bakerstreet | Saturday’s traditional Smut Pictures

Good girl.

( in a was that so hard tone.

the pain recedes, a wave rolling back from the shore. aristaeus brushes his fingers across her forehead, through the fine sheen of sweat gathering there. )

Now finish what you started. I'll tell you when to stop.

[ there's a little resentment in her gaze as her eyes drift back up towards him. as she catches her breath. she picks herself back up, then raises one trembling hand to grip his cock.

as she takes him into her mouth, she keeps her other hand braced on his thigh. she tells herself that this might keep him from seizing control of the situation and gagging her on it, but she knows that's not really true. all she has to do is try to control herself when it happens.

but she gives him what he wants. the warm, wet pressure of her lips and tongue surrounding him. ]

( her unsteady fingers fan out against his skin, the touch chilly in contrast to the heat engulfing him. )

Such a perfect mouth.

( the hand not caught in her hair comes to settle at her jaw, steadying her. ) This might be my new favourite thing.

[ the small praise makes her cheeks and shoulders hot. it confuses her, this reaction, that he could offer such open praise at the same time as beating her down. as if she had not lost, as if that meant nothing to his estimation of her. it is a seductive thing, to realize that her greatest value is not the strength of her back, but the softness of her lips.

her eyes drift closed as she slowly sinks into the act, the wet schlacking sound of his cock hitting the back of her throat filling the silences between them. saliva runs down her chin and her cheeks are tight with dried tears, but she doesn't let it slow her down as she finds a manageable rhythm and persists. ]

( it's remarkable what a little bit of well-placed praise can accomplish. how she blossoms under it. he'll have to give the matter some thought, later — when the coil of heat in the pit of his stomach isn't cinching tighter and tighter. when he can spare a moment to unpick everything that's happened, scrutinize it thoroughly, because he has never felt quite so exhilarated and unsure of himself. )

See? ( he breathes, a laboured sound. it's going to take a monumental force of will, he realizes, to make her stop. ) It's not so hard to be good.

[ it isn't.

it is, in fact, humiliatingly easy. perhaps she has never been much of a kuruko, if she is so willing to surrender, so predisposed.

the rough edges of her nails dig into the meat of his thighs. a sharp bite of pain to remind him that she is not so cowed. she wants to withdraw, wants to demand more of him, but his instructions were clear. he would tell her when to stop. she wouldn't do it before that. ]

( mavis digs her nails into his skin; the pain is a reminder rather than a threat. what fascinates him is how even her surrender is tinted with frustration — not at him, not really, but rather at herself.

the corner of his mouth lifts. it's not a full smile, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling, suggesting he's amused rather than angry.

endeared, even. )

Give me five more. Make them count. I want to feel how much you want this.

[ how much she wants this? what about how much he does, while he bends her to earn it? she holds him there, deep in her throat, glaring stubbornly up at him for this demand. as if she had to prove her wanting when she had already been the one to challenge him, when she had already waited for him on her knees.

he tiptoes dangerously close to asking too much of her. the dig of her nails as her fingers flex warn him of as much.

but it is such a simple thing, in the end, and she has found a rhythm, so she gives him what he asks for. five bobs of her head. five instinctive clenchings of the muscles in her throat as she tries to keep from choking on him.

when she pulls back, gasping, spit clinging to his cock and her lips, face red, she gulps down just enough air that she can lean back in and bite hard into his upper thigh. ]

( his whole body spasms, air hissing across his teeth. the pain is sharp and immediate — a red, vivid splash of sensation that tells him she's probably broken skin.

the audacity.

his fingers move over her face and grip her chin and cheek. she looks as wrecked as he feels. she looks downright feral, in fact, with those shining eyes and bloody teeth.

for a moment, it looks like he might say something. are you pleased with yourself? or and just when i thought we were understanding each other. but rather than say any of those things, he tilts her chin just as he dips his head, slanting their mouths together. )

[ the kiss tastes like iron and salt. he hauls her up to meet him, and she consequently almost loses her balance, not yet able to brace herself for the force of it, the intensity.

but after only a moment, she meets him in kind — arms winding around his neck, teeth biting into his lower lip, crushing her bare form against him.

the cold has seeped into them both, but his shirt is still warmer to her than the air. at least, his chest beneath it is. and she wants very desperately to see and feel that skin directly, so she grabs a fistful of the back of his collar and whines into his mouth, demanding. ]

( mavis kisses like she fights — brutal and hungry and utterly filthy. it's the kind of kiss that leaves behind teeth marks.

he growls. it's a low, rumbling sound that seems to come from somewhere deep within his chest. a sound that's felt more than heard. it's exhilarating and terrifying how much he wants her. how quickly and easily he's breaking his rules for her. )

Bed, now.

( but rather than letting her drift too far from him, he's lifting her up against his chest, intending to take her there himself. )

[ his hands get under her thighs and she's climbing him, wrapping around him like her life depends on it. this is a command she can comply with, this is a demand that gets her precisely what she wants.

it becomes unwieldy to kiss him and fumble through the apartment, so she bites his ear, his jaw, his neck, messy and uneven, barely tugging the skin away from bone and tendon and muscle. ]

Edited 2023-01-25 01:08 (UTC)

( it's a short, stumbling walk to the cot, which is probably a good thing with mavis being such a distraction. he hopes that the marks linger, that people can see and know that he is hers as much as she is his.

— but, the cot.

the metal frame groans in protest as they settle: mavis with her back pressed to the mattress, aristaeus curled over her, shielding her bodily against the cold. )

[ flopping back onto the cot knocks her breath out of her, and she immediately sets about pulling at his shirt, ready to rip it off if the buttons don't give quickly enough.

while she does, she tries to wheel him over, to pin him beneath her instead of remaining wedged beneath him. it is habitual, instinctive. this is how this works. she doesn't know how to stop fighting to steer. ]

Saturday’s traditional Smut Pictures

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