Unorthodox - Lamont/Worth
Title: Unorthodox
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Hanna Is Not A Boy’s Name
Pairing: Lamont/Worth
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Lamont and Worth have an odd, unorthodox relationship, but it’s all either of them want.
Disclaimer: Lamonty Python and Worthington aren’t mind, sadly.
A/N: I wrote this for a contest over on Y-Gallery. It was supposed to be violent sex between Lamont and Worth x3 I really like how this turned out even if it’s kind of poetically vague. Who am I kidding, I love my poetically vague shit.
---
Sometimes, they found themselves wondering in unison why the HELL they were doing what they were doing. And, really, they wondered what it was they were doing in the first place.
But then fists collide and pain blossoms and they really can’t do much wondering at all.
The blood that slides against clothing and teeth and skin is a dark crimson, the mixing of the doctor and the delivery boy. Worth’s fists are hard, cruel, goading; Lamont’s jabs are fierce, reciprocal, just the way Worth loves it.
They’ve been in this violent masquerade since they met so many years ago, baseball over the hedge and children fighting over property rules. It grew through grammar school, then high school, then morphed into something decidedly unorthodox in college, but if one thing could be said about it, it was always there, under their skin, waiting to be pulled out in tense times to play.
As it was now.
It should be illegal, the way Worth jabs him with his elbow. His joints are all much too sharp for Lamont’s tastes, but at the same time they really are the best thing about the other man. The knifing pain through his gut is a mirror of the same flash of adrenaline and something else from his heart. It takes him a moment to regain his stance but then he throws his fist into Worth’s neck, and the noise Worth makes, the rush of sheer pleasure through his veins, is exactly the reason why they started this in the first place.
Blood slides further against their knuckles, thick and viscous and it’s getting both of them flustered, pants tight, straining and needy. A groan escapes one of them, followed by a grunt of pain as more fists fly, hard and cruel and brutal.
Worth gets Lamont in the side of the face and Lamont knows it’ll bruise, but he’s okay with that, because he gets Worth back in the kneecap and Worth gasps in surprise as he tumbles, wondering where his balance went. Lamont follows him to the floor, and they dissolve into a mess of flailing limbs, rolling like rabid animals and like lovers.
Somehow, Worth manages to pin him. Lamont thought he was stronger than the other man, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter as Worth leans over and bites his neck, just like the vampires they take turns making fun of. Lamont’s ground-out moan is enough to make Worth die of lust, right then and there, but he stays alive long enough to shove a hand into the other man’s pants, clutching and sliding at precum mixed with the blood on his knuckles.
Lamont bucks, wild-eyed like a stallion. Worth coughs a laugh, ripping the other’s pants off, and he knows the sound of irritation is more for the expensive clothing than impatience at being touched. That’s exactly why he does it, to be honest. He loves Lamont’s anger, he loves the way it makes him thrust harder and faster and deeper, inflicting more pain, forgetting for the moment that his favorite kind of sex is the long and slow fuck that Worth finds boring.
“Holdjer horses, Monty,” Worth sneers, and Lamont backhands him.
“Get on it already, asshole,” he retorts, lip in a slight snarl that reminds Worth both of Elvis and the last time they did this, when that perfectly bared canine was stabbed and drawing blood from his left thigh.
Clothes are divested and then Worth is pressing onto Lamont without a second thought. The pain is tight, a burn as intense as every circle of hell, clutching and ripping and oh, so good. Lamont’s silent; teeth clenched and eyes mostly shut in a look of sheer trauma. Worth is a panting, bloody mess, eyes cast toward the heavens in a plea for forgiveness, or perhaps thanks.
It doesn’t take him long to shove all the way onto Lamont’s thick Italian length; he’s done this enough to know his body can handle it. He doesn’t give him a chance to get used to the vicelike feeling of their connection, though, before he starts the up and down bounce that has them both groaning out condolences, swearing and spite.
Lamont’s nails are digging into his thighs, adding scars amongst the dozens that already litter the pale and scrawny expanse of skin and bone. Worth leans in, bites his collarbone; blood is slick against them both again, pumping from open wounds in time with the harsh thrusting and even harsher panting.
The pain they inflict is almost as important as the grinding and thrusting and stimulation. Lamont only stands it because of the pure ecstacy displayed on Worth’s face like golden perfection; Worth can’t get off on anything less. To him, the bloodshed is an exclamation of love - not something Lamont is aware of, but true nonetheless.
Thrusts, pants, fists, teeth, and bloodshed; it’s a whirlwind of feeling and action, building and twisting and pumping higher and higher and higher -
Worth comes first, his seed rocketing obscenely in a trail across Lamont’s stomach. His muscles clench in a deliciously tight complaint around Lamont’s cock and with a long, deep groan, he’s gone as well, spilling deep into the other man who’s already stolen so much of his sperm.
And even though Worth HAS to know that Lamont is already finished, still he rides, and the feeling against his softening staff is too much pain, way too much agony, and Lamont actually finds himself biting back his pride and sobbing out a plea to stop.
Worth just laughs, but he pauses, then ceases, leaning to nip tiredly at Lamont’s neck instead; his version of an apology. Lamont tips his neck gently, almost unperceptively; he accepts Worth’s apology, he forgives him, he loves him.
Lamont can feel the slide of blood and semen starting to stick as they refuse to move from their spot on the grimy hard floor, but if it means he’s stuck to Worth, he’s okay with that.
Author: Kyrianne
Fandom: Hanna Is Not A Boy’s Name
Pairing: Lamont/Worth
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Lamont and Worth have an odd, unorthodox relationship, but it’s all either of them want.
Disclaimer: Lamonty Python and Worthington aren’t mind, sadly.
A/N: I wrote this for a contest over on Y-Gallery. It was supposed to be violent sex between Lamont and Worth x3 I really like how this turned out even if it’s kind of poetically vague. Who am I kidding, I love my poetically vague shit.
---
Sometimes, they found themselves wondering in unison why the HELL they were doing what they were doing. And, really, they wondered what it was they were doing in the first place.
But then fists collide and pain blossoms and they really can’t do much wondering at all.
The blood that slides against clothing and teeth and skin is a dark crimson, the mixing of the doctor and the delivery boy. Worth’s fists are hard, cruel, goading; Lamont’s jabs are fierce, reciprocal, just the way Worth loves it.
They’ve been in this violent masquerade since they met so many years ago, baseball over the hedge and children fighting over property rules. It grew through grammar school, then high school, then morphed into something decidedly unorthodox in college, but if one thing could be said about it, it was always there, under their skin, waiting to be pulled out in tense times to play.
As it was now.
It should be illegal, the way Worth jabs him with his elbow. His joints are all much too sharp for Lamont’s tastes, but at the same time they really are the best thing about the other man. The knifing pain through his gut is a mirror of the same flash of adrenaline and something else from his heart. It takes him a moment to regain his stance but then he throws his fist into Worth’s neck, and the noise Worth makes, the rush of sheer pleasure through his veins, is exactly the reason why they started this in the first place.
Blood slides further against their knuckles, thick and viscous and it’s getting both of them flustered, pants tight, straining and needy. A groan escapes one of them, followed by a grunt of pain as more fists fly, hard and cruel and brutal.
Worth gets Lamont in the side of the face and Lamont knows it’ll bruise, but he’s okay with that, because he gets Worth back in the kneecap and Worth gasps in surprise as he tumbles, wondering where his balance went. Lamont follows him to the floor, and they dissolve into a mess of flailing limbs, rolling like rabid animals and like lovers.
Somehow, Worth manages to pin him. Lamont thought he was stronger than the other man, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter as Worth leans over and bites his neck, just like the vampires they take turns making fun of. Lamont’s ground-out moan is enough to make Worth die of lust, right then and there, but he stays alive long enough to shove a hand into the other man’s pants, clutching and sliding at precum mixed with the blood on his knuckles.
Lamont bucks, wild-eyed like a stallion. Worth coughs a laugh, ripping the other’s pants off, and he knows the sound of irritation is more for the expensive clothing than impatience at being touched. That’s exactly why he does it, to be honest. He loves Lamont’s anger, he loves the way it makes him thrust harder and faster and deeper, inflicting more pain, forgetting for the moment that his favorite kind of sex is the long and slow fuck that Worth finds boring.
“Holdjer horses, Monty,” Worth sneers, and Lamont backhands him.
“Get on it already, asshole,” he retorts, lip in a slight snarl that reminds Worth both of Elvis and the last time they did this, when that perfectly bared canine was stabbed and drawing blood from his left thigh.
Clothes are divested and then Worth is pressing onto Lamont without a second thought. The pain is tight, a burn as intense as every circle of hell, clutching and ripping and oh, so good. Lamont’s silent; teeth clenched and eyes mostly shut in a look of sheer trauma. Worth is a panting, bloody mess, eyes cast toward the heavens in a plea for forgiveness, or perhaps thanks.
It doesn’t take him long to shove all the way onto Lamont’s thick Italian length; he’s done this enough to know his body can handle it. He doesn’t give him a chance to get used to the vicelike feeling of their connection, though, before he starts the up and down bounce that has them both groaning out condolences, swearing and spite.
Lamont’s nails are digging into his thighs, adding scars amongst the dozens that already litter the pale and scrawny expanse of skin and bone. Worth leans in, bites his collarbone; blood is slick against them both again, pumping from open wounds in time with the harsh thrusting and even harsher panting.
The pain they inflict is almost as important as the grinding and thrusting and stimulation. Lamont only stands it because of the pure ecstacy displayed on Worth’s face like golden perfection; Worth can’t get off on anything less. To him, the bloodshed is an exclamation of love - not something Lamont is aware of, but true nonetheless.
Thrusts, pants, fists, teeth, and bloodshed; it’s a whirlwind of feeling and action, building and twisting and pumping higher and higher and higher -
Worth comes first, his seed rocketing obscenely in a trail across Lamont’s stomach. His muscles clench in a deliciously tight complaint around Lamont’s cock and with a long, deep groan, he’s gone as well, spilling deep into the other man who’s already stolen so much of his sperm.
And even though Worth HAS to know that Lamont is already finished, still he rides, and the feeling against his softening staff is too much pain, way too much agony, and Lamont actually finds himself biting back his pride and sobbing out a plea to stop.
Worth just laughs, but he pauses, then ceases, leaning to nip tiredly at Lamont’s neck instead; his version of an apology. Lamont tips his neck gently, almost unperceptively; he accepts Worth’s apology, he forgives him, he loves him.
Lamont can feel the slide of blood and semen starting to stick as they refuse to move from their spot on the grimy hard floor, but if it means he’s stuck to Worth, he’s okay with that.