Monday, December 28, 2015

A Jim Moriarty Lemon -- Recreation, My Dear

Character: James Moriarty

Fandom: BBC Sherklock

OC: Elisabeth Barker, blue eyes, short black hair

Inspiration: Just a short little smut scene for our resident villain

The night is slow in coming, but when it does arrive it seems to linger into eternity.  There is a crackling fire in the grate.  Every few seconds it pops and the flame sizzle over the wood with a vengeance that Jim rather enjoys.  He’s propped up in bed, watching the last of the afternoon sun sink down into the shroud of early evening; listening to the faint trickle of piano as Bach plays on the nearby stereo; enjoying the way Elisabeth is sleeping so soundly beside him, cuddled into the sheets.  He drifts his fingers over her hair as he watches her, eyes calm and content.  He has never felt more content.  Strange.
The day has been spent exploring and rediscovering the most base of emotions.  Desire, passion, sex…it all seems so oddly tranquil to think about, and Jim does think about it.  It’s a little hard not to, when glorified satiation brims into every corner of the room.  And yet that satiation is still incomplete, simply because he finds himself wanting more, more, more – and he’s never been the sort of man to deny himself much of anything.
He flicks a strand of his lover’s hair away from her neck and lowers his mouth to her skin, pressing a kiss against her.  Then down, moving his lips over the top of her shoulder and over her upper arm, fingers hooking around the edge of the sheet and lowering it to reveal pale collar bones and the tops of her breasts.  There’s something beautiful in this tiny moment that he cannot quite understand, but understanding is a fleeting thing really, and it shifts and succors him into its depths without preamble.  There are a few things he does understand, like the fact that Elisabeth is sleepily opening her eyes and looking up at him with an emotion that pierces his black heart.
“Mmm…what time is it?” she asks, voice lovely and groggy.  His name would sound perfect in that dulcet tone, and so would a moan or a breathless whimper – but he’s getting ahead of himself.  He enjoys the waiting, the slow drag of comprehension, and so he just lowers his mouth back to her shoulder and says against her skin, “Five o’clock.”
A simple response from a not so simple man.  Elisabeth smiles a little and shifts closer to him, rolling over and placing a palm over his chest.  He watches her from above, her every movement pressing itself into memory for him to savor later on, when this dreamy afternoon has ended. 
“You let me sleep for longer than I expected,” she mumbles to him, trying to remember when they had finally settled in and rested.  Must’ve been a few hours, at least.  Which means that Jim perhaps isn’t quite as impatient as he normally is.  She raises her eyes to his and gives him a smile that’s almost a leer.  His cold eyes soften just the tiniest bit, made gentle by the spark of interest that flares through them. 
He rolls onto his back with a sigh and rests his head in his arms.  “Maybe I got bored of you.”  It isn’t true, of course, and she knows it.
She follows him, shuffling against his body and propping herself over him.  The sheet disappears somewhere around their waists, and the glorious length of his chest is revealed for her perusal.  She takes advantage of it by palming a hand over him, tracing every muscle and scar and then dropping lower, because quite frankly, her hunger is voracious.
He lets her, just watching, waiting.  And when she curls her hand around his member, he just breathes out and gets comfortable, apparently not deeming the situation worth any effort on his part.  Elisabeth doesn’t seem to care.  She just chuckles at him and gently pumps him through her fingers, bringing him to stiffness in just a few minutes.  And then, when he’s adequately aroused, she decides to see just how far she can push him, and gives him a few slightly more…vicious touches.
His nostrils flare and he growls at her.  “That hurts, you know,” he informs her dryly, but his eyes flash with interest.  He doesn’t mind pain, and Elisabeth knows this.  She knows it catches his attention, and she wants to bring out the slightly more…sadistic side of him.  So she just sends him a dark grin and shrugs delicately, like she hadn’t meant much of it.  It’s very obvious that she had, though, especially when she does it again.
It’s the last straw, as they say.  Jim growls and twists himself up, shoving her down onto her back with one forceful movement.  She falls hard into the pillows with a sharp gasp of desire.  He’s suddenly pressing her down with his lower body, which is nestled very resolutely against hers.  The hardness of his shaft pins her there, for a moment, but then Elisabeth laughs breathlessly and wriggles her hips.  He chuckles too, a darker sound that scrapes the low octaves of his voice, and presses a bruising kiss to her mouth.
“You must be feeling sadistic tonight,” he mumbles, his eyes sharp and cunning as they lock onto hers.  She’s going to respond, even opens her mouth to do so, but Jim doesn’t give her the chance.  He kisses her harder, taking advantage of her parted lips to thrust his tongue into her mouth.  The airy moan she gives him is well worth the effort.
A harsh grind of his hips makes her jerk her arms around him, nails digging into his flesh as she lets out a whimpered moan.  He swallows it, devours it, sinks his teeth into her bottom lip and laps up the trace of blood that is left in his wake.  She knows better than to spark this side of him – but apparently she wants it to come out.  How can he deny her what she wants?  
One hand fondles her breast, tweaking her nipple with careless force.  A whimper shifts from her throat, which he immediately kisses down, following the sharp path of his destructive desire as he bites and nips at her exposed skin.  He’ll give her what she clearly yearns for and he’ll enjoy doing it.
He moves his mouth to her breast, gives it one hard suck that leaves her feeling dry and crazed, and trails a hand down her body.  A few pinches here and there, pausing at her hips and inner thighs – flashes of short-lived pain that plummets through her and weighs her down – then one finger is idly tracing her core and Elisabeth is gasping at the sudden but not altogether unexpected sensation.
She doesn’t expect him to be gentle with her and he isn’t.  Only a few circles of her clit and his finger is pushing into her entrance without further ado.  She’s not unprepared for him though.  The hours they’ve already spent in this bedroom has seen to that, and she’s still wet from their previous recreational activities.  It takes only a few hard thrusts of his fingers before she’s reacting to him, getting wetter and feeling the wicked shivers of desire pull at her.  Five hard thrusting jolts and Elisabeth is murmuring his name, reaching up for him, pulling him down.  This time he doesn’t argue.
His lips slide over hers, surprisingly gentle at first.  It lasts only a moment before he turns feral again, and as he roughly kisses her, his thumb burns over the top of her clit and makes her gasp against him. 
“Jim…” she mumbles, though the sound comes out shaky and barely coherent against his brutal kiss.  He peers down at her as he moves his mouth with her, raises a wicked eyebrow, and gives her a promising nip at her lip.  She’s not sure if it’s a warning or something else.
“Already wet and moaning for me and it hasn’t even been five minutes,” he says with a dark chuckle.  His eyes flash.  His fingers quicken.  He watches her expression crumble as he draws her orgasm closer and closer to fruition…and then when she’s beginning to arch her body up, he stops point blank, removes his hand, and just stares at her like she’s a strange mysterious artifact waiting for his perusal.
Elisabeth isn’t surprised by the move, but she’s not exactly pleased about it either.  She’s a stubborn and impatient lover – easy to please but fierce when she doesn’t get her way.  She glares up at him and staunchly says, “You fucking bastard.”  His eyebrow rises further with the tides of his interest.  Interest that is quick to multiply, and quicker to fade.
“Mhmm,” he agrees with a sinister smirk, and pushes himself up and off the bed.  Now that they’re both aroused, he’s not planning on leaving this room any time soon, but what’s the point of it all if he’s not having a bit of fun?  He stretches, muscles roiling beneath his skin as he lifts his arms above his head.  And, in all his naked glory, Jim saunters over to the fireplace and adds another log.  Elisabeth just watches him.
Confused isn’t quite the right word to describe what she’s feeling.  Discontent, maybe?  Annoyed?  Aggravated that he stopped so suddenly and apparently has lost interest in her?  No, perhaps not.  He hasn’t lost interest; he’s just turning the tables.  A habit of his, and habits are difficult to break, even in the heat of sex.
She swings her legs off the bed and sits at the edge of it, studying his movements with the precision only someone of her career could have.  She knows him well enough by now to realize when he’s just biding his time.  And when Jim gets up and moves over to the armchair beside the fire, she’s got a feeling that the nature of his desires are about to be revealed.  She isn’t entirely wrong.
“Come here and let’s have a fuck, then, since you seem to want it so badly,” he sighs.  It’s like the whole situation is just a nuisance to him – something that bores him to tears.  Elisabeth knows better.  She laughs quietly as she rises, striding over to him and taking a seat on the arm of the chair.  The firelight flickers over their nude forms, and Jim takes a moment to drag his eyes over her skin.
She doesn’t need instruction.  It’s good because he doesn’t look inclined to give any.  Jim just sits there, bored, one hand on his chin as he blinks at her like a lazy cat.  She gives him a smirk and shuffles into his lap, her back to him.  She takes a moment to rub herself over his hard cock, fingers guiding it against her core, before she decides not to push her luck.  His impatience is probably more legendary than hers.  So she guides him into her without another moment of hesitation, and sinks down around him.
He doesn’t make a sound to show that he’s aroused by the move but Elisabeth doesn’t care.  She’s aroused, and she knows Jim will enjoy himself.  If he doesn’t, then he’ll just turn the tables yet again and make himself enjoy it.  He’s never been the type to care about other’s pleasure, so she takes the moment as it is and hooks her legs over his, raising her body up and then sinking back down.  She does it a few more times, but…
Too slow.  If she keeps on like this, she’ll bore him and besides, she’ll bore herself too.  She pushes her upper body forward, planting her feet on the floor and bracing her hands on his knees.  The rhythm hastens.  Jim puts a hand on her hip and thumbs over her skin.  The soft touch bolsters her – he’s clearly enjoying the situation more than he lets on.  She pushes herself faster and moans quietly to herself, feeling a little slutty as she pleasures herself on his cock.  But she doesn’t care.  She keeps going.
But after a few minutes of this, Jim’s boredom catches up to him.  He doesn’t like the submissive quality of this position, despite the fact that he actually is calling the shots.  (He always is.)  So as Elisabeth goes back down on him, Jim hooks his arms around her, sliding them beneath her thighs and heaving them up to her chest – then standing and bringing her with him.  She gasps and struggles a little, because of course she hadn’t been expecting this – and Jim just chuckles and walks over to the bed, still buried deep inside her.
Every step sets her on fire, but when Jim finally throws her face down on top of the mattress, Elisabeth decides that this is infinitely more exciting.  One hand forces her head down, then joins the other as he pulls her hips to the side of the bed and growls, “Knees up.”  She flounders a moment too long and he rewards her with a not-so gentle smack on her rear. 
He sinks back inside her, shoving himself as deeply as he can.  Yes, this is better, he thinks.  He has every ounce of control now.  Elisabeth just grasps the sheets tightly and rocks back to meet his thrusts, which are utterly powerful and probably bruising.  He lifts one knee to the mattress beside her form and braces himself, fingers digging into her hips as he increases his pace.  And she can only gasp, ragged and heaving as he fills her again and again and again, until at last her orgasm shreds her to pieces and, thankfully, isn’t halted halfway through this time.
He grits his teeth as she clenches down on him, and watches her gasp his name into the mattress.  Shivers ricochet through her body with such force that Jim absorbs them.  He shivers too – and, spurred on by the tight grip of her and the sight she makes, lets himself go.
A harsh and brutal thrust later and Jim shoves her away, jerking her hips to the side.  Elisabeth rolls over, landing on her side with a curious but heavily satiated glow.  He joins her, throwing himself onto the bed too with a heave of exhaustion, and closes his eyes.  They stay there for a long moment that’s drenched in something strangely bittersweet, and then Elisabeth decides to brave the storm that is Jim Moriarty, and edges closer to him.  She sidles her body against his and gently pushes her fingers through his hair, face inches away as she watches him.
He doesn’t complain, only wraps an arm around her and buries his face against her chest in a rare moment of tenderness.  And around them the fire keeps crackling and the evening keeps darkening and their hearts keep beating.


Saturday, December 26, 2015

An Alistair Lemon -- The Effects of Loving You

Character: Alistair

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins

OC: Ingrid Amell, dark hair, brash, kindhearted

Inspiration: Alistair likes to complain in order to hide what he’s actually feeling.  x3  Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas!

Dried herbs and candle wax are the predominant scents in Ingrid’s tent.  It is comfortable, soothing almost, in a way Alistair cannot place.  Well perhaps he could, but he is much too busy trying to make her job as difficult as he possibly can.
“Ooowwwww!” he childishly whines with a cringe.  She rolls her eyes and continues unbuckling his armor.  It’s heavy plate metal, and she’s never understood how he can go every day dragging it around as if it weighs next to nothing.  She never hears him complain about that.
“Do shut up,” she tells him, maybe a little harsher than she intends.  She sometimes can’t help it.  Her worry makes her temper flare, and it is short these days as it is with all the threats to their lives.  To say that life is stressful would be the understatement of the ages.
Her fingers slip on the buckle at his side.  She’s already taken a quick wash to rid herself of the majority of blood and gore, but Alistair hadn’t had the chance before their companions rushed him into her tent for healing.  He’d claimed it was nothing, but the way he’d been limping told her otherwise.  And who knows what other injuries he is hiding behind this steel barrier?  She will get to the bottom of it, even if his constant complaints are making her ire increase at every turn.
He doesn’t respond to the quip, but does grimace.  She’s not sure if the expression is due to her obvious annoyance or the less than gentle way she’s removing his armor.  If she’s being honest with herself, she doesn’t really care either way.  Her worry has made her tired, and the exhaustion of the many ambushes they’d had to fight their way out of today doesn’t help matters.  The moment she heals him, she’s collapsing into bed and never getting out of it again.
In a perfect world, she would do that.  But Ingrid does not live in a perfect world.  Her world is riddled with filth and Darkspawn and never ending battles and civil wars – and somewhere in the middle of it, somehow, this man had managed to sidle his way into the fray of her desires.  Complex.  That’s what it is – a very strange complexity that she wouldn’t normally associate with a simple minded, honest man like Alistair.  No…she does not live in a perfect world.  Perhaps the only perfect thing in her life is, well, him.
But she will not tell him this.  Not yet.  Not when she’s angrily pulling his shoulder pads off and grasping at the chest plates and frowning at the fact that he never tells her when he’s gone and gotten himself hurt – he never accepts her help unless he’s forced into it.  Never never never.
“Do you want to die?!” she suddenly exclaims, and then pauses because she hadn’t actually meant to say that, it was just a continuation of her thoughts, and Alistair is looking at her like perhaps she is threatening him and he cannot understand why.  He stares at her.  She tries to banish the red that she can feel blossoming in her cheeks, but she fears she is not very successful, because his eyes are twinkling just a tiny bit and his mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard to hold a smile at bay.
In perfectly good humor, Alistair hums and says, “Weeeelllll…not really, no.  I think I prefer living – even though fighting Darkspawn on a daily basis does sometimes make me wonder.”  He started to chuckle, and then choked it down with a pained groan when Ingrid glared and finally got the Blighted chest piece off.  Damnable thing…
She attacks his shirt, unknotting it with skillful fingers that fly fast over the stays.  Alistair swallows thickly, the humor drained from his eyes.  It is replaced by something else, something that Ingrid doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about.  He can’t tell and neither can she, because she’s too busy trying to decide if she’s thankful that he’s alright or angry that he’s not.  She pulls the shirt off to reveal the smooth, gratefully uninjured skin beneath, and starts for his pants.  When she goes to untie the stays around his waist, Alistair blushes so profoundly that the tips of his ears turn bright red.
“Erm…” he starts, then pauses and trails off, only to have Ingrid demand in a snapping tone, “What is it?”  He coughs, not sure if he would rather watch those quick fingers of hers or her face, which is still blazing with fury and a bit of red too.  Well at least he knows she’s not completely unaffected by all this.  He decides that perhaps it would be best to turn his gaze somewhere else entirely, and so he lifts his eyes to the ceiling of the tent (her tent, a wicked little voice whispers) and clears his throat as she starts to pull off the trousers. 
“I…ah, well I’ve…never had such a beautiful woman take so many clothes off…me.”  He clears his throat again he feels her eyes glance up at him, and tries to ignore the fact that he is practically naked except for one tiny little bit of cloth that is not going to hide anything should he…should he start feeling…more.  Andraste’s flaming tits.
Ingrid, however much she appreciates the sight of him, only sighs and tries her best to retreat into the healer she truly is.  She’s seen plenty of naked men before, lying on her table with blood oozing from horrific wounds.  Alistair is just one of many.  Or at least he should be.  But Maker, he’s absolutely gorgeous and she’s utterly smitten with him, which really doesn’t help her case.
“Just relax, Alistair,” she tells him, trying to calm her voice so that she doesn’t snap at him again.  It comes out softer this time – a little softer than she intends for it to sound.  She’s not sure if that’s because of the fact that he’s nearly naked, or because of the nasty wound that’s spread over the majority of his left thigh.  She purses her lips and gently reaches down to touch it, and Alistair groans, “Oowww!  Holy Maker, that hurts!”  But pain is good, pain will distract him, pain will give him reason for –
“Mmmmmmmm…” he gasps, feeling a heat like no other spread over his thigh.  Magic ghosts over his skin, threading it back together from the inside out.  It hurts, a little, but mostly it just feels…Maker, but it feels amazing.  He’s positive it’s only because it’s so close to his…er, his groin, because the warmth doesn’t just stay in one spot.  It encompasses his entire leg and definitely a little bit more, too.
Ingrid tries not to react to the moan he lets loose.  Now is definitely not the time to let her attraction guide her blindly.  She focuses.  Magic takes concentration, else it gets out of control.  She’d rather not blow up the campsite any time soon.  And besides, healing magic takes even more concentration, and so she keeps her eyes trained solely on the wound.  If she brings them up to his face, she fears she might waver.
“Maker,” he pants, hands fisting together.  He’s staring hard at the ceiling now, all but glaring into it, but when he notices Ingrid leaning down to his thigh, his eyes flash down to watch with careful curiosity.  She slides a hand against the inside of his thigh, where his skin is unmarked and uninjured.  He can feel her breath drifting over him.  She’s so close to his – Maker preserve him, but he thinks he might die right here in her tent.  Fire takes hold of him and he feels rather than sees himself get a little harder.  He closes his eyes tight after that, for he fears that watching her might actually make it worse.
But apparently it doesn’t matter whether he watches her or not, because he can still feel her.  He’s not sure she’s aware of it, but she’s sort of stroking his inner thigh, fingers drifting over his skin.  It’s highly distracting – he wishes she’d stop, because every time she does it his blood boils hotter.  He should’ve insisted that she just cut the leg of his trouser away.  At least that would’ve saved him from the mortification, even if he’d have to walk around with only his steel greaves until they reached another town.
“Stay still,” she orders, “I think there’s a piece of metal stuck in your wound.  I’m going to have to dig it out.”  Her voice is so steady that Alistair feels even more foolish than he already does.  Is she not even a little moved by this situation?  Not even a tiny bit distracted by, well, by him?  If the tables had been turned, if she was the only injured and almost bare and he was hovering over her, he really doubted he’d be able to do anything but partake in all the wicked things going round and round in his head. 
“Alright then,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut.  He braces himself, finding that he actually welcomes the pain.  Hopefully it will help to drive everything else from his mind.  It does, but not for long.  Ingrid is a skilled healer.  It takes only a few moments for her to find the shard of metal and to jerk it out.  Alistair groans at the pain, cussing under his breath, and then his body is once more encased with the warmth of her magic.  And then it’s drifting up his thighs and wrapping around his member and Maker, but he’s not sure he’s going to be able to get out of this situation unscathed and with his pride intact.
“Th-that’s enough!” he cries, jolting up into a sitting position.  His hands flutter over hers and he tries to push them away – anything that will make her stop whatever it is that she’s doing to him.  Holy hell, he’s so turned on right now that it’s a wonder he doesn’t have a Blighted erection - !
Ingrid huffs as he catches her wrists, peering up at him with a disdainful expression.  “What in Andraste’s name are you doing?  Do you know how detrimental it is to stop magic so suddenly?”  But then her eyes are ghosting back down to his wound, and on the way she catches sight of the one thing she suddenly realizes Alistair is trying to hide.  Her eyes widen.  She stares at the stiffness tenting up his smalls, and mumbles a short, “…Oh…”  She sounds a little breathless and she wonders how the hell she hadn’t realized it before.  Everything makes sense now – his complaints, his whining, every gasp, every curse.
Alistair thinks he might actually succeed in melting right into the ground.  His ears turn bright red as she stares down at him.  His chest gets hot, and it feels as if his blush is spreading throughout the entirety of his body.  Mortified embarrassment pushes at him. 
He wishes he had Zevran’s ability to laugh at these matters, but he doesn’t, and the truth is that he’s scared out of his mind.  This is definitely not how he’d intended for this to go – he’d wanted to confess to her first, tell her how he thinks she’s beautiful and how she lights up his entire world, and then maybe, maybe that he would like nothing more than to be with her like this.  Intimately.  But he’d do so with honor, with chivalry.  Not like this.
“Yes…oh,” he mutters, eyes downcast and looking anywhere but at her.  Her reaction hadn’t been ideal.  She hadn’t fallen into his arms like he’d imagined she might.  This entire situation isn’t going at all like he’s planned, and he really needs to get the hell out of her tent before he dies from the humiliation. 
He laughs awkwardly and starts scrambling away from her.  “I, uh, I think I’m going to go…do…something else…erm, ah, that’s not what I meant to say.  Blast.  I’m going to…go.  Yes.”  He would have definitely gone on to stutter out more nonsense and probably embarrass himself even more, but Ingrid apparently has other plans for him.
With one powerful and every unexpected move, she pushes him down onto his back.  He lets out a little harried breath and his body stiffens, unyielding.  He turns wide eyes up at her, and thinks that the way her eyes are shining might actually make his heart stop.  In fact he thinks his heart has already stopped, because he suddenly can’t breathe.  Or think.  Or do anything at all, really, except watch her fingers drift over his thigh.  But this time she isn’t touching him because she has to heal him.
“…Ingrid?” he whispers, then shakily inhales.  “W-what are you doing – oh Maker’s balls – “
She chuckles, her fingers shifting over the hardness of his smalls.  She watches him carefully as she palms him through the cloth, curling her fingers around his length and rubbing him.  He bites his lip and screws his eyes shut, expression turning desperate and oh-so beautiful.  “Ingrid – “  
“Shhh,” she breathes, lowering herself down alongside him.  She leans down above his face, hair falling around them, and Alistair looks up at her with hesitant eyes.  But all she says is, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?” 
Okay?!  It’s more than okay – but he doesn’t get the chance to tell her that, because than her mouth is converging on his and something inside of him breaks free.  Control, or honor – whatever it is – snaps, and Alistair is suddenly reaching for her and pulling her closer, closer, closer, and kissing her hard with a force that leaves her gasping against him.
“Mmmm,” she moans, and squeezes him a little in lovely, scintillating retribution.  He jerks his hips, feeling his cock twitch against her.  Holy hell, but he’s a lucky man.  The fact that she’s not running away from him right now still hasn’t quite registered in his mind, and he holds her tight because some part of him is afraid that it might still happen.
“This wasn’t how I…how I wanted it to…happen,” Alistair breathes between kisses.  Every kiss is firm and deep and beautiful.  His heart blossoms with such warmth.  His entire body turns to her and reacts and everything feels so so wonderful.  Ingrid smiles briefly against his mouth and lifts her hand to his chest, palming over every inch of his skin before darting back down to his now burning erection. 
“Do you want me to stop?” he hears her ask, though her voice seems far away.  He groans and adamantly kisses her ever deeper, reaching his hand down to wrap around hers and guide it over his straining cock.  The move makes her crazy, and she lets him rub her fingers over him, lets him have the control.
“Maker, no,” he says very firmly, as if the mere idea of stopping makes him horrified.  He wouldn’t stop even if their camp is attacked by an entire legion of Darkspawn.  Even if the tent is set on fire – even if –
“Shh,” she whispers again, but this time it’s to calm him down because he’s moving her hand over him very fast now.  She’s been dreaming of this moment for weeks, maybe even months.  She wants to take her time.  Map out his body like the strategist she is.
She breaks the kiss and smiles down at him, eyes so warm that he thinks he can feel it pierce his soul.  She presses her lips to his cheek, skims her nose over his jaw, delights in the sensation of his stubble roughly scraping against her.  She nibbles on his earlobe, sucks it between her teeth, moves down to kiss his neck, his collar, his chest.  Alistair stares at her, watching her progress with wide eyes.  It’s his first time.  She fully intends on making it very special for him.  This is not going to be a quick roll in the hay.
He watches her.  It’s almost like she’s glorifying him.  Worshipping his body.  Not an inch of skin goes untouched, unkissed.  Her mouth tumbles over him, trembling, tongue licking.  Her fingers skim over his sides, tracing every muscle, every contour of him.  And he may be inexperienced, but he’s not stupid.  He knows where she’s going with this, has heard tales aplenty about this form of intimacy.  So he braces himself against the blankets, trying to wrangle his emotions under control – but nothing prepares him for what comes next.
He can’t look away as she kisses over his thighs, head nestled between his legs and so very close.  He props himself up onto his elbows because Maker he needs to watch this.  Ingrid gives him a gentle, reassuring smile and lowers her head to kiss over the cloth that covers his erection.  The heat of her breath makes him stiffen, feeling himself twitch against her with uncontrollable desire.  But it’s nothing, really, nothing at all compared to what it feels like when she slowly peels the last of his clothing away and kisses his bare skin.  And seeing her mouth on that part of him, feeling her tongue trace him from bottom to tip, and then repeat the action as if she can’t get enough – he thinks he goes a little crazy.
He breathes out heavily, reaching for her.  He pushes her hair to the side, staring at her every movement.  She glances up at him and his heart stutters.  Her fingers wrap around his shaft and she tilts it toward her, pumping several times before she flattens her tongue against the tip of him, and the proceeds to take him into her mouth –
He lets out a particularly foul curse and clenches his fingers in her hair.  Her eyes light up like she wants to laugh, but it’s a little hard to do so when she’s got half his cock shoved into her mouth.  So she just focuses on taking more of him, closing her mouth around him and sucking, sucking, sucking –
“Oh fuck,” he mutters, and it’s such an uncharacteristic thing for him to say that she really does chuckle this time.  And even though it comes out as a muffled, strange sound Alistair moans again, louder this time, because the vibrations.  They hit him with such force that he starts seeing stars, and for a moment he thinks that maybe he’s sinking into the Fade and losing his entire grip on reality.  And it scares him, the intensity of this feeling, the way his body aches for her, but to be honest the fear is really the last thing on his mind.
She devours him.  Like he’s the one thing she’s wanted her entire life and finally has the chance to taste him.  Like he’s the most delicious thing she’s ever had, a delicacy so sweet that she cannot get enough.  Her lips tighten, dragging his in and out of her mouth, tongue lapping, mouth sucking, fingers stroking, and Alistair knows he’s seconds away from coming.  And she knows it too.
She releases him with a vulgar pop that makes him want to blush.  But he doesn’t, because there’s no room for it right now and he’s already so red with nervous desire that it doesn’t even make a difference.  Gentle kisses are littered over his length, but the ache of his need is still so strong that even those light touches make him insane.  Utterly, profoundly mad. 
“Did you like that?” Ingrid wonders almost idly, hand still wrapped around him.  Alistair mumbles something incoherent and she gives him a jaunty little smile that makes her eyes light up like pure mischief.  “Do you want me to keep going?  Do you want to come inside my mouth?”  He does blush this time.  He turns so red that she laughs out loud and only makes him blush all the harder.
“Maker, woman, are you trying to kill me?” he asks, sounding strained and choked up.  He thinks he could come from that voice alone, whispering all those dirty wicked to him, to gently touch every inch – he cusses again because it’s really the only thing he can say.
Ingrid smirks.  She’s half tempted to stop and let him have what he really wants – her.  But she’d really like to see him come.  She’d really like to watch him struggle and arch and moan as she sucks him dry.  They won’t be leaving this tent anytime soon, for sure, so she decides to just follow her instincts.  They’ve gotten her this far already after all. 
She reaches for her robes and pulls them off of her with a brash jerk, exposing her body to his eyes.  He stares, chest heaving frantically, fingers jerking against the blankets.  She’s not wearing a breast band.  She’d pulled the robes on after her quick bath in the river.  The only other thing she’s wearing is the little panties that skim over her hips, worn from their travels.  There are some holes in them, here and there, but Alistair thinks she looks like an angel come down to sweep him right into heaven.
She smiles at him and lifts herself up, hooking her fingers into the sides and pulling them slowly down her thighs.  He watches every single move she makes, eyes so focused that it almost makes her wary.  The entirety of his attention is on her, and when they’re finally off and she’s as naked as him, Alistair lets out a sharp exhalation and reaches for her.  He wants her.  It’s so obvious that she can practically feel the desire burning the air around her.  But she isn’t going to give herself up to him yet, because she still wants to see him go absolutely crazy before she lets him touch her.
“Not yet, love,” she murmurs, the endearment slipping out before she even realizes she says it.  But he realizes, and his eyes soften into melted pools of emotion that makes her heart skip a few beats.  He smiles at her, feeling giddy at the word, like his entire body is breathed with fire and hunger and excitement and love.  But when she lowers herself back down to take him into her mouth again, Alistair has to argue.  “Ingrid, I can’t – you shouldn’t – Damn.  I won’t last long if you…mmmm…if you…” he can’t finish his sentence because she’s got her mouth around him again and he loses it.
“I want to see you come for me,” he hears her whisper, in a throaty husky passionate voice that makes him twitch.  He grasps her hair and moans, hips jolting forward without permission.  He’s embarrassed a little, by that, but Ingrid merely pushes his hips back down and goes to take even more of him into her mouth, sucking even harder and pumping him even faster – and he can’t stop even if he wants to because Maker it’s already too late.
“Ingrid – “ he exclaims, sounding desperate and crazed and more than a little aroused.  He tries to jerk his hips into her mouth again but she’s got a firm hold of him, and he only succeeds at writhing beneath her and crumpling the blankets in his fists as he feels the edge of his world tip him over.  “Ooohhhhh, fffffffffmmmm – “
If she had devoured him before, she is practically ravaging him now, pumping him so fast that he can’t possibly keep up with her.  He spills himself into her mouth and she drinks up every last bit of him, continuing only when he is gasping and breathless and spent.  His eyes are cloudy.  His expression is satiated.  And when she crawls up his body, Alistair looks at her in utter astonishment.
“That was…” he searches for a word that fits but can’t find one.  Ingrid just smiles and leans down, kissing him very thoroughly as her bare body grazes over his.  His large hands encompass her, grasping her sides and moving up.  She moans a little against his mouth, the ache of her body multiplying tenfold, and the sound makes Alistair returning to her, to the tent and their current situation.
“You, my Lady, surprise me at every turn,” he mumbles, and decides that maybe he should surprise her for a change.  The nervousness is still there – the worry that maybe his inexperience will upset her in some way and he will be found lacking.  But it has faded from the intensity of his desire, sinking down and covered up by his passion.  He gives her a little grin and wraps his arm around her waist, then a moment later he’s flipping them over and Ingrid is the one below him, surprise sparking over her expression.
He kisses her neck, one hand sliding up to grasp her breast gently, and then he murmurs, “Perhaps I should return the favor.”  Her breath hitches and he feels an intense burst of masculine pride hurtle through him.  His lips lower to her breast, which he’s wanted to kiss since the moment she pulled those damnable robes off.  He takes her nipple into his mouth and moans, because she’s so soft and beautiful and fits so perfectly in his palm.  He thinks she’s utterly gorgeous.
The more he touches her, the more his arousal starts to kick in again.  He feels himself burning once more before he even reaches her core, and seeing how wet she already is only makes it that much worse.  He gently spreads her legs, placing a firm kiss on her hip as his fingers grace over her inner thighs.  He’s never done anything like this before, and he feels himself hesitate for a moment as he wonders how to please her.  He suddenly can’t remember all those stories he’d heard from Zevran.  He can’t really remember anything at all.
Ingrid notices.  He’s staring at her core like he’s got no idea what he’s doing, and she’s torn between wanting to close her legs (he’s just staring!) and finding the entire situation endearing and laughable.
She tunnels her fingers through his hair and he looks up at her, catching her eye with a bashful expression.  “I don’t really…uh.  This is more horrifying than I thought…”
She raises an eyebrow.  “You think I look horrifying?”  That’s not exactly the reaction she was expecting…but she supposes that the female sex might be a…strange sight for someone who’s never seen it before. 
Immediately, Alistair heaves himself up onto his arms and exclaims, “No!  I didn’t – oh blast it!  That’s not at all what I meant to say.  I’m such a Blighted idiot.  You’re utterly gorgeous – I’ve never wanted to…to be with anyone as much as I want to be with you.  I just, uh, Maker’s breath.  I just don’t…”
Ingrid bursts into laughter, stuffing one fist against her mouth and giggling so hard that tears pool at the corners of her eyes.  He is so Blighted cute.  His rambling is so endearing that she almost forgets about the reason they’re here and what they’re about to do. 
Alistair’s eyes widen.  “Are you laughing at me, my Lady?!” he asks, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch a little.  The hesitance drains away.  He chuckles too, feeling suddenly very comfortable despite the fact that he is naked and about please the woman he’s been in love with for months.
He’s got to just…do it, right?  He wants to.  He’s never really wanted to taste a woman like this before, even though he’s heard plenty of stories about it in bars and the like.  But he finds that he really wants to taste her.  And so, while Ingrid is still clutching her stomach and laughing, Alistair smirks and decides to just…well, do it.
He ducks his head and lays his tongue flat against her folds, dragging it upward and licking the entirety of her.  She tastes a little bitter, definitely not sweet, like those minstrel’s dirty songs say.  He not sure he likes it, to be honest, but what he does like is her reaction.
The moment his tongue grazes her sensitive flesh, Ingrid gasps and stops laughing.  Her laughter morphs into a sudden moan that thunders through her, and her body arches into him and her fingers clench down on his hair.  “Alistair!” she gasps, breathless and so so beautiful as she pushes her hips into his mouth.  He hooks an arm beneath her, pulling her down to him roughly, and tries to remember what she had done to him.  Suck.  Lick.  Repeat.  So he does that, and the sounds of her moans melt in his ears.
“Here – lick right here, please Alistair – “ she brushes her fingers against a part of her clit and he immediately obeys, dragging his tongue up and over a slightly harder part of her.  It feels strange beneath his tongue, and he closes his lips over the top of her clit and gives it an experimental suck.  The drawn out moan she gives him is extremely rewarding.
“Oh yes…mmmmm…” she arches, practically dragging his head against her with strong, insistent hands.  He must be doing it right, then.  He drags his mouth back down, exploring her flesh, taking her folds between his lips, lapping up the wet essence of her.  And the more he tastes her, the more he decides that she’s probably the best thing he’s ever tasted, and he can’t stop and doesn’t really want to.
Except Ingrid wants him to, apparently, when she clenches her fingers around his shoulders and mumbles, “Alistair – I need you.  Fuck, I – I need you - !”  And he really does want to see this through to the end, watch her writhe as she’d done to him, but the desperation in her voice is enough to make him utterly insane, and he can’t deny her what she wants.  Not when she asks him like that.
He’s hard again.  Not as hard as before, not quite, but definitely erect.  Just watching her move beneath him, exploring her body, seeing her expressions, has been enough to make his blood boil again.  He needs her too, more than he can even begin to understand – and so with a moan that rattles over her skin and makes her sigh, Alistair pulls himself away and looks down at her from above.
Quilted desire rages through her eyes like thunder.  She’s giving him this half-lidded look that’s never in his entire life been directed at him before, and it screams ‘desire’ and a whole lot of other, very wicked things.  Very wicked indeed, and Alistair breathes out with a shaky sort of passion that makes his entire body feel like its combusting.
He lifts a hand and drags the back of it over his mouth.  Ingrid reaches for him and nearly moans when his body fits against hers.  She curls a leg around his waist and pushes her hips to his, locking them there.  And then she reaches down, grasps his member, and guides him into her.  He’s in the middle of wondering her perhaps he should kiss her first when his tip is surrounded by the hot wetness of her inner walls, and Alistair’s mind completely blanks.
He whispers, “Maker…”  And gently pushes into her.  She’s wet from his ministrations and he slides in easily, pressing his hips down before slowly pulling back.  His movements are hesitant – he’s never done this before.  He doesn’t want to mess up by going too fast, or too slow, but after a few thrusts and several adjusting tilts of her hips, Ingrid spurs him faster.
“Faster?” he hears himself murmuring, almost as if he doesn’t hear her.  But he does, and he lowers himself down on his elbows, creating a cage around her head and giving himself more momentum.  He thrusts faster, harder, watching the desperate expressions that grace his lover’s face.  The deeper he goes, the louder she moans.  The observation is tucked away somewhere in the back of his mind for later perusal.  For now, all Alistair can do is lose himself in the tight, delicious feel of her wrapped around his cock; the softness of her body cushioning his; the breathless heaving way she whispers his name against his cheek.
She tugs at his hair.  He slams into her.  His head rises so he can kiss her, and even though it’s sloppy and a little messy from their harried motions, it feels wonderful and loving and makes Ingrid tighten her hold around his neck.  “Alistair…mmmm…” she gasps, and his mouth opens against hers like he’s hanging there, lost in the rhythmic movements of their hips.  And every thrust brings him closer, closer, and he can’t hold onto it because blast it all, his body betrays him with each jolt of pleasure.
“Oh Gods,” he whispers, eyes tightly shut.  “Ingrid,” he starts to say, thinking that perhaps he should warn her.  But she only arches into him and cries, “Alistair – just – I’m almost there – “  And Maker, he wants to see her come around him, feel her tighten, have her finish because of his lovemaking and drag her into the depths of his love for her.  So he holds on, braces his self control and it’s worth it, in the end, because the sight she makes is even better than all of his boyish fantasies put together.
“Oh Alistair!” she arches up and he watches every emotion that crosses her face, every flicker of her eyes, every twist of her mouth.  And when she comes, he really can’t hold back – the feel of her inner walls tightening even more makes him grind out a moan and jerk his hips quickly against hers, dragging his shaft into the tight wetness and letting himself go.
It is pure heaven, he thinks, as he feels the intense pleasure bolster through him.  It sets his heart on fire.  It makes shivers blossom over his skin, sliding up his back and making him moan at the completion he suddenly feels.  And when he opens his eyes, she’s waiting for him, a soft expression wavering over her and a tired, satiated smile curving over her mouth.  A mouth that he immediately leans down to kiss, with such exuberant passion that Ingrid chuckles against his lips.
“Is this why you never…mmm, have me heal you?  Because you get massive erections?” she asks cheekily.  His eyebrows jerk up in surprise and maybe, maybe a tiny hint of arousal.
“Massive erections?!” he repeats, clearly liking the choice of words.  He playfully nips at her lower lip and mumbles, “What a dirty mouth you have.  A lady like you should be properly punished.”  Ingrid laughs.  Oh she likes that idea, very much.
“Really?” she wonders, and crassly pushes her hips into his, where they are still connected.  She watches his face crumble with a sudden jolt of pleasure and smirks.  “Then punish me, Alistair.” 
And, well, he’s never been one to deny a lady anything, especially when this particular lady happens to know exactly how to tug at his heartstrings.  He fears that many of their companions don’t get a very good sleep that night, but to be honest…he can’t really bring himself to care.


Tuesday, December 22, 2015

A Miraak Lemon -- Vortex

Character: Miraak

Fandom: Elder Scrolls: Skyrim

OC: Cylfina, Wood elf, long auburn hair, passionate

Inspiration: Due to an issue about DA copyright, even though everyone plages off of DA (and my blog too, by the way, to a point where I myself have reached a very comfortable point of not giving a fuck),  I have changed the picture to a cozy image of Miraak in your local pub.  Enjoy.  

Wind rustles through the dark tunnels, fluttering the pages of century old tomes and lifting dust from untouched tiled floors.  The realm is silent as always, as if it stretches into an infinity born of windswept curiosities pulled beneath carpets of tepid timeless reveries.  There is no time here.  There is nothing but knowledge…and him.
At first, she had been subtly surprised to see him watching her from the shadows.  High with adrenaline, she had waited to see if he was friend or foe, keeping a wary watch out of the corner of her eye.  But he had merely observed her, neither coming nor leaving, as if she was the first thing of interest to him in many long years.  She’d left with the strange desire to return, but not for the knowledge hidden away in this mountain of books.
So she had, and learned that his name was Miraak, and that he had been a phantom in these halls for many centuries long passed into myth and ruin.  Most shocking of all, that he was like her.  Dragonborn.  She kept coming, and each time she did her reasons for it became tempered with something far greater than the mere desire to discover.
“You are staring again,” she quietly says, but it is loud enough in this massive room that her voice carries far away to the rafters and elsewhere.  She does not fear being discovered.  Hermaeus Mora always knows when she enters his domain, and though he has sent demons after her, they are easy to slay.  She is used to larger beasts.
A soft chuckle, and a gilded golden boot steps from the edges of the room and into the bright, pure light shining down from the glass ceilings above.  “I was unaware that you could so easily detect my presence,” comes his voice, low and hoarse from years spent not speaking at all.  He crosses the library, drifts around piles of discarded books, until he reaches her figure.  She is sitting on the floor, leaning against one of those enormous shelves as if she has not a care in the world.  She’s practically splayed there, legs strewn out and arms crossed, a book propped in one hand as she lifts it to her face.  But her eyes have long left the words, instead traveling to watch her graceful companion all but float over the floor.
“It is instinct.  Surely you understand,” she raises an eyebrow and Miraak gives that tiny smile – the one that says he’s forgot again, that she is like him.  His mask is hanging from his fingers and he doesn’t look inclined to put it back on, which is good.  She is very much content with seeing his face, the strength of his features, the curve of his jaw, the powerful gleam in his eyes as he stares down at her.  It is almost as if she’s looking into a mirror of her own energy and seeing it reflected back at her.  She has never been on equal footing with another before.  Someone who truly understands what it is like to be born of a dragon’s soul.
As he sits down beside her, he sighs, “Forgive me, Lady Dragonborn.  It has slipped my mind once again.  I still cannot quite believe it.”  Cylfina smirks as she eyes him. 
There is another of his strange customs.  He has taken to calling her Lady Dragonborn, as if to remind himself that he is no longer the only one.  She doesn’t mind, only she thinks she’d rather like the sound of her own name tempered with the growling vortex of his voice.  So she raises an eyebrow and says, “You know, Miraak…sometimes I wonder if you even know my actual name or merely use that title as an excuse to forget it.”
He immediately recoils, thrown back into manners long dead as he scrambles to say, “Nay, Lady – “ a laugh, then a cough, “I mean…Cylfina.”  He stares at her as if he can feel her reaction crinkling the space between them – the shivers that coil through her, the fierce pleasure of hearing her name spoken with such perceived intimacy.  She pauses at the thought, wondering at the connection they share, the electricity that two twin souls feel.  And suddenly she thinks that perhaps he has felt it, as a physical force, and feels herself blush just a little bit because his eyes are strangely knowing.
“You enjoy the sound of it, I see,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to catch a stray lock of her hair, a tendril that has curled away from her face.  She holds herself very still as he presses it behind her ear, this time trying harder to reign in the mixed emotions that pass through her at his touch.  Denial, desire.  Such strong desire that it rips apart any and every other emotion that tries to hold herself to her long held beliefs.  But what good are beliefs when this man has already torn them all asunder?  Made her see that her world is not so very small after all?
She has never shied away from her emotions.  And so before Miraak can retreat, she reaches forward to grasp onto his hand.  Calloused fingers curl around her in surprise, jolting from the skin to skin contact – and it’s as if the distances between them have been suddenly shucked away like so many rolling clouds succored into a blue sky.  She can feel him.  The beat of his heart, the depth of his feelings – and, most shocking of all, a shared desire that encompasses his entire being.  He stares at her as if in challenge, as if he says ‘I dare you to touch me further, to make a permanent bridge between us’.
“I…” she trails off, unused to this odd…thing that they share, whatever it is.  “I do not understand this.”  Honesty, as clear as day, rattles through their connection and sets his heart afire.  If he is being truthful, he doesn’t understand it either, but they are in a realm that is meant for unraveling mysteries and here is one that utterly enchants him.
He drags her hand to him, eyes locked with hers, and experimentally lifts her fingers to his mouth.  Fire.  Those fingers shudder against him and he murmurs, “…Our souls scream for each other.  We are ideal mates.  Dragons without wings…”  He watches her devour the words with slow, shaky acceptance.  She knows he is right.  Another instinct, as it were.
“But this connection…I have never felt the like,” she tells him with an almost shy cast of her eyes to the floor.  Her curiosity was what drew him to her – but the emotions brewing beneath it is what had him coming back.  And it is what makes him chuckle and drag his nose over her skin, lips shifting to kiss the crease of her wrist.  Another shudder, and suddenly he would like nothing more than to feel the entirety of her shivering beneath him, her soul brimming into his…  She bites her lip as if she can feel what he feels, as if she accepts it, yearns for it too.
“Neither have I,” he murmurs, then asked, “Does it bother you?”  He doesn’t think it does, doesn’t feel any shard of hesitance gracing the barriers still between them, but the mind works differently than the heart.  He waits.
Cylfina laughs breathlessly, spreading her fingers out over his cheek.  They brush against the stubble of his jaw, and when she looks at him Miraak sees wide open skies in the edges of her gaze.  “The only thing that bothers me is that you haven’t kissed me yet, Miraak,” she says boldly, her spirit returning to its full ferocity and shedding the shy hesitance it had momentarily worn.
Miraak chuckles and releases her hand, shifting closer.  Every inch that disappears between them is swallowed up with a heat that he cannot name, only sink into and gravitate towards like a hopeless sailor of a starless night.  Except there is hope here, and it comes in the form of her – the one star that had suddenly blazed through his sky after so many years of bleak and lonely hell.
“As you wish,” he murmurs, and his lips converge on hers, roughly scraping against her as if he has waited for this moment when he can shed himself and begin anew.  She moans immediately, because the kiss seems to break apart the last of the barriers – and suddenly he really is a sky, and she is flying into it like she has the wings that her soul craves for. 
She grasps at his robes and tugs him against her body, winding one lean leg around his waist and propelling herself forward.  If he is surprised by her forthrightness, he doesn’t look it.  There is total understanding in his movements.  An understanding that makes them both quiver and shatter, rebuilding again in moments and breaking all over again.  And the bulwark of their passions come to a head, racing through their veins and turning them to molten fire that burns – so brightly! – and leaves them gasping and roiling with a desire like no other.
His hands scrunch into her tunic.  For once she is without armor, as if she has grown bored of the lack of challenge in these wide open halls.  He is glad of it now, glad that they are alone and that he can feel her body pushing against his.  His fingers dive beneath her shirt, pressing into her spine and mapping every contour of her back, passing over her shoulder blades and tugging at the binding of her breasts.  They are moving fast, like lightening, their every move a clap of thunder that accompanies it.  But it isn’t fast enough, and Miraak doesn’t hesitate as he heaves the shirt up and off and pulls the breast binding along with it.
She laughs in delight and desire and tilts her head back, pushing her bare breasts into his hands for him to mold.  And he does, cupping them and drifting his fingers over her bronzed skin, pulling at her nipples and rolling them into hard peaks that beg to be sucked at.  His lips dance along her neck, biting and sinking against her, tongue lapping, bruising, burning – and against her he growls, “I will devour you, dovahHi los dii nu.” [1]
The words tunnel through her, rumbling like passion along her skin.  His voice is powerful, more powerful than hers, and she can feel that power spark her like an electrical current rewiring her very makeup.  With a moan, she gasps, “Ruz genun zey, Miraak.” [2]  Show me show me show me.
He does.  With a dark chuckle, he’s got her splayed out on the tiled floor, lips devouring every inch of her flesh as she trembles beneath him.  He palms her breast, kissing down the valley between them, pauses to suckle at a nipple and roughly bites at the skin around it.  Red welts appear where his teeth make contact, but her soul sings with it.  She has been created for this, she thinks. 
Down her body he does, tongue drifting around her hipbone as he tugs her soft leather trousers away.  Then, against her smalls, through the fabric of them, he growls and nips and inhales the scent of her arousal, shifting it aside only when she is adequately begging.  His tongue laps at her, sinking into her folds, thrusting into her entrance – his fingers join in, tugging at her and spreading her for his rough meandering.  Never has someone been so rough but Talos she loves it.  He is rough because his soul demands it, and she doesn’t complain because it feels so damned natural, like she’s been waiting for this her entire life.
Her nails scrape at him, leaving welts of her own all over his shoulders and back.  She grasps his hair hard, heaving his against her with a demand that he is all too happy to satiate.  One finger rams inside her.  Two.  His pace is maddening, and the way his thumb rubs at her clit makes her keen and growl and curse.  She wraps both legs around his head and locks him in place, only for him to push her forcefully back down with a growled, “Stay there, volg gein.” [3]  But the order only makes her send him a growl of her own and scratch at him even more, even as he holds her thighs with bruising force against the ground.
She writhes beneath him, twisting, trying to remove herself from his hold.  Her blood boils with desire and the need to fight back, to enforce her own dominion as he is doing over her.  But Miraak’s hold his strong, and he meets her strength with even stronger force.  He laps at her and sucks and bites – and she moans and keeps cursing and keeps struggling, feeling herself shattering with every pass of his tongue.
But how he devours her.  He doesn’t stop even as he sees her orgasm trembling her body into the stone.  He doesn’t even after she has already shouted at him and left his back with a multitude of red scratches that he would wear with pride.  No, he keeps going, as if he cares only about the pleasure he is receiving from dominating her, from tasting her and watching her uncoil and recoil again.
He stops only when he has got Cylfina riled up again, burning with another hopeful orgasm that has her gasping and twisting once more on the floor.  And when she is seconds off from tumbling into it, Miraak pushing himself away with a dark, lethal smile and sinfully bruised lips, and wipes his mouth as if he’s just had the most delicious supper.
She glares at him.  She’s pounding, aching, yet the orgasm is already fading away and she cannot grasp at it because he’s still holding her thighs down.  But as she stares at him, she sees the weakness in his hold, and she leaps forward to take advantage of it.  He’s on the ground seconds later, shocked eyes staring her down as he watches her pull his robes forcefully away.  She’s wild, feral, the boundaries between human and dragon blurred into a perfected grayscale portrait.  It’s lovely, beautiful in fact, to watch her devour him with her eyes.  Draconian eyes, gleaming like gold hewn from the deepest part of the earth.
Her fingers rip through his robes without care, buttons tearing and rattling to the floor.  She tries to unlace his trousers but to her annoyance they’re proving to be difficult.  So she just snaps the laces, shattering them between hungry fingers with a show of force that’s got Miraak sinking into the stonework.  Talos save him, but he has chosen a ferocious mate.  His heart beats a heady beat as he watches her dive into his trousers and wrap around his cock, which is straining to feel her.  His trousers aren’t even off, still wrapped around his hips – but she is impatient, and he can’t really blame her.  Never has he felt such voracious hunger.
She doesn’t reach down to suck at him, doesn’t take her time.  It doesn’t matter.  He’s already so hard that he can feel the ache of his arousal thudding blindly through him.  She’s soaking wet and when she grinds her sex against his, he lets out a growled moan that’s tempered with a fire that breathes through him.  Up and down, her hips ride him into oblivion but it’s not enough – he has to be inside her or he’ll shatter.  But the moment he tries to reach for her, she clenches down on his wrists and slams them above his head with a deadly snarl.  She is in charge now, she seems to say, and he allows it because she absolutely takes his breath away.
“Stay down, volg gein,” she mutters with a smirk, turning his previous words around to bite him in the ass.  He growls just for the sake of it – he’s not really angry, but he is very very aroused.  So he obeys, for now, and nearly breaks when she slides roughly down onto his cock, starting off at a pace that ricochets through him and leaves his gasping.
There is no room for teasing caresses.  No room for loving sentiments.  There is only dominance, plain and simple, thundering through them.  His hips snap up, quick and powerful, but Cylfina doesn’t try to stop him.  She gives him a warning look but when he does it again, and again, she decides it feels too good to argue.  Together their hips break against each other, bruising with enthusiastic desire.  Every push hilts him fully within her, every outward slide has them both moaning and writhing and slamming back for more.  It is really more battle than lovemaking, yet somehow the two are one in the same.
“Use your Voice on me, dovah,” he orders, wrapping his hands around her fingers in a tight but almost caressing hold.  He doesn’t move to release her hold, just grasps her back and continues slamming his hips into hers from below.
Cylfina barks out a laugh that’s tempered with the dark passion alighting her now, and breathlessly wonders, “Mmm…shall I set you on fire…?”  It is a joke, but Miraak gives her a sneering smile and mutters, “You already have.  No – mate with me…mmm…as a dragon would mate with another of its kind…”  His voice is breathless too, but still somehow encased in that firm power.  It makes her tremble.
For a moment she is at a loss.  She has never thought about how dragons mate.  It is a rather strange thought, but now she wonders at it.  If they use their Voices to fight, to channel their anger and power and passion, then it would make sense that they would use them in this instance too.  She gives him a dark smile and inhales, pumping herself down on his hard shaft and circling her hips deliciously over his.  And then…
A Shout spills from her lips, pinning him beneath her with the sheer force of the word and the power behind it.  Miraak groans.  He closes his eyes for a moment and digs his fingers into her hands.  He feels the Shout rattle through him, shaking him into the stone and stranding him there for several seconds – seconds that she spends absorbing the energy that rises up within her, forcing her hips into his as she takes him deeper and faster.
He chuckles and mutters, “A good choice…volg gein.”  Then before she realizes it, he twists her over and throws her onto her back, his cock sliding out of her from the movement.  She tries to leap up but he covers her with his body, pinning her down with a smirk and nestling himself between her legs.  A slow grind of his hips makes her shudder as if she’s been sparked with electricity.
“Miraak – “
He cuts her off with a hard kiss that makes her moan.  His tongue drags over hers as his hips drag against her core, slowly entering her once again.  She arches up at the connection and tries to sidle down to take more of him, but Miraak forces her put, holding her fast against the floor.  He thrusts slower this time, circling around her every time he hilts himself inside.  Then out, slowly, too slowly – aggravatingly slowly – and drags his tip against the outside folds of her clit before pounding hard and fast back inside.  Again and again and it tortures her.
“Miraak!  I really will set you on fire!” she growls, trying to shake her hips around him to spur him on.  But he merely smirks and bites into her bottom lip, murmuring, “Try it, and you will taste a fire of my own.”  The warning is not misplaced, but she’s still damned tempted.
He’s picks up his pace despite wanting to continue this exquisite torture – because he doesn’t think he can hold off much longer.  His body is burning like he’s feverish, so hot that he feels like a furnace.  She’s not much better.  Her cheeks are ruddy with desire and her eyes look like they’re made from melted gold.  They already are on fire, he realizes with a hard thrust.  They might as well tumble into the bowels of the heat.
“Oh fuck!  Talos – “ she arches, his pace returning to the relentless hammering force of before.  Every hilting thrust makes her vision combusting with stars.  She’s melting, sinking, flying all at once – and then she screams and digs her nails into his skin and comes with such an explosion that she really does think that she’s on fire – but no, it’s only him, only the way he tumbles right after her like he’s been waiting, waiting, waiting.  And the fire he sets in her heart and the way he fills her up makes her laugh aloud with a crazy sort of joy that she’s never felt before.  Because she’s never felt like this, like she’s actually capable of shedding her human skin and being the creature she sometimes (often) longs to be.
He laughs too, a softer chuckle, and hovers over her with all the reluctance of a man who wishes he could start at the beginning again.  Cylfina heaves against the floor and opens her arms to him, and Miraak pauses only a moment before nestling himself down against her.  Sharing fire, breath, maybe even life.
She has never felt like she could fly before, but suddenly the possibilities are as endless as he is, shuddering over the winds of time and making creases against forever.


[1] Hi los dii nu … You are mine now
[2] Ruz genum zey, Miraak … Then show me, Miraak
[3] Volg gein … wild one

Saturday, December 19, 2015

A Bucky Barnes Lemon -- Red Burlesque

Character: Bucky Barnes

Fandom: The Avengers

OC: Jane Victoria Baccello, dark long hair, brown eyes, patient

Inspiration: Jane teaches Bucky a thing or two about modern burlesque shows…sort of.  ;)

It started off like any morning would.  Bucky got up before Jane, left her sleeping, and padded silently into the kitchen to start the coffee and get breakfast ready.  He was really an abominable cook, but he could at least make scrambled eggs and sometimes he’d try his hand at Bisquick pancakes, though more often than not they’d be overcooked and crumbled.  Half an hour passed.  He spent the majority of it making sure the eggs weren’t sticking to the pan, and enjoying the sight of the snow that had fallen earlier that morning. 
There was one deviation to his morning schedule though – one simple flaw that made him frown in confusion.  Jane would normally be up by now, inhaling coffee and scolding him on the fact that he’d gone through so many dishes to make simple scrambled eggs.  Normally she’d be rolling up her sleeves to clean up after him, mumbling about it as she did.  Except she hadn't appeared yet, and while it wasn’t that strange, it did give him pause.  When she did enter the kitchen only minutes later, the sight of her was also a deviation from their usual mornings…but this one he wasn’t about to complain about.
“…You weren’t wearing that before,” he said after a brief pause, trying and failing to tear his eyes away from her chest.  Dove gray lingerie skidded over her breasts, so thin and transparent that he could clearly see the dark shade of her nipples peeking through the lacey design.  She was wearing a black silk nightgown to, that went to her thighs and was tied together quite loosely at the waist.  He couldn’t see what else she was wearing, but he knew that he really wanted to find out.
Jane raised her eyebrows mockingly and looked down at herself, “Really?  Are you sure?”  His mouth twitched.  She was playing with him?  Well then.  Apparently she hadn’t learned her lesson yet. 
Bucky leaned against the counter and caught her eyes, which sparkled in amusement.  He narrowed his gaze fractionally and gruffly said, “I made breakfast.”  He wasn’t giving in so easily, despite the desire to. 
She wasn’t either, it seemed.  With a breezy smile, Jane stepped toward the stove – and him – and nodded, “So I see.  And you made coffee too.  So good to me.”  As she reached for a coffee mug, the shoulder of that robe slid down her arm, exposing a thin strap.  He stared at it, refusing the desire to go to her and touch that shoulder, kiss the top of it, pull the strap down and discover what that soft lace felt like against his palm.  But he didn’t.  Instead he just watched her pour the coffee, stir cream into it, and slowly turn around to face him.  She hardly seemed to notice the exposed shoulder, but Bucky wasn’t stupid.  There was a gleam of knowledge in those eyes of hers.  She knew.
“I thought I’d make bacon too,” he told her, leaning against the counter and watching her.  She shrugged and nodded, now noticing that he’d already taken the frozen bacon out of the freezer before she’d entered the kitchen.  She hadn’t seen it with all the other things on her mind.
Luckily bacon was probably the one thing Bucky could actually cook without burning.  Jane took another sip of her coffee and put the mug down on the counter beside him, reaching for the bacon to help him prepare it.  It was behind him, and Jane stepped up close so she could reach it, innocently brushing her hand over his side as she did so.  He didn’t move, even when she was mere inches away.  Only raised an eyebrow because he knew what game she was playing and it sort of amused him.  Made him a little crazy, too, but that was an emotion he could hold off.  For now.
Together they got the bacon ready, Jane twirling around him to get the pan, then twirling back to reach the knife hanging from its magnetic rack by the sink.  Each time she moved, she subtly brushed against him, making it look like an accident.  It was sort of making him impatient, to be honest – which was why he ended up shuffling up behind her while she cut the bacon into shorter pieces.
He towered over her, both in height and in size, and rested both hands on either side of her as he looked down to watch her movements.  She was by no means inept at using that knife, even if it was only for culinary reasons.  He’d by lying if he said it didn’t turn him on just a tiny bit.  It didn’t help that his current position gave him a nice downward view of that sinful lace…and the shoulder of the robe she still hadn’t bothered fixing.
He’d fix it now.  Or at least his version of ‘fixing’.  With a subtle touch of his own, Bucky’s fingers fluttered over her shoulder blade and up to the crease of her neck, smoothing back down before gently plucking the bra strap from her skin.  Her movements didn’t even slow, even when he pulled it down her shoulder and leaned in to press a lingering kiss on her skin.
This time, Jane gave a tiny reaction.  Just a small shiver that ghosted through her so quickly he barely felt it.  But he saw it – the way her fingers shook slightly as she held the knife, the way she paused before continuing on.  Ignoring him, was she?  Well then.
He drew a hand around her waist, laying his palm flat over her abdomen.  It lingered there for a moment before shifting up and sinking into the opening of her robe.  Then it was warm skin and silk against him, and when he finally raised his hand to cup her breast, Jane bit her lip and breathily said, “I thought you were hungry.”  It might’ve been a question, but the syllables were weighted down with dragging currents of desire.  Desire that had Bucky leaning closer, fitting his body against hers and squeezing his fingers softly around that lace.
“I am hungry,” he told her lowly, his voice a burring grind of sound that drifted over her neck.  She gripped the knife harder.  Any other time, and Bucky might’ve been concerned about that.  But, well, he could see passion when it was right in front of him at least, especially when it was in the form of this delicious woman.
Jane laughed quietly.  “Do you know how cliché that sounded?”  She glanced back at him over her shoulder and smiled.  He thought the morning light looked lovely in her hair, twisting it to dark amber.  He leaned in, lips centimeters away.  But when he was about to kiss her (clichés be damned), Jane just spun away like she’d planned it all, teasingly brushing against him as she twisted under his arm.
It was, as they say, the last straw.  Bucky didn’t care about breakfast anymore – he hadn’t cared since the moment she walked into the kitchen in that lovely robe.  He didn’t care about her teasing, either.  And that was why he turned around and immediately threw his arms around her, heaving her up against him and then lifting her into his arms as if she weighed absolutely nothing.  For a super soldier like him, she supposed she didn’t.  But she still put up a fight, because it was fun.
“James!” she cried, reverting to his first name in hopes that it would make him pause.  It usually worked and she was honestly surprised by the fact that it didn’t.  Bucky just smirked and heaved her up higher as if she was a ragdoll, manhandling her all the way to the bedroom, where he proceeded to dump her on the mattress without preamble. 
Jane huffed and muttered, “Well.  That was a bit brutish of you.”  But the twist of humor in her eyes made him grunt – a laugh by his standards.  He grabbed the hem of the simple gray undershirt he was wearing and pulled it over his head, baring the full expanse of his very impressive chest.  Jane propped her head up on her elbow and eyed him with a smirk, a tiny bit amused (and excited, and aroused) by his non-strip tease.
“You’re supposed to go slower when you give people strip teases, Bucky,” she sighed, clucking her tongue as if she was disappointed in him.  He didn’t reply, only raised an eyebrow like he was asking what the hell she was talking about, and stepped closer to the bed.  She was there to meet him, gripping the sides of his boxers and pulling him forward with a rather domineering tug.  His eyebrow only got higher.
She sighed.  “I suppose I’ll just have to show you myself, won’t I?  But first…” she tugged the boxers down over his muscled thighs, letting them drop to the floor and leaving him bare.  The term impressive really didn’t cover the entirety of him, and Jane’s lips turned very wicked when she peered up at him.  “Mmm…I like my victims bare…so I can see what I do to them.”
He hardly blinked, even when Jane drew a hand from his chest to his hip, fingers ghosting over his skin in the loveliest of ways.  His expression was a blank canvas that she was eager to paint on, and Jane stood.  Bucky was feeling a little bit…wary, perhaps?  He didn’t really know.  All he knew was that Jane was trying to push him down on the bed and he wasn’t budging.
After a moment of trying to wrestle him down, Jane burst into laughter and said, “James, just sit down already.  You’ll like this, I promise.”  It usually took a bit of convincing to get him to try something new – an amusing thought, considering how popular he’d been with the ladies back in his own time.  Steve had told her plenty of stories about his little escapades, which was why she knew he’d like this one. 
With a sigh that sounded more like a grumble, Bucky obeyed, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress.  He looked more than a little amazing, sitting there in all his nude glory.  He was such a large man that the entire bed seemed dwarfed in his presence.
Jane gave him a jaunty little smile and stepped back, fingers playing with the ties of her robe.  But she didn’t undo them.  Instead she just turned around, sliding her hands down her sides and hips before drifting back up and touching her chest.  Bucky couldn’t see those hands, but he knew what she was up to and stared at her. 
Was this was she meant?  Doing one of those burlesque dances for him?  He vaguely remembered going to one with Steve once.  Watching scantily dressed women prance around the stage.  Every twirl and a new layer of clothing was tossed away.  He couldn’t really imagine Jane doing something similar, but he leaned back anyway to watch her, his interest piqued.
She flipped the other shoulder of her robe down, revealing both of them.  The bra strap he’d fiddled with was still halfway down her arm.  The other one joined it.  Slowly she turned back around, hands all over her body again and tugging on the loose tie of her robe.  It fluttered open, revealing the other half of her ensemble – a very wicked looking thong that was also semi-sheer and left very little to the imagination.
He swallowed.  She smiled, a mischievous crinkled of her eyes that made them shine.  Gently, slowly, she let the robe fall like water down her arms.  It hit the floor with a faint rustle of silk, pooling around her feet like a shrine.  When she stepped out of it, toward him, he wasn’t sure what to expect.  Definitely not the way she suddenly crawled into his lap, fitting herself right there against his hardened cock.
She clearly wasn’t finished yet.  Bucky held his breath, wondering what she was up to, but Jane merely twisted the cups of her bra down, revealing her breasts.  The bra pushed them up, and Bucky leaned down to touch them, lick them, do something, because he couldn’t remember wanting to quite this much before – but Jane tsked at him and caught his hair with her fingers to pull him back, “You’re not allowed to touch.  Only watch.”
Wherever she’d gotten that rule from, Bucky didn’t like it.  He frowned at her but she didn’t give in.  She merely tugged his head back and shifted forward, hips circling his erection.  He clenched down on her waist and breathed out.  He probably should’ve seen that coming, but he was woefully unprepared for it.
Again.  She thrust herself against him, skillfully circling her hips and grinding them against his member.  Soon she was bouncing on top of him, her breasts jolting.  He didn’t know where to look – her chest or the other parts of her, where he could feel the wetness of her arousal burning against his cock.  He was so hard it was uncomfortable, and every twist of her hips made him a gratifying yet thankless mess.  And it was around that time when Bucky decided to damn all her stupid little rules because he really wanted to suck on those breasts of hers.
His mouth came down on one and Jane moaned in surprise and pleasure.  Her fingers scrambled to the back of his head, where she pulled him closer.  Her movements didn’t slow.  If anything, they got faster and crazier as he rolled over her nipple with his tongue.  His teeth very gently scraped over her skin, and his hand made quick work of her other breast.  He switched, dragging short, firm kisses over the valley of her breasts before latching onto the other one and giving it similar attention. 
A quick flick of his fingers, and her bra was being pulled away, allowing him the freedom to cup her the way he’d wanted to for a while now.  He had strong hands, hands that were surprisingly quick and very talented.  Jane quite enjoyed his attention, but enough was enough.  Lap dances were fun, but she was past ready to move on and she could tell he was too.  So she caught his shoulders and pushed him down, succeeding only because Bucky had been distracted by layering his attention over her.
He landed on his back with a jolt of surprise, feeling his cock twitch at the shot of arousal from that dominant little move of hers.  He always felt aroused when she got the better of him. 
She was a beautiful desperate mess as she hovered above him, breathing hard as she raised her eyes to his.  Quilted passion skimming over the contours of her gaze.  He watched her for a moment, wondering what she had planned next, but when she started to tug that thong down Bucky couldn’t stop himself.  He jerked forward, hands on either side of her waist as he threw her down onto the mattress.  Jane let out a gasp of surprise as she landed beneath him, but couldn’t help but laugh in aroused delight when Bucky grappled with the thong and nearly tore it in two trying to get it off her legs.
“That was expensive you know – “ she giggled again when he growled and jerked her down the bed.  The laugh morphed into a moan when their lower bodies bumped together, and Bucky muttered, “That tiny piece of cloth?  I liked your…what did you call it?” 
He sunk into her without warning, hilting his member fully into her with a relieved sigh.  This was what he needed.  Jane whimpered when he stared to rock over her, thrusting her down into the mattress with powerful strokes of his hips.
“Ahh…a – mmm!  Lap dance – “ she moaned, shifting her hips up to meet his.  But Bucky intercepted them with a growled, “It’s my turn, Jane.”  And the sound of her name coming from that low husky voice had her throwing her head back and arching into him.  He covered one breast with a palm and squeezed, thrusting into her deeply.  She tried not to move her hips but it was damned hard, and the pleasure of it all was quickly going to her head and making her feel like she was floating.
Every thrust was like a grinding explosion that pinned her down with sheer force.  He was so good at this that she could hardly breathe.  Only lay there and try to hold her orgasm at bay, but damn it was hard.  She wanted to come so badly so badly –
“You can,” he gruffly muttered, seeing the signs of her impending finish curdle behind her eyes.  “Just come.”  He angled his hips and lifted hers, trying to fill her as much as he could.  The new movement made stars erupt through her vision.  She gasped, crying his name, reaching down to grasp at those strong hands that were gripping her hips.  She twisted below him and gripped the sheets, the power of her orgasm thrumming through her with such force that she couldn’t even remember who she was, where she came from, how she’d gotten there…
And Bucky didn’t stop, just kept pounding and bruising into her hips and dragging her orgasm out so beautifully that Jane was nothing more than a gasping mass of breathless sound and hoarse cries.  And the feel of her finish, the way she clenched down around him and became tight and wet and perfect – it had him grunting and throwing her back down onto the mattress, pinning her hips once more to the bed as he thrust into her with almost furious desire, pulled into the tides of his own orgasm and drowning in them.
He spread himself out beside her when his movements slowed and then stopped, dragging her body tight against his and sighing out pleasantly.  “Strip teases and lap dances…what has the world come to?” he muttered to himself, and Jane laughed against his chest.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.  I know you did,” she murmured, voice tired as she snuggled into him.  Bucky let out a grumbling chuckle.
“Don’t know if I liked it or not.  Too soon to tell.”  His words made her raise an eyebrow and look up at him.  He was grinning. 
With a smirk of her own, Jane drew a finger over his cheek and whispered, “Mmm…I think we can arrange a few more tests.”  He caught her hand and kissed it.
They didn’t have breakfast for another two hours.