HOMECOMING DANCE COMMENT FICATHON
I KNOW WHERE EVERYONE IS TONIGHT
THEY'RE ON TUMBLR
TALKING ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY MISS LJ
WELL LET'S DO THIS
I OFFICIALLY INVITE YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW TO A MULTIFANDOM COMMENT FICATHON, RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW. We're talking Doctor Who, Sherlock, Elementary, Harry Potter, Avengers, Marvel and DC, Justified, Star Trek, Veronica Mars, Secret Diary of ( Read more... )
THEY'RE ON TUMBLR
TALKING ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY MISS LJ
WELL LET'S DO THIS
I OFFICIALLY INVITE YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW TO A MULTIFANDOM COMMENT FICATHON, RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW. We're talking Doctor Who, Sherlock, Elementary, Harry Potter, Avengers, Marvel and DC, Justified, Star Trek, Veronica Mars, Secret Diary of ( Read more... )
He can't call it a kiss, not really. It's fast and possessive, he crushes her to him and doesn't move for air until she almost swoons. His tongue in her mouth, her tongue tracing his teeth, his lower lip, it all blurs in his head. Her nails scratch him over the seam when she tries to undo his trousers and he gasps and bucks, pushing her down onto the doona and shedding his pants and shoes.
She stares at him, soaking up what he looks like. It occurs to him that the first time had been only illuminated by flashes of lightning, shadows hiding them both from each other. He said he'd do it better, the next time.
He isn't going to. Maybe it's all the need, this weight in him when he looks at her. No, today it'll be messy and desperate. So he stumbles into the bed, rolling on top of her and grasping her hips, hands shaking with need and something else, kissing down her neck, grazing his teeth on her collarbone. She says things like 'please' and 'now' and then nothing at all, muscles tense, biting down on her sounds.
“I thought,” she pants, “you were didn’t want to-god-“
His normally clever fingers fumble with her knickers until she shimmies them down, the movement leaving him blinded for a moment, inhaling harshly. Her legs fall open as he strokes her and she closes her eyes and it's not quite a shout she makes, nor a whisper.
“Trust me. I’m going to do this as often as I can,” he replies.
She's wet, and he thinks of her in this room, fingering herself until he got there. And that, really, how is he supposed to restrain himself after that? The photos come flooding back and he's suddenly in her without conscious thought
And it's better than anything.
She wants this, he knows, the simple act of it. Him thrusting in her and both of them moving together, hard and ragged. He'll be gentle another day; she'll take her time some other place.
A rhythm builds in him, control, neediness, friction. He groans and she whimpers, he curses and she says his name like it's all she van do. He likes that more than he should, speed up the movement of his slick circling fingers, and she arches into him with a choked gasp.
He likes that too.
And he could tell her how good it feels, how tight and hot and divine, how he loses himself in her. He could tell her what he wants to do to her in her ear, or hiss profanity or even murmur to her in his native language, dusty and long gone.
But he doesn't. Instead he watches her spasm and cling and come, tries to catalogue the exact angle of her neck and back, to store it for another, lonelier day. She mutters his name into his shirt, lost in a haze of the pleasure he gave her, clenching around him.
He kisses her eyelids,, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, while he moves in her. Do you know what you do to me, he wants to ask but she's leaning up towards him now, lips meeting his in a strangely sweet kiss,
He thinks he might love her.
And then he comes almost surprisingly, jerking his hips, thrusting helplessly, a quiet 'fuck, Rose'escaping him. And it's not stars or heaven or perfection, it's selfish mindless ecstasy and her under him, soft and warm and precious, catching him when he falls.
He comes back down, one hand in her hair, breathing out contentment. He wonders if he'll always feel this blissful, after.
"Hello," she murmurs drowsily. He rolls off her, ignoring the whine of protest. He must be uncomfortable but she seems to like it.
"Hello," he replies slowly and they test out smiles, sleepy and silly. Her hand steals into his, and he pulls her to him, pressing damp skin to cotton. With a tenderness that echoes deep into his bones, he draws circles on her back and sides, fingers mapping out where he marked her and giving a silent apology for it.
Her heart slows, her mouth parts and she slips into sleep. Half dressed, he follows, wrapped around her like a shield. Tomorrow, maybe he'll find a blanket and a shady spot and tug her dress up over her head. Do it properly, slowly and gently.
Another day, another place for the things he wants to say. They have time, after all.
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SO MUCH ABOUT THIS
EVERYTHING
BUT THIS OMFG
And he could tell her how good it feels, how tight and hot and divine, how he loses himself in her. He could tell her what he wants to do to her in her ear, or hiss profanity or even murmur to her in his native language, dusty and long gone.
slay me.
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*is horribly sorry*
but thank you a million times over and over and so so so happy you liked it
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