RP log: Rita/Kingsley, NC-17 (part one)
Dec. 17th, 2006 09:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
featherxquillThis RP log was written by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shh_kingsley and myself as an exploration of our characters, trying to understand the relationship we've created between them in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
stoatshead_hill. It's backstory, set during the war, and obviously not part of the game, but it was absolutely teremendous fun to play, and I thought some of you might enjoy it. It's very, very NC-17. ;)
Let me take one moment to just fangirlshh_kingsley's muggle a little. She is amazing amazing amazing. The thread was so much fun, and such a challenge. I don't think I've ever felt quite so challenged by an rp before - every one of Kingsley's posts took my breath away, and made me think and work so much to try keep up the level of awesomeness. Also, hot. If you guys find this even half as hot to read as I did to play, well... I would say I thought our work was done, but hell no, there will be more Rita/Kings in game.
Okay, so I should stop now, and let you read it. I hope you enjoy. I stole the cut text from the oh-so-perfect "Rev 22:20" by Puscifier. Obligatory download link here.
I've just discovered it's too long for a single post. SO. Part 1.
Date: 28 June 1998
Characters: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Rita Skeeter
Location: The Swan (muggle pub and inn in London)
Rating: NC-17
Summary:Gratuitous Relationship-building Smut.
Jesus Christ, it was hot. Leave it to Rita Skeeter to pick a day like this for an 'interview.' What she thought she could possibly gain from an interview with an Auror working for the Muggle Ministry was beyond him. But he'd agreed.
He'd agreed for the same reason he'd already gotten a key to a room upstairs and was currently fingering said key in the pocket of his khaki trousers.
He'd agreed because he couldn't get enough of Rita Fucking Skeeter. He needed to release this tension.
The Muggle pub was called 'The Swan,' but right now he felt more like the Ugly Duckling. He'd shed his suit jacket and was currently sitting in a booth near the back, his pale blue dress shirt sticking to him in the humidity of the late June evening, sweat already beading on his upper lip, necktie practically choking him.
Maybe she wouldn't show up.
Maybe he didn't care.
And maybe he wasn't already half-hard over thoughts of what she might be wearing, supposing she did show up.
He took a second drink from his bottle of brown ale and checked his watch. Bitch had never been on time a day in her life, he figured.
The evening was so humid that even Rita's cooling charms could not keep her comfortable. But stockings sent this man insane, so sod being cool.
She stepped into the pub with polished black heels clicking against the floorboards and perfect seams tracing up the back of her legs. Her dress was white, and short, with a plunging black collar and large, black buttons down the front.
That should stop him in his tracks.
She'd probably kept him waiting long enough.
He was easy enough to find. She knew he'd be near the back. Hiding in the shadows.
She stopped at the bar for a martini.
"Evening, Kingsley," she smiled, pausing by the table.
He kept his features perfectly schooled on the outside.
On the inside, he was roaring. He'd seen her the minute she stepped into the pub. Heard her. His cock twitched with practically every click of those heels, and when she stopped to get a drink. Ohhhh fucking hell. He let his gaze slip over every inch of her body. Perfect arse all plump and dainty in her white dress. Perfect for pounding the living daylights out of. (And how this woman could pull off white, when he knew what her body was capable of, was beyond him.) Loooooong, slinky, narrow seams up the back of her stockings.
FUCK.
He'd fight it, of course, because that's who he was. And because he knew she liked the game. But deep down, he hoped she realised that dress was going to need some serious repairs before the end of the evening.
He nodded indifferently, his eyes half-blinking. "You wanted to see me?"
She slipped into the chair opposite him, and went straight for the kill. No small talk for him. What wasn't said was written in the air.
"The wizarding world is worried. After the attack in Cardiff, it's four our safety and out secrecy. The public want to know what the muggle Minister is saying."
She slipped her bag onto the seat beside her and drew out her quill and a notepad. She'd have to write with it herself, here, but she couldn't care less if the muggles thought her strange.
"I thought maybe you could tell me."
She smiled, lifted the martini to her lips and sipped.
"The Muggle Minister?" he scoffed. His lips fell into an easy smirk at the fact that she would show up dressed like that and then sit down and head straight into business, as usual.
"Well... if the public wanted to know," he replied in a soft voice, taking another brief sip off his ale, "I suppose they could do something as simple as turn on the telly."
He leaned back in his chair, his legs spread casually, his knees bumping hers.
"You do know what a telly is, don't you, Rita?" He kept his face blank. "They have them upstairs, I'm sure. They're very easy to turn on." The corner of his lips quirked. "You'd only have to know which button to push."
Rita smiled, sipped her drink again, crossed her legs under the table so one of them slid along his as she lifted it.
"Ah, but if they knew it was that easy, I'd be out of a job."
She flicked the quill against his chin. "I'm sure I could figure it out. I'm good at experimenting." She lifted the nib and sucked it into her mouth, before letting it hover of over the page.
"Surely you have some fascinating inside information you could share."
Oh yes. Wouldn't want Rita out of job. No job meant no need for his recyclable paper. He wasn't fool enough to think she'd be sitting here now, rubbing that stocking-clad leg up his, if she didn't need something from him. And today it was information.
He'd just have to be as vague as possible.
Hell, if he wasn't vague, he'd endanger his job with... whoever the hell he was working for at the moment. Hard to tell, really.
"Yes," he practically purred. "I do my best work on the inside." He cupped his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. "Of course, much of that is highly classified. Best to keep it—" He took his time surveying her cleavage. "—under wraps."
His eyes slowly rose to meet hers. "I daresay you're wasting your time on this interview. I don't see how I can be of much use to you."
"I'm sure you can tell me," Rita purred, well aware of where is eyes were. "After all, the Muggle Minister will hardly read the Prophet."
She trailed the tip of the feather over the knuckles of the hand he'd rested his chin in.
"What is it this time? Terrorists, violent storms, rioters?" She quirked a brow at him. "Is he worried, afraid? Or is he excited by the prospect of taking control?"
A smile twitched at the corner of her lips.
Kingsley couldn't help the low, soft growl that escaped his throat at the 'prospect of taking control.' He hooked one foot around Rita's ankle, spreading her legs under the table. His long legs stretched out, his knees just on the inside of hers, forcing them apart until he could feel the hem of her dress stretching. He wondered if she was wearing knickers.
Fuck, this woman was no good for him. The reaction of his body to her should have been proof enough of that. Should have been ample warning.
"If you really want to know," he said, forcing his features and tone into all-business mode, "I think Ottery caught us all... off-guard."
He licked his lips as his eyes once again studied the curve of her neck, his fingers going to loosen the knot of his necktie, which was practically cutting off his air in the heat.
"Such a... sudden attack." He shook his head slightly. "Brutal. One must be very careful about these things."
Rita smirked, didn't fight against his movements beneath the table. In fact, she showed every appearance of not even noticing, except for the feral glint in her eye.
She loved how easy it was to get under his skin.
She sipped her drink again, stirred the olive in the glass.
"Terrifying," she murmured, lifting her chin and exposing her throat to him a little more. "I hear the attack was completely ruthless."
She lowered her gaze, peering at him. "But it seems someone with power always takes things in hand at times like these. Do you think he has that power?”
When she bared her neck like that to him, he nearly lost it. He could just see that long, pale column of skin bared as her head flew back in passion. He wanted to make her do that. Toss back her head as her hips shot forward, sending her wet cunt into his face.
He wondered if she was wet now. He wondered if she was half as wet as he was hard.
He wondered how long this shoddy excuse for an 'interview' was going to last.
He temporarily made a fist out of the hand that had been on his chin, before catching the tip of her feather quill around one finger, curling the end in a delicate little spiral motion. "The problem, of course," he said, watching the motion of his finger, "is that this was just so unexpected."
Right. Maybe if he gave her a bit of information, they could move this encounter forward. "The Muggle minister certainly had not anticipated an attack on Muggle ground." His face fell just a tad. "No way any of us could have expected that. But yes," he went on, clenching his jaw, "the important thing now is to be prepared for future attacks."
He sat up, leaning in close. "Granted, the Minister is a bit lost in this kind of situation." He licked his lips again, his tongue wiping a few beads of sweat from his upper lip. "Good thing he has powerful people... behind him."
His eyes were devouring her, and far from making her squirm, it sent a thrill right through her, spinning in her stomach then coalescing decidedly lower.
She watched him toy with the end of her quill, wanting to see him quake when she trailed it down over his chest, swirled the feather over one nipple. Wanting to know what he'd do if she wrote filthy things on his back with the tiny golden nib.
She wondered what colour ink would look best against his skin.
Merlin, it was hot in here.
She'd completely forgotten about writing any of this down.
"If he is capable of taking control of the situation, he'll need all the protection he can get. He must be glad to have someone so forceful underneath him."
She lifted the olive from her martini, twirled it against her bottom lip for a moment, sucked it off the stalk and into her mouth.
"I know I would be."
It was getting more and more difficult to breathe. He tried to convince himself that it was because of the heat. The humidity. No, it had nothing to do with the fact that he could just envision those rose-red lips around his cock, sucking with the same coquettish motion she used on the olive.
He suppressed a shudder with great effort.
"Would you?" he commented idly, cocking his head to the side. He dropped the tip of her quill with a sudden motion and dug in his pocket, producing one of two room keys and sliding it across the table beneath his palm, letting the metal slide against the wood of the table before tucking it under her parchment.
"Well, that should be more than enough for your story," he said, his voice slow and husky. "But I'll be here all evening," he added, "should you decide you need more."
With a last swig of his beer, he plunked down some change and stood, heading off to the room upstairs. If she followed, fine. If she made him wait and wonder, even better.
If she showed up... he chuckled. Well. He wouldn't want to be Rita Skeeter. She wouldn't walk out of this pub. She would hobble out.
Rita betrayed a small smirk as he slipped the key across the table, then watched him go, enjoying the slight stiffness to his gait that betrayed... well... stiffness.
She lifted quill once he'd gone and made a few notes, idly sipping at her martini, trying to concentrate on the words. She was positively burning.
Still, she forced herself not to move. She made a few dot points in her flourishing hand, then opened her bag and slipped the quill and parchment back in, sure none of the muggles had noticed that the quill was much too large to fit in the small bag. Muggles were good at convincing themselves that there was a logical reason for everything.
She checked herself in a compact mirror, retouched her lipstick and removed the charm that kept it fixed and smudge-proof. No, she wanted it to kiss off on his skin.
When she judged that he would have made it back to his room and been standing there for moments longing for the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor, she stood, palming the key, and made her way up the stairs.
She glanced at the number on the key. Right at the end of the hall.
Excellent.
Her footsteps were heavy and echoing in the hallway.
She slipped the key into the lock, counted to twenty-seven.
Pushed the door open.
Ohhhhh yeah. He stood just inside the door, palming his hard length through his trousers. He hadn't even undone his necktie yet. He wasn't completely sure she'd show. After all, he'd given her enough for her sham article.
But when he heard the steady click of those heels. Fuck. He was nearly panting, imaging each click as a scrape against his back. His blood was boiling. On fire with the anticipation.
And when she pushed the door open, he pounced, a motion he knew well from years of being an Auror. He grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall, holding her in place with a hand around her neck as he worked the lock on the door with his other hand, his eyes never leaving hers.
After all, Rita didn't like 'slow and tender.'
Good. He wasn't in a 'slow and tender' mood. Not after all he'd put up with from the Minister the past few weeks.
"Find a hole in your notes?" he asked lowly, his lips slipping into a smirk. Without giving her time to answer, he fisted one hand in her hair and dropped the other from her neck, ripping open her dress. He growled as the black buttons went soaring, his eyes taking in every inch of her ensemble. His short nails scratched her chest as he jerked down the cups of her black lace bra, baring her nipples to his gaze. The bra, he decided, could stay. So could the stockings and shoes. The rest was going to have to go.
She felt herself whirl when he grabbed her, when he took the breath from her throat with his hand around her neck, and those eyes burned into hers. His brutality sent a surge of heat straight to her cunt.
A moan escaped her lips when he fisted his hand in her hair, tore at her dress.
Oh, yes.
Her fingers closed around his tie and she pulled him forward and down into a rough, brutal kiss, tugging the knot loose and tossing the thing to the floor, tugging the shirt out from his pants with her other hand.
"Fuck me," she hissed in his ear, slipping her hand underneath his shirt and scraping her nails over his hip.
He groaned at the feeling of her mouth on his, the swish of the necktie as she jerked it off, the brutal grate of her nails against his skin. But no. Not yet.
He slammed her against the wall again, stepping back to survey her state of semi-dress. Laughing outright, he asked, "Is that all you want?" He tutted quietly at her impatience as he toed off his shoes and socks, kicking them aside and letting his bare feet dig into the soft carpet. "Oh, Rita," he purred, pacing away from her, but keeping her in his line of vision.
"Lose the dress," he commanded sternly. "And the knickers." He started working on the buttons of his shirt. "Keep the rest."
She smirked, stepping forward and letting the dress slip off her shoulders and down to the floor.
"I suppose that depends on how creative your definition is."
She closed the space he'd put between them, dropped her hands to his belt and worked the buckle undone.
Knocking his hands away when he'd unbuttoned the shirt, she pulled it down over his arms, momentarily pinning them behind him, and leaned close, breathing hotly against him then swirling her tongue over one of his nipples.
"And no," she smirked, looking up at him again and releasing his arms. "I think I'd much prefer to watch you peel them off me.
NO. He was not letting her take control tonight. If he had to charm every limb of hers down, he'd do it. If she kept up like this, it would be over too soon. It would be finished before he got to hear her beg. Before he got to taste her.
His arms were pinned by his own damn shirt, and he couldn't help throwing his head back and practically roaring as she licked and nipped at his nipples. His cock was bursting against his trousers, the belt hanging uselessly above the stretched fabric.
He briefly let her think she was having her way as he revelled in the heat she was stirring in him that had nothing to do with the heat of the room.
When she released his arms, he saw his opening. He ripped the sleeves of his shirt as he jerked his arms forward, grabbing her once again by her upper arms and tossing her none so gently onto the bed.
"I can do that," he replied, shrugging off his torn shirt and loosening his trousers (oh thank god) as he hovered above her at the end of the bed. His hands caressed her ankles, fingering the straps of her shoes and slowly working their way up, spreading her legs. "Or maybe I'll just push them to the side, if you're going to be so uncooperative."
Rita fell onto the bed when he threw her, quickly pulling herself up onto her elbows and chuckling, watching him shrug out of his ripped shirt.
Oh, he could be such an animal when let himself. Gods, she was wet.
She let her head fall back when he touched her, arching upward, baring herself to his gaze.
When he spoke, she lifted her head to meet his eyes again.
"I thought you weren't in a hurry," she smirked. She shifted one elbow further beneath her and lifted the other, licking two fingers and trailing them down over her throat, caressing her own breast and watching him watch her.
He merely smirked back, but the expression faded when her wet fingers, slightly stained from her lipstick, made their way down to her breast, the long nails flicking at her own nipple. Her warped bra pushing those breasts up towards him. One strap was around her upper arm now, and. Fuck. She looked so dirty. So dishevelled.
He was... Jesus, he didn't think he'd ever been so hard in his life. He had to have a bit of relief. As he watched her, he reached into his half-undone trousers and pulled out his erection, his fist tightening over the head before smearing the wetness at the tip, making long, slow strokes up and down his shaft.
He should just crawl between her legs and push those knickers aside and plunge inside her, fucking her like he knew she wanted. But now she'd set him a challenge. And as much as he wanted to fuck her, what he really wanted was to see all that pink, wet flesh, wide open to his eyes and his mouth.
But he'd be damned if he was going to 'peel' those knickers off of her. He leaned forward, grabbing the straps at the sides, and yanked with a grunt, revelling in the rip of the material when she didn't lift her hips in time. He took more care easing them down over the tops of her stockings, his gaze flickering back and forth between the work of his hands and the work of her hands.
Finally, when her knickers were hanging from one ankle, he pushed at her knees. With a heavy whisper, he nearly pleaded, "Show me how far you can spread those legs, Rita."
Oh, Gods, when he touched himself all she could think of was that hard length pounding into her, and she almost found herself writhing in need.
She stopped herself just before the urge overtook her.
After all, he had other talents as well. And teasing him, making him wait would only make him more ruthless later. And she loved it when he was like that. Loved that she made him like that.
She caressed herself again, lifting her legs and spreading them wider, digging the heels of her shoes into the bedcovers, giving him a full view.
"Well," she teased, "Don't just stand there."
Was she talking to him? What did she say again?
When she spread her legs like that, he forgot how to breathe for a moment. He must have looked like a kid at Christmas, as quickly as he shed the rest of his clothes and knelt on the end of the bed, his one hand still idly pumping his cock. He couldn't help it. The sight of a woman's wide-open pussy was like a blow to his chest. He could spend hours looking. Tasting.
Focused entirely on that one sight in front of him, he slowly crawled up on the bed between her legs, his hands working their way down from behind her knees, fingers sliding deliciously over the silk of those stockings. He licked his lips. He wasn't looking at the stockings anymore. His eyes were trained on the flesh in front of him.
So soft-looking. So pink, with wispy traces of blonde hair around the edges of her folds and on her mound. And sososososo wet.
He hummed low in his throat, breathing back in the scent of her slickness as his thumbs reached the outer edges of that fucking gorgeous cunt. Unable to lift his eyes, even to meet her gaze, he placed his thumbs lightly on her outer lips, groaning at the darkness of his skin against the rose-petal pink of hers, and spread her, opening her up even further like a bloom.
"Oh, fuck," he nearly whimpered.
And then he licked.
One long, slow, very gentle swipe of his tongue.
Mmmmmmmm, fuckohfuckyessweetjesus.
The look on his face wiped the smirk from her lips, just as it always did. She was half-clothed, but she'd never felt so naked in her life. He stared at her like he'd never seen a woman before, like she was the only thing in the world that existed for him in that moment.
He touched her like he was worshipping her.
She felt her elbows dissolve beneath her when his tongue touched her, and she melted down onto the bed, wanting to watch him, wanting to close her eyes and arch her back and press herself closer to him, but simply twisting her head against the covers and letting out a low moan, and then the only words she could possibly find.
"Oh, Gods, yes..."
Her panted words sent his cock impossibly harder, and he shifted, rubbing the aching and dripping length into the mattress. Fuck, he was going to die if he couldn't bury every inch inside her soon. But now....
Ahhhhhhh, now.
Now he was satisfied with using his tongue. Tasting what he planned to hammer the hell out of before long. And oh yes. He was going to tear her cunt up. She would need this careful preparation to take it.
"Mmmmmmm," he hummed against that sweet slit, debating where and how exactly to begin. He settled for running the very tip of his tongue around her clitoris, pulling her folds even farther apart, stretching the skin until that tiny hooded organ peeked out, completely bare and vulnerable to him.
Yes.
He flicked the tip of his tongue against it. Once. Twice. Worked the tip of his finger down to her opening, teasing it with barely one knuckle's length.
"Don't be shy, now, Rita," he whispered into her wetness with a slight chuckle. "I know you wanna move."
And with that, he pursed his lips around her clit and gently sucked, the tenderness of the action balanced by a forceful thrust of his entire finger inside her, the joint crooking to rub the place that he knew would make her move.
Her hips jerked when he flicked his tongue against her and she let out a cry, hearing his teasing words and unable to stop herself arching against his hand, against that finger that felt fucking delicious but was oh so not enough.
And then he was curling it inside her and sucking and ohfuckinggodgodgodyes.
One of her hands found it's way to the back of his head and her fingers curled in against his neck, then fanned out, then grasped him again, nails scraping at his skin.
"Fuck, God, Yes, Please..."
Thought had left her. Control had left her. The only thing that mattered was that gooddam it, he didn't stop.
The sharp nails against his neck, against the back of head, ignited him, and he released a growl that vibrated against her clit. And that was when he added another finger, as firmly as his tongue was soft, spreading the two fingers until he was practically humping the mattress over how hot and tight she was going to feel around his cock.
"And you can't lie to me." Lick. "I know you like to be fucked hard." Lick. "And I promise I'm going to give you that." Circlecirclecircle. "But you like a gentle touch as well." Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiick. Holy hell, she tasted good. Tart. He wouldn't have expected anything else of her. "Don't you, sweetheart?"
The hand not occupied with finger-fucking her slick snatch moved suddenly, grabbing the spiked heel of her shoe and pushing her leg even further back, leaving her so open that he didn't even need to spread her with his thumb. He worked the fingers of that hand up onto her ankle, massaging just as sternly as the two fingers working inside her.
"Don't you?" he demanded, moving to place a gentle kiss against her the curve of her mound. He needed to know. He needed to know that she wanted all of him. Not just the side that lost control and pounded her hips into the mattress. But this side, too. The side that... well. The side that adored her just for being a woman. Just for being soft and yielding where one might expect rigidness and bitterness from her.
He loved her like this. Yes. He loved her like this. But he didn't want to think too much on that.
Her back arched up of the bed, eyes fluttering closed as she gave way to the sensations, let his words slither through the air.
Rough. Gentle. Casual. Intense. Everything.
"Yes," she whispered, barely a breath in answer as he spread her legs wider.
"YES!" she choked out in a moan in response to his demand.
"Gods, please..."
Please let me come. Please don't stop. Please don't ask me any more of those questions. Please, please, please.
Her chokes and moans and whispers and — oh fucking hell — the way she thrust her hips up at him... he was dying. His buttocks clenched, his own hips driving forward into the mattress, sending his cock forward into that fake softness of polyester and fuck.
He was dying for her.
And her spoken "Yes"... her unspoken plea... it taunted him and made a growl tear from his throat against her, just knowing that she could be this and so much more, if only she would let herself. If only she could truly surrender, and he felt her tighten around his fingers, felt her halfway there.
He whipped his fingers out of her and slapped his palm down on her cunt. Hard. Then he did it again. And again, revelling in the pink of her lips, which turned fuchsia under his hand.
"Please what?" he challenged her.
Her eyes flew open when he slapped her. She cried out, jerking against him from hips to the ankle still held tightly in his grip.
It stung. It made her even wetter.
Gods, she needed him so badly.
"Please..." She knew what he wanted, but she couldn't. Wouldn't. Didn't know how.
"Please don't..." Don't ask this. Don't force me to feel this. But she wouldn't say it.
She lifted the leg he wasn't holding, curled it toward him and let the heel of her shoe scrape against his hipbone. The fingers on the back of his head tightened, nails scoring his skin.
He must be desperate. He must need her as much as she needed him. Forget it, she begged silently. Just forget the question.
"Please don't stop," she whispered, finally.
He should have loved the fact that he could make her incoherent. That he could reduce her grand vocabulary to three words.
Stop? He couldn't have stopped now if his life depended on it. And more. He wanted moremoremore. He could feel himself unravelling, and like the string of a kite, the further up he went, the faster he began spinning out of control.
He did stop briefly, though, looking up at her flushed face. What he wouldn't give to have her eyes meet his, to have her whisper what she wanted from him instead of what she didn't want.
Don't stop.
What he wouldn't give to have her ask him to make love to her.
But that just wasn't Rita Skeeter. He gritted his teeth as her nails dug into his head and her heel dug into his hip.
Fine.
He darted forward between her legs with all the speed and agility of his training, scooping up her arms and easily imprisoning both wrists in one of his hands. His knees pressed against the inside of her thighs as he eased his weight down on top of her, watching her heavy eyelids flutter.
"Stop?" he repeated, hissing as the length of his cock slid over her sopping flesh. "I haven't even started." He gave her wrists a firm squeeze as though to emphasise his point, his hips thrusting gently while being careful not to enter her. Not yet.
He pinned her wrists and she had him. She met his eyes and could see the animal in them. He wanted to let it out, he needed to let it out, hard ad vicious and fast.
She needed it too.
She arched against him, feeling her breasts press against his chest and then her hips lift up toward him, curling her legs about his back.
Their world was at war. The Prophet office lay in ruins and she hunted stories like a vulture, turning up in the wake of destruction to walk through ruins and bring the news to the people. It should have been rewarding. It should have been exciting. It should have been all she needed.
But these were the moments she lived between.
"Take me," she hissed, pressing her head back against the duvet to bare her throat to him, "I'm yours."
Ohhhh, Jesus. Her hips came up and her head went back, all that blonde hair messily spread out on the pillow. All that pale skin wide open underneath him, her breasts bulging above the smashed-down cups of her bra.
"Fuck. Rita," he whispered in a voice that was half reverence and half pure need.
He just didn't have enough hands.
His left hand held her wrists tightly, and he stretched her arms out further above her head, just to see those tits bulge even more. Still making short, shallow thrusts of his cock against her, his right hand yanked at her bra, one of the straps giving way under the pressure and snapping. Yessss. He palmed one of her tits, lifting it until his fingers closed around the nipple, pinching .
"Yes, mine," he whispered. Even just for this moment. Ah, at this moment, she was totally his. With a hum at the back of his throat, his lips closed around her nipple, sucking firmly.
And then he lost it. His mouth was frantic, his lips working every inch of flesh they could find. Tongue licking up the side of her neck before his teeth bit down. Lips pursed against her jugular, sucking at the delicate skin. His hips shot forward, the head of his cock hitting her pubic bone. FuckfuckFUCK.
No more. He couldn't wait anymore. His arm scrambled between their bodies, his free hand grabbing his cock and positioning himself at that soft, yielding hole at the centre of his universe right now. He slowly slid in.
"Nnnnnnnaaghhhh," he groaned, his lips leaving her neck as his eyes slammed shut and his head shot back.
Part Two
shh_kingsley and myself as an exploration of our characters, trying to understand the relationship we've created between them in stoatshead_hill. It's backstory, set during the war, and obviously not part of the game, but it was absolutely teremendous fun to play, and I thought some of you might enjoy it. It's very, very NC-17. ;)Let me take one moment to just fangirl
shh_kingsley's muggle a little. She is amazing amazing amazing. The thread was so much fun, and such a challenge. I don't think I've ever felt quite so challenged by an rp before - every one of Kingsley's posts took my breath away, and made me think and work so much to try keep up the level of awesomeness. Also, hot. If you guys find this even half as hot to read as I did to play, well... I would say I thought our work was done, but hell no, there will be more Rita/Kings in game.Okay, so I should stop now, and let you read it. I hope you enjoy. I stole the cut text from the oh-so-perfect "Rev 22:20" by Puscifier. Obligatory download link here.
I've just discovered it's too long for a single post. SO. Part 1.
Date: 28 June 1998
Characters: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Rita Skeeter
Location: The Swan (muggle pub and inn in London)
Rating: NC-17
Summary:
Jesus Christ, it was hot. Leave it to Rita Skeeter to pick a day like this for an 'interview.' What she thought she could possibly gain from an interview with an Auror working for the Muggle Ministry was beyond him. But he'd agreed.
He'd agreed for the same reason he'd already gotten a key to a room upstairs and was currently fingering said key in the pocket of his khaki trousers.
He'd agreed because he couldn't get enough of Rita Fucking Skeeter. He needed to release this tension.
The Muggle pub was called 'The Swan,' but right now he felt more like the Ugly Duckling. He'd shed his suit jacket and was currently sitting in a booth near the back, his pale blue dress shirt sticking to him in the humidity of the late June evening, sweat already beading on his upper lip, necktie practically choking him.
Maybe she wouldn't show up.
Maybe he didn't care.
And maybe he wasn't already half-hard over thoughts of what she might be wearing, supposing she did show up.
He took a second drink from his bottle of brown ale and checked his watch. Bitch had never been on time a day in her life, he figured.
The evening was so humid that even Rita's cooling charms could not keep her comfortable. But stockings sent this man insane, so sod being cool.
She stepped into the pub with polished black heels clicking against the floorboards and perfect seams tracing up the back of her legs. Her dress was white, and short, with a plunging black collar and large, black buttons down the front.
That should stop him in his tracks.
She'd probably kept him waiting long enough.
He was easy enough to find. She knew he'd be near the back. Hiding in the shadows.
She stopped at the bar for a martini.
"Evening, Kingsley," she smiled, pausing by the table.
He kept his features perfectly schooled on the outside.
On the inside, he was roaring. He'd seen her the minute she stepped into the pub. Heard her. His cock twitched with practically every click of those heels, and when she stopped to get a drink. Ohhhh fucking hell. He let his gaze slip over every inch of her body. Perfect arse all plump and dainty in her white dress. Perfect for pounding the living daylights out of. (And how this woman could pull off white, when he knew what her body was capable of, was beyond him.) Loooooong, slinky, narrow seams up the back of her stockings.
FUCK.
He'd fight it, of course, because that's who he was. And because he knew she liked the game. But deep down, he hoped she realised that dress was going to need some serious repairs before the end of the evening.
He nodded indifferently, his eyes half-blinking. "You wanted to see me?"
She slipped into the chair opposite him, and went straight for the kill. No small talk for him. What wasn't said was written in the air.
"The wizarding world is worried. After the attack in Cardiff, it's four our safety and out secrecy. The public want to know what the muggle Minister is saying."
She slipped her bag onto the seat beside her and drew out her quill and a notepad. She'd have to write with it herself, here, but she couldn't care less if the muggles thought her strange.
"I thought maybe you could tell me."
She smiled, lifted the martini to her lips and sipped.
"The Muggle Minister?" he scoffed. His lips fell into an easy smirk at the fact that she would show up dressed like that and then sit down and head straight into business, as usual.
"Well... if the public wanted to know," he replied in a soft voice, taking another brief sip off his ale, "I suppose they could do something as simple as turn on the telly."
He leaned back in his chair, his legs spread casually, his knees bumping hers.
"You do know what a telly is, don't you, Rita?" He kept his face blank. "They have them upstairs, I'm sure. They're very easy to turn on." The corner of his lips quirked. "You'd only have to know which button to push."
Rita smiled, sipped her drink again, crossed her legs under the table so one of them slid along his as she lifted it.
"Ah, but if they knew it was that easy, I'd be out of a job."
She flicked the quill against his chin. "I'm sure I could figure it out. I'm good at experimenting." She lifted the nib and sucked it into her mouth, before letting it hover of over the page.
"Surely you have some fascinating inside information you could share."
Oh yes. Wouldn't want Rita out of job. No job meant no need for his recyclable paper. He wasn't fool enough to think she'd be sitting here now, rubbing that stocking-clad leg up his, if she didn't need something from him. And today it was information.
He'd just have to be as vague as possible.
Hell, if he wasn't vague, he'd endanger his job with... whoever the hell he was working for at the moment. Hard to tell, really.
"Yes," he practically purred. "I do my best work on the inside." He cupped his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. "Of course, much of that is highly classified. Best to keep it—" He took his time surveying her cleavage. "—under wraps."
His eyes slowly rose to meet hers. "I daresay you're wasting your time on this interview. I don't see how I can be of much use to you."
"I'm sure you can tell me," Rita purred, well aware of where is eyes were. "After all, the Muggle Minister will hardly read the Prophet."
She trailed the tip of the feather over the knuckles of the hand he'd rested his chin in.
"What is it this time? Terrorists, violent storms, rioters?" She quirked a brow at him. "Is he worried, afraid? Or is he excited by the prospect of taking control?"
A smile twitched at the corner of her lips.
Kingsley couldn't help the low, soft growl that escaped his throat at the 'prospect of taking control.' He hooked one foot around Rita's ankle, spreading her legs under the table. His long legs stretched out, his knees just on the inside of hers, forcing them apart until he could feel the hem of her dress stretching. He wondered if she was wearing knickers.
Fuck, this woman was no good for him. The reaction of his body to her should have been proof enough of that. Should have been ample warning.
"If you really want to know," he said, forcing his features and tone into all-business mode, "I think Ottery caught us all... off-guard."
He licked his lips as his eyes once again studied the curve of her neck, his fingers going to loosen the knot of his necktie, which was practically cutting off his air in the heat.
"Such a... sudden attack." He shook his head slightly. "Brutal. One must be very careful about these things."
Rita smirked, didn't fight against his movements beneath the table. In fact, she showed every appearance of not even noticing, except for the feral glint in her eye.
She loved how easy it was to get under his skin.
She sipped her drink again, stirred the olive in the glass.
"Terrifying," she murmured, lifting her chin and exposing her throat to him a little more. "I hear the attack was completely ruthless."
She lowered her gaze, peering at him. "But it seems someone with power always takes things in hand at times like these. Do you think he has that power?”
When she bared her neck like that to him, he nearly lost it. He could just see that long, pale column of skin bared as her head flew back in passion. He wanted to make her do that. Toss back her head as her hips shot forward, sending her wet cunt into his face.
He wondered if she was wet now. He wondered if she was half as wet as he was hard.
He wondered how long this shoddy excuse for an 'interview' was going to last.
He temporarily made a fist out of the hand that had been on his chin, before catching the tip of her feather quill around one finger, curling the end in a delicate little spiral motion. "The problem, of course," he said, watching the motion of his finger, "is that this was just so unexpected."
Right. Maybe if he gave her a bit of information, they could move this encounter forward. "The Muggle minister certainly had not anticipated an attack on Muggle ground." His face fell just a tad. "No way any of us could have expected that. But yes," he went on, clenching his jaw, "the important thing now is to be prepared for future attacks."
He sat up, leaning in close. "Granted, the Minister is a bit lost in this kind of situation." He licked his lips again, his tongue wiping a few beads of sweat from his upper lip. "Good thing he has powerful people... behind him."
His eyes were devouring her, and far from making her squirm, it sent a thrill right through her, spinning in her stomach then coalescing decidedly lower.
She watched him toy with the end of her quill, wanting to see him quake when she trailed it down over his chest, swirled the feather over one nipple. Wanting to know what he'd do if she wrote filthy things on his back with the tiny golden nib.
She wondered what colour ink would look best against his skin.
Merlin, it was hot in here.
She'd completely forgotten about writing any of this down.
"If he is capable of taking control of the situation, he'll need all the protection he can get. He must be glad to have someone so forceful underneath him."
She lifted the olive from her martini, twirled it against her bottom lip for a moment, sucked it off the stalk and into her mouth.
"I know I would be."
It was getting more and more difficult to breathe. He tried to convince himself that it was because of the heat. The humidity. No, it had nothing to do with the fact that he could just envision those rose-red lips around his cock, sucking with the same coquettish motion she used on the olive.
He suppressed a shudder with great effort.
"Would you?" he commented idly, cocking his head to the side. He dropped the tip of her quill with a sudden motion and dug in his pocket, producing one of two room keys and sliding it across the table beneath his palm, letting the metal slide against the wood of the table before tucking it under her parchment.
"Well, that should be more than enough for your story," he said, his voice slow and husky. "But I'll be here all evening," he added, "should you decide you need more."
With a last swig of his beer, he plunked down some change and stood, heading off to the room upstairs. If she followed, fine. If she made him wait and wonder, even better.
If she showed up... he chuckled. Well. He wouldn't want to be Rita Skeeter. She wouldn't walk out of this pub. She would hobble out.
Rita betrayed a small smirk as he slipped the key across the table, then watched him go, enjoying the slight stiffness to his gait that betrayed... well... stiffness.
She lifted quill once he'd gone and made a few notes, idly sipping at her martini, trying to concentrate on the words. She was positively burning.
Still, she forced herself not to move. She made a few dot points in her flourishing hand, then opened her bag and slipped the quill and parchment back in, sure none of the muggles had noticed that the quill was much too large to fit in the small bag. Muggles were good at convincing themselves that there was a logical reason for everything.
She checked herself in a compact mirror, retouched her lipstick and removed the charm that kept it fixed and smudge-proof. No, she wanted it to kiss off on his skin.
When she judged that he would have made it back to his room and been standing there for moments longing for the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor, she stood, palming the key, and made her way up the stairs.
She glanced at the number on the key. Right at the end of the hall.
Excellent.
Her footsteps were heavy and echoing in the hallway.
She slipped the key into the lock, counted to twenty-seven.
Pushed the door open.
Ohhhhh yeah. He stood just inside the door, palming his hard length through his trousers. He hadn't even undone his necktie yet. He wasn't completely sure she'd show. After all, he'd given her enough for her sham article.
But when he heard the steady click of those heels. Fuck. He was nearly panting, imaging each click as a scrape against his back. His blood was boiling. On fire with the anticipation.
And when she pushed the door open, he pounced, a motion he knew well from years of being an Auror. He grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall, holding her in place with a hand around her neck as he worked the lock on the door with his other hand, his eyes never leaving hers.
After all, Rita didn't like 'slow and tender.'
Good. He wasn't in a 'slow and tender' mood. Not after all he'd put up with from the Minister the past few weeks.
"Find a hole in your notes?" he asked lowly, his lips slipping into a smirk. Without giving her time to answer, he fisted one hand in her hair and dropped the other from her neck, ripping open her dress. He growled as the black buttons went soaring, his eyes taking in every inch of her ensemble. His short nails scratched her chest as he jerked down the cups of her black lace bra, baring her nipples to his gaze. The bra, he decided, could stay. So could the stockings and shoes. The rest was going to have to go.
She felt herself whirl when he grabbed her, when he took the breath from her throat with his hand around her neck, and those eyes burned into hers. His brutality sent a surge of heat straight to her cunt.
A moan escaped her lips when he fisted his hand in her hair, tore at her dress.
Oh, yes.
Her fingers closed around his tie and she pulled him forward and down into a rough, brutal kiss, tugging the knot loose and tossing the thing to the floor, tugging the shirt out from his pants with her other hand.
"Fuck me," she hissed in his ear, slipping her hand underneath his shirt and scraping her nails over his hip.
He groaned at the feeling of her mouth on his, the swish of the necktie as she jerked it off, the brutal grate of her nails against his skin. But no. Not yet.
He slammed her against the wall again, stepping back to survey her state of semi-dress. Laughing outright, he asked, "Is that all you want?" He tutted quietly at her impatience as he toed off his shoes and socks, kicking them aside and letting his bare feet dig into the soft carpet. "Oh, Rita," he purred, pacing away from her, but keeping her in his line of vision.
"Lose the dress," he commanded sternly. "And the knickers." He started working on the buttons of his shirt. "Keep the rest."
She smirked, stepping forward and letting the dress slip off her shoulders and down to the floor.
"I suppose that depends on how creative your definition is."
She closed the space he'd put between them, dropped her hands to his belt and worked the buckle undone.
Knocking his hands away when he'd unbuttoned the shirt, she pulled it down over his arms, momentarily pinning them behind him, and leaned close, breathing hotly against him then swirling her tongue over one of his nipples.
"And no," she smirked, looking up at him again and releasing his arms. "I think I'd much prefer to watch you peel them off me.
NO. He was not letting her take control tonight. If he had to charm every limb of hers down, he'd do it. If she kept up like this, it would be over too soon. It would be finished before he got to hear her beg. Before he got to taste her.
His arms were pinned by his own damn shirt, and he couldn't help throwing his head back and practically roaring as she licked and nipped at his nipples. His cock was bursting against his trousers, the belt hanging uselessly above the stretched fabric.
He briefly let her think she was having her way as he revelled in the heat she was stirring in him that had nothing to do with the heat of the room.
When she released his arms, he saw his opening. He ripped the sleeves of his shirt as he jerked his arms forward, grabbing her once again by her upper arms and tossing her none so gently onto the bed.
"I can do that," he replied, shrugging off his torn shirt and loosening his trousers (oh thank god) as he hovered above her at the end of the bed. His hands caressed her ankles, fingering the straps of her shoes and slowly working their way up, spreading her legs. "Or maybe I'll just push them to the side, if you're going to be so uncooperative."
Rita fell onto the bed when he threw her, quickly pulling herself up onto her elbows and chuckling, watching him shrug out of his ripped shirt.
Oh, he could be such an animal when let himself. Gods, she was wet.
She let her head fall back when he touched her, arching upward, baring herself to his gaze.
When he spoke, she lifted her head to meet his eyes again.
"I thought you weren't in a hurry," she smirked. She shifted one elbow further beneath her and lifted the other, licking two fingers and trailing them down over her throat, caressing her own breast and watching him watch her.
He merely smirked back, but the expression faded when her wet fingers, slightly stained from her lipstick, made their way down to her breast, the long nails flicking at her own nipple. Her warped bra pushing those breasts up towards him. One strap was around her upper arm now, and. Fuck. She looked so dirty. So dishevelled.
He was... Jesus, he didn't think he'd ever been so hard in his life. He had to have a bit of relief. As he watched her, he reached into his half-undone trousers and pulled out his erection, his fist tightening over the head before smearing the wetness at the tip, making long, slow strokes up and down his shaft.
He should just crawl between her legs and push those knickers aside and plunge inside her, fucking her like he knew she wanted. But now she'd set him a challenge. And as much as he wanted to fuck her, what he really wanted was to see all that pink, wet flesh, wide open to his eyes and his mouth.
But he'd be damned if he was going to 'peel' those knickers off of her. He leaned forward, grabbing the straps at the sides, and yanked with a grunt, revelling in the rip of the material when she didn't lift her hips in time. He took more care easing them down over the tops of her stockings, his gaze flickering back and forth between the work of his hands and the work of her hands.
Finally, when her knickers were hanging from one ankle, he pushed at her knees. With a heavy whisper, he nearly pleaded, "Show me how far you can spread those legs, Rita."
Oh, Gods, when he touched himself all she could think of was that hard length pounding into her, and she almost found herself writhing in need.
She stopped herself just before the urge overtook her.
After all, he had other talents as well. And teasing him, making him wait would only make him more ruthless later. And she loved it when he was like that. Loved that she made him like that.
She caressed herself again, lifting her legs and spreading them wider, digging the heels of her shoes into the bedcovers, giving him a full view.
"Well," she teased, "Don't just stand there."
Was she talking to him? What did she say again?
When she spread her legs like that, he forgot how to breathe for a moment. He must have looked like a kid at Christmas, as quickly as he shed the rest of his clothes and knelt on the end of the bed, his one hand still idly pumping his cock. He couldn't help it. The sight of a woman's wide-open pussy was like a blow to his chest. He could spend hours looking. Tasting.
Focused entirely on that one sight in front of him, he slowly crawled up on the bed between her legs, his hands working their way down from behind her knees, fingers sliding deliciously over the silk of those stockings. He licked his lips. He wasn't looking at the stockings anymore. His eyes were trained on the flesh in front of him.
So soft-looking. So pink, with wispy traces of blonde hair around the edges of her folds and on her mound. And sososososo wet.
He hummed low in his throat, breathing back in the scent of her slickness as his thumbs reached the outer edges of that fucking gorgeous cunt. Unable to lift his eyes, even to meet her gaze, he placed his thumbs lightly on her outer lips, groaning at the darkness of his skin against the rose-petal pink of hers, and spread her, opening her up even further like a bloom.
"Oh, fuck," he nearly whimpered.
And then he licked.
One long, slow, very gentle swipe of his tongue.
Mmmmmmmm, fuckohfuckyessweetjesus.
The look on his face wiped the smirk from her lips, just as it always did. She was half-clothed, but she'd never felt so naked in her life. He stared at her like he'd never seen a woman before, like she was the only thing in the world that existed for him in that moment.
He touched her like he was worshipping her.
She felt her elbows dissolve beneath her when his tongue touched her, and she melted down onto the bed, wanting to watch him, wanting to close her eyes and arch her back and press herself closer to him, but simply twisting her head against the covers and letting out a low moan, and then the only words she could possibly find.
"Oh, Gods, yes..."
Her panted words sent his cock impossibly harder, and he shifted, rubbing the aching and dripping length into the mattress. Fuck, he was going to die if he couldn't bury every inch inside her soon. But now....
Ahhhhhhh, now.
Now he was satisfied with using his tongue. Tasting what he planned to hammer the hell out of before long. And oh yes. He was going to tear her cunt up. She would need this careful preparation to take it.
"Mmmmmmm," he hummed against that sweet slit, debating where and how exactly to begin. He settled for running the very tip of his tongue around her clitoris, pulling her folds even farther apart, stretching the skin until that tiny hooded organ peeked out, completely bare and vulnerable to him.
Yes.
He flicked the tip of his tongue against it. Once. Twice. Worked the tip of his finger down to her opening, teasing it with barely one knuckle's length.
"Don't be shy, now, Rita," he whispered into her wetness with a slight chuckle. "I know you wanna move."
And with that, he pursed his lips around her clit and gently sucked, the tenderness of the action balanced by a forceful thrust of his entire finger inside her, the joint crooking to rub the place that he knew would make her move.
Her hips jerked when he flicked his tongue against her and she let out a cry, hearing his teasing words and unable to stop herself arching against his hand, against that finger that felt fucking delicious but was oh so not enough.
And then he was curling it inside her and sucking and ohfuckinggodgodgodyes.
One of her hands found it's way to the back of his head and her fingers curled in against his neck, then fanned out, then grasped him again, nails scraping at his skin.
"Fuck, God, Yes, Please..."
Thought had left her. Control had left her. The only thing that mattered was that gooddam it, he didn't stop.
The sharp nails against his neck, against the back of head, ignited him, and he released a growl that vibrated against her clit. And that was when he added another finger, as firmly as his tongue was soft, spreading the two fingers until he was practically humping the mattress over how hot and tight she was going to feel around his cock.
"And you can't lie to me." Lick. "I know you like to be fucked hard." Lick. "And I promise I'm going to give you that." Circlecirclecircle. "But you like a gentle touch as well." Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiick. Holy hell, she tasted good. Tart. He wouldn't have expected anything else of her. "Don't you, sweetheart?"
The hand not occupied with finger-fucking her slick snatch moved suddenly, grabbing the spiked heel of her shoe and pushing her leg even further back, leaving her so open that he didn't even need to spread her with his thumb. He worked the fingers of that hand up onto her ankle, massaging just as sternly as the two fingers working inside her.
"Don't you?" he demanded, moving to place a gentle kiss against her the curve of her mound. He needed to know. He needed to know that she wanted all of him. Not just the side that lost control and pounded her hips into the mattress. But this side, too. The side that... well. The side that adored her just for being a woman. Just for being soft and yielding where one might expect rigidness and bitterness from her.
He loved her like this. Yes. He loved her like this. But he didn't want to think too much on that.
Her back arched up of the bed, eyes fluttering closed as she gave way to the sensations, let his words slither through the air.
Rough. Gentle. Casual. Intense. Everything.
"Yes," she whispered, barely a breath in answer as he spread her legs wider.
"YES!" she choked out in a moan in response to his demand.
"Gods, please..."
Please let me come. Please don't stop. Please don't ask me any more of those questions. Please, please, please.
Her chokes and moans and whispers and — oh fucking hell — the way she thrust her hips up at him... he was dying. His buttocks clenched, his own hips driving forward into the mattress, sending his cock forward into that fake softness of polyester and fuck.
He was dying for her.
And her spoken "Yes"... her unspoken plea... it taunted him and made a growl tear from his throat against her, just knowing that she could be this and so much more, if only she would let herself. If only she could truly surrender, and he felt her tighten around his fingers, felt her halfway there.
He whipped his fingers out of her and slapped his palm down on her cunt. Hard. Then he did it again. And again, revelling in the pink of her lips, which turned fuchsia under his hand.
"Please what?" he challenged her.
Her eyes flew open when he slapped her. She cried out, jerking against him from hips to the ankle still held tightly in his grip.
It stung. It made her even wetter.
Gods, she needed him so badly.
"Please..." She knew what he wanted, but she couldn't. Wouldn't. Didn't know how.
"Please don't..." Don't ask this. Don't force me to feel this. But she wouldn't say it.
She lifted the leg he wasn't holding, curled it toward him and let the heel of her shoe scrape against his hipbone. The fingers on the back of his head tightened, nails scoring his skin.
He must be desperate. He must need her as much as she needed him. Forget it, she begged silently. Just forget the question.
"Please don't stop," she whispered, finally.
He should have loved the fact that he could make her incoherent. That he could reduce her grand vocabulary to three words.
Stop? He couldn't have stopped now if his life depended on it. And more. He wanted moremoremore. He could feel himself unravelling, and like the string of a kite, the further up he went, the faster he began spinning out of control.
He did stop briefly, though, looking up at her flushed face. What he wouldn't give to have her eyes meet his, to have her whisper what she wanted from him instead of what she didn't want.
Don't stop.
What he wouldn't give to have her ask him to make love to her.
But that just wasn't Rita Skeeter. He gritted his teeth as her nails dug into his head and her heel dug into his hip.
Fine.
He darted forward between her legs with all the speed and agility of his training, scooping up her arms and easily imprisoning both wrists in one of his hands. His knees pressed against the inside of her thighs as he eased his weight down on top of her, watching her heavy eyelids flutter.
"Stop?" he repeated, hissing as the length of his cock slid over her sopping flesh. "I haven't even started." He gave her wrists a firm squeeze as though to emphasise his point, his hips thrusting gently while being careful not to enter her. Not yet.
He pinned her wrists and she had him. She met his eyes and could see the animal in them. He wanted to let it out, he needed to let it out, hard ad vicious and fast.
She needed it too.
She arched against him, feeling her breasts press against his chest and then her hips lift up toward him, curling her legs about his back.
Their world was at war. The Prophet office lay in ruins and she hunted stories like a vulture, turning up in the wake of destruction to walk through ruins and bring the news to the people. It should have been rewarding. It should have been exciting. It should have been all she needed.
But these were the moments she lived between.
"Take me," she hissed, pressing her head back against the duvet to bare her throat to him, "I'm yours."
Ohhhh, Jesus. Her hips came up and her head went back, all that blonde hair messily spread out on the pillow. All that pale skin wide open underneath him, her breasts bulging above the smashed-down cups of her bra.
"Fuck. Rita," he whispered in a voice that was half reverence and half pure need.
He just didn't have enough hands.
His left hand held her wrists tightly, and he stretched her arms out further above her head, just to see those tits bulge even more. Still making short, shallow thrusts of his cock against her, his right hand yanked at her bra, one of the straps giving way under the pressure and snapping. Yessss. He palmed one of her tits, lifting it until his fingers closed around the nipple, pinching .
"Yes, mine," he whispered. Even just for this moment. Ah, at this moment, she was totally his. With a hum at the back of his throat, his lips closed around her nipple, sucking firmly.
And then he lost it. His mouth was frantic, his lips working every inch of flesh they could find. Tongue licking up the side of her neck before his teeth bit down. Lips pursed against her jugular, sucking at the delicate skin. His hips shot forward, the head of his cock hitting her pubic bone. FuckfuckFUCK.
No more. He couldn't wait anymore. His arm scrambled between their bodies, his free hand grabbing his cock and positioning himself at that soft, yielding hole at the centre of his universe right now. He slowly slid in.
"Nnnnnnnaaghhhh," he groaned, his lips leaving her neck as his eyes slammed shut and his head shot back.
Part Two
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Date: 2006-12-17 10:41 am (UTC)And Rita has tags waiting for her by the way ;)