the hate sex meme

[easycompany]

the hate sex meme

1. Jealousy: Who are they sexting late at night? Did their gaze linger too long on your sexy neighbor? Time to confront them, show them that they are yours, that they belong with you and no one else.
2. Recently broken up: Breaking up is hard to do. The fights, the separation, the bad feelings that come with it. And sometimes lingering passions can make you have some intense reunions.
3. Long Time Enemies: Childhood rivals, competing companies, families, good vs. evil, whatever it is, you two do not get along. But hate can easily give way to a different sort of passion.
4. Taunting: You push and you push and you push, and they push back. Eventually one of you is going to snap, you can only ignore sexual tension for so long.
5. Just plain hate: You hate them. So much. And every time they look at you, you want to punch them in the face, but deep in your depraved mind you would really like to rip their clothes off and have some hot hate sex. Time to give in.
6. Wildcard: Pick from above or... got a different scenario in mind? Go crazy. Pick your own!

 

 

Comments

[noticing]

[ Words and sounds and moans and snarls leak underneath his skin and infect his pores. The urge to run splashes around in his stomach. Makes him queasy. Hot, uncomfortable, the shift of friction and the curve of something hard and heavy and impending again his thigh. Breathing has become difficult. He focuses on gathering enough air to stay awake and alert. The edges of his vision cloud.

The lungs can hold an average of 6000 mL of air at any given time. A person breathes between fifteen and twenty-five times per minute. His eyes are burning. And yet, with each bruising bite, and every inch of skin exposed to the classroom air, Sherlock attempts to push the thought of catching his breath away to the back of his mind, surges up into the touch and proximity of their bodies and tries to close the distance. Seals their bodies together and makes it difficult with the crush of bones and skin to manoeuver the removal of clothing.

Moaning, and Sherlock realises it's coming from him. Here he is, the golden child of his generation, smashes up on top of papers and agendas moaning into the curve of a terrorist's mouth. And then there's hands and fingers and pressure and stimulation where people don't touch him because Sherlock doesn't care and yet there's all sorts of exceptions being made today. Ha aaaaahs and mindless sounds (which are dangerously close to melting into an approximation of James) and Sherlock finally breaks their kiss to speak. (After all, wouldn't want Moriarty getting the last word, would he?) ]

Shame the world doesn't revolve around your interests.

[ 'interests' is said like 'obsessions' and it's all choked out anyway, the precious seconds of air he's been permitted spat back in the mastermind's face in the interest of obstinant inclinations. more fun this way and his head tilts back, exposing lines of neck and skin alike, constricted at the base by blue but his eyes would be rolling to the back of his head, asphyxiation or not. ]

[cobras]

Yet here we are. [ He's reeling back from that kiss, the tilt of Sherlock's head exposing his throat more to the criminal, that scarf twisted around the man's neck to cut his air supply short. Jim finds himself toying with it, loosening just enough to allow another inhale of breath before cutting it off again, his other hand occupied by stimulating the detective and prompting those sweet sounds from the man with every snap of his wrist, every brush of his thumb pressed against the head. He's so transfixed by the way those kiss bitten lips are parted, the way Sherlock's breath strangles in his throat, coming out in syllables that sound as though James Moriarty has gotten the upper hand.

He knows that he's still rutting against Sherlock's thigh, and Jim is grinding down, somehow left at a loss - bit difficult to get Sherlock's trousers down with one hand shoved beneath them, the other still tightly holding the rein of Sherlock's scarf around his neck. The inability to facilite being able to take everything away, to be able to strip the man down entirely is leaving him frustrated, leaving him pushing his clothed erection hot and heavy against Sherlock's hips.

Jim lets go of the scarf. ]

And this is playing all too well into my interests, Sherlock.

[ His tone is airy, soft Irish lilt ending on a deep note, voice an octave lower than usual as he promises silent things against the side of Sherlock's neck. His teeth dig down, nipping, sucking out colours into the skin and breathing against the man's adam's apple. Both hands are dropping now, pulling his hips away for just a moment as he yanks at clothing, managing to get the detective's trousers down around his ankles. His pants soon follow, until Sherlock is left naked except for that scarf, still pressed down against Jim's desk. ]

[noticing]

[ It's dry and rough and there's nothing between them that could even begin to resemble sentiment. But sentiment's a chemical defect found in the losing side so there's a reason for that; a reason why Sherlock doesn't fight to kiss the other man back. Doesn't struggle. Chokes. Accepts the position he's in. Curls his toes, craves his neck, and ruts his hips against the other, shameless.

Can't let pride get in the way, not with a man who's set to burn the world down between his legs, murmuring things in his ear. Every muttered word sends a jolt through his veins, electrifying blood and bones, pooling sensation in his cock. Which throbs, heavy in James Moriarty's hand. Then the thumb on the head and Sherlock's hips snap up off the table, and a stuttering gasps escapes his lips before he can stop it.

And all at once, air comes rushing in and Sherlock's lightheaded, dizzy and absolutely punch drunk with a feeling he's not familiar (hotwetheavystickydesperation) with coiling around his throat. Reaching tendrils up into his brain. Lashes flutter, and he answers: ] Do clarify.

[ Just to irritate, because that's how he works. When he loses the friction, Sherlock feels a frown etch lines into his face and he almost throws himself forward to regain the moment's friction, but refrains. And legs come up to wrap around Moriarty's hips, roping him in closer, sealing their bodies together so he can frot, slow and languid, up against him. Heat. The drag of skin. It's hot. A brush of his excitement against the older man's. It's too hot. Fingertips reach up and scrabble for purchase on the back of the criminal's head, yanking him down for another kiss.

Never mind his scarf. If Moriarty wanted to resume the pressure on his throat, then so be it. If he wanted to cut off his air and steal his final breaths, well then he'd like to see him try, might even like to see him succeed. ]

[cobras]

[ So exquisite, the way it feels to absolutely claim a body, to rut up against the man and feel bare skin beneath the fine fabric of Jim's suit. Jim is hurried with his other hand to undo his belt, shift, let those trousers fall to the floor and pull himself free from his pants and there it is, finally, the sweet, heated friction, the drag of skin against skin and the perfect contrast between them both. Jim lets out a groan against Sherlock's lips, something snarled and followed with the sinking of his teeth into the detective's lower lip, surging forward to kiss him deeper, harder, swallowing him whole.

He parts their lips with a smile, a laugh that barely reaches his eyes, and his hand never stops working between them. He lets Sherlock fuck his hand, pumps over him feverishly, eyes flicking down to watch the movement of those hips rocking so sweetly up against his body. Sherlock is hot and heavy and so hard beneath his palm, and Jim cherishes every moment. Every breath, every stuttered groan, every strangled sound that he elicits from the lovely consulting detective. ]

Clarify. [ He repeats, and Jim is away from his lips, pulling back to murmur into Sherlock's ear as he ruts against him, nearly animalistic, taking absolutely everything that has been allotted to him. The criminal's voice is soft against Sherlock's ear, taking on a bit of a lighter tone, childlike, so entirely unlike the actions that he's committing.] Once upon a time, [ Stroke over his head, thumbing at a bead of precome that threatens to spill over. ] There was a spider… [ A pause for Sherlock's benefit. The comparison couldn't be lost on him. ]

And a fly. [ His hand drops away, drops down, cupping Sherlock's bollocks and rolling the sensitive glands beneath his talented fingertips. ] Certainly no ordinary fly, no. Unlike all the others, this one had known the danger of flying too close to the spider's web - in fact, he outright flirted with the idea, teasing the spider from afar. So close… [ He snaps his hips forward and his fingers drop, teasing over that circle of muscle, not quite putting pressure forward. ]

Always just out of reach.