Wednesday, April 30, 2014

A James T. Kirk Lemon -- Starry Eyed

Character: James T. Kirk

Fandom: Star Trek

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: Because yes, Chris Pine is just that hot.  And okay, young William Shatner was nice to look at too.  ;3

There is one distinctive advantage of working on a ship as massive as the Enterprise: there are plenty of nooks and crannies that can be used for multiple purposes.  This particular purpose being the seduction of a particular Captain.  (On your part, not his.  A little fact that you are more than willing to remind him about.)
"You know I have to get back to the bridge soon, right?" Jim growls into your ear.  He's got you pressed up in a corner of a deserted hallway, in the sliver of an alcove that doesn't offer nearly as much protection as you'd prefer.  But it was a split of the second decision, hiding here, and you'd be a fool to regret it.  Especially when your rather stubborn lover is already hard and wanting after only a few minutes.
His leg is shoved between the both of yours and it looks like he's got the upper hand in this little game, but that's not true.  You're controlling all the shots, even if he doesn't realize it.  That's why he hasn't pulled you into an actual room with actual privacy, that's why he hasn't properly touched you yet even though he desperately wants to.  You smirk and press soft, delightful kisses over his jaw, which flexes as he strains against you.  You'd like to go farther, kiss him in other places, taste him and feel him more sincerely, but even you aren't that bold.  Not right here, in the middle of the hallway where literally anyone could walk in on you.
"What's your point?" you drawl, slipping your hands into Jim's shirt.  He grunts and watches you with eyes blown through with dark passion.  When your fingers trace up his chest and brush over his nipples, he closes his eyes and gives you a half-smile, like he can't believe he's letting you distract him so badly.  To be honest, you can't either.
He takes his job very seriously.  It's about the only thing he takes seriously, actually.  That's why you're surprised that he's allowed so much time to pass in this little alcove.  You hadn't expected him to be this willing, but then again, it's not as if you're really that surprised.  Your hands slip around to splay against his back and you blink lazily up at him, pushing your head back against the wall behind you.  Cool metal invades your senses, dampening the strong desire that sparks between you and him.
Jim follows you back, his breath hot and steady against your mouth, which is suddenly parched.  You stare at him, watching him watch you, wondering what he's thinking.  And then he's whispering a low, calloused, "My point is…that you're not making this easy for me."  Not at all, he wants to say, but instead Jim opts to just roll his hips against yours and show you the effects you've forced upon him.  The feel of his hard on makes you smirk the most mischievous, sexy smirk Jim has ever seen.  He growls again and his mouth jerks to yours and he tries his very best to kiss that smirk off of you before it makes his condition even worse.
"Mmm…" you breathe, clutching the back of his shirt tightly.  The fabric bundles up in your hands and wrinkles it, like creases in a planetary atmosphere.  His mouth slows against yours and he kisses you softer now, his tongue dragging along your bottom lip before taking it into his mouth and nipping it playfully.  The leg he's shoved between yours raises up farther, pressing against your core as he pushes more of his weight on you.  It's a thankful, beautiful feeling that makes you feel infinite.
He's hard and you can feel his erection burning through the fabric of his pants.  His lips move with a sort of desperate yearning, mirroring the way his hips grind slowly against yours.  And if there's one thing you know, it's that there's no way he's leaving without having you fix his problem.  This is a sentiment that is apparently shared between the two of you.
"You know…that I can't go back to work like this…" he gasps against your mouth, into the kiss, and you swallow his words because they sound so despairingly delicious.  His mouth fervently pushes against yours, his fingers digging beneath your shirt and splaying out over your bare back.  If anyone were to stumble upon you at this point, it would be utterly embarrassing and Jim would probably be furious with you for starting this whole mess.  But he's right of course: he can't go back to the bridge with a hard on.  It would be crossing a line that even the infamous Jim Kirk would never cross.
You gasp and pull back from the scorching kiss.  For a moment, you just stare up at him, at the aroused state he's in, and you wish you had a little more time to find a room and deal with this problem in a more classy way.  But time is something you definitely don't have, and you know you'll have to make due.  You give him a crooked smile and murmur, "You'd better have your fill of me now then."
He raises an eyebrow and dryly says, "[Name], we're in the middle of the hallway.  I'm not doing that right here -- "
"Who says I want to do that with you?" and you hook one leg firmly around his hips, dragging him against your core and peering up at him to see if he understands what you're trying to say.  You think he does.  He's looking down at you with those blown-chocolate eyes and you can see all his emotions burning holes through his pupils.  You know it won't be nearly as fulfilling as it would if you'd both been bare, but it's something at least. 
He sighs and presses his forehead against the metal wall by your head.  "This is a bad idea…" he mutters, but still, his hips give in and crush against yours, revolving in a firm circle that drags his clothed erection over your core and has you humming in pleasure.  He does it again, and again, until a numb satisfaction overtakes your bodies and turns your arousals into flustered, aching reminders.
It is rather erotic, you have to admit.  You're in a public place, with all your clothes on, and yet you're both still able to find this much pleasure from each other.  You give Jim a shaky sort of smile that silently tells him how good this feels, and he threads his fingers through your hair and pulls your head back.  When his mouth descends on yours, it is with a very slow passion that makes your body feel astoundingly alive, like a sparking wire.
"Mmm…" you sigh, immersing yourself into the movements on his mouth.  He's kissing you like he'd kiss a glass doll, all deep-gentle-sensual-like.  His teeth and tongue are doing silly little things to your head and you can barely keep up with him even though he's going so slowly.  You kiss him back softly, curl your fingers around his neck and into his hair and clutch at his shirt.  And then he's suddenly thrusting his hips hard against yours and using the momentum to lift your other leg up.
You moan again because you hadn't expected the move, and it makes him into the dominant, devil-may-care type of lover that you know him to be behind closed doors.  And the reminder of what he can be, what he can do to you has you gasping and clenching your legs around his waist and feeling a flutter of an orgasm thrum through you.
His eyes are open and he's watching you.  The kiss dissolves and is replaced by his body, the movements of it, the way his hips are grinding and rubbing and eroding against yours.  He's so hard and it feels strange but delicious, to have him like this, in this way.  And even though you can't see him, even though you'd very much like to, it is enough to feel him and hear him and watch his expression crumble like a mountain shaken through with debris.
"I wish we had more time," Jim breathes into your ear.  His voice is all sex and low desire and despair, and it shreds right through you and has you gasping and throwing your head back.  He follows you back, his lips pressing little kisses to your temple, cheekbone, into your hairline, the shell of your ear.  His fingers are gripping your thighs tight and the rest of him is relentlessly bucking against you, so the contrast of his slow kisses make you crazy and eager.
"I know," you pant, closing your eyes briefly as his hips grind deliciously into your core.  You're so wet and pounding and you want him so badly, but this will have to do until later on, later on when your shifts are over and you can pursue things properly.  His mouth hovers just beside yours, his breath coming out in spades against your skin.  When you open your eyes again, he's still watching you and his gaze has become even more electrified, like he's holding himself back.  "Are you almost there?" you find yourself asking, your voice a desperate hum that has him gripping you harder and pressing his forehead against yours.
"Yeah…" he mutters.  His voice shoots off into a small groan that makes you that much crazier, that much more delirious, and you really can't stop yourself from leaning forward and kissing him.  You want to tell him that you're close too, except all that comes out is a strained moan and you decide it doesn't matter anyway.  He probably already knows, can already tell that you're in the same boat as him.  And it's really not surprising that the flutter of that orgasm soon turns into a full blown frenzy that has you arching up and gasping.
Jim's hand curves around your clothed breast as your back arches up.  He watches you come through dazzled, amazed eyes, and is quick to follow after because the sight of you is really too much for him to handle.  The way you're pushing your body up and jerking your hips against his and the expression you're making, like the very universe is palpitating within you and making you see more than just stars.  And Jim thinks it's divine, the way you look, that moments later he's rolling his hips faster and feeling his own release spill against the constraints of his pants.  And it's a little uncomfortable, the sticky mess that's wetting the fabric, but mostly it's just exquisite and ridiculously stunning.  Like a solar eclipse or an exploding star or the galaxy itself, spreading out into the reaches of space and time that have not yet been attained by mortal means.
Suddenly everything's hot and your body is thrumming and Jim is looking pleasantly exhausted.  You don't do anything, just let him fold his body into yours and slide his hands around your butt, holding you up.  Softly, you thread your fingers into his hair and give a little sigh.  Your legs are tight around his waist and you can feel his release, the wetness of it, and you wish you could help him get cleaned up but really, he's wasted more time than is appropriate for a captain of a starship.  When he starts to realize this, Jim drags away with a deep rumbling sigh and quirks you a smile.  You bite your bottom lip to stop a self satisfied grin from capturing your expression.  So maybe you feel a little proud of yourself for distracting him so completely.  You're not sorry.
He chuckles and gently lets you down, one leg at a time, until you're shakily leaning against him and the wall.  Then he says, all low, "I have to go change."  You give him a quick look over and smirk at the splotch of wetness darkening the front of his pants.  He definitely can't go back to work like this.  You chuckle a little and he gives you a mock-insulted glare, like he can't believe you would laugh at the state he's in when it's entirely your fault. 
"I hope you know that I'll be getting you back for this later on," he says conversationally, throwing an arm around your waist and dragging you into his side.  After a moment, he peers out of the tiny alcove and into the hallway.  After another moment, he steps out into it.
You snuggle into his side wearing a vivid and very smug grin.  "Of course you will.  Why do you think I dragged you here in the first place?"  He stops, glances at you in surprise, and then frowns his I'm-a-captain-you-have-to-obey-me frown.  "You could have just asked politely for it," he mutters, but his eyes are sparkling and you can tell he's not angry, only darkly amused.  You laugh.
"It's no fun that way," you shrug, hooking your arm around his waist and sauntering together down the hallway.  He gives you a look, one of those looks that is rife with promises and revenge, and you smile.  His eyes are all starry for the rest of the day.

Extended Ending

Cleaned up and newly dressed, Captain James T. Kirk strides onto the bridge wearing his usual smirk-smile, back straight with a slight spring in his step.  At once, everyone turns to him, as though wondering where he's been.  But he only waves them off and collapses into his chair with a gratified sigh.  After a moment, he addresses Sulu, "Mr. Sulu, what is our estimated time of arrival?"  The answer is an immediate, "4 hours, 37 minutes sir."  Then the pilot turns back to his station and Kirk nods, crossing his ankles.  That's when Spock walks over.
"Captain, might I inquire into what you've been up to for the last 43 minutes?" his voice is slightly saturated with his usual Vulcan-righteousness.  Kirk shrugs and says, as though he's distracted, "Hmm?  I was dealing with some personal matters."  The corner of his mouth edges upward and he has to force himself not to chuckle, because that would only make Spock feel the need to pursue the topic. 
Apparently, whether he laughs or not, Spock still feels the need to do just that.  He raises one pointed eyebrow and looks his captain over, then says quietly, "Forgive me, captain, but you seem to have forgotten that Vulcans are extremely adept at sensing the post-coital period of other species."  His words make Kirk choke loudly.  Everyone turns to their captain, wondering what's wrong, but Spock's words were soft enough so that barely anyone heard them.  Except Uhura, go figure, who is now smirking wickedly at her station, the closest to them.
As usual, whenever the two of them have a conversation, they both miss the point entirely.  "Spock!  You never told me anything like that so how on earth could I have forgotten - "
"I could have sworn that I had explained to you the advanced and highly proficient functionality of the Vulcan mind."
"Yeah, of the mind, Spock, that has nothing to do with the body."
"On the contrary, captain.  The mind and body are deeply interconnected, especially so in the human race.  It also true that the situation you were just in produced ample brainwaves and psychological activity."
There is silence for a moment.  The crew on the bridge turn back to their stations with knowing grins, because honestly it's fairly obvious now how the captain has spent the last 43 minutes.  Kirk himself is gaping at his First Commander, who is coolly blinking at him, waiting for a response.  The response comes after a drawn out moment in which Kirk decides that hell, the crew knows about his reputation and yes it's a bit embarrassing but ultimately he doesn't really care that much.
He sighs, rubs his forehead, and mutters, "It's Jim, Spock.  Call me Jim."
The Vulcan raises an eyebrow, then says, "As our shift is not yet over, I believe it would be more appropriate at this time to refer to you as 'captain', captain."
"Just return to your station, Mr. Spock."
"Certainly, captain."
Like so many times in the past, Kirk has had enough of Vulcans.


Saturday, April 26, 2014

A Belphegor Lemon -- Fly Me High, Drag Me Down

Character: Belphegor

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: Apparently I'm shit at writing knife-play :'<

Your missions happen to take you around the world.  The farther away, the better.  You like traveling to countries you've never even heard of for one simple fact: it gives you time.  Time to think, to consider the direction that your life has gone in.  Time to reflect upon him.  The no good idiot who somehow managed to make you love him even while you want to take one of those knives of his and shove it down his throat -
"Ushishishi~  Looks like you've gotten hurt again.  Do you like bleeding or something, [Name]?" Belphegor raises an eyebrow.  He watches you grimace, his lips twisting up into a sharp smirk.  He must have woken up from the ruckus you made while coming inside.  You aren't sorry.  Even if Xanxus had woken up you wouldn't be sorry.  You've had a ridiculous amount of trouble finding the target and ending him.  You're tired, wounded, and hungry.  And now you have to deal with the man who won't seem to leave you alone.
"Shut up," you tell him casually, as though you don't care.  You do, but you won't show it.  Your expression is slightly annoyed but mostly a blank canvas, as Bel knows it to be when you're trying your hardest to ignore someone.  Of course this amuses him.  Of course it does, but he doesn't say anything.  He just leans against the threshold of your bedroom door with his arms crossed, watching you like some spoiled royal cat.
You pull your shirt off and throw it onto the floor, glad to be rid of the bloody mess of fabric.  You have little to no modesty and you don't care that Bel is here.  He is in the back of your mind now, along with all the strange emotions and desires that he brings with him.  The pain that blossoms over your shoulder is what you focus on, with minute care.  A moment later, you are carefully unwrapping the hastily placed bandages you'd thrown on earlier.  You wince when the threads stick to the skin and pull at it, flashes of pain bursting like stars in your eyes.  And Belphegor watches, watches.
When the crisp night air catches the wound, it feels better.  You let it breathe and remain sitting, not wanting to get up just yet, cross the room to get more bandages, deal with the man in your doorway.  But to your surprise, Bel is the first one who moves.  You open your eyes when you hear his footsteps sound on the wooden floor, and you curiously watch him take the roll of bandages from your dresser.  When he turns back, his eyes are blown like diamonds glittering in a dark cave, like little hidden secrets waiting to be uncovered.  You stare.
He crosses the room in three long strides and grabs your wrist.  When he deposits the bandages into your hand, you think maybe he'll leave you in peace.  But of course Bel wouldn't leave unless he really wanted to, so it doesn't really surprise you when he just blinks down at you, waiting, watching.
You sigh and roll your eyes, jerking your wrist away from him and trying your best to look annoyed.  He probably sees right through you but you don't care.  You just undo the white fabric and try to wrap it around your shoulder.  But with one hand, it's hard to do and very messy, and you end up cursing heavily and trying to look more angry than embarrassed.  Being this helpless in front of someone like Bel is not exactly something you want to experience.
He chuckles out that strange, 'Shishishi,' laugh of his and takes your wrist again.  Then he slowly unravels the messy bandages and whispers in an oddly low, husky voice, "You're so pathetic, [Name]."  And he chuckles again, sinking onto the bed and hovering over you as he focuses on your shoulder.
You're about to retaliate.  You have a sharp tongue and you don't like being pushed around, especially by him.  But before you can so much as think up a response, you feel something wet and hot spread over your wound.  You gasp out in surprise and try to jerk away but you find that you can't move.  Belphegor has got you locked up, his hands tight chains around your arm and leg.  You close your eyes and grimace as pain shoots through you, trying not to think about how Bel is licking your wound.  His lips drag over the raw skin, and his hot breath makes the pain sear, drowning against you even as you feel the stirrings of desire race through your veins.  It is impossible, impossible to feel desire when you're like this.  But of course it isn't.  This is Bel, after all.  Bel, who always makes you feel two things at once, who always makes you surprised and unsure.  It is ridiculous, amazing.
"W-What are you doing?" you whisper, and curse yourself for the shaky sound of your voice.  Bel chuckles again, this time very, very lightly.  He moves his arm so that it skims over your other leg and then onto the mattress.  The hand on your arm moves to your back, splaying out over your bare skin, tracing the lines of your bra.  His tongue continues to take your breath away, again and again and again.
And then he pulls back suddenly.  He is hovering over your like he owns you, like he belongs there, and all you can do is stare up at him and wonder why he's stopped with his strangely intimate touch.  But then he opens his mouth to whisper and low, startling truth that has you shaking, quivering toward him.  "I can't help myself when you're bleeding," he tells you.  His eyes are flashing and his expression is serious and yet amused, always amused.  There is something hot, like fire, that touches the corners of his eyes and makes them explode.  It is strange and delicious and you swallow thickly and wait, wait, wait for the rest of his words, which hang in the air between you like unanswered wishes. 
Finally, he smirks and leans in.  His mouth grazes over yours, and against your lips he murmurs, "Seeing you bleed makes me want to fuck you hard."  And before you can stop to appreciate the renewed shivers the erupt over your body, his lips are crashing and burning suddenly against yours.  Not even giving you time to take a breath.  Your back hits the mattress and you moan, legs and arms curling around him as you take him closer.  The pain of your shoulder is barely a whisper now, and it ghosts over your passion, looking for a chink in the armor.
It is not the first time Belphegor has kissed you like this.  It isn't even the first time you've spent the night together as lovers.  But it feels like the first time.  When he presses you to the mattress and covers his body over yours.  When that tongue of his burns a path down from your lips to your neck to your chest, fingers easily jerking at your bra.  The emotions that tear through you, the twin desires that shatter against your skin like waves, they make you feel insane and crazy and completely unsure.  But then Bel kisses you again, harshly, angrily, and everything seems to fit back into place.  It's strange, but then again, so is Bel, and so is your relationship with him.  It's strange but also utterly delicious in a way you can't possibly explain.
His hand reaches under your thigh and he heaves it around his waist.  He is rough, as usual, and he doesn't stop to consider your own needs.  But that is okay.  You live in a sort of induced world whenever he's around, where he is in charge of your every move.  In this world, you are able to discover an odd kind of passion that fervently spreads over the atmosphere like wildfire.  It is a passion that only grows from the harsh dominance of Bel's movements, his hands, his kisses that drag over you and drown you, burn you.  It is a feeling like no other, being trapped beneath him.  You desire it just as bizarrely as you loathe it.  But then again, that is the essence of your relationship with Bel.  Love and hate, all mingled up into one tight bundle.
By now, you've all but mastered the imperfect way Bel makes love.  That love and hatred, that gentleness and discomfort.  It goes to your head and makes you feel alive.  You fall back and Bel follows you, pushing needy lips over yours.  His kiss makes your body feel like it is combusting, like chemicals.  You don't realize you feel lost in your waking hours until Bel has got you squeezed between him and a mattress.  And then, in the midst of all that love and hated, you finally feel at ease.  At home.
Bel snickers against your neck and rocks his hips into yours.  The heat and hardness that assaults your lower body makes you moan breathlessly, a short, pitiful sound.  You know Bel likes hearing it because he rewards you with a kiss, a gentler one that skims over your jaw before his mouth swoops back up to yours.  His fingertips are calloused and rough, and every time he touches your bare skin you think you might die from anticipation.  What will those fingers feel like against your core?  How far will he go until you snap, shatter, beg for the rest of him?  Because you will beg.  This is Bel, after all, who likes nothing more than seeing you at your weakest and exploiting you in the most foul, delicious way he can think of.
Your lips tremble.  You so want to tell him to hurry up, to not wait any longer.  You aren't as wet as you should be but you don't care if he hurts you.  The pain will last for a few minutes but then it will disappear, vanish.  But you keep your mouth shut because you know Bel doesn't like being told what to do, and he'll probably prolong it even more if you try. 
"Ushishishi~" he chuckles.  His hot tongue flickers out over your ear and you flinch, trying hard not to moan or give into the intense feelings that have your shivering into him.  He chuckles against at your expression, as though you are the most amusing person he's ever known, and tips his head away to study you closer.  His eyes blink owlishly down at you, as though he is curiously studying an artifact in a museum.  That he thinks of you in such a lowly fashion doesn't even register in your brain.  You don't care, don't care, don't care.  All you could possibly want is pressing down on you now, rubbing tantalizingly over you, boldly peering at you through maliciously passionate eyes.
Belphegor sneers.  Your legs are spread wide open, tucked around his waist, and you're suddenly aware of how slutty you're acting.  The thought goes right to your head and you glare, trying to wrestle your legs away from him.  He doesn't let you.  It isn't very hard to subdue you since you're injured, and Bel always knows the most foul ways of controlling you.  He lightly presses down on your wound but it's enough to make you whine and close your eyes from the intense pain.  All at once you're a shaking mess beneath him and he's chuckling now, laughing that laugh that makes you want to rip his chest open to see if he even has a heart.
"Naughty~" he snickers, nestling himself right back in between your legs.  He circles his hips against yours just a little, rubbing his hardened cock over you and watching your expression turn molten.  "I love it when you fight back.  It makes me want to hurt you~"  he says this almost cheerfully, like it's not totally messed up.  You're about to growl a retort but he doesn't let you.  His mouth is forcing yours back into a deep kiss and his hands are freely touching you, molding against your skin and digging into your clothes and God, it's such a terrible touch but you can't get enough of him.
That subtle shift of love and hate drifts right through you and leaves you gasping, inhaling the scent of his power, which hangs around you like a thick musk.  When his mouth burns back to yours, you grip the front of his shirt and hiss pleasurably against his lips.  Then, when he rolls his hips into yours and forces you to feel him, you think you're lying in some surreal landscape of high color.
"Take that stupid thing off," Bel mutters at you, and nudges the edge of your bra silently.  You toss him a halfhearted glare that only makes him laugh that sickening laugh of him.  But you can't deny him, not now, not when your body has already betrayed you.  So you glare and scowl and huff but you take your bra off anyway, and you're so glad you do because the way Bel immediately touches you has you gasping out in that elusive lurch of pleasure and pain.
His touch is far from gentle.  He leaves you feeling suspended between bodies, like your soul is arching up into the air.  And you gasp and tremble, but you don't try to stop him or the way he touches you.  His hand roughly traps a breast and his mouth descends upon it, all teeth and bites and scraping and pain.  And you're waiting for the blood but it doesn't come, not yet.
"Shishishi," he chuckles against your breast.  His tongue circles your nipple, then he kisses a path across your chest to nip and kiss your other breast.  You blink down at him warily, like he's some sort of feral animal you aren't sure you can trust.  Then, Bel suddenly lifts himself up, rolling his weight onto his arms near your head.  His eyes flicker over your body, eyeing the bandages at your shoulder and the way your legs are tucked around his waist.  Then he smirks that evil devil-like smirk and pushes back onto his heels.  A moment later, he's jerking his shirt over his head and then going for his pants.
The room is dimly light, so it makes the muscles of Bel's chest ripple together with shadows.  You stare at his body, watch the way he shuffles out of his pants fluidly, because he's done this sort of thing many times in the past, with you or someone else.  Then when he's got nothing else to remove, Bel shifts his hands to you and forces your pants down your legs with a couple of firm tugs.  You let him. 
What you don't expect is for him to immediately nestle back against you.  What you don't expect is the cold, icy grip of metal against your skin.  You hadn't even seen him reach for the knife, but suddenly it's in his hand.  You're filled with a strange kind of excitement-fear feeling that makes you feel as though you're drowning in a shallow pond, and you mutter, "Can't you just forgo the knives for once in your life, Bel?"  To which you receive a glower that makes your would-be lover look like some petulant child.
The pout doesn't last, though.  After a moment, Bel chuckles and leans down to kiss you again.  Before your lips meet, he murmurs, "I thought you liked that sort of thing."  And you're about to tell him to go fuck off but then he kisses you, and you can't remember why you'd say something like that when he should just fuck you, instead.
Apparently your both on the same wavelengths as far as the fucking goes.  Bel rolls his hips into yours again, and without the barrier of clothing it feels amazing and utterly satisfying.  But the feeling is immediately drown out when Bel's knife zips across your chest in a shallow cut, just barely deep enough to draw blood.
You hiss in pain, but then his mouth is lowering to the shallow cut and sucking at it.  And even though it should make you feel pain you can only feel pleasure, intense and crawling, like the slow drag of a cigarette beneath stars.  "God…" you moan, tangling your fingers into his hair.  He rolls his hips into yours again and the pleasure doubles, heightens to a frightening extent.  You start to wonder that question you can never figure out during moments like these, which is how being with Bel can be so crudely fulfilling.  But you've got little time to think because you're too busy watching that tongue of his lap up your blood.
The aching reaction of your body to this sight is a little betraying to you.  But it's not really anything new so you just brush it away for now.  You'll come back to this moment later on, to berate yourself for falling into this mess yet again.  But you're sure that you'll continue to fall for him, even as the rest of you repels the thought. 
Bel hums into the cut, rolls his tongue almost painfully against the edge of it, then lifts his head to face you.  He's got red stains around his mouth and you're struck with the crazy desire to kiss them off his skin.  You idle for half a second before deciding that you've already fallen the farthest you could possibly fall.  So you lift yourself onto your elbows and brush your mouth over the corner of Bel's.  And he watches you curiously, kissing you back just a little and enjoying the feel of your tongue brushing against his skin.
"Lay back down," he says after a moment.  You pause, look at his expression, and then do so.  Your arms swing up above your head and you look altogether casual, like laying beneath Bel all bloody and aroused is a completely normal thing to do.  In a way it is.
His hand comes down to stroke his member for a moment, and you watch him with half lidded eyes the burn with anticipation.  Then, when he pushes forward and slowly starts to enter you, your gaze shoots to the ceiling and you just lay there motionless, feeling terribly fulfilled.
These movements, as well, are not gentle.  But then you hadn't expected they would be.  Bel hilts himself into you with a harsh snap of his hips.  He watches the discomfort color your expression and grins a crooked, prideful grin.  Then he starts off at a pace that leaves you hanging between those shades of discomfort, and you can no longer breathe or gasp or moan.
But you can see, and hear, and touch.  You're surprised at how easily you're able to utterly lose yourself in the physical sensations of sex.  You're body is hyper stimulated.  You're aware of things you hadn't been before, like the soft almost-groans that edge along Bel's voice, the way his hands are clenching up the sheets by your head and occasionally brushing against your cheek.  You sigh out and tighten your legs around his waist.  Your hand splays out against the muscles in his back.  You look up into his eyes.
He's not looking at you.  His eyes are glazed and studying the welted red cut that is painted across your upper chest.  After a moment, he seems to realize that you're staring at him and he looks up.  His eyes smolder into yours like the ashy remains of a fire.
He grins, roughly thrusts into you with enough force to lift your hips from the mattress, and soaks up the pained moaned that pushes past your lips.  "Ushishi," he laughs, "does that hurt?"  You think he's the devil masquerading as a human.  Another quick, powerful thrust lurches your hips upward and makes you see stars.  "Mmm…it hurts," you admit, a whine in your voice.  It hurts but for some reason it makes you aroused at the same time.  You've long stopped questioning this defiant action and just accept it.  Accept the diluted fact that you're apparently a masochist, at least when it comes to him.
"But you like it…?" he grumbles into your ear, hovering above you, thrusting faster, harder.  You've likely got bruises forming on your hips but you don't care.  You're flying high and you feel like you're about to come.  All you can do is moan and whine out, "Yeah…I…ah!  I like it…"  And your face burns with embarrassment even as the rest of you sings out in release.
And what a release it is.  You shudder, tremble into the mattress.  Bel pushes you down and watches you come with intuitive, erotic eyes.  He groans a little as you clamp down hard on his shaft, and the look in his eyes makes it obvious that he is moments away from his own release, too.  When it does overpower him, it makes him seem more like an angel instead of a devil.  But the image fades as soon as he has regained himself once more, and the hard sheen on his eyes return to him.
"You came without my permission," is the first thing he says, all raw and ragged because of his orgasm.  You blink up at him and scowl, "Tch.  So did you."  And he raises his eyebrows at you for your impertinence.  But you don't care because the sex is over and Bel is annoying you again, and you don't like that strange mix of love and hate that cascades through you even now, especially since you know for a fact that it's one-sided.
"How naughty of you," Bel mutters, though he doesn't sound angry.  He stares at you for a long moment, then pushes onto his back and tucks his head into his arms.  You roll over to look at him, frowning.
"What are you doing?" you ask, raising yourself up on your elbow.  He usually leaves immediately after, so for him to linger is highly out of character.  But Bel merely scoffs and closes his eyes.  He mutters, "The Prince is trying to sleep, wench."  And you gape at him because sleeping together is one thing, but sleeping together is quite another.
When you don't do anything, Bel sighs in annoyance, opens his eyes, and glowers at you.  He grabs your shoulder and drags you down, mutters something about 'unruly subjects', and closes his eyes once more.  And all you can do is stare and try not to admit to the giddy feelings that rise unbidden in your slashed, scarred chest.


Sunday, April 20, 2014

A Canada Lemon -- Like Comets, We Collide

Character: Canada

Fandom: Hetalia

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: I've just spent the past 4 days dying from the stomach flu.  3:<  Go, go and lavish in this random assortment of Canadian smut!!  Oh, and Happy Easter, hope no one else is sick to their stomachs!

Canada is infamous for hockey, a little something that Matthew appears to have passed down to his people, because he is a God on ice.  As an unfortunate rule, you don't trust yourself to go out onto the slippery lake.  (In fact, you had been shocked when Matthew had even suggested the little winter rendezvous in the first place.)  But you are content sitting on the sidelines, tapping your ice skates together, watching the charming movements of your normally under confident lover.
Matthew is not as content.  "Come on," he says, holding out his hands for you as he slides to a stop two feet away.  You quirk a smile and tell him, "Are you sure?  I'll likely fall on my butt."  You've had bad experiences with ice in your childhood and you're not the type of person who forgets easily.  But Matthew only nods and heaves you up, immediately catching you against his chest when you accidentally stumble.
You laugh and wait for him to fix your hat, pat your gloves, fiddle with your scarf.  Then he grins, and it so fully encompasses his features that it takes your breath away.  "Ready?" he asks, clasping your hand in his.  You dare not say how unready you actually are, with him making your heart all fluttery.  You barely have time to nod before he's pushing off and sliding away, dragging you behind him.  A bit faster than you're ready for.
"Oh!" you cry, tripping forward.  He is just able to catch you before you fall face first onto the ice.  When you peer up at him in embarrassment, you can see that he's trying not to smile.  "Oh shut up!" you exclaim, not really angry.  This is, after all, one of the things Matthew is innately better at.  You have many talents in many things, so you're pleased when he can one up you in some way.  And the way his eyes sparkle, all bright violet, all smiling, makes you want to kiss him.
"We'll take it slower," he promises, and can't stop the chuckle that drifts into the air.  You scowl, just for the show of it, and he helps you back on your feet.  "You sort of have to walk backwards to move forward.  Here," he slides around to face you, taking both your hands.  In this position, you suddenly realize how taller he is than you, a feat that is often covered up by his under confidence.  But in his element, Matthew blossoms.
It gets better after that, but you can tell that the slow pace makes Matthew restless.  So after a couple minutes of him guiding you around, you untangle your hands from his and say, "I think I've got the hang of it."  (Even though you definitely don't and maybe never will.)  Nonetheless, he seems pleased and starts to slide away so gracefully, all agile and lithe, that you don't even bother to get annoyed at how easy it had been.
You watch him as you flounder forward, inch by dreadful inch.  You find yourself smiling as you wonder how he can move like that, so beautifully on the ice, and why he doesn't bring some of that gracefulness with him on land too.  You're so deep in your thoughts, your attention diverted from keeping balance, that it's really no surprise when you end up on your back.  You cringe cause your body is all aching from the fall, but when you open your eyes at the sky, the pain barely registers.  It is a beautifully blue and white mess of clouds, threaded through with the nettles of the branches.
"[Name]!  Are you alright!?"  Matthew's suddenly kneeling next to you, hovering over you, leaning down to look at you.  You're so overcome by that sky and his face and everything else that you start to laugh.  And suddenly you're aware of how ridiculous you are, laying on the ice.  And how this is probably how Matthew feels in social situations, in the face of your peculiar talents for getting out of sticky situations.
"I'm fine," you mumble when your laughter edges away.  His eyes soften and you raise your hand to his cheek, suddenly aware of his proximity and the lovely fact that you are both alone.  "Matthew…?" you whisper, noting at the way he seems to be unconsciously drawing nearer.  He breathes out a short, "Hmm?" and his eyes drop to your lips, which he desperately wants to kiss.  You prompt him by murmuring, "…Kiss me…?"  And he does, gratefully.
His kiss his soft and cherished, all mixed in with snow and ice and blue skies and crisp mountain air.  And then he's kissing you harder, slipping his hand beneath your head and pressing you into the ice.  And you're sliding your arms around his waist, clutching at his jacket, tangling your legs with his.  You don't feel cold anymore.  You only feel intense, lovely heat pooling everywhere, setting the air between you afire.
The kiss dissolves.  He pulls away for a very brief moment, takes one look at you (the way you're splayed out beneath him), and then delves back against your mouth because he can't possibly help himself.  Not when you're looking at him like that, not when he's so high on the powerful feeling of doing something he so terribly good at. 
"Mmm," you sigh against his mouth, cupping his neck and pulling him closer.  His touch is both gentle and invigorating, the perfect meld of emotion and desire.  And the way the cold ice presses against your back, countered only by his body as it presses flush against yours, makes your heart skip in giddy delight.  You'd like to suggest that you move somewhere more private, but unfortunately your kiss is interrupted in a much more embarrassing way.
"Mommy, are they kissing?" a young girl's voice asks, loudly.  Immediately, Matthew pulls away with a gasp, his face a furious red as he hurries to pull himself off of you.  You slowly sit up, feeling morbid embarrassment as well, and glance toward the mother and daughter.  It doesn't exactly surprise you that you've got company.  This is a mountain resort, and a very sprawling one at that.  You're more surprised at the lengthy amount of time you and Matthew got to spend alone. 
The mother clears her throat awkwardly and begins to quietly scold her daughter.  Meanwhile, Matthew pushes himself onto his feet and reaches down to help you up, still blushing.  You let him pull you up and softly ask, "Wanna head back to the lodge?"  Because you could do with a cup of hot cocoa right about now.  (Or something stronger.)
He looks relieved at the suggestion, which makes you giggle a little.  The mother and daughter are now putting their skates on, and so as you both move to the edge of the lake, you give them a small, apologetic smile.  Then you hurry to put your shoes back on.  You can't get to the lodge fast enough.
When you finally do, fifteen minutes later, you sit down with a tired sigh.  Matthew gives you a small, knowing grin and you bite your lip to stop from laughing.  Looking back on the situation, you suppose it had been a little funny.  You take a deep sip of the hot chocolate Matthew bought you and nudge his foot with yours.  He smiles boyishly and wraps both legs around your shins, a move that both surprises and excites you.  Here, in this winter resort miles away from home, you are both able to shed some of your inhibitions.  It is a lovely feeling.
"Tomorrow, I'll take you up the mountain," he tells you, reaching forward to play with your hand.  He threads his fingers with yours and rubs his thumb over your palm.  Then he asks, slowly, sort of hesitantly, "…Are you having fun?"  And the end of his sentence seems to rush into the silence.  'Are you having fun with me?'
You look at him for a moment, then slide both your hands into his and keep them there.  He blinks at you.  You murmur a soft, simple, "Yes."  And he can't stop the relieved smile from forming on his face.  When he sees the smirk that's curling up your mouth, though, he pauses.  His curiosity is blown away when you lean forward and suggest, in a voice of molded eager desire, "Let's go back to our room, Matthew."  The way you say his name is like nothing he's ever heard, all wrapped up in the promises of heat and skin and closed doors and privacy.  He suddenly can't wait to see those promises to fruition.
Though he doesn't give you a 'yes' or a 'no', you can see his answer boldly making its way onto his expression.  He likes your suggestion.  It makes you smile and stand up, taking your winter coat into your arms, your skates into your other hand, and looking expectantly at him before starting on the path to your rented room.  He follows quickly.
In the elevator, you wrap your arm around his waist and fit yourself to his side.  It's a normal move, for a couple.  Completely innocent.  And yet, there is something so exotic about touching someone you love in a public place, even if the touch is simple and common.  Matthew swallows down a burst of desire (to move you closer, to press you against the elevator wall, to kiss you like he had before), and you smile because even in this silence you can read him like an open book.  What you see doesn't merely amuse you: it excites you too, with the sort of passion that a person gets from the anticipation of it all.
The elevator dings and you head out into the hallway, still tucked to his side.  It is fairly empty but that doesn't surprise you.  Most of the guests spend their days skiing or skating or by the heated pool and it is still the middle of the afternoon.  Matthew fishes out the key card when you step up to your room and slides it in.  Then he reaches for the handle, peers down at you, and meets your eyes.  Violet crashes behind his gaze, impatient and steady.  When the door opens, you hurry inside and immediately turn to him.  Before the door closes all the way, you're wrapping your arms around his shoulders and dragging him into a kiss.
His cheeks flush with gentle pink, but the way he returns your kiss cancels out all hints of his own shyness.  Normally he would have spluttered and slowed.  Now, with all the confidence that comes from a much needed vacation, Matthew sinks into the kiss and pulls you closer, tipping your head back as he explores the contours of your mouth. 
There is little room for hesitance between the movements of his lips and the slow drag of his fingers, which snake beneath your shirt and press touches into your spine.  You find yourself clutching onto him tightly, his shirt crumpled in your grasp.  When you murmur, "Matthew…" he muffles the noise, swallows it, lets it shiver down his body and ignite the arousal spreading thickly through his veins.  He gathers you up closer and the kiss slowly dissolves.  When he opens his eyes, you're already watching him, and the sight of your bruised mouth and wide eyes and erratic breathing has his body turning to fire.
His cheeks turn to fire too, a bright red that engulfs his delicate pale skin.  And you laugh a little at the sight of him, but your laugh is dark and twisty and doesn't ring with innocent amusement like it usually does.  You push your body closer to his.  Your lips careen, graze past his mouth but you don't kiss him.  He watches you carefully, breath mingling with yours, hands hot around your waist and against your back.  And then you're whispering the most lovely set of words into a breathless kiss and it makes him feel like water breaking through the constraints of a glass cage.
"I'm in love with you…Matthew…" the words merge against his skin and it sounds like little bells have been attached to the letters of his name, because he swears he's never liked hearing it so much before.  His heart feels like it'll beat right out of his chest and he can't breathe, can't breathe.  But then he feels your hands rubbing warmth and desire into other parts of him and his inability to breathe is pushed aside for, frankly, more important things.
Matthew has never put much stock into physical desire.  Perhaps that's because he's never had anyone to be physical with.  But he simply cannot get enough of your touch, of the way you're able to take his shyness and turn it into brilliant, dazzling control.  He moans when you rub his erection through his pants, which bulges slightly into the air.  He buries his face into your hair and stumbles against you and clenches his fists into the back of your shirt, which is still unfortunately splayed against your body.
You kiss over his jaw and press power into his skin, like little pinpricks of sharpened stars that edge over the blurry line of his vision.  Then you're moving your palms up his body and lifting his shirt over his head, because there's only so much you can take right now and clothing isn't one of those things.  He lets you, and when the shirt tumbles past his head, his hair and glasses become skewed in the most adorable way, and you giggle because it's so counterproductive, that adorableness.  It's supposed to be hot and erotic and sensual, but being with Matthew always turns into something that transcends that.  Something that has more to do with comfort and zealousness and yes, a shred of that sensuality.
You splay your fingers over his bare chest, still smiling.  You watch him push his glasses back into place, run a hand through his hair.  Then he glances down at you and gives you a little pouty look that makes him even more adorable, and you can't stop yourself from laughing.  Because in this hotel room, a million miles from home, that comfort and zealousness all careen into you and him.  And it doesn't even matter that you can never seem to get the erotica down pat like other lovers can.  It doesn't matter because it's easier like this, smoother, like white wine and snow stretched as far as can be seen.
"What is it?" Matthew asks after a moment.  The way you're looking at him makes him curious, maybe a little hesitant.  He watches your smile crease up into your eyes and you hum pleasantly.  "You're cute," you tell him, closing the space between your bodies.  He swallows a little, tries to push down the butterflies that always, always erupt within him when you're near.  Then he smiles a little and shakes his head, looking down at you and murmuring, "Aren't we supposed to be making love?"
It's the closest thing to kinky that Matthew's ever said.  He seems to have realized this as well and blushes.  But you only smirk, lean up and kiss the edge of his mouth, thumb over the heat of his blush.  Then you nod and say, "You're right."  And you chuckle because before Matthew came hurtling into your life, you'd never gotten caught up in someone's smile.  But when he smiles you're lost like a lone ship at sea, and you forget about everything else you'd planned to do with him.  But now you remember.
You slide your hands down his arms, you light touch tickling into his skin.  The tips of your fingers gently slip down his hands, brush into his palms, his knuckles, before your arms drop to your sides.  You tilt your head back and look at him, and in a sultry-but-lighthearted sort of voice, you breathe, "Undress me."  Then you watch his reaction to your words, the delicious shiver that he cannot control, the gentle blush that tips against his neck and ears, the sheen of bashful interest that turns his gaze into a beautifully scintillating promise.
"Undress you…" he whispers, like he can't quite believe the words.  Like he isn't sure how to go about it, because now that he thinks of it, he's never just undressed you before.  You'd always had a part in it, and you'd always been pressed up against him and kissing him and in the heat of the moment.  But it had never been like this: dry like a desert and a million times more callow. 
You raise an eyebrow and smirk.  "Mm.  Undress me."  You step forward and he can feel the heat of your body invade his skin.  And he wonders if you can hear his heartbeat because it's so loud, to him.  And it rattles right through his flesh like torrid, barren bones that clack into a jumbled, incoherent, skeletal mess.
His fingers are shaking when he raises them up to touch your waist.  He steps closer, looking down at you with those bright eyes.  And you smile, this time softly, like you're trying to convey to him that he doesn't have to be afraid of you, that he can touch you as much as he likes because you like it, too.  He sighs out (torrid, barren), and slips his fingers around the hem of your shirt.  He pulls it up and off of you, and you gently circle your arms around his waist.
His violet eyes lurch into yours just as his fingers trim around your waist.  Carefully, like he's inhaling all the stars in the sky, Matthew leans down and presses his lips against yours.  You don't kiss him back.  You only immerse yourself in the delicate, sweet way he tucks kisses against your skin, lightly pulls at your bottom lip, scraps his teeth softly at your sensitive flesh.  And as he kisses you, distracts himself, falls into the promise of your love, he slowly unbuttons your jeans and jostles them down over your hips. 
This time, you help him.  Your jeans hit the floor and you kiss him back, mirroring the slow passion of his movements.  Kissing him like this is like sitting in a dark theater listening to opera.  The thrill of the pitch, the way it zigzags through the atmosphere, like you can physically feel the song digging into your skin and nerves and sinew.  And the way the reverberations chill down your spine and glide, break, attack, whisper.  And immersed in the imperfect beauty of a gentle but robust and raw and ragged darkness, kissing and breathing and making love seems to be the only course of action one should ever need to take.
His fingers pepper touches along your thighs, the tops of them, the sides of them, like he's blinded by the warmth of your body, the way it crushes into his.  Then he tumbles that touch to your panties, drags them down over your hips.  The kiss dissolves into silence, into an intermission, and the last note of the opera rings into his gaze as he directs it at you.  Your panties drop to the floor.  He raises his hands to unclip your bra and watches your every movement as he removes it.  The atmosphere is suddenly not adorable any more.  It is loaded, smoky like a slowly smoldering incense, creased with the empowered quiet that often accompanies sex.
You raise your fingers to his temples, curl them into his hair, bring his head down.  You press your breasts against him and he sighs out at the feel of your bareness pressed against his bareness.  Then you kiss him and the opera shatters into the dangerous lilt of deep baritone and you can't stop kissing him because it's so addictive.
"Mmm…you're still…wearing…those jeans…" you hear yourself whisper, but it's more like a dark murmur twisted through with the growling reverberation of passion.  And Matthew shudders at the sound of your words, the way they sink into the air and make it sizzle against his skin. 
You push him back, gently, until the bed is looming up behind you and Matthew's falling backwards onto it.  He looks surprised to be suddenly laying down.  His eyes are messy with desire and wide, so wide as he looks up at you.  His hair is strewn across his forehead and splayed against the sheets.  His glass are skewed again.  And there is no way he's adorable anymore, not at all.  Not when his jeans are hanging low on his hips.  Not when the tent of his pants has grown and his body has turned into a flushed and unmistakably aroused mess.
You follow him down, hook your legs around the both of his and straddle him.  Then you sinks against his core, rub circles against his erection and watch him gasp and clutch the sheets hard.  Your body hums in anticipation.  The reminder that your lover is hard and aroused and yours makes you feel delirious and crazy.  So it's no surprise that you waste little time in unzipping his pants.
"Help me out," you murmur to him.  He lifts his hips and helps you shimmy his jeans down his thighs.  You leave them hanging off him like that, not particularly caring that they're still clinging to his legs.  He doesn't care much either, because then your hand is pumping his length and he's too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
"A-Ahh…" he gasps, staring down at you.  The sight of your hand around his cock is almost too much for him to handle.  He bucks his hips up and clenches his teeth hard when your thumb brushes over his tip.  "[N-Name]…ahh, pl-please hurry…up…!"  And you can't possibly deny him when he's begging for you like this.  So you give him one last pump and crawl up his body, slowly starting to take him inside you.
His shaft is hard like iron and spears into you like nothing else.  Matthew's eyes are blown like twin eclipses, and he watches you closely as his cock is pressed ever further into you.  His chest rises and falls hurriedly and you splay your hands against it, brushing your touch over his nipples.  Then, when he's fully immersed within your core, you lift your hips and drag him out of you, then slam back down.  He crumbles, deteriorates, fragments into a thousand little pieces and sinks right into the mattress.  His mouth parts and his eyes turn into molten purple.  You're quick to press yourself against him, and quicker to take his mouth with yours.
The movements of your lips are sloppy at best, but then again you don't really care about being neat at this point.  The wind rushes at the window outside and rattles the glass.  The bed starts to creak from your thrusts and the weight of your bodies.  But all you can think about is Matthew, laying prone beneath you, gasping against your mouth neck the hollow of your ear, clutching at your waist and hips like he's drowning. 
In some ways, he is.  He's drowning within you, searching and yearning and giving into the mesh of emotion that clings like raindrops to his flesh.  And he wants to drown, so so badly.  He wants to fall into that sliver of peaceful, dark silence and come.  And perhaps it's the loaded atmosphere, but already Matthew can feel his end approaching.
He gasps and thrusts up, meeting your hips halfway and rattling a moan from you.  You bury your face into his neck and the mattress below.  His fingers reach up and he tugs at your hair, pulling gently but firmly with one hand.  His other hand clenches over your rear, pulling at your skin as his orgasm begins to shake through him. 
"[Name]!" his back arches just a little, just enough to make you feel yet another push of satisfied desire at the sight of his helplessness.  "I can't stop!  I can't -- nng!"  His coming before either of your are prepared, but if anything it's utterly sexy and you have to pull away so you can watch him.  His hips buck up into yours senselessly, his face crumples with desperate emotion, and his body spins off into a brilliant, flushed display of his finish.  It's so erotic that you can't stop your own body from reacting to it. 
You feel the crease of your own end infiltrating your body, but it's not enough.  Your thrusts quicken.  You push down his hips and milk him clean and feel his release saturate the very deepest part of you, and you watch him gasp and pant as you gloriously drag out his orgasm and search for your own.
It comes to you like a lone star dazzling across the sky, poignant and bright.  All at once you're moaning and thrusting harder and he's touching you reverently as he watches from below, eyes wide like he's witnessing the most lovely thing in the entire world.  And when finally it's over, all you can do is fall against his chest and try to find the breath that you've long ago lost. 
He wraps his arm tight around you and sighs.  The both of your are numb with satisfaction, hot and diluted with the fullness of sex.  You raise your head just a little and look down at him, and Matthew gives you a soft, small smile that makes you chuckle.  You run your hand through his hair and brush your thumb over the edge of his glasses, still skewed on his face. 
"I like going on vacations with you," you decide, grinning crookedly.  He hums, closes his eyes, and falls back.  You follow, snuggled up as close as a lover, comfortable and hungry for his presence.
"We should do this more often," he says tiredly in response.  You're unsure if he's talking about the actual vacation or the mindblowing sex that accompanies it, but then again you don't suppose it matters.  So you hum in agreement and press a kiss to his jaw, sighing out in exhaustion. 
Outside, the wind shrieks and rattles, and the daytime sun forms dove gray shadows over the floor.  Inside, you fall into a gentle sleep that is made out of bare skin and tired sighs and comfort and zealousness.  And somewhere, sometime, in some dark theater, a curtain slowly drops in a powerful clutch of heavy velvet, and the last note of a tragic story splits through the quiet stillness of the audience like two comets colliding. 


Sunday, April 13, 2014

A Johanna Mason Lemon -- Efflorescence

Character: Johanna Mason

Fandom: The Hunger Games

OC: Bethany Carpenter

Inspiration: This is possibly one of my most shameless lemons yet, so prepare yourselves ;3

Johanna made love like she was roughly scratching away at dried paint.  She had a certain way about her that made all her movements seem poignant and raw.  And she always said that Bethany was a mushy romantic, at least compared to her own pragmatic dynamism.  Bethany was alright with falling into this category.  She liked to consider it a balance, as perfect as it was going to ever get, between two souls who couldn't help but careen into one another.  Johanna would scoff at the thought, but Bethany knew that inwardly she was pleased.
"Would you just hurry up?" Johanna grumbled, her head cushioned into crossed arms that were strewn up and behind her hair.  Forest green eyes blinked down to watch the unhurried ministrations of her lover, who was nestled comfortably between legs, her lips tracing a slow path down Johanna's abdomen.  The musky scent of arousal set the scene in the lightest of ways, like the taste of a dream playing with the senses.
Bethany raised her head to glance at Johanna, a dry expression hooking itself onto her features.  This was another difference between them: Johanna's patience ran out extremely quickly, whereas Bethany liked taking her time.  It made for a lot of interesting scenarios, if nothing else.
Bethany kissed the top of her lover's thigh.  Against her skin, she murmured, "Do you have somewhere else to be?"  The response she received was a scoff and a rough twist of fingers in Bethany's hair, impatiently lifting her head again.  Green dashed into articulate eyes. 
Instead of answering Bethany's question, though, Johanna merely asked one of her own.  "Did you bring the strap on?"  The bluntness of her words almost had Bethany blushing, but she held it at bay because she knew it would only amuse Johanna. 
With a disgruntled sigh, Bethany lifted herself up and glowered down at her lover.  "Are you sure you're ready for that?  We only just got started."  The last part came out as a whine, because Bethany had wanted to drag out the initial pleasure as long as possible.  The petting, the touching, it thrilled her.  But Johanna preferred a more brash, direct approach.
"Just put it on," Johanna said, settling her head back into her arms.  In that position, her breasts were pushed up into the air just a tiny bit.  It drew Bethany's attention and made her want to lean down and caress that scarred, flawed body.  But instead she just rolled her eyes and slid off the bed, reaching for the bag she'd brought and tossed on the ground earlier that evening.  When she returned to the bed, she was reluctantly buckling the contraption around her hips.  Johanna watched with heady eyes, her mouth curved into the hint of a delicious smirk.
"You look so sexy with that on," the older woman purred, slowly pushing herself up.  Her eyes lingered on the straps that clung around Bethany's thighs.  The primal, predatory way Johanna smiled made a thrill of uneven pleasure rush through her, like a waterfall of heady passion.
Bethany tilted her head and reached down to fondle with the fleshy strap on, pumping it like she would a real cock.  She watched Johanna's eyes light up in interest as she watched her every movement.  Then Bethany smirked and murmured, "Aren't you gonna touch me, 'hanna?"  And the older woman scoffed and sat up, gently pushing Bethany onto her back and muttering, "Che.  Maybe I should be the one wearing it.  You deserve some punishment, you rude wench."  She drew out the last word and it sounded like sticky honey was saturating every letter.
Bethany beamed.  "D'you wanna ride me or something?  Shouldn't I make sure you're ready for it first?"  But her words were careless and backless, because she knew that Johanna was more than ready, and besides, the older woman liked a little pain mingled in with the pleasure.  Something that Bethany learned early on.
"Shut up," Johanna muttered, and then she kissed her younger lover hard, her fingers tugging into Bethany's hair and pulling at her scalp.  Bethany let out a little whimpering sound that made Johanna feel full of power, and she pushed Beth further into the mattress whilst pressing a knee between her legs.  The dildo shifted against Johanna's leg and the reminder of it made the kiss that much hotter, wetter, deeper.
"Mmm…" Bethany moaned, hooking a leg around Johanna's slim waist.  She pushed herself onto her elbows and kissed Johanna harder, their tongues meeting and rubbing against each other.  Then the kiss dissolved when Johanna gently pushed Beth back down, hooked her legs up around her waist, and curled her fingers around the dildo.
Johanna had this way of taking what she wanted first and leaving Bethany gasping with a pounding arousal.  But she always paid Bethany back tenfold later on, so Bethany wasn't about to complain as she watched Johanna rub the strap on against her folds.  Instead, she just got comfortable, settling herself against the pillows and watching with heady, fascinated eyes as Johanna began to push the cock into her core.  Then, when the older woman had taken all of it, Johanna let out a deep sigh and started shifting her hips against Bethany's.  It was this moment that Beth enjoyed the most, because it meant she could touch Johanna as much as she wanted and the older woman wouldn't stop her.
She raised her hands to Johanna's waist, rubbed over the tops of her thighs for a moment before reaching up to trace the underside of her breasts.  Then, because she still dearly wanted to taste that skin, Bethany gently pushed herself into a sitting position and lowered her mouth to Johanna's breast.  Johanna watched, swallowing down her moans and rocking against the strap on faster, faster.  And when Bethany gently tugged her nipple between tongue and teeth, Johanna let out the most mesmerizing moan that made Bethany utterly ache.
"Does it feel good?" Bethany asked after a long minute of licking and sucking and tasting.  She raised her head to Johanna's, looked into those bright eyes that were filled with delirious passion.  And the answer Beth got was worth everything second spent glorifying that body.  Johanna tangled one hand into Beth's hair and forced her head back, her mouth lurching down to devour Bethany's lips.  The strength of the kiss, coupled with the increasing pace of Johanna's hips, left Bethany with the knowledge that her lover was nearly there.
"Mmm," Johanna moaned, the sound muffling into Beth's mouth.  She swallowed the sound, taking the kiss deeper and curling one hand around the older woman's waist.  Her hips rocked forward just a little, and though the position didn't allow for much movement, the small improvement sent Johanna spiraling down into a burning pit of desire.  She broke the kiss and buried her face into Bethany's neck, breathing out hard and pressing her breasts against her young lover's.  "I'm gonna come," she warned, and her voice was surprisingly strong even as the rest of her quivered and shook. 
Bethany took it all in stride.  She nodded, looked up towards the ceiling and murmured, "Whenever you're ready."  And she was barely finished with her sentence before Johanna was arching her back, pounding her hips harder, taking the strap on deeper, faster.  She let out a grumbled moan that seemed to crackle and break and shift with pleasure, and Bethany let it reverberate through her as Johanna drowned against her smaller frame.
Then Johanna was pushing Bethany onto her back, moving her hips smoothly as she dragged out her own orgasm.  She closed her eyes and Bethany could only watch, watch as the remnants of passion filtered through her expression, breath, movements.  It was lovely.  Then it was done, and Johanna was sighing out and pulling away, sliding off the fake cock and tracing the buckles that held it against Bethany's waist.
For a moment, they just stared at each other, both taken aback by the immense pleasure of being together.  Then Johanna leaned in to press her mouth against Bethany's, and into the kiss she murmured a low, "It's your turn."  The younger woman shivered at the words and let her lover unbuckle the strap on and slide it off.
"Are you gonna put that on now?" Beth asked, her voice sort of lazy even against the backdrop of intense desire.  But her lover only shook her head, smirked, and said, "I've got a better idea.  You'll like it."  The promise had Bethany sitting up and raising an eyebrow, curiosity getting the better of her.  It was only when Johanna had dug around in the drawer beside the bed that said curiosity was sated.  The toy was a hot pink and Bethany was well acquainted with it, but was usually the one who used it on Johanna and not the other way around.
She gave Johanna a crooked grin and shifted her legs apart, looking positively mischievous.  "I do like this idea," she murmured, blinking up at the older woman.  Johanna slid closer, nudged Beth's legs around her waist, and scoffed playfully.  Then she gently pressed the dildo against her lover's core and smirked, "Guess we don't need lubricant.  You're soaking wet, you little slut."
Bethany pouted up at her, probably because of the mock insult, and whined, "Hurry up, 'hanna.  This little slut needs you~"  And Johanna gave her a small shove as though to say, 'stop being so corny'.  A moment later, the older woman was rather roughly pushing the toy into her lover.
"Tch!  Go slower!" Bethany exclaimed indignantly, her back arching in discomfort.  She sent Johanna a pouting glare, but the older woman only smirked and stubbornly ignored her.  "'Hanna - ohhh!" a little buzzing sound filled the static silence and made Bethany arch her back in something that had little to do with pain.  Her fingers clutched at the sheets and she gasped loudly, feeling the vibrations of the dildo traveling to places inside her that she hadn't even known existed.  And above her, Johanna's eyes glittered.
It wasn't gentle, the movements of that toy.  Johanna knew how to combine the pleasure and the pain in the most delicious and intricate of ways.  Her long fingers brushed over the nub of Bethany's clit and, coupled with the vibrations and motions of the toy, it made her orgasm come all the faster.  Beth's hips surged forward helplessly, her mind a startlingly blank maze woven through with pleasure.  She felt herself launching into her orgasm before she could stop herself, and by then all she could do was lay there and let Johanna work her magic on her body.
"'Hanna…'hanna…!" she cried, twisting into an arch that had Johanna's mouth watering.  The older woman quickened her already fast pace, pumping the toy in and out of Bethany's core and watching her lover unravel with harsh, domineering eyes.  It wasn't until Bethany was gasping and spent, splayed out against the sheets, that Johanna slowed down and eventually tossed the toy over the edge of the mattress, not caring where it landed.
Then the older woman crawled up Bethany's body, nudging her limbs aside and collapsing against Beth's chest.  Her chin rested right above her young lover's breast, and Johanna idly slid her hand up and down Bethany's side as she listening to her lover's erratic breathing begin to slow down. 
"I'm not finished with you yet," Johanna warned, her voice low with unfulfilled passion that had yet to be released.  Bethany let out a breathless chuckle and smoothed her hand through Johanna's hair.  Their legs tangled together.
"Glad to hear it," came her soft response.  She pressed a kiss to her lover's head and closed her eyes.  They would have ample time to explore and rediscover the nature of their relationship, but for now, a little rest was more than welcome.