could you live with this
Title: could you live with this
Author: thegraduate09
Words: 1656
Fandom: Degrassi
Pairing: Adam/Bianca
Rating: M
Summary:
Author's Note: So, yeah, PWP. Not that I usually write plots... The first, complete, bit of naughtiness I've written with the actual intent to post. This piece, actually, could take place in almost any point in canon, and just have been kept a total secret, and it makes me happier about canon to pretend it did happen.
He’d like to establish, right off the bat, that he’d had a horrible day, the whole world was going out of its’ way to piss him off, and she couldn’t have picked a worse time to bait him. He’d like to point out that - well, he’d like to point out that he doesn’t know how the hell it happened.
But no one’s listening to him.
He knows, he knows, in the back of his head, all the things the pamphlets say, all the advice, just walk away, not worth the attention, blah blah blah. But he’s human, and why the hell does he always have to walk away? How is that fair? And even digging his nails into his palms, and counting down from ten, and attempting to drown her out by reciting lyrics in his head doesn’t help, and he’s not even sure what happens in between his last ditch effort to get a door, a wall, in between them - literally, he’s in the doorway - and becoming aware of himself again a minute (2? 3?) later. He’s so, so close to her, closer than that one dance, and the air is ten times more charged, but differently, too, and the look on her face is different, more stubborn and more uncertain, too, and god, that’s delicious. He can feel himself smirk, abstractly, and he can feel himself step forward again, and again, and he knew she’d step backwards, and all rational thought is gone the second her back is against the wall, and she swallows, and he knows she’s just concretely realized - there’s no one else in this hallway. It’s an hour after school, there’s hardly anyone else here at all. He’s in control - it’s dizzying, he can see why she likes it. She looks like she wants to cross her arms, do anything, to establish more distance, but she’s not - he wonders why. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say anything for a long minute.
“It’s a little obsessive - how much you bring up what I do or don’t have. Especially now, now that it really doesn’t concern you anymore - unless it does. Unless it’s not just that you’re a bitch - you spend that much time thinking about it? Yeah - Yeah, that fits. That makes sense - I fuck with all your convenient little definitions and your preconceived notions and you want to hate it, but you enjoy it, don’t you?” He laughs, hollowly, and she looks away, up and to the left somewhere, and he moves closer, so they’re just barely, barely making contact, and it’s so wrong, but hell, he doesn’t care, he’s beyond that, in lieu of eye contact, he focuses in on her neck, lifts a hand to run his thumb from just below her ear to her shoulder, gently, then, wraps his fingers around tighter, and makes her look him in the eye. (What is he doing.) “Do you want me to prove it? Would that shut you up?”
He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t really expect a struggle, either, even the tiny pathetic version she puts forward - she could easily push him away if she wanted to, and instead she just tries to step away from the wall - she honestly looks surprised, when that puts them in full on knees to... shoulders contact. (He thanks the anger, the rush, for the lack of self consciousness, it’s so welcome.) He thanks - he isn’t even sure what - for the guts to push her back, back against the wall, with the contact she brought about. “Go on. Fight me off.”
“No.” She shakes her head, and he’s a little less sure what she’s thinking, for a second, “Do whatever you want.” It’s a challenge, he takes it as an admission. She spreads her hands in a ‘whatever’ gesture, as if she weren’t pinned to a wall, and he has to give her a point for that, as he wraps his fingers around her hips, tightly, tightly, exhales, “I’m doing what you want. Try and tell me - really, try - that this isn’t doing it for you right now. Go ahead.”
She shakes her head, mutely, and he puts his mouth right next to her ear, “Then tell me to stop,” pushes one of his legs between hers, and up, she closes her eyes, and her head falls back against the wall.
He reiterates, “Tell me to stop, now, or I’m going to make you admit you want this.”
Silence.
He inhales, flexes his fingers, presses his mouth - open - against her neck, bites down. (He thinks he hears her make a sound, he knows he feels her arch away from the wall - into him. He gets dizzier.)
“You liked that,” he mutters, bites again - yes, there was a sound. This is - rushed, and fueled, and he can hear the blood pounding through his veins, and hers, but it’s deliberate, too, he’s not sure what back corner of his mind has thought about this, but every move is as weighted as it is urgent. He lifts his head to whisper in her ear, again, speaks while he moves, “Say it,” shifting his thigh up, enough to be teasing but offer no real friction (that would defeat the goal), balls her shirt up in his hands ‘til it’s above her breasts. He holds it there with one hand, the other laid flat on her stomach, just above her bellybutton, and ducks his head to bite at the skin left exposed by her bra, leaving little red marks behind. (There won’t be any kissing here.)
She’s moving, only slightly, only as much as she can’t help, but he’s focused, and he notes every twitch, every clench of her stomach, and every panting breath, and he smirks when her nails dig into his scalp. He rocks his leg up, harder, surprises a moan out of her throat, and when he pushes her bra out of his way and latches lips and teeth around her nipple, he earns himself another. He doesn’t mutter anything about her wanting this, now, he’s nowhere near done, now, she doesn’t get to fold that easy. He doesn’t stay quiet, though, no, although he can’t really believe he’s saying this, “I bet you’re just fucking dripping wet, right now, aren’t you?”
He drops the hand on her stomach lower, to toy with the button of her pants, “I could just leave you like this. It’d be fair.”
She closes her eyes, again, and he shakes his head.
“No, no, you don’t close your eyes,” he slips the button free, slides the zipper down, tucks his hand in - still teasing, hardly touching and over her underwear, but it’s enough for, “I was right. You’re going to open your eyes, or this’ll end now.”
(He’s really never given orders before. Or gambled quite this much - but.)
She opens her eyes, meets his, and he feels a bit like he’s been punched in the gut, but he tries not to show it, and - a little sloppier - tugs her underwear down as much as he can with her pants still on, but once his hand is pressed against her, nothing in the way, he feels in control again, sliding his fingers through pure slickness. She keeps her eyes half open, and he lets that go, solely for how good it looks.
He indulges, for a minute, in just the warmth of her, and then gets purposeful again, seeking out her clit, rolling it (gently) under the pad of his thumb, other fingers just pressed against her.
He doesn’t know how he’s still talking, through the rushed breathing and his dry throat, but he manages, and it’s worth it, when she shivers, “I don’t think you deserve my mouth, do you? As good as I’m sure you taste... No, you’ll have to make do with my fingers-”
He slips one, two, inside her, curls his fingers, and seeks out that spot, rubs consistently until she’s digging her nails into his arm, all coiled up and tense, close but not too close, and then slows, “Do you want this yet?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, bites his tongue, and increases speed and pressure again, voice harsher, and it’s harder - so much - to concentrate with her warm and wet and tight around his fingers, but he manages somehow - “Not going to let you cum ‘til you say it, Bianca.”
She digs her nails into his arm again, and he gives, presses his month against hers and mutters, “You win,” because he’s not sure what would happen if she did say it - this, this is one thing, but if it were fact... that would be a different level of power over her all together, so he closes his eyes, and doesn’t relent, this time, until her grip relaxes, until all of her relaxes, and he pulls a shaky hand out of her pants, wipes his fingers on his own, and, with two shaky hands, re-fastens her pants, fixes her bra and shirt, and it’s hitting him, piece by piece, what he just did here - in the school hallway, while he’s doing that.
He takes a step, two, back, and she coils her fingers around his wrist, licks her lips, “You’re a liar. Should’ve held out, maybe I would’ve said it.”
Author: thegraduate09
Words: 1656
Fandom: Degrassi
Pairing: Adam/Bianca
Rating: M
Summary:
Author's Note: So, yeah, PWP. Not that I usually write plots... The first, complete, bit of naughtiness I've written with the actual intent to post. This piece, actually, could take place in almost any point in canon, and just have been kept a total secret, and it makes me happier about canon to pretend it did happen.
He’d like to establish, right off the bat, that he’d had a horrible day, the whole world was going out of its’ way to piss him off, and she couldn’t have picked a worse time to bait him. He’d like to point out that - well, he’d like to point out that he doesn’t know how the hell it happened.
But no one’s listening to him.
He knows, he knows, in the back of his head, all the things the pamphlets say, all the advice, just walk away, not worth the attention, blah blah blah. But he’s human, and why the hell does he always have to walk away? How is that fair? And even digging his nails into his palms, and counting down from ten, and attempting to drown her out by reciting lyrics in his head doesn’t help, and he’s not even sure what happens in between his last ditch effort to get a door, a wall, in between them - literally, he’s in the doorway - and becoming aware of himself again a minute (2? 3?) later. He’s so, so close to her, closer than that one dance, and the air is ten times more charged, but differently, too, and the look on her face is different, more stubborn and more uncertain, too, and god, that’s delicious. He can feel himself smirk, abstractly, and he can feel himself step forward again, and again, and he knew she’d step backwards, and all rational thought is gone the second her back is against the wall, and she swallows, and he knows she’s just concretely realized - there’s no one else in this hallway. It’s an hour after school, there’s hardly anyone else here at all. He’s in control - it’s dizzying, he can see why she likes it. She looks like she wants to cross her arms, do anything, to establish more distance, but she’s not - he wonders why. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say anything for a long minute.
“It’s a little obsessive - how much you bring up what I do or don’t have. Especially now, now that it really doesn’t concern you anymore - unless it does. Unless it’s not just that you’re a bitch - you spend that much time thinking about it? Yeah - Yeah, that fits. That makes sense - I fuck with all your convenient little definitions and your preconceived notions and you want to hate it, but you enjoy it, don’t you?” He laughs, hollowly, and she looks away, up and to the left somewhere, and he moves closer, so they’re just barely, barely making contact, and it’s so wrong, but hell, he doesn’t care, he’s beyond that, in lieu of eye contact, he focuses in on her neck, lifts a hand to run his thumb from just below her ear to her shoulder, gently, then, wraps his fingers around tighter, and makes her look him in the eye. (What is he doing.) “Do you want me to prove it? Would that shut you up?”
He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t really expect a struggle, either, even the tiny pathetic version she puts forward - she could easily push him away if she wanted to, and instead she just tries to step away from the wall - she honestly looks surprised, when that puts them in full on knees to... shoulders contact. (He thanks the anger, the rush, for the lack of self consciousness, it’s so welcome.) He thanks - he isn’t even sure what - for the guts to push her back, back against the wall, with the contact she brought about. “Go on. Fight me off.”
“No.” She shakes her head, and he’s a little less sure what she’s thinking, for a second, “Do whatever you want.” It’s a challenge, he takes it as an admission. She spreads her hands in a ‘whatever’ gesture, as if she weren’t pinned to a wall, and he has to give her a point for that, as he wraps his fingers around her hips, tightly, tightly, exhales, “I’m doing what you want. Try and tell me - really, try - that this isn’t doing it for you right now. Go ahead.”
She shakes her head, mutely, and he puts his mouth right next to her ear, “Then tell me to stop,” pushes one of his legs between hers, and up, she closes her eyes, and her head falls back against the wall.
He reiterates, “Tell me to stop, now, or I’m going to make you admit you want this.”
Silence.
He inhales, flexes his fingers, presses his mouth - open - against her neck, bites down. (He thinks he hears her make a sound, he knows he feels her arch away from the wall - into him. He gets dizzier.)
“You liked that,” he mutters, bites again - yes, there was a sound. This is - rushed, and fueled, and he can hear the blood pounding through his veins, and hers, but it’s deliberate, too, he’s not sure what back corner of his mind has thought about this, but every move is as weighted as it is urgent. He lifts his head to whisper in her ear, again, speaks while he moves, “Say it,” shifting his thigh up, enough to be teasing but offer no real friction (that would defeat the goal), balls her shirt up in his hands ‘til it’s above her breasts. He holds it there with one hand, the other laid flat on her stomach, just above her bellybutton, and ducks his head to bite at the skin left exposed by her bra, leaving little red marks behind. (There won’t be any kissing here.)
She’s moving, only slightly, only as much as she can’t help, but he’s focused, and he notes every twitch, every clench of her stomach, and every panting breath, and he smirks when her nails dig into his scalp. He rocks his leg up, harder, surprises a moan out of her throat, and when he pushes her bra out of his way and latches lips and teeth around her nipple, he earns himself another. He doesn’t mutter anything about her wanting this, now, he’s nowhere near done, now, she doesn’t get to fold that easy. He doesn’t stay quiet, though, no, although he can’t really believe he’s saying this, “I bet you’re just fucking dripping wet, right now, aren’t you?”
He drops the hand on her stomach lower, to toy with the button of her pants, “I could just leave you like this. It’d be fair.”
She closes her eyes, again, and he shakes his head.
“No, no, you don’t close your eyes,” he slips the button free, slides the zipper down, tucks his hand in - still teasing, hardly touching and over her underwear, but it’s enough for, “I was right. You’re going to open your eyes, or this’ll end now.”
(He’s really never given orders before. Or gambled quite this much - but.)
She opens her eyes, meets his, and he feels a bit like he’s been punched in the gut, but he tries not to show it, and - a little sloppier - tugs her underwear down as much as he can with her pants still on, but once his hand is pressed against her, nothing in the way, he feels in control again, sliding his fingers through pure slickness. She keeps her eyes half open, and he lets that go, solely for how good it looks.
He indulges, for a minute, in just the warmth of her, and then gets purposeful again, seeking out her clit, rolling it (gently) under the pad of his thumb, other fingers just pressed against her.
He doesn’t know how he’s still talking, through the rushed breathing and his dry throat, but he manages, and it’s worth it, when she shivers, “I don’t think you deserve my mouth, do you? As good as I’m sure you taste... No, you’ll have to make do with my fingers-”
He slips one, two, inside her, curls his fingers, and seeks out that spot, rubs consistently until she’s digging her nails into his arm, all coiled up and tense, close but not too close, and then slows, “Do you want this yet?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, bites his tongue, and increases speed and pressure again, voice harsher, and it’s harder - so much - to concentrate with her warm and wet and tight around his fingers, but he manages somehow - “Not going to let you cum ‘til you say it, Bianca.”
She digs her nails into his arm again, and he gives, presses his month against hers and mutters, “You win,” because he’s not sure what would happen if she did say it - this, this is one thing, but if it were fact... that would be a different level of power over her all together, so he closes his eyes, and doesn’t relent, this time, until her grip relaxes, until all of her relaxes, and he pulls a shaky hand out of her pants, wipes his fingers on his own, and, with two shaky hands, re-fastens her pants, fixes her bra and shirt, and it’s hitting him, piece by piece, what he just did here - in the school hallway, while he’s doing that.
He takes a step, two, back, and she coils her fingers around his wrist, licks her lips, “You’re a liar. Should’ve held out, maybe I would’ve said it.”