020 good lord, 4/7 contributions
Title: You Are Now
Fandom: Minority Report
Words: 449
Pairing: John Anderton/Agatha
Rating: Um, R. Porny but not explicit.
Summary: pr0n ba77le. Prompt was 'proof.' (Plz note I have not seen Minority Report in about a year, and I haven't seen it in its entirety in several more. However, I don't think it shows too much. ... Hopefully.)
It’s been a long time. Not too long, however. If they went to the end of time, they still wouldn’t be far enough away from those harrowing days. But it’s been long enough that Agatha and her brothers have settled down, and Agatha’s hair has grown out in tawny and soft locks that stand on end on her head. Sometimes John runs his hand through it, or tangles his fingers in it when they kiss and he holds the back of her head.
He’s doing it now, she realizes, as he’s leaning her back against the porch swing that creaks all night when the nights are windy. She’s heard such creaking from it, but it’s always like a song, never unwanted or annoying. It’s like someone is reading her to sleep, and the whisper of the swing is a million times better than the silent rush of Before.
John is touching her. He has one hand on her breast, under her shirt. His fingers are wide and warm, unlike hers, which are thin and always cold. She would love him for his fingers only. They can do magical things. They’ve touched her, slipped in and out of her and made her forget the images that flash before her eyes every now and again of hands doing much different, evil works.
“Are you here?” She finds herself whispering.
John stops what he’s doing, sliding his fingers away from the zipper of her jeans and puts his hand to the side of her face, brushing stray hairs away with his fingertips. “I’m here,” he says, and there’s no hesitation or fear or questioning in his answer.
Agatha smiles, her doubtful eyes flooding with peace and warmth. “John,” she breathes quietly.
He kisses her, slow and deep and comforting, until she tilts her hips and reminds him of what he was doing.
When he pushes inside her, she hears him groan softly, and she can’t move. But once they remember how to embrace each other and not feel their minds leave, their steady rocking makes the chains on the swing creak listlessly, joining in with soft crickets’ song in the early evening.
She wakes up in bed, gasping and eyes wide. It’s happened before. This time, when she moves to rise out of bed and go into the kitchen, to read her book and make tea, she flinches before she can rise. In between her legs, she’s sore, and in the mirror she sees that at the base of her neck there is a faint red chafe mark. For once it doesn’t matter if it’s past or future or just a dream, because she knows that what happened, happened. They were there.
Fandom: Minority Report
Words: 449
Pairing: John Anderton/Agatha
Rating: Um, R. Porny but not explicit.
Summary: pr0n ba77le. Prompt was 'proof.' (Plz note I have not seen Minority Report in about a year, and I haven't seen it in its entirety in several more. However, I don't think it shows too much. ... Hopefully.)
It’s been a long time. Not too long, however. If they went to the end of time, they still wouldn’t be far enough away from those harrowing days. But it’s been long enough that Agatha and her brothers have settled down, and Agatha’s hair has grown out in tawny and soft locks that stand on end on her head. Sometimes John runs his hand through it, or tangles his fingers in it when they kiss and he holds the back of her head.
He’s doing it now, she realizes, as he’s leaning her back against the porch swing that creaks all night when the nights are windy. She’s heard such creaking from it, but it’s always like a song, never unwanted or annoying. It’s like someone is reading her to sleep, and the whisper of the swing is a million times better than the silent rush of Before.
John is touching her. He has one hand on her breast, under her shirt. His fingers are wide and warm, unlike hers, which are thin and always cold. She would love him for his fingers only. They can do magical things. They’ve touched her, slipped in and out of her and made her forget the images that flash before her eyes every now and again of hands doing much different, evil works.
“Are you here?” She finds herself whispering.
John stops what he’s doing, sliding his fingers away from the zipper of her jeans and puts his hand to the side of her face, brushing stray hairs away with his fingertips. “I’m here,” he says, and there’s no hesitation or fear or questioning in his answer.
Agatha smiles, her doubtful eyes flooding with peace and warmth. “John,” she breathes quietly.
He kisses her, slow and deep and comforting, until she tilts her hips and reminds him of what he was doing.
When he pushes inside her, she hears him groan softly, and she can’t move. But once they remember how to embrace each other and not feel their minds leave, their steady rocking makes the chains on the swing creak listlessly, joining in with soft crickets’ song in the early evening.
She wakes up in bed, gasping and eyes wide. It’s happened before. This time, when she moves to rise out of bed and go into the kitchen, to read her book and make tea, she flinches before she can rise. In between her legs, she’s sore, and in the mirror she sees that at the base of her neck there is a faint red chafe mark. For once it doesn’t matter if it’s past or future or just a dream, because she knows that what happened, happened. They were there.