terrie
in
deathmance
FOR ABOUT TWO SECONDS THIS WAS POSTED IN THE WRONG PLACE. D:
so i wrote some stuff a few weeks ago. there are four things and two are sexy so BEWARE OHNOES1!! ps, they are all unrelated so do not go looking for anything cohesive, okay?
--
“This isn’t winning you points or anything,” said Molotov, rolling her head to one side and closing her eye. Brock continued to knead her shoulders, leaning down to kiss the crook of her neck.
“I know,” he mumbled against her skin. “I wanna do it anyway.”
Molotov held the side of his head, her other hand resting lightly on his thigh. She felt something pressing against her back and her eye snapped open. “And this is not going to persuade me into anything.”
“I know,” he said again, sounding a little exasperated this time. Tilting his head, he kissed her jaw, then let his chin rest on her shoulder. “I just wanna do it, okay?”
Molotov was still suspicious. “Why?”
“’cause I like it when you’re happy.”
She was quiet for awhile after this, mulling it over. Meanwhile, Brock continued to massage her shoulders, not even once dropping down to her breasts. And so, she was still suspicious. “Why?” she repeated.
“’cause then you’re less of a bitch.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
After another stretch of silence Molotov rolled her head to the other side, folding her hands in her lap. He let his chin rest on her other shoulder. “I should hit you for that,” she said. Her eye closed again.
“Yeah?”
“Da.”
“And you’re not gonna?”
“Mm. Nyet.”
“Why?”
“Because then you would stop doing this.”
“Oh.”
“Da.”
--
Molotov discreetly moved her hand to lace her fingers with Brock’s, earning a mildly concerned sideways glance as they continued walking down the path.
“Are you okay?” he said.
Molotov scoffed and did not look at him. “Am I not allowed to -- whatever this is?”
“Be affectionate?”
“Da, if you wish to call it that.”
“Are you not allowed to be affectionate?”
“Da.”
Brock rolled his shoulder and looked ahead again. “I dunno. If you want.”
Molotov didn’t say anything, only kept her eye focussed on the winding pathway through the trees ahead of them.
Brock threw another glance at her. “Do you?”
Still without looking at him, Molotov squeezed his hand silently. Brock looked back at the path and squeezed back.
--
Brock palmed the back of Molotov’s head and she dug her nails into his hip, irritated at how long this was taking as well as how inexplicably turned on she was becoming. “Mmph,” she said.
“What -- what?” said Brock, squinting down at her. He was breathing too heavily; he looked too happy and too distracted. Molotov became more irritated and more turned on, which in turn irritated her even more.
She rolled her eye. “Are you nearly through,” she said flatly.
“Yeah,” said Brock. When she kept staring at him, he added, “Swear.”
Molotov sighed laboriously. “Fine.” She leaned back in. Brock kept palming the back of her head and she kept digging her fingernails into his hip.
--
Brock threw her down on the bed and dropped to his knees, roughly grabbing her hips and pulling her toward him. Molotov blinked as he pushed her skirt up to her waist and moved her legs to rest on his shoulders. She propped herself up on her elbows, craning her neck to look at what he was doing. “Samson, what -- oh.” He was doing things with his mouth. Amazing things. Molotov’s eye rolled back into her head and she let herself fall flat on her back, gripping the sheets, making happy sounds. Brock was relatively sure he’d just won the argument.
--
“This isn’t winning you points or anything,” said Molotov, rolling her head to one side and closing her eye. Brock continued to knead her shoulders, leaning down to kiss the crook of her neck.
“I know,” he mumbled against her skin. “I wanna do it anyway.”
Molotov held the side of his head, her other hand resting lightly on his thigh. She felt something pressing against her back and her eye snapped open. “And this is not going to persuade me into anything.”
“I know,” he said again, sounding a little exasperated this time. Tilting his head, he kissed her jaw, then let his chin rest on her shoulder. “I just wanna do it, okay?”
Molotov was still suspicious. “Why?”
“’cause I like it when you’re happy.”
She was quiet for awhile after this, mulling it over. Meanwhile, Brock continued to massage her shoulders, not even once dropping down to her breasts. And so, she was still suspicious. “Why?” she repeated.
“’cause then you’re less of a bitch.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
After another stretch of silence Molotov rolled her head to the other side, folding her hands in her lap. He let his chin rest on her other shoulder. “I should hit you for that,” she said. Her eye closed again.
“Yeah?”
“Da.”
“And you’re not gonna?”
“Mm. Nyet.”
“Why?”
“Because then you would stop doing this.”
“Oh.”
“Da.”
--
Molotov discreetly moved her hand to lace her fingers with Brock’s, earning a mildly concerned sideways glance as they continued walking down the path.
“Are you okay?” he said.
Molotov scoffed and did not look at him. “Am I not allowed to -- whatever this is?”
“Be affectionate?”
“Da, if you wish to call it that.”
“Are you not allowed to be affectionate?”
“Da.”
Brock rolled his shoulder and looked ahead again. “I dunno. If you want.”
Molotov didn’t say anything, only kept her eye focussed on the winding pathway through the trees ahead of them.
Brock threw another glance at her. “Do you?”
Still without looking at him, Molotov squeezed his hand silently. Brock looked back at the path and squeezed back.
--
Brock palmed the back of Molotov’s head and she dug her nails into his hip, irritated at how long this was taking as well as how inexplicably turned on she was becoming. “Mmph,” she said.
“What -- what?” said Brock, squinting down at her. He was breathing too heavily; he looked too happy and too distracted. Molotov became more irritated and more turned on, which in turn irritated her even more.
She rolled her eye. “Are you nearly through,” she said flatly.
“Yeah,” said Brock. When she kept staring at him, he added, “Swear.”
Molotov sighed laboriously. “Fine.” She leaned back in. Brock kept palming the back of her head and she kept digging her fingernails into his hip.
--
Brock threw her down on the bed and dropped to his knees, roughly grabbing her hips and pulling her toward him. Molotov blinked as he pushed her skirt up to her waist and moved her legs to rest on his shoulders. She propped herself up on her elbows, craning her neck to look at what he was doing. “Samson, what -- oh.” He was doing things with his mouth. Amazing things. Molotov’s eye rolled back into her head and she let herself fall flat on her back, gripping the sheets, making happy sounds. Brock was relatively sure he’d just won the argument.