But honestly, there is nothing she can do as he leads her on, tugging her forward.  She can’t be bothered to reassert her control and she doesn’t want to. 
“Ma voglio scoparti così male … Sono così difficile [6],” he mumbles, his voice almost breathless.  His cheeks turn a little pink, as though his words are somehow embarrassing.  Julianne is not as proficient in Italian as she used to be, but she has a feeling she knows what he’d said.  Still, she plays dumb, steps up to him and takes his shyness to her advantage as she presses him against the bedroom door.  For this is the bedroom door, unbeknownst to him, and she curls her hand around the doorknob, waiting.
“What did you say?” she whispers throatily, trailing her mouth very lightly over his neck.  Her tongue flickers over his sensitive skin and he almost cringes at the ultra responsive way he reacts to her.  He swallows thickly and takes a large breath, but doesn’t answer her.  How could he repeat those words in English?  He can hardly believe he’d said them in Italian at all…
His face is characteristically red, and it only gets worse when her hands drift over him, over his chest and hips, just missing the one part of his anatomy that he almost wants her to touch…  And yet a part of him doesn’t want her to at all, because he isn’t sure if he’s ready for it to get quite so real.  Call him old fashioned, but they’d only shared their first kiss mere minutes before, and he is shy by nature, and who said Italians are great lovers, anyways -- ?
“Feliciano…” Julianne mutters, preoccupied with the buttons of his shirt.  He’d hardly noticed that she’d been fiddling with them at all, but now she’s over halfway done.  He swallows again and watches as she pushes the shirt out of the way and glances appreciatively at his chest.  When she catches his eye again, she gives him a light, cheeky smile that somehow makes him feel much better.  “You’re thinking too hard,” is all she says, and then she’s suddenly turning the doorknob and the door he’s leaning against gives way. 
They stumble into the room, clutching each other tightly.  Feliciano is confused by the abrupt move, but Julianne has everything planned out.  She guides his stumble footsteps right to her bed, and when his knees in the mattress he falls over with a surprised, ‘oomph’!
Oh yes, he’s clearly thinking too hard.  He knows it’s true, especially when Julianne crawls over his body and kisses him again.  Her movements are confident and delicious.  His are just fumbling.  But she doesn’t complain.  Instead she just kisses him harder, takes his wrists and shoves them up over his head, edges her core over his erection until the friction makes them hot and out of breath.
Her fingers are certainly not idle throughout the kiss.  The fabric of his shirt is pushes aside and she shifts her hands over his skin, up and down as she explores the toned muscles.  After a brief moment of this, she decides that feeling isn’t enough.  She needs to look at him, needs to see what he has to offer with her own two eyes.  But as she pulls back and looks down at him, the darkness creates an upsetting curtain.  It takes her moments to rectify this: soon the room is awash with color as she flips on the bedside lamp.
She meets his gaze with a small smile, and leans back down to his level.  “I want to see you properly,” she whispers, kissing his cheek.  He looks rather divine, she thinks.  His cheeks are blushing and his eyes are blown.  His chest heaves with shallow breaths.  His trousers sit low on his hips, and in the light Julianne can quite clearly see the bulge tenting up the fabric.  She doesn’t look at it for too long, though, for which Feliciano is grateful.  He might be fairly confident with his clothes on, but perhaps not so much without their protection.
She drags her mouth from his cheek to his jaw, from his jaw to his neck, his neck to his chest.  He looks down at her progress, expecting her to keep going.  What he doesn’t expect is for her to stop at his heart.  She places a lingering kiss just above it, and smiles into the skin.  His heartbeat is fast like a bird’s, and seems to beat a million miles a second.  Is he really so nervous?  He is fairly good at hiding it anyway.
She suddenly feels his hands at her shoulders, and looks up at him.  His eyes are closed and he looks relaxed as he lays his head back.  Immediately, she knows that something has changed somehow.  The air around them has transformed, the nervousness diffused.  Something that feels almost like acceptance drifts over them, wraps them up in warm, easy rays.  She stares down at him, and his eyes flutter open.  His eyes are light amber, like honeyed tea.  She thinks they look lovely in the dim light.
Slowly, he sits up, leaning his weight on his arms.  She is surprised to find that he is exactly her height.  His eyes are level with hers and so is his mouth, which she leans into.  The kiss they share is light, gentle, secure.  And Feliciano’s voice, when he next speaks, is very similar.  “I want you, Julianne.”  She stares.
She is unsure if she’s ever heard anyone say those words before, out loud, for her to hear.  Hearing him say that is perhaps even more erotic than listening to the lilt of his Italian.  The raw honesty of his words make her overwhelmingly breathless.  “…I want you too,” she whispers back, after she’s found her voice again.  His eyes flash delightfully and before she really knows what’s happening, Feliciano is pushing forward and kissing her. 
It doesn’t take her long to find her senses though.  Soon she is kissing him back just as wildly.  Her hands smooth his shirt from his shoulders, and it drops away to the side.  As soon as it is gone, she presses him down, hovering above him and tumbling his hands over the new expanse of his chest.  He drags her closer, one hand around her waist and the other pressing her hips against his.  He needs friction or else he will explode.  He needs it so badly that he can hardly see.
She does not disappoint, but her movements are as surprising as they are arousing.  Feliciano has to bite back a moan when she suddenly breaks the kiss and furiously starts to pull at the zipper of his trousers.  It takes three tries and one hastily muttered curse before the fly is down and the button is dealt with.  By then Feliciano has braced himself against the mattress, his body as hard as the erection Julianne pulls free.  But he utterly dissolves at the sight and feel of her pumping his cock in and out of her palm.
He shatters into broken melodic Italian, peppered with erotic moans and mumbles as he feels all his self control give way.  “Aahhh…sì!  Non si fermano,  non smettere mai di…! [7]”  His head falls back and he can’t breathe properly, only gasp and hope to God that he won’t come as quickly as he think he might.
His hips buck upward before he can stop it and his cheeks flush with color.  The sight of him is almost too much for Julianne, who has only ever dreamt of him like this.  But the way he reacts to her every touch is enough to put her completely at his mercy.  She drags her hand once more over him before suddenly stopping, her hands quickly reaching up to deal with her shirt without preamble.
Feliciano watches her from below, panting heavily.  When he sees what she’s doing, he scrambles back into a sitting position and hurries to help, feeling more confident with every passing second.  The shirt comes off and his mouth crashes into hers.  Her arms fly around his neck and they kiss in a frenzied sort of way, as if everything -- common sense, judgment, patience – has forsaken them.
His fingers fly to her pants and he jerks the zipper down, stuffing his hands into the fabric and wrestling them off of her.  She lifts herself off his lap to help, and soon she’s left in only her underwear.  He takes a brief moment to admire the matching set (lavender, with lace accents) before unclipping her bra and throwing it aside.  Then suddenly Julianne is being rolled onto the mattress and Feliciano is hovering above her, pressing her down, scrabbling to get her panties off as he kisses her.  She quite likes this rough-around-the-edges side of him.  She likes it so much that she lets him have his way.
As soon as the panties are gone, Feliciano pulls her leg to the side and nestles against her core.  She sighs out at the arousing feeling of his hard cock pushed against her wet heat.  Her leg is soon curled around his slim waist and she’s jerking her hips forward to roll against his.  Into the kiss he lets loose an especially delicious moan.
“You’re so wet,” he gasps, then promptly blushes because he maybe hadn’t meant to say it.  Julianne just chuckles, amused and oddly excited about his shyer nature.  She likes that it feels so new and fresh with him.  Every other man she’s been with had been fairly experienced, but it’s clear that this time, that’s not the case.  She is eager to taint him, to dirty his innocence.
She tangles her fingers into his hair and, in doing so, brushes over his ahoge.  The contact is almost equivalent to the previous feeling of her hand on his member, and it makes Feliciano momentarily pause as he shudders and bites the edge of his mouth.  She does it again, because she likes his expression.
Her fingers brush over his ears and she pulls him back down for a kiss.  Against his mouth, she whispers, “I’m wet because I want you so much.”  The words have a silly effect on him.  He moans and grinds their lower bodies together.  When her tongue comes out to dance over his, she splays her hand over his shoulder blade and whispers, “Take me already, Feli.  I can’t wait another second.”  Her impatience is very clear in the tone of her voice.
He swallows back a harsh wave of desire, which seems to almost brutally crash against his skin.  He’s not sure he can wait another second, either, but he’s also never been so nervous before.  Yet another contradiction sidles between them: his hesitance, and his desire for her.  Julianne sees the conflicting emotions play out over his face, and reaches for him.  Her other hand reaches for his cock.
The intense shiver that captures his body has her shuddering, too.  He is so sensitive, so eager.  His member burns over her palm, so hot that it’s almost surreal.  The rigid stiffness of it makes it easy to grasp, and the slight wetness that leaks from his tip makes it easier to stroke.  She does exactly that as she whispers, “I’ll help you.  Just come over here.”  And he nods, bites his lip, and eases forward until he’s all but pressing her down with his weight.
She does most of the work, at first, but Julianne doesn’t have it in her to complain about it.  A part of her thinks it’s almost arousing, in a fascinating endearing sort of way.  So she merely gives him a soft smile tempered with passion, slides her legs tight around his waist, and drags his lower body against hers.  Then, she guides the tip of his length into her core and urges him forward with her legs.  The physical feelings that accompany the movement have them both gasping, roiling towards each other as the union seems to almost shatter them.  The emotional feelings, needless to say, are somehow even more frenzied.
Dio mio!  Sembra incredibile [8],” Feliciano cries, his eyes closed as he rocks back.  She’s is very tight around his girth, so much so that he can barely move inside of her, and yet it feels ridiculously good.  It’s been a long time since she’s been with a man, longer than perhaps she’d realized, and she is quick to share his reverent, awed exclamations.  Together, they pant, moan, whisper as their bodies fall into the instinctive dance that they somehow automatically know.
Julianne clutches him hard, her nails gently digging into his shoulders.  There is something so thrilling about having this shy creature taking her in such an emboldened way, that all she can do is melt against the mattress and let herself be immersed in him.  His touch, his eyes that rove her frame, his delicious moans, his delicate Italian murmurings. 
His head hangs beside hers, his hair framing his eyes in a messy, careless way.  She pulls him down to her mouth and kisses him, and he quickly responds.  His lips move with hers in a slowly passionate way, the same pace as their hips which explore the softly building pleasure.  It blossoms over their bodies like intricate meanderings of passion, and has them rushing forward, intent on tumbling directly into it.
“Feliciano!” she cries, her head dipping back.  He is quick to bury his face into the newly revealed skin, moaning against it as he grits his teeth.  His hips fly against Julianne’s in a strangely forceful way.  Strange, because this is Feliciano, who is always so calm and gentle.  But even this shy creature isn’t calm in the face of all this frenzied rapture.  His movements are still gentle, in a way she can’t describe, but with an undercurrent of hot ecstasy that has him slamming into her.
She can understand where all that ecstasy is coming from.  Never has she felt so liberated during sex.  It’s an odd feeling, altogether, but then she also thinks it’s rather lovely.  Every thrust makes her feel both exhausted and rejuvenated, until she can no longer tell the difference between the two at all.  
He’s thrusting harder, faster, quaking against her like a tree in a tempest.  His Italian murmurings have slowed, replaced by an urgent moan that could almost be her name, had she the desire to unravel it.  But no, all she wants to do is unravel him, and so she pushes her hips up to meet his thrusts and proceeds to let herself fall into the tempting shifts of her orgasm. 
The moment Feliciano feels her muscles clench around him, he knows he is lost.  He stares at down Julianne with a sort of wondrous expression, as if he’d never felt anything as good.  He really can’t do anything about his own impending finish, which rises up within him far too suddenly for him to get a handle on.  And so he falls, hard, thrusting into her as his expression twists into utter pleasure, shuddering out a release that leaves them both gasping and wondering why on earth it took them so long to get this far.
His thrusts turn looser, dragging out the intense passion, letting it skitter over their bodies.  Julianne stares up at him with half-lidded eyes.  The emotions inside her gaze are enough to make Feliciano lean down to kiss her, because suddenly he only ever wants to kiss her for as long as he lives.  She sighs out a ragged sigh that scrapes over the lowest edges of her voice and kisses him back.  But this time, their mouths move at a luxurious pace, neither fast nor slow as they settle gently into the new rhythm of unexplored passion.
“You look tired, il mio amore [9],” he whispers against her lips.  He never wants this moment to end.  The warmth of her enslaves him, and he never wants to leave her embrace, never wants to be away from it.  Julianne gives him a tiny smile and says almost sluggishly, “I’m not.”  And, seeing right through her words to the truth at their center, he smiles and kisses her cheek, pulling out of her.  She gives a soft whining sound as he does, as though she can’t bear to be without him.  When he lies down beside her, she hurries to drag herself into his side and wrap herself around his form.  He thinks his heart will explode, the way it’s pattering so intently.
“Rest for a while,” he whispers into her hair, skimming his hand lightly over her back.  He is tired, too.  The emotions of the day have finally caught up with him, and as he closes his eyes, he feels fuller and more complete than he has in a very long time.  For now, they will rest.  Later, they will rise, and decide what to do about the silly way they seem to love each other.


[1] Sì, l'amore … Yes, love

[2] Bella donnacome fare il mio battere il cuore! … Beautiful woman … how you make my heart pound!

[3] Cosa c'è da dire? … What’s there to tell?

[4] Dovrei dirti quanto ti voglio? …  Should I tell you how much I want you?

[5] Non ho mai voluto qualcuno così tanto … I’ve never wanted someone so much.

[6] Ma voglio scoparti così male … Sono così difficile … I want to fuck you so badly … I’m so hard

[7] Aahhh…sì!  Non si fermano,  non smettere mai di…!  … Aahhh…yes!  Don’t stop, never stop…!

[8] Dio mio!  Sembra incredibile … My God!  It feels amazing
[9] il mio amore … my love