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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He lunges for the drawer. Lack of letters? A good thing in this situation, most definitely.

'Flourescent green. How adventerous. And ribbed, extra thin and chocolate flavoured. Or strawberry. Or mint. And one with a smiley face on the end.'

He fans the array like a deck of cards. If Mary Anne wants to point out that maybe some of those condoms used to just be regular, he'll merely smirk.

'Lady's choice. Pick.'

She props herself up on her elbows, blinking. She could have sworn...

She gives him a look that amounts do 'This is all your doing, isn't it?' while considering her options.

"Hm...let's save the flavors for a rainy day and just go with classic green." The effort it's taking not to laugh right now is incredible.

'Wise choice. I wouldn't want to get lost in the dark. Flouresence is so useful for that.'

The rest get tossed back in the drawer. If Mary Anne's paying attention, she might notice that by the time it gets rolled on, it's turned a dark bottle green. His favourite colour. But he's kissing her again, so maybe she won't see.

"Clearly. Wouldn't be able to find yourself in this place if you weren't...glowing."

And her laughter is muffled by his kiss. The flouresence does seem less intense, but she did only catch a glimpse from the corner of her eye, so she'll write it off as a trick of the light. Besides, she truthfully couldn't be bothered to care what color it is.

'I should keep a couple on me at all times, in case I get lost in an avalanche,' he muses, then grins and pulls her arms above her head, holding them at the wrists with one hand, while his other guides himself inside her.

And then stupid jokes seem a lot less important really.

She almost says something about jogging naked at night but oh--

She arches against him, eyes wide and dark, her breath hot against the hollow of his throat.

He swallows hard, once, then moves, enjoying the closeness of her breath playing on his skin, the feel of her body arching into his.

He doesn't release her hands, just pushes into her hard, in long slow thrusts.

Her hands curl in on themselves, fingers scrambling at his grip--not looking to get free, just something to hold.

A low moan builds in the back of her throat, sprinkled with praise and benediction in English and Vietnamese; her lips graze his skin when she speaks.

Which is precisely why he doesn't move hie head, he likes the feeling of her lips brushing against him even if he doesn't know all the words.

The wrists are held tighter to stop them slipping free, and he speeds up a little, staring down into her eyes with an intense blue gaze.

The pace changes and her breathing hitches; she hooks an ankle around his leg, pulling him closer.

Her wrists are held firm, though the fingers still clench spasmotically. It's not tight enough to hurt; she finds herself hoping for bruises all the same.

She stares back until her eyes drift out of focus and blue is all she can see. Another thrust makes her cry out and she arches to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

(Người tình.)

He won't bruise intentionally tonight, but the grip is firm and if it happens on it's own he's not going to feel bad about it. There's a smile as her leg wraps around his amd he rocks harder, wanting to make her cry out more as his own breath comes faster.

She won't feel bad either; hell, with Random on baby-raising leave, she won't feel bad about showing them off.

There's a string of softer noises against his throat, followed by a renewed series of words in two languages. Graudually, her cries become longer and higher; her hands writhe in his grip as she strives to get closer to him still.

He doesn't let go of her, but pushes into her harder, faster, with slightly more desperation. Because he loves trapping her underneath him, doing this to her, hearing her cry out for him. And the closeness of her is intoxicating, something that's still new and exciting and he's afraid that it feels too good to tire of.

She has an addiction to violence and a compulsion to touch. It's why she kills the way she does. It's also why she loves this.

A gasp wrings from her throat, tempered with a harsher cry. She muffles her voice with a bite to his shoulder. Jungle discipline dies hard.

He hisses his breath out at the bite, enjoying the mixture of pain and heated pleasure as it shoots through his body, adding to the building tension in his muscles. There's a kiss then, hand tangling in her hair, breath coming faster now.

She kisses him back, another cry building in the back of her throat, high and wavering.

"Please, please, please--" The words slur against his mouth.

She's so damn close

He stares down into her eyes, holding back moans, watching her unravel. Then his head drops and he snaps his hips faster, biting into her neck as he does and adding pressure to her pinned wrists to stop her moving as much as possible.

It's the teeth that does it.

She's covered and she can't move and he's so close, teeth in her throat (shoulder)

Her back curves in a near perfect arc, head tipped back to expose more of her throat to him. The arching tugs at her wrists and it'll bruise now for sure, yes.

She shudders against him, mouth open but perfectly silent as she comes.

His smile into her neck is slow, tinged with lust and desire, and he releases her hands when she's done. And then moves again, close himself but not quite there yet, lifting his chest off her so he can move easier and watch her at the same time.

She stretches, flexing each wrist and slowly working blood back into her fingertips. She rides out the aftershocks, staring up at him through half-lidded eyes. She cranes her neck to kiss him, one hand slipping down to dig nails into his hip.

It only takes another minute or so, as he hisses with the nails in his hip, biting gently at her full lower lip as muscles tense. He's quiet as he lets go, never the most vocal of men, but there's a small sound of satisfaction all the same, his eyes never leaving hers.

The pressure of the nails eases until it's not there at all, just a fingertip tracing idle circles.

She kisses him again, slow and lingering-- because he's there, because she can--her other hand winding a lock of hair around her palm.

Yes, he's there and yes, she can - he kisses her back until he needs to breathe again, his heart still hammering in his chest as he rolls to the side and stares up at the ceiling.

'I think I shouldn't drink around you any more. Or maybe I should drink more often. I can't decide.'

She shifts onto her side, pillowing her head on one arm.

"I'd say split the difference, but 'm not sure you can." There's no bite in the words, just lazy speculation.

'No, it's a bit hard to.'

Even if she was making a bitchy comment, he's too relaxed from alcohol and sex to worry about it. And he's more relaxed in her company now that he'd ever have thought possible a month or two ago.

He reaches out and strokes a bit of hair off her face, then lights a cigarette.

'You alright?'

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