A/N: …and now for something a little different! This contains mature, spicy content under the cut, so be careful where you read it.
I hope you enjoy it. =)
You wake with a start because she’s crawling over you in the dark, her hair in your face, her hand a star on your shoulder. Her knees are sharp and pointy and one digs down into your thigh like a stake. “Hey,” you grunt, squinting at her. You sit up a little, or try—you don’t make it far because her weight is on you. Soft, the round of her breast ghosts over your cheek.
“Listen,” she commands. “Do you hear—”
“Hey,” you say again, more fiercely this time. You turn your head and nip at her breast’s peak, not quite catching it. Almost is good enough, though, and you feel her chest shudder as she inhales. Especially you feel the flat of her palm. It smacks at you, hitting your arm somewhere just below your shoulder. Ignoring it, you insist, “Glob, dude. Your knee—watch it. Trying to maim me?”
A sound of apology blooms low in her throat. “Sorry.” She shifts her leg, both her knees sliding down now about the one of yours. The soft swell of her belly brushes your hip and suddenly you are very, very awake, your every sense straining toward that small spot of contact between the two of you. “Do you hear that?” she repeats. “It woke me up.”
Saliva fills your mouth. “I don’t hear anything,” you reply. It’s a lie: you hear everything, the hiss of the blood in her body and the rapid tmpa-tmp-tmpa-tmp of its bass-boom heartbeat. The guilty squeal of the loose gutter nearby the roof. It wails again in the wind—her arms knife around you, squeezing. Your face plunges into her chest’s small canyon and hey, wow, you are so lumping glad you’ve been too lazy to make any home repairs lately.
“That!” she hisses. “Yeesh! What is that?”
The heaviness of her in your lap does things to your brain. Terrible, wonderful things. Cotton candy things. You’re pretty positive your thoughts are covered in pink sugary floss, dang, and she wiggles closer and you lift your hands to curl them over her hips without thinking about it, without even realizing what you’re doing, and it isn’t until she asks, “Marcy?” that you discover you’ve got your thumbs hooked in her underwear’s hem.
“Uhm.” You blink. Your lashes tickle her collar, maybe—a faint whisper of laughter feathers in her chest and you try again, “Uh. It’s—it’s just some broken piece of crap attached to my house. I can go tear it off if you want.” And you will, because she’s not used to being awake this late—not used to your place either, with its vaguely derelict creaks and groans and you most of all, your face all mushed up in her cleavage. You will get out of bed and go rip off that gutter with your bare hands because you have a few very strong feelings about her, this girl who’s straddling you, this girl who probably doesn’t realize she’s straddling you—
“You’re sure that’s what it is?”
“You’re sure it’s just your house making the noise?”
“Oh.” You swallow. It doesn’t help and you suck at your teeth a little, wondering whether she tastes any different now than she did a few hours ago when you fell into bed together, her hands in your hair and your name hoarse in her throat. Your fingers scratch at her underwear, gentle, hungry. Why’d she have to put them back on anyway? “Yeah,” you affirm. “Yeah, I’m sure.” And you revisit, “Want me to go shut it up?”
She relaxes against you. Along your jaw her bloodthunder quiets—she sighs, her lungs shoom-shaaa’ing like a bellows, and then she tucks her face down into the crown of your head and smiles. Your nighteyes are good and you see her hands rise on either side of you. Pressing her palms to your cheeks, she determines, “No, that’s all right. Stay with me.” Her fingers trace your forehead. Your eyebrows. “I’m awake now,” she allows, and then she pushes you back down into the mattress. She leans over you. She kisses you, hard and off-center because yikes, her nighteyes suck, but that doesn’t matter much to you. You like her kisses however you can get them, and you growl and part your lips and she sinks into you, sighing, “Marcy, Marcy.”
Twisting your arms free of the sheet’s tangle, you reach up. You wrap them around her and drag her as close as she’ll come. In the notch of your elbows she shivers, sucks in a breath, but you know you’ll go to pieces if she says your name again and you crush your mouth to hers to keep her quiet. You rake a hand down her back too, feeling the thickness of her arch up into you. Next you peel off her stupid underwear, or you try. They get tangled around her ankles and she laughs at you as you struggle with them, her breasts heaving against your chin, your cheek.
She’s still laughing when you give up—when you leave the underwear snagged on her foot and slide your fingers into her anyway, rocking her forward on your hand’s heel. You grin into her neck and she half-giggles, half-moans, clutching at you, and you twitch your wrist and urge her to, “Ride me, Bonni, c’mon.”
She does. It’s slow at first, because she’s trying to touch you too, trying to get under your skin, but she’s been there since before she woke up and when she realizes that, when she sees your eyes burning up at her in the dark, she drops her face into your throat and holds you and moves. You help her. You fold your other hand into her hip’s seam. You pepper kisses over her brow, and when she breaks at the end of it she says your name and digs her teeth into your neck, her flat little teeth and geez, you break too and the gutter squeaks and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are never, ever going to fix that thing, nope, not a freaking chance.