Draco's Chair
Title: Draco's Chair
Author: Alsike
Rating: Hard R, (probably NC-17 but it's not kinky enough to be properly NC-17... maybe I need to start using a higher rating for certain things.)
Fandom: X-men/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emma Frost/Emily Prentiss
Prompt: Why is there no prompt for Chair Sex? This disappoints me.
Apologies: Yeah, more ficfic. I was listening to the podfic of Tissue of Silver by fearlessdiva and very much enjoying the descriptions of Draco lounging in his evil chair, and then I thought, "self? do you know what would make this even hotter? If it were Emma instead." So I gave Emily his chair.
This is set somewhere in their frustratingly complicated non-relationship. Don't ask me where. It's about the chair sex.
More non-this-fic-relevant Apologies:
All right, I have been feeling somewhat guilty over having not actually done any productive updates in the past week (2?), and of having been pretty slow and irregular with posting in general. The main reason that I have been so unproductive is because I've been working on my original fiction again. I've written nearly 20,000 words since i started, half of that in a week. (Spring Break is so awesome! Why is it OVER!!!)
The other reason is that I am refusing to begin anymore unfinished serieses. Honestly! I just keep on starting these things, and then I'm like, what is this shit? Why did I write this? And if I don't finish it I don't want to oppress my poor readers with it. So option 1 is finishing shit, and option 2 is a WIP amnesty week, or maybe voting on which one is least bad and requires finishing.
But I promise, I really have been working on City on the River, just not in chronological order. So the next chapter is not done, and yet there is lots of good stuff that you may never see if I don't finish the next chapter. *sigh*
Emma was here again, and Emily couldn’t quite deal with it yet. She just showed up, as always. She would smile, give a slight shrug as she ‘asked’ if she could stay, but the damn overnight bag broadcast the fact that she really wasn’t expecting to be turned down. But they were supposed to be friends now, weren’t they? She couldn’t just throw her out. And she just made herself at home, dropping her bag on the sofa, kicking off her shoes and padding across the carpet as if nothing had happened, as if this wasn’t a complete disaster, as if she was just there because she felt like it and not because her team had put her on a ‘temporary leave of absence’ while the tried to work out whether she had betrayed them or not.
This had to be the last cup of coffee, Emily swore to herself. She was far too jittery already, but she was doing everything she could to put off going to bed. If she just stayed up all night or passed out on the couch, she wouldn’t have to deal with whatever was going to be said. She wouldn’t have to fend off anything that would ruin their tenuous equilibrium. Friends was good. Friends meant none of those feelings, none of that horrifying quicksilver instability that felt like skydiving without a parachute.
She started for the kitchen, crossing from where her papers were spread out over the dining table that was more comfortable and better lit than her office and through the archway into the living room. Her foot passed the threshold. She glanced over at her new large stuffed reading chair with the fleur-de-lis pattern and stopped.
Emma was draped across the chair, knees up over the armrest, feet bare, a book in her lap. Her hair was falling down over it, and she absently pushed it back behind her shoulder.
Emily just looked, looked because she couldn’t do anything else, not when she wanted this much, wanted Emma, wanted to crawl right on top of her, toss the book away, and kiss her, putting her hands all over her body, and sate herself on her skin and her mouth and her lazy, liquid, intoxicating kisses.
Fuck the risk. Shocked by her own thoughts, Emily dropped the mug she was holding and it bounced on the carpet with a thud. Emma glanced up, her shockingly grey-blue eyes fixing on Emily, an eyebrow arching in an unspoken question. Emily just looked at her, unable to look away, to respond, to do anything but exist inside the ache in her chest. Then Emma smiled.
<< Come here. >> she commanded, and Emily felt herself flushing, and moved slowly over to the chair. Emma leaned back, tilting her head and exposing a long pale column of neck, eyes fluttering shut. Emily could hear her instructions as loudly as if she had shouted them, but they were spoken neither audibly nor telepathically. She dropped one knee onto the chair, leaning over her, and reaching out to cup the back of her head and kiss her.
Emma’s lips were warm and pliant and barely responsive. It felt like waking a princess, and Emily sighed into it, shifting her weight slightly to bring their bodies closer together. Emma’s tongue swiped across her lips and there was a light thump as the book slid to the floor. Emily swung her leg over her hips, straddling her and leaning in, cupping Emma’s head in both her hands, her thumbs running over her ears, and biting lightly at her lower lip before kissing her again, deeply.
Emma’s hands curled around her shoulder blades then slid down her back, clasping tightly, and making Emily arch at the electric feeling of it. Then they slid the rest of the way down to her ass and squeezed. Emily gasped, half laughing into her ear. This was too familiar, too comfortable to be something she shouldn’t be doing. “You’re such a guy,” she hissed, entirely amused.
“Because I like to grab your ass?” Emma leaned in and bit down on her earlobe. Emily groaned, and ground their hips together as best she could in the cramped confines of the sofa chair. Then she slid her fingers under Emma’s shirt, and up, tracing the outline of her ribcage, rubbing her thumbs over the smooth skin of her stomach. She leaned in to kiss her again, and let her hands travel slowly up to cup her breasts, circling the nipples through the thin fabric of the demi-cups. “Mmm,” Emma mumbled, smiling into the kiss. One of her hands moved to the top of Emily’s head and she pushed her down. “Use your mouth.”
Emily’s fingers tangled in the cups, pulling them down and tucking them under. Then she leaned in and wrapped her lips around one nipple, sucking through the fabric of her shirt, making it wet and rough. She bit gently through the cloth, and Emma’s breath hitched, her fingers curling tightly in her hair. She moved to the other, unbuttoning her shirt, and then peeling it open to press her face into her cleavage. It was warm and humid and slightly sticky. Emily lapped at the skin, tasting the salt.
“Fuck!” Emma hissed, lifting her hips and nearly tossing them both off the chair. Emily slid her fingers down her belly and under the waistband of her pants.
“Okay,” she mumbled. Her fingers slid in, and Emma was all wet heat inside. “God, you’re really wet for just five minutes of this.”
“I’ve been feeling you watch me for an hour, glancing, and thinking, and obsessing about my feet. I just had to wait for you to admit it.”
Emily laughed into her breasts and started circling her fingers. Emma expelled a breath. “No, do it harder. I need to come before you can tease me more.”
Emily laughed. “You’re so demanding.” But she twisted her wrist around, spreading her legs wider for better access, and then pushed in, three fingers, deep and easy.
“Christ!”
She bent and extended, moving fingertips over the walls as they parted her in front of them. And then, when Emma was writhing underneath of her, fingernails cutting crescents into her thighs, she started to fuck her, thrusting in and out, quick but steady, and she felt Emma’s shields split open, pulling her inside, letting her taste the heady intoxicating arousal, the power of it. And Emily gave back, the delicious sight of her, head tossed back, shirt open to expose her bare breasts, hips jerking and fighting to control the rhythm, and it was too much.
One of Emma’s hands had slid between her legs and was grinding harshly against the crotch of her jeans, fingers pressing in and then closing her hand to drag the heel of it across her clit over and over again and Emily knew it wouldn’t take much more of that for her to come. It was hard enough that the distance, the layers of cloth, didn’t matter, but the contrast between the wet heat around her fingers and the removed, almost clinical, pressure was too much, and she bent in, latching her teeth onto Emma’s pale neck, biting hard, to add a little pain to temper the build. It just accelerated, and with a rough half panicked thrust, Emily pushed in, and then pulled up, half sliding out, and Emma’s back arched, and she held on tightly to Emily’s hair and came, and Emily could feel everything, and her own body surged over the edge in response, building up a feedback loop, a screaming eardrum-bursting soundwave of pleasure, that caught them both up, pounding over them, until they collapsed in a wet heap.
“Oh fuck,” Emily muttered, dropping her head onto the arm of the chair. Good intentions seemed to have a really short lifespan in her head. “We might as well just go to bed.”
“I’m good,” Emma replied, not moving at all, except for her fingernails, which scraped against Emily’s scalp, combing her mussed hair behind her ears.
Emily dragged herself off and offered her hand. “Yeah, don’t whine at me when you can’t move tomorrow.”
Emma unfolded herself from the chair, long and lazy, and retrieved her book from where it had fallen. “If you insist.” She sauntered off in the direction of the bedroom, not even bothering to straighten out the waistband of her pants.
Emily sighed, clicked off the light, and followed.
Author: Alsike
Rating: Hard R, (probably NC-17 but it's not kinky enough to be properly NC-17... maybe I need to start using a higher rating for certain things.)
Fandom: X-men/Criminal Minds
Pairing: Emma Frost/Emily Prentiss
Prompt: Why is there no prompt for Chair Sex? This disappoints me.
Apologies: Yeah, more ficfic. I was listening to the podfic of Tissue of Silver by fearlessdiva and very much enjoying the descriptions of Draco lounging in his evil chair, and then I thought, "self? do you know what would make this even hotter? If it were Emma instead." So I gave Emily his chair.
This is set somewhere in their frustratingly complicated non-relationship. Don't ask me where. It's about the chair sex.
More non-this-fic-relevant Apologies:
All right, I have been feeling somewhat guilty over having not actually done any productive updates in the past week (2?), and of having been pretty slow and irregular with posting in general. The main reason that I have been so unproductive is because I've been working on my original fiction again. I've written nearly 20,000 words since i started, half of that in a week. (Spring Break is so awesome! Why is it OVER!!!)
The other reason is that I am refusing to begin anymore unfinished serieses. Honestly! I just keep on starting these things, and then I'm like, what is this shit? Why did I write this? And if I don't finish it I don't want to oppress my poor readers with it. So option 1 is finishing shit, and option 2 is a WIP amnesty week, or maybe voting on which one is least bad and requires finishing.
But I promise, I really have been working on City on the River, just not in chronological order. So the next chapter is not done, and yet there is lots of good stuff that you may never see if I don't finish the next chapter. *sigh*
Emma was here again, and Emily couldn’t quite deal with it yet. She just showed up, as always. She would smile, give a slight shrug as she ‘asked’ if she could stay, but the damn overnight bag broadcast the fact that she really wasn’t expecting to be turned down. But they were supposed to be friends now, weren’t they? She couldn’t just throw her out. And she just made herself at home, dropping her bag on the sofa, kicking off her shoes and padding across the carpet as if nothing had happened, as if this wasn’t a complete disaster, as if she was just there because she felt like it and not because her team had put her on a ‘temporary leave of absence’ while the tried to work out whether she had betrayed them or not.
This had to be the last cup of coffee, Emily swore to herself. She was far too jittery already, but she was doing everything she could to put off going to bed. If she just stayed up all night or passed out on the couch, she wouldn’t have to deal with whatever was going to be said. She wouldn’t have to fend off anything that would ruin their tenuous equilibrium. Friends was good. Friends meant none of those feelings, none of that horrifying quicksilver instability that felt like skydiving without a parachute.
She started for the kitchen, crossing from where her papers were spread out over the dining table that was more comfortable and better lit than her office and through the archway into the living room. Her foot passed the threshold. She glanced over at her new large stuffed reading chair with the fleur-de-lis pattern and stopped.
Emma was draped across the chair, knees up over the armrest, feet bare, a book in her lap. Her hair was falling down over it, and she absently pushed it back behind her shoulder.
Emily just looked, looked because she couldn’t do anything else, not when she wanted this much, wanted Emma, wanted to crawl right on top of her, toss the book away, and kiss her, putting her hands all over her body, and sate herself on her skin and her mouth and her lazy, liquid, intoxicating kisses.
Fuck the risk. Shocked by her own thoughts, Emily dropped the mug she was holding and it bounced on the carpet with a thud. Emma glanced up, her shockingly grey-blue eyes fixing on Emily, an eyebrow arching in an unspoken question. Emily just looked at her, unable to look away, to respond, to do anything but exist inside the ache in her chest. Then Emma smiled.
<< Come here. >> she commanded, and Emily felt herself flushing, and moved slowly over to the chair. Emma leaned back, tilting her head and exposing a long pale column of neck, eyes fluttering shut. Emily could hear her instructions as loudly as if she had shouted them, but they were spoken neither audibly nor telepathically. She dropped one knee onto the chair, leaning over her, and reaching out to cup the back of her head and kiss her.
Emma’s lips were warm and pliant and barely responsive. It felt like waking a princess, and Emily sighed into it, shifting her weight slightly to bring their bodies closer together. Emma’s tongue swiped across her lips and there was a light thump as the book slid to the floor. Emily swung her leg over her hips, straddling her and leaning in, cupping Emma’s head in both her hands, her thumbs running over her ears, and biting lightly at her lower lip before kissing her again, deeply.
Emma’s hands curled around her shoulder blades then slid down her back, clasping tightly, and making Emily arch at the electric feeling of it. Then they slid the rest of the way down to her ass and squeezed. Emily gasped, half laughing into her ear. This was too familiar, too comfortable to be something she shouldn’t be doing. “You’re such a guy,” she hissed, entirely amused.
“Because I like to grab your ass?” Emma leaned in and bit down on her earlobe. Emily groaned, and ground their hips together as best she could in the cramped confines of the sofa chair. Then she slid her fingers under Emma’s shirt, and up, tracing the outline of her ribcage, rubbing her thumbs over the smooth skin of her stomach. She leaned in to kiss her again, and let her hands travel slowly up to cup her breasts, circling the nipples through the thin fabric of the demi-cups. “Mmm,” Emma mumbled, smiling into the kiss. One of her hands moved to the top of Emily’s head and she pushed her down. “Use your mouth.”
Emily’s fingers tangled in the cups, pulling them down and tucking them under. Then she leaned in and wrapped her lips around one nipple, sucking through the fabric of her shirt, making it wet and rough. She bit gently through the cloth, and Emma’s breath hitched, her fingers curling tightly in her hair. She moved to the other, unbuttoning her shirt, and then peeling it open to press her face into her cleavage. It was warm and humid and slightly sticky. Emily lapped at the skin, tasting the salt.
“Fuck!” Emma hissed, lifting her hips and nearly tossing them both off the chair. Emily slid her fingers down her belly and under the waistband of her pants.
“Okay,” she mumbled. Her fingers slid in, and Emma was all wet heat inside. “God, you’re really wet for just five minutes of this.”
“I’ve been feeling you watch me for an hour, glancing, and thinking, and obsessing about my feet. I just had to wait for you to admit it.”
Emily laughed into her breasts and started circling her fingers. Emma expelled a breath. “No, do it harder. I need to come before you can tease me more.”
Emily laughed. “You’re so demanding.” But she twisted her wrist around, spreading her legs wider for better access, and then pushed in, three fingers, deep and easy.
“Christ!”
She bent and extended, moving fingertips over the walls as they parted her in front of them. And then, when Emma was writhing underneath of her, fingernails cutting crescents into her thighs, she started to fuck her, thrusting in and out, quick but steady, and she felt Emma’s shields split open, pulling her inside, letting her taste the heady intoxicating arousal, the power of it. And Emily gave back, the delicious sight of her, head tossed back, shirt open to expose her bare breasts, hips jerking and fighting to control the rhythm, and it was too much.
One of Emma’s hands had slid between her legs and was grinding harshly against the crotch of her jeans, fingers pressing in and then closing her hand to drag the heel of it across her clit over and over again and Emily knew it wouldn’t take much more of that for her to come. It was hard enough that the distance, the layers of cloth, didn’t matter, but the contrast between the wet heat around her fingers and the removed, almost clinical, pressure was too much, and she bent in, latching her teeth onto Emma’s pale neck, biting hard, to add a little pain to temper the build. It just accelerated, and with a rough half panicked thrust, Emily pushed in, and then pulled up, half sliding out, and Emma’s back arched, and she held on tightly to Emily’s hair and came, and Emily could feel everything, and her own body surged over the edge in response, building up a feedback loop, a screaming eardrum-bursting soundwave of pleasure, that caught them both up, pounding over them, until they collapsed in a wet heap.
“Oh fuck,” Emily muttered, dropping her head onto the arm of the chair. Good intentions seemed to have a really short lifespan in her head. “We might as well just go to bed.”
“I’m good,” Emma replied, not moving at all, except for her fingernails, which scraped against Emily’s scalp, combing her mussed hair behind her ears.
Emily dragged herself off and offered her hand. “Yeah, don’t whine at me when you can’t move tomorrow.”
Emma unfolded herself from the chair, long and lazy, and retrieved her book from where it had fallen. “If you insist.” She sauntered off in the direction of the bedroom, not even bothering to straighten out the waistband of her pants.
Emily sighed, clicked off the light, and followed.