song_tra_bong | April Fool's

Entry tags:

julian,
smut

April Fool's

After sending a prayer of thanks to whoever installed the lift, Mary Anne shuffles down the hall towards her room. The wig has finally succumbed to the laws of physics and is tilting precariously. She's holding it on with one hand, if only because she doesn't want to accidently trip over it.

Finally, she slumps in relief against the doorframe, knocking twice. "Give a girl a hand?"

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His eyes close for a moment, then open as the hand moves away again. He shifts a little because teasing, then leans over to stub his cigarette out, twisting himself an ashtray for convenience.

'Positive is always better than negative,' he agrees calmly. Though the calmness may well be false.

"Mmm."

She smiles slowly, pleased, because teasing is what she's good at.

The pattern starts again. Up the thigh to hip, across again but higher--skimming the skin just above the waistband of the pants. Fingers linger long enough to twist the button open (standard military issue, she could undo it in the dark)...

...before slinking back to his thigh.

'Enjoying yourself?' he enquires in a light tone, dropping a hand to lightly caress the back of her neck.

'I don't think I'll buy you any more alcohol if it makes you tease like this.'

"Mmm, immensely."

She attempts a pout, but it quickly gets taken over by a smirk. "Oh, whatever shall I do--"

And her hand isn't on his thigh any more, or on his hip, but yanking the zipper down and there. She lunges forward while her hand works, kissing him hard.

His breath catches in his throat at the sudden assault but he kisses her back just as hard, eyes closing as fingers run down her skin to cup her breast, thumb gently brushing her nipple.

'I think you know exactly what you're doing.'

"Your vote of confidence is appreciated," she murmurs, laughing low in her throat.

There's a twist of her wrist and her mouth is against his pulse point, her free hand raking nails lightly over his ribs.

He gasps a little, hissing his breath back out again at the twist, tilting his head to give her access to his neck.

'Keep doing that and you'll have all the votes you want.'

His thumb presses a little harder, becoming a touch more insistent as his other hand runs down her side to rest on her hip.

She just laughs again in return, the kiss to his throat becoming a bite with the increased pressure of his hand.

She moans softly and shifts her grip, working him slowly. She wants this to last.

He groans a little at the slow pace but doesn't try to force more yet, he just pinches her nipple lightly, twisting just a fraction. And he moves the hand on her hip, letting it trace along the base of her abdomen in a series of light, slow, brushes.

The muscles of her stomach flinch involuntarily at his touch; she's always been a little ticklish.

She presses closer to him, shifting her hips against his leg as she rotates her wrist.

He can't stop the moan now and the slow rocking of hips, pushing up into her hand. He grasps the back of her head and pulls it back by her hair - not roughly, but insistently - so he can kiss her deeply as the hand that had been roaming her body slides under the waistband of her pyjama pants.

She arches her neck, making for greater tension against her scalp because God does that feel good.

She gasps against his mouth when he touches her and she kisses him all the harder in thank you, tightening her grip like a reflex.

His breath hisses again at the tightened grasping, fingers pressing harder. He's not always the gentlest of lovers, even tending towards the selfish at times - but not all the time.

He lets go of her head to tug at the pants, without stopping his touches for an instant.

'Off. Get these off.'

She nods wordlessly, arching her back to tug the pants down over her hips. She shimmies her legs, shifting them to around her ankles, then kicking them off entirely.

"Your turn," she pants.

His way is - he thinks - easier. He just stands up, lets the pants drop, then crawls back on to the bed. He stays on all fours as he leans down to kiss her again, then trails his mouth down her chest to pull lightly on the points of her breasts.

'We should do this more often.'

She gasps--one hand twisting in the sheets, the other resting almost reverently on his hair.

"Absolutely."

He smiles lazily, slipping his hand back between her legs as he does, wanting her ready for him.

'I think this is the only time you ever agree with me and mean it,' he says in a complaining tone. The press of his fingers should let her know that he's not mad about it though.

"That's--ah!--not strictly true."

She struggles to catch her breath.

"Not that I can...think of any good examples...but you are distracting me."

He tugs playfully at one hard nipple with his lips, then grins up at her, blue eyes sparkling.

'If distracting you is what it takes to make you more pliable, I'm fine with that.'

"Pliable, huh?" She sits halfway up, just enough to smother that grin with a kiss.

"Sounds bendy." She snickers softly and kisses him again. "Distract away."

Julian laughs after she pulls away, taking one of her hands and pulling it back to touch him again.

'Mutual distraction seems like a good idea to me.'

His finger press harder to add emphasis to his words.

'Don't you agree?'

She lets out a soft, strangled cry. "You make a pretty...convincing argument...for the buddy system."

Wandering hands that touch and tease and twist.

"'M gonna need some...more concrete evidence, though."

'Oh?'

It's a small word, almost lost in a breathless pant as she plays over him. he responds in kind, knowing she likes it.

'What did you...mmm....have in mind?'

"I don't know...ooooh..."

Both hands rake through his hair, over neck and shoulders, then further down.

"You're clever...sure you can think of so--OH--mething."

'I'm sure I can.'

He pulls away from her, taking her wrists and pinning them by her head as he nudges her legs further apart with a knee. And then pauses, because...

'Damnit. Protection?'

Dworkin with scissors is not something a man is likely to forget in a hurry.

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