Fic: The Second Greatest Gift; Brock/Molotov; R
Title: The Second Greatest Gift of All
Fandom: Venture Bros
Pairing: Brock/Molotov
Rating: R
Warnings: Frottage
Word Count: 1,067
Summary: On a stakeout that lasts through Christmas, Brock gets the closest thing to what he really wants.
Outside the O.S.I issued survival tent, a storm was raging. It pounded against the walls and threatened to rip the tent apart. Inside, Brock Samson took a swig of vodka from a flash, not worried about the storm. The tent would hold. His attention was on something else - the woman across from him.
One leg pulled up, wrapped in a black leather coat trimmed in fur, Molotov Cocktease sat and smoked a cigarette. The long coat hid most of her figure, but not all. The fur lined edges parted under her throat, giving Brock a very fine view of the swell of her impressive cleavage.
Look, but no touching. Those were the rules. Not that Brock played by the rules, and sure as hell not with Molotov. She pushed him to it, the bitch. Winding him up, pulling him along, baiting and teasing him until he couldn’t take it any longer and he just had to have her….
And then she left in the cold, like always. Fucking Cocktease.
Tonight wasn’t any different. There she was, smoking her cigarette, breasts rising and falling and straining against the edges of her coat. And her leg. Brock knew exactly what it looked like under there. She had fucking amazing legs. Long and lean and the kind of legs that’d feel perfect wrapped around a man….
It might have been sub zero temperatures outside, but as far as Brock was concerned, the tent was hotter than hell in the middle of summer.
“Smoke?”
Even Molotov’s damn voice was made of sex. Talk about the irony. Brock was sitting across from the very definition of ‘femme fatale’ and he may as well have been bunking down with a nun.
“Yeah, I’ll take one.” And maybe a bath in the snow while he was at it. The harsh smoke from Mol’s Russian cigarettes burning his throat. That was okay, though. He didn’t mind the sting down to his lungs, it took his mind off the blood that was trying to redirect itself down south to warmer climates.
“It’s midnight.”
“And everything’s quiet.” Not the too quiet kind, either. Nothing was going down tonight.
“I suppose this warrants a Merry Christmas, Samson.”
“It’s Christmas?” Fuck, where had the time gone? That was a problem with stakeouts like this. No sense of time, no sense of day or night… in all the snow and wind they may as well have been in a cave somewhere.
It was only luck that brought them together on the same side. Mol was after a weapon’s dealer, Brock was after the weapons. They could work together without worrying about trying to kill - or non-lethally take down, in Brock’s case - one another.
Unfortunately, it looked like the deal had been called off or moved or something.
“Yes, it is Christmas. And how lucky for us - it’s a white one.”
“Merry Christmas then, Mol. Happy New Year and all that shit, too.” Brock settled back in more comfortably. So it was Christmas. Well, there were worse ways to spend it. Sure they were cold as sin and the stakeout had been a bust, but the company wasn’t bad.
Neither was the view.
Fuck.
Molotov was laughing. Brock grinned, stretching out his legs.
“So. Seeing as it’s Christmas and all…how about giving me a little present.”
“Aw, my little Samson. Hope springs eternal.” Mol leaned over, running a gloved hand over Brock’s jaw. He couldn’t deny it. As long as Molotov was alive and breathing, Brock would hope he could have the honor of taking her to bed.
Or the floor. Or wall. Whatever was handy, really.
“It’s Christmas,” he repeated, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close. Her lips were hot against his. God, she tasted so good. His mind imagined her mouth flavored with steel and smoke and blood. He loved that phantom taste.
Mol didn’t pull away. Her mouth moved against his, her hands went around his neck. Her legs went around his waist.
Through the thin leather of her catsuit, Brock could feel the infuriating metal that came between them again and again. He felt it tight against his growing erection, even through layers of clothes. Or maybe he just imagined it, he didn’t know. He was drunk off Molotov’s kisses. Her breasts filled his hands, their softness a glaring contrast to the hardness everywhere else.
This time, Brock didn’t try and undress her. This time, he just held her there, her legs around his waist, his erection pressed firmly between her legs. There was plenty of cloth and leather and denim between them, but hey, friction was friction.
And it was friction while Molotov was kissing him and dragging her fingers through his hair and over his neck. She bit his lip. And he rocked his hips, grinding himself against his own jeans, knowing this was the best he was going to get.
But it was good. It was Molotov and it was good, and it felt like a sauna in that tent. Molotov was moaning, not softly or delicately, but wailing like a cat. All Brock could see was red.
He felt like a kid again. Like he was thirteen and in high school and fumbling around with a senior in the back seat of her car. He’d gone all the way just a few months later, a week after his fourteenth birthday. And this was better than those first, furious gropes and grindings back then.
Molotov gripped his hair and yanked his head back as he came, gripping her hips and grunting as he lost himself against the scratchy surface of his jeans.
“Filthy dog,” she purred, sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of his ear. Brock shuddered and sank back against the wall of the tent. His ear was bleeding. There was blood on the edge of Molotov’s lips. Hell, he felt like he could go again in five minutes.
“Think I could get another cigarette?” he asked, draping one arm casually around Molotov’s shoulders as she lay against him. She chuckled and reached for them, offering a single cigarette.
“Happy Christmas, my Samson,” she said, looking up and licking her lips in that sexy, teasing way she had. “Let us hope it’s not your last.”
Fandom: Venture Bros
Pairing: Brock/Molotov
Rating: R
Warnings: Frottage
Word Count: 1,067
Summary: On a stakeout that lasts through Christmas, Brock gets the closest thing to what he really wants.
Outside the O.S.I issued survival tent, a storm was raging. It pounded against the walls and threatened to rip the tent apart. Inside, Brock Samson took a swig of vodka from a flash, not worried about the storm. The tent would hold. His attention was on something else - the woman across from him.
One leg pulled up, wrapped in a black leather coat trimmed in fur, Molotov Cocktease sat and smoked a cigarette. The long coat hid most of her figure, but not all. The fur lined edges parted under her throat, giving Brock a very fine view of the swell of her impressive cleavage.
Look, but no touching. Those were the rules. Not that Brock played by the rules, and sure as hell not with Molotov. She pushed him to it, the bitch. Winding him up, pulling him along, baiting and teasing him until he couldn’t take it any longer and he just had to have her….
And then she left in the cold, like always. Fucking Cocktease.
Tonight wasn’t any different. There she was, smoking her cigarette, breasts rising and falling and straining against the edges of her coat. And her leg. Brock knew exactly what it looked like under there. She had fucking amazing legs. Long and lean and the kind of legs that’d feel perfect wrapped around a man….
It might have been sub zero temperatures outside, but as far as Brock was concerned, the tent was hotter than hell in the middle of summer.
“Smoke?”
Even Molotov’s damn voice was made of sex. Talk about the irony. Brock was sitting across from the very definition of ‘femme fatale’ and he may as well have been bunking down with a nun.
“Yeah, I’ll take one.” And maybe a bath in the snow while he was at it. The harsh smoke from Mol’s Russian cigarettes burning his throat. That was okay, though. He didn’t mind the sting down to his lungs, it took his mind off the blood that was trying to redirect itself down south to warmer climates.
“It’s midnight.”
“And everything’s quiet.” Not the too quiet kind, either. Nothing was going down tonight.
“I suppose this warrants a Merry Christmas, Samson.”
“It’s Christmas?” Fuck, where had the time gone? That was a problem with stakeouts like this. No sense of time, no sense of day or night… in all the snow and wind they may as well have been in a cave somewhere.
It was only luck that brought them together on the same side. Mol was after a weapon’s dealer, Brock was after the weapons. They could work together without worrying about trying to kill - or non-lethally take down, in Brock’s case - one another.
Unfortunately, it looked like the deal had been called off or moved or something.
“Yes, it is Christmas. And how lucky for us - it’s a white one.”
“Merry Christmas then, Mol. Happy New Year and all that shit, too.” Brock settled back in more comfortably. So it was Christmas. Well, there were worse ways to spend it. Sure they were cold as sin and the stakeout had been a bust, but the company wasn’t bad.
Neither was the view.
Fuck.
Molotov was laughing. Brock grinned, stretching out his legs.
“So. Seeing as it’s Christmas and all…how about giving me a little present.”
“Aw, my little Samson. Hope springs eternal.” Mol leaned over, running a gloved hand over Brock’s jaw. He couldn’t deny it. As long as Molotov was alive and breathing, Brock would hope he could have the honor of taking her to bed.
Or the floor. Or wall. Whatever was handy, really.
“It’s Christmas,” he repeated, grabbing her wrist and pulling her close. Her lips were hot against his. God, she tasted so good. His mind imagined her mouth flavored with steel and smoke and blood. He loved that phantom taste.
Mol didn’t pull away. Her mouth moved against his, her hands went around his neck. Her legs went around his waist.
Through the thin leather of her catsuit, Brock could feel the infuriating metal that came between them again and again. He felt it tight against his growing erection, even through layers of clothes. Or maybe he just imagined it, he didn’t know. He was drunk off Molotov’s kisses. Her breasts filled his hands, their softness a glaring contrast to the hardness everywhere else.
This time, Brock didn’t try and undress her. This time, he just held her there, her legs around his waist, his erection pressed firmly between her legs. There was plenty of cloth and leather and denim between them, but hey, friction was friction.
And it was friction while Molotov was kissing him and dragging her fingers through his hair and over his neck. She bit his lip. And he rocked his hips, grinding himself against his own jeans, knowing this was the best he was going to get.
But it was good. It was Molotov and it was good, and it felt like a sauna in that tent. Molotov was moaning, not softly or delicately, but wailing like a cat. All Brock could see was red.
He felt like a kid again. Like he was thirteen and in high school and fumbling around with a senior in the back seat of her car. He’d gone all the way just a few months later, a week after his fourteenth birthday. And this was better than those first, furious gropes and grindings back then.
Molotov gripped his hair and yanked his head back as he came, gripping her hips and grunting as he lost himself against the scratchy surface of his jeans.
“Filthy dog,” she purred, sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of his ear. Brock shuddered and sank back against the wall of the tent. His ear was bleeding. There was blood on the edge of Molotov’s lips. Hell, he felt like he could go again in five minutes.
“Think I could get another cigarette?” he asked, draping one arm casually around Molotov’s shoulders as she lay against him. She chuckled and reached for them, offering a single cigarette.
“Happy Christmas, my Samson,” she said, looking up and licking her lips in that sexy, teasing way she had. “Let us hope it’s not your last.”