Fic: Fantasy (NC-17, Chuck, MMOM Day #4)
Fic: fantasy
Author: hoosierbitch
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Chuck
Pairing: Sarah/Chuck, Sarah/Bryce, Sarah/Bryce/Chuck
Content Advisory: Fantasized flogging.
Notes: I should really, really be working on my finals. BUT I’M NOT. :D This was written for day #4 of mmom!
Summary: In her dreams, Sarah got to have them both.
*
She smells like hot dogs. Hot dogs and fuchsia. She’d worked a full shift, come home, and taken a long bath to try and soak the scent away. Unfortunately, the pervasive odor of cooked meat and ketchup seems to have lingered. She sprays some perfume on her pillow before getting into bed.
She’s not that tired. It’s early still. But her character - Sarah Walker, hardworking employee, loyal girlfriend - has no reason to leave her apartment. Chuck’s out with Morgan, Casey’s busy, and she has no other friends.
Well…maybe one.
She opens her bedside drawer and gets out some lube and her favorite dildo. Not too big, not too small. It doesn’t vibrate or twist or pulse, it’s nothing fancy. It’s still her favorite. She slicks it up, gets under the blanket, and spreads her legs. It’s been a long day and she doesn’t want to have to go through the ordeal of trying to sneak some porn past the NSA’s firewalls, so she just closes her eyes and imagines.
Bryce.
God, Bryce.
Her body misses him. Misses the strength of his tongue and the wicked spark in his eyes, the flexibility and endurance of his body.
They’d fucked like acrobats. In closets and bathtubs and on counters. Once they’d developed a rhythm, figured out what they both liked best, they’d fucked up against walls a lot. His hands tight on her ass, lifting her up and down on his cock (it was a bit bigger than her dildo and curved just right).
She twists her dildo, shoves it in hard, remembering the way her shoulders had slammed against the walls, the bruises his hands had left. Remembers the way Bryce’s mouth would break open in a wide smile when he readjusted his grip to fuck her harder.
They’d fucked like partners. She’d shove him into dark corners and jerk him off when she was bored between lectures at Quantico, he’d pull tablecloths over her lap and tease her with the slightest brushes of his fingers until she soaked through her panties and slacks, until she was blushing and desperate and digging her fingernails into his wrist.
It wasn’t until Chuck that she realized she and Bryce had never made love. They’d fucked, they’d fooled around, they’d experimented. Hell, on their last vacation (their last week together) they’d done it on the beach a half-dozen times, hiding in the dunes to keep away from tourists. He’d caressed her breasts, digging grains of sand against her nipples; she’d ridden him like a cowgirl until her shoulders and breasts were sunburnt. But they’d never been new to each other.
Chuck was - Chuck.
He hadn’t been a virgin. She knows that. Knows about Jill (Bryce had told her the whole sorry story, whispered Chuck’s anger and Jill’s tears), she knows that her body isn’t the first he’d seen naked, not the first he’d touched, not the first he’d slipped into with a gasp like he was entering cold water instead of her cunt. It still feels like she was the first. He looks at her like he’s trying to thank her, every time they fuck. Like he’s grateful. Like she’s giving him something instead of taking.
Sometimes she wants to get Chuck drunk at a bar, pull him into the bathroom, get his pants down around his thighs, and demand that he fuck her, hard, where anyone could find them. No prep, no foreplay, just the two of them and an unlocked door and cold tile walls. But then she remembers that Bryce is gone and Chuck is Chuck and that it’s nice to get kissed like a beautiful fragile creation every once in a while.
She rubs her clit viciously hard and bites her cheek and wants more than Chuck knows how to give her.
He needs lessons. Her hips thrust up in the air and she thinks about Bryce, about how patient he’d been when teaching her hand-to-hand, how firm and careful his hands were.
She’s slick between her legs. Her thighs are soaked and she’s making a mess of the bed (she’d just washed those sheets). She thinks about Bryce giving Chuck directions and almost comes. Imagines how they’d look: Bryce’s pink lips brushing against the curve of Chuck’s ear, their dark heads close together. They would have made a good team, she thinks, twisting the dildo around as she waits for her body to calm down. She doesn’t want to come yet.
She thinks Bryce would probably give amazing blowjobs. He’d loved to go down on her, in any case. He’d stay between her legs, licking inside of her, teasing her until she came, and came, and came. Then he’d kiss her thighs and whisper silly little compliments until she was ready to go again.
Bryce had never been good with his words. Not when he was himself, anyway, not when only he had his own name and no masks to hide behind. She thinks maybe the sex had been Bryce’s way of telling her how he felt. That he liked her, maybe loved her, that he enjoyed her pleasure more than his own. That he wanted to make her feel good.
Bryce had sacrificed…everything. For Chuck. Had cast himself in the role of bad guy in order to be a hero, and he’d played his part to perfection.
He’d told her about Chuck a dozen times. Hidden by fake names and distorted timelines and an invented location, he’d told her about how he’d betrayed his best friend. He’d never told her why. Bryce was too willing to step back, too willing to take himself out of the equation.
Maybe Chuck could teach Bryce some things, too.
She wants to see them fuck. Wants to see Bryce’s mouth rubbed raw by Chuck’s wide dick, wants Chuck to watch her and Bryce fuck and get him to take some goddamn notes. She wants to see Chuck fuck Bryce.
Because she’d never fucked Bryce like he was beautiful. Neither of them had known how. And it was - as frustrated as she was with Chuck, sometimes, he had taught her a lot. He'd given her something back that she hadn't even realized she'd lost. She and Bryce had had fun and been there for one another and it had been good, at times it had even been great, but it had always felt like an extension of their partnership instead of a relationship on its own.
She wants them both. She wants Bryce’s strength and daring, wants Chuck’s humor and naïveté. She thinks about Bryce’s soft mouth and Chuck’s long body. Tries to imagine them together: the expanse of muscle and skin, the span of Chuck’s wide hands, the trails Bryce’s mouth would blaze across Chuck’s stomach.
When she gets close to coming, she imagines Bryce on his knees.
Imagines Bryce naked, kneeling, his broad back curved and supplicant. Forehead touching the ground, bare feet tucked against each other, breath even and regular. And she imagines Chuck whipping him. Flogging him. Beating him. She imagines blood running down the dips of his ribs, into the sweaty curls of his hair, mixing with his sweat and pooling around his knees.
For Jill, for Stanford, for being too fucking selfless for his own good, she wants Chuck to beat him. For his misdirected anger and his lost years and his betrayed trust, Chuck would beat him. She wants to see bruises and welts and tears. Wants Chuck to bring the lash down on Bryce’s back until it became more wound than flesh, until the pain outweighed his self-control, until he’d be screaming instead of moaning. She wants Chuck to hurt Bryce until one of them - her or Chuck, it didn’t matter, Bryce would be losing blood and they’d both be hard and her panties would be soaked - said you did the right thing.
She wants Chuck to give Bryce what he could never give himself. What she hadn't known he'd needed.
And then she’d pull Bryce up onto his knees and kiss him until he caught his breath. And she’d guide his face until his mouth was right where she wanted it, his bitten lips kissing her clit, his tongue teasing out to rub against her. She wants Chuck to fuck Bryce while he goes down on her. Wants to feel each jolt of Bryce’s body as Chuck’s cock shoved him forward. Wants Bryce’s groans to reverberate through her cunt. She wants to kiss Chuck over the destroyed canvas of Bryce’s body, to run her hands over her boys like they both belonged to her.
Then she wants them to fuck her at the same time. Standing up, their hands on her ass and thighs, supporting her, moving her, lifting her. Chuck in her cunt and Bryce taking her from behind. She would come without touching herself, she knows she would their cocks filling her so completely. She’d come just from the rough pressure of her body against theirs.
She twists the dildo in her cunt and rubs her clit. Hard. Painfully hard. The sheets are soaked with her sweat and her wrist is starting to ache and she just - she can’t come.
She’s dreamed them so many times. Separately and together. Too many times to be completely satisfied with the repetitive slideshow of their histories and played-out fantasies.
So she doesn’t dream them perfect, or kinky, or daring. She just…dreams that they’re there. On her bed. On her clean sheets, in her rented apartment on an early night when she has nowhere else to go. She dreams that they fuck against walls that are decorated with ridiculous wallpaper, she dreams them going down on each other in the shower with fuchsia shampoo suds swirling around their feet, she dreams them kissing at the same time and ordering take out and fucking on the floor.
When she comes, she doesn’t think about a whip in Chuck’s hand or the need for penance in Bryce’s broken smiles or the blank, perfect universe of her make-believe life. She just dreams that they’re there.
*
thank you for reading! please leave feedback if you've got the time. :-)
Author: hoosierbitch
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Chuck
Pairing: Sarah/Chuck, Sarah/Bryce, Sarah/Bryce/Chuck
Content Advisory: Fantasized flogging.
Notes: I should really, really be working on my finals. BUT I’M NOT. :D This was written for day #4 of mmom!
Summary: In her dreams, Sarah got to have them both.
*
She smells like hot dogs. Hot dogs and fuchsia. She’d worked a full shift, come home, and taken a long bath to try and soak the scent away. Unfortunately, the pervasive odor of cooked meat and ketchup seems to have lingered. She sprays some perfume on her pillow before getting into bed.
She’s not that tired. It’s early still. But her character - Sarah Walker, hardworking employee, loyal girlfriend - has no reason to leave her apartment. Chuck’s out with Morgan, Casey’s busy, and she has no other friends.
Well…maybe one.
She opens her bedside drawer and gets out some lube and her favorite dildo. Not too big, not too small. It doesn’t vibrate or twist or pulse, it’s nothing fancy. It’s still her favorite. She slicks it up, gets under the blanket, and spreads her legs. It’s been a long day and she doesn’t want to have to go through the ordeal of trying to sneak some porn past the NSA’s firewalls, so she just closes her eyes and imagines.
Bryce.
God, Bryce.
Her body misses him. Misses the strength of his tongue and the wicked spark in his eyes, the flexibility and endurance of his body.
They’d fucked like acrobats. In closets and bathtubs and on counters. Once they’d developed a rhythm, figured out what they both liked best, they’d fucked up against walls a lot. His hands tight on her ass, lifting her up and down on his cock (it was a bit bigger than her dildo and curved just right).
She twists her dildo, shoves it in hard, remembering the way her shoulders had slammed against the walls, the bruises his hands had left. Remembers the way Bryce’s mouth would break open in a wide smile when he readjusted his grip to fuck her harder.
They’d fucked like partners. She’d shove him into dark corners and jerk him off when she was bored between lectures at Quantico, he’d pull tablecloths over her lap and tease her with the slightest brushes of his fingers until she soaked through her panties and slacks, until she was blushing and desperate and digging her fingernails into his wrist.
It wasn’t until Chuck that she realized she and Bryce had never made love. They’d fucked, they’d fooled around, they’d experimented. Hell, on their last vacation (their last week together) they’d done it on the beach a half-dozen times, hiding in the dunes to keep away from tourists. He’d caressed her breasts, digging grains of sand against her nipples; she’d ridden him like a cowgirl until her shoulders and breasts were sunburnt. But they’d never been new to each other.
Chuck was - Chuck.
He hadn’t been a virgin. She knows that. Knows about Jill (Bryce had told her the whole sorry story, whispered Chuck’s anger and Jill’s tears), she knows that her body isn’t the first he’d seen naked, not the first he’d touched, not the first he’d slipped into with a gasp like he was entering cold water instead of her cunt. It still feels like she was the first. He looks at her like he’s trying to thank her, every time they fuck. Like he’s grateful. Like she’s giving him something instead of taking.
Sometimes she wants to get Chuck drunk at a bar, pull him into the bathroom, get his pants down around his thighs, and demand that he fuck her, hard, where anyone could find them. No prep, no foreplay, just the two of them and an unlocked door and cold tile walls. But then she remembers that Bryce is gone and Chuck is Chuck and that it’s nice to get kissed like a beautiful fragile creation every once in a while.
She rubs her clit viciously hard and bites her cheek and wants more than Chuck knows how to give her.
He needs lessons. Her hips thrust up in the air and she thinks about Bryce, about how patient he’d been when teaching her hand-to-hand, how firm and careful his hands were.
She’s slick between her legs. Her thighs are soaked and she’s making a mess of the bed (she’d just washed those sheets). She thinks about Bryce giving Chuck directions and almost comes. Imagines how they’d look: Bryce’s pink lips brushing against the curve of Chuck’s ear, their dark heads close together. They would have made a good team, she thinks, twisting the dildo around as she waits for her body to calm down. She doesn’t want to come yet.
She thinks Bryce would probably give amazing blowjobs. He’d loved to go down on her, in any case. He’d stay between her legs, licking inside of her, teasing her until she came, and came, and came. Then he’d kiss her thighs and whisper silly little compliments until she was ready to go again.
Bryce had never been good with his words. Not when he was himself, anyway, not when only he had his own name and no masks to hide behind. She thinks maybe the sex had been Bryce’s way of telling her how he felt. That he liked her, maybe loved her, that he enjoyed her pleasure more than his own. That he wanted to make her feel good.
Bryce had sacrificed…everything. For Chuck. Had cast himself in the role of bad guy in order to be a hero, and he’d played his part to perfection.
He’d told her about Chuck a dozen times. Hidden by fake names and distorted timelines and an invented location, he’d told her about how he’d betrayed his best friend. He’d never told her why. Bryce was too willing to step back, too willing to take himself out of the equation.
Maybe Chuck could teach Bryce some things, too.
She wants to see them fuck. Wants to see Bryce’s mouth rubbed raw by Chuck’s wide dick, wants Chuck to watch her and Bryce fuck and get him to take some goddamn notes. She wants to see Chuck fuck Bryce.
Because she’d never fucked Bryce like he was beautiful. Neither of them had known how. And it was - as frustrated as she was with Chuck, sometimes, he had taught her a lot. He'd given her something back that she hadn't even realized she'd lost. She and Bryce had had fun and been there for one another and it had been good, at times it had even been great, but it had always felt like an extension of their partnership instead of a relationship on its own.
She wants them both. She wants Bryce’s strength and daring, wants Chuck’s humor and naïveté. She thinks about Bryce’s soft mouth and Chuck’s long body. Tries to imagine them together: the expanse of muscle and skin, the span of Chuck’s wide hands, the trails Bryce’s mouth would blaze across Chuck’s stomach.
When she gets close to coming, she imagines Bryce on his knees.
Imagines Bryce naked, kneeling, his broad back curved and supplicant. Forehead touching the ground, bare feet tucked against each other, breath even and regular. And she imagines Chuck whipping him. Flogging him. Beating him. She imagines blood running down the dips of his ribs, into the sweaty curls of his hair, mixing with his sweat and pooling around his knees.
For Jill, for Stanford, for being too fucking selfless for his own good, she wants Chuck to beat him. For his misdirected anger and his lost years and his betrayed trust, Chuck would beat him. She wants to see bruises and welts and tears. Wants Chuck to bring the lash down on Bryce’s back until it became more wound than flesh, until the pain outweighed his self-control, until he’d be screaming instead of moaning. She wants Chuck to hurt Bryce until one of them - her or Chuck, it didn’t matter, Bryce would be losing blood and they’d both be hard and her panties would be soaked - said you did the right thing.
She wants Chuck to give Bryce what he could never give himself. What she hadn't known he'd needed.
And then she’d pull Bryce up onto his knees and kiss him until he caught his breath. And she’d guide his face until his mouth was right where she wanted it, his bitten lips kissing her clit, his tongue teasing out to rub against her. She wants Chuck to fuck Bryce while he goes down on her. Wants to feel each jolt of Bryce’s body as Chuck’s cock shoved him forward. Wants Bryce’s groans to reverberate through her cunt. She wants to kiss Chuck over the destroyed canvas of Bryce’s body, to run her hands over her boys like they both belonged to her.
Then she wants them to fuck her at the same time. Standing up, their hands on her ass and thighs, supporting her, moving her, lifting her. Chuck in her cunt and Bryce taking her from behind. She would come without touching herself, she knows she would their cocks filling her so completely. She’d come just from the rough pressure of her body against theirs.
She twists the dildo in her cunt and rubs her clit. Hard. Painfully hard. The sheets are soaked with her sweat and her wrist is starting to ache and she just - she can’t come.
She’s dreamed them so many times. Separately and together. Too many times to be completely satisfied with the repetitive slideshow of their histories and played-out fantasies.
So she doesn’t dream them perfect, or kinky, or daring. She just…dreams that they’re there. On her bed. On her clean sheets, in her rented apartment on an early night when she has nowhere else to go. She dreams that they fuck against walls that are decorated with ridiculous wallpaper, she dreams them going down on each other in the shower with fuchsia shampoo suds swirling around their feet, she dreams them kissing at the same time and ordering take out and fucking on the floor.
When she comes, she doesn’t think about a whip in Chuck’s hand or the need for penance in Bryce’s broken smiles or the blank, perfect universe of her make-believe life. She just dreams that they’re there.
*
thank you for reading! please leave feedback if you've got the time. :-)