president_evil | (no subject)

She groans in pleasure laced with pain as he pulls her hair, and nips back, her teeth scraping his lower lip. Her own hand tightens and twists in his hair, but it is far shorter and she can get far less purchase.

"It's only flirting if you don't intend to follow through," she breathes.

His teeth scrape over her chin. His kisses the underside of her jaw, voice low and vibrating against the thin and delicate skin he found there.

"Then be a good girl--"

He molds a hand over her, up to cup her breast, thumb teasing over the nipple.

"--and show me."

"I'm going to have to get off you so we can take our pants off," she breathes, her hand still buried in his hair.

For a moment it seems like he may not have heard her. His mouth works along her throat, nibbling at the gentle vibration of her voice beneath his lips; the hand at her breast cupping and stroking, but then the touch slows, stills... and slowly falls away, skimming across her belly as it retreats.

The hand wrapped in her hand untangles, slides down, circles her throat - just once, a little thrill for them both - then slips away.

Both hands, instead, find her hips and he leans back, eyes dark and half-lidded, dragging at a breath through his mouth as they part and cool air rushes over his heated skin. He looks at her for a beat, drinking in the sight of flushed skin and kiss-swollen lips, then lifts to move her back to the side of him.

He pulls away from her, and part of her regrets saying anything. Her breath hitches when his hand goes around her throat, sharing the thrill, but that soon moves on. She gazes down at him, his skin flushed and eyes half lidded, and she cups his uninjured cheek, brushing his cheekbone with her thumb. Then he's moving her and she goes along with it, moving back to where she was.

"Not the time," she murmurs, mostly to herself.

Free, he's able to stand. Pushing up from the coach in a way that belies a man who'd just had stitches put in. If he feels the stretch and pull at all, he doesn't show it, hands going immediately for his belt--

--and pausing when she speaks.

Just catching it, his head (always carefully tended hair mussed from the wild grip of her hands) tips.

"No time for what?" he asks, eyes glinting with intent.

The leather belt hisses like a snake as he peels it through the loops of his trousers.

Well she had completely misinterpreted things.

Good.

She leans back on the couch and for the moment just watches, slightly biting her lower lip.

He continues to watch her, eyes flicking her mouth to watch, then meets her eyes again, and then seems to realize what she meant. The corner of his mouth turns up and he lowers his head just slightly.

He tosses the belt aside and reaches for his fly, starts unzipping. Slowly. Every open tooth for a heartbeat.

"Would you like me to stop, Joan?" he all but purrs, voice a velvet rumble.

Say it, Joan. Say you want him.

Just like this.

That purr makes her tingle in all the right places.

"No," she answers. She smiles. "I think you should finish what you started."

He smiles in turn, all satisfaction (the snake before Eve). He toes off his boots (no longer shiny, splattered with mud and flecks of blood), and hooking his thumbs into his waistband he begins to slide his trousers down. He catches his underwear in route and down, down, the fabric slides until he can simply step free.

There's no hesitation, no sense of shame in his naked form. He knows what it is, the tool he has shaped it into. Thick muscle, hardened planes, scars so old they're little mores than river of pearl and some still new enough to be thick and peaked.

He steps toward her, confident, and looks for a moment with that dark hunger in his eyes, like he might take her there and then... but then he moves around the couch, and disappears out of the room.

But only a moment, then he's returning with something small and square and foiled tucked against him palm.

Medical emergencies, indeed.

Coming back around the couch, he sinks one knee onto the cushion beside her and holds the condom out to her with one hand, the packet between two fingers. The other hand reaches out as well - sliding low and fast, to hook into the waistband of her pants and tugging hard. Hard enough to bring her onto her flat onto her back on the couch.

She watches as he peels his clothes off, and god he's beautiful. Every part of him. Every muscle, every scar. And his eyes, dark with hunger, affix her in place, like a pin in a butterfly. When he leaves she takes a breath she didn't realize she was holding. This is a bad idea. For many reasons, this is a bad idea. They have a business relationship, and he's dangerous. Their encounter thus far has only emphasized that point.

But god it is devastatingly sexy. Her heart was still beating especially fast from that hand around her neck. She doesn't believe he would hurt her...but the uncertainty was significant and thrilling.

When he returns with the condom she accepts it with a smile. Then she lets out a high-pitched "oof!" as he pulls her flat. She gazes up at him as she reaches for her own zipper.

He chases her hands away with his own and clucks his tongue behind the teeth he flashes at her again.

"No," he murmurs. The purr again, velvet, but wrapped over steel. He'll book no argument here. "I insist."

He opens the button himself and lowers his head. Breath blushing against her skin, his lips move sinuously over her belly, tongue making a brief, hot foray over her belly button. As the fly inches open, his mouth moves lower, follows the zipper down. First over - through - the thin fabric of her underwear, and then, after he begins to drag it down with her pants, against skin.

Her breath hitches as his lips make contact with her skin. She slides the fingers of one hand into his hair and settles the other on his shoulder. She breathes a little laugh when his tongue tickles her belly, a breath that turns into a moan as his mouth drifts lower...lower...

"Oh god," she whispers, eyes drifting closed and head tipping back.

There are many assumptions about Albert Wesker that are true: he is cunning and cold; he is dangerous, with violence always just under the surface, always within reach.... But perhaps the most unexpected truth about him, is the pleasure he takes in his partner's.

To hear Joan's breath hitch, the sweet gasp, and the moan that followed. To feel the way her body shifted under him - a twist, a lift, a silent plea - and to know he'd caused it. That she wanted so fiercely because of him - that she wanted him....

It sets his normally even heart racing. His cock jerks, eager and hard.

And then, it is that ruthlessness he's known for that allows him to clamp down on his own heady desires to push further, to give more. To see just how far he can push her toward that keen edge. Too see just how much she could want.

Her pants drag down, his mouth follows along the inside of her thigh... then the back of her knee where he nips at the cord of muscle there. The fabric tangles briefly around her ankles, but once he pulls off her shoes, they are finally gone and it is suddenly just them.

Skin to skin.

He roams back up her body, the weight of him brushing against her, his hands and mouth tracing, memorizing like a cartographer mapping all the curves and valleys of her. As he climbs higher between her thighs, he slips a hand behind her knee and hooks it over his hip to give himself access to taste her as he wants, tongue to slick, hot flesh.

Skin to skin, entirely naked together, and Joan is feeling profoundly vulnerable in the hands of a man who is choosing to be gentle, but who could very well choose not to be. She doesn't have the same level of utter comfort with her body as Wesker, so there's that running through her head as well as the last of her clothing comes off.

All of it, from their first kiss to this moment, has Joan incredibly aroused, her body thrumming with want...god, need...and her senses almost painfully heightened. She shivers as he begins to examine her, explore her, hands and mouth and teeth and tongue together traveling over her skin. She twitches a little as he touches her ticklish area behind her knee. Between her legs she is wet and swollen and so very, very sensitive...

She cries out as his tongue touches her, body arching slightly, hands tightening in his hair.

The sound of cry, the responding arch of her body, is like the sweetest music to him. He can't smile - his mouth far too occupied - but his eyes look up from under his lashes to watch her face. Drinking in the sight of her want. The way pleasure moves over her face, and learning how he might produce more.

He flicks his tongue almost curiously, curls, and then, deciding it's not enough - that he can do better - reaches between them to add his hands to the work.

A palm smooths over the plane of her belly, the heel of his hand pressing down into the low muscles as a long finger slides into her.

She's already panting lightly as he experiments with his tongue, the pleasure shivering through her with each flick. Her eyes are closed, her hips gently yearning toward him, wanting more...more...

Then she gets it.

She cries out again as his hands send a fresh jolt of sensation through her, her inner walls fluttering around the finger inside her.

For all their coarseness, Wesker hands are a pianists - wide palmed, long-fingered, elegant and dexterous. And he knows how to use them. He feels that ripple of muscle, hears her cry, and knows it's a precursor. That her true glory is just a head. Within his reach.

Excitement courses through him, his own hips flex, an eager instinctual roll against her, but he refuses to give up now. To give in, when she's so close.

His finger slides in, curls to tease those muscles, then withdraws. Again, again, and then, a second joins.

A preview for them both, of things to come.

His mouth, his hands, they're inhumanly skilled at what they're doing, driving Joan out of her mind. The pleasure builds, the hot core of fire in the pit of her stomach growing...growing...growing...

"Wesker," she keens, a praise, a plead, trembling at the edge...

Then she cries out, her body arching as the climax hits her, pleasure flashing white hot through her body and mind, her inner walls clenching around those talented fingers.

There it is.

He lifts his head to watch as her body clamps down around her. To see the initial shock, the edge of pain as it melts into pleasure, all of it playing across her face, through her body. The sweetness in the way her body arched into him, the strength of the muscles tightening around his fingers, the breathless sound of his name--

There's a sound he can't help, deep in his chest, and his hips jerk again, wanton. But he wills himself to hold. He's determined to wait. He wants to see the awareness come back into her eyes; wants to her to know what's happening as it does.

The fingers of his free hand brush hers, and slip the condom from her limp grasp. He raises the back to his lips and tears it open with his teeth.

She's panting as she comes down from the climax, her body trembling slightly, awash with adrenaline and endorphins. She feels Wesker's fingers as he takes the condom from her, and her hand chases his, wanting to hold, to tangle their fingers together, to connect. She doesn't know how tender Wesker will be in the afterglow of their lovemaking. She wouldn't be surprised if that sort of tenderness is something he sees no value in...but she's hoping there will be some gentleness and care.

For the moment, though, she's aware of what is to come, and she touches Wesker's cheek as he tears open the condom, her eyes on his.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to brush his lips against the inside of her wrist, but his eyes stay locked with hers. Watching as he nibbles at her pulse and watching as he slowly slips his fingers from her and uses them instead to help unroll the condom down over himself.

There's a pause as he puts the condom on, his mouth stilling as his breath catches and a shudder of anticipation races over him. The muscles across his back and lower belly fluttering and clenching. His eyes close and there's a low sound in the back of his throat--

Then the condom's on and his eyes open again to find hers before he starts to shift. To raise over her.

One hand reaches up, his thumb brushing against her lower lip, fingers against her cheek, before it moves on to press into the couch beside her head to give himself leverage. The other stays between them, helping first to guide himself to her, then sliding over her hip and under, fingertips biting almost desperately into her backside as he lifts her to him, to meet him, as he sinks into her in a slow, but deliberate thrust. Inch by inch.

Joan's gaze is locked on his as he moves. She kisses that thumb that brushes over her lower lip, and turns her head slightly to lean into that gentle touch to her cheek. As he rises over her she reaches out, wrapping her arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head as the other gripped his shoulder. When she feels him at her entrance she parts her legs, bending her knees up to hook her legs over his hips, opening herself to him and holding him to her. She moans softly as he sinks into her, her eyes on his, her lips parted slightly, breath slipping in and out in light pants.

Muscles flex and bunch under her hands, reacting to her touch, energy straining as he wills himself for patience. To allow them both the exquisite feeling of her body shifting to accommodate him, molding to accept him as he slips deeper.

She moans and his head dips, mouth to hers to catch it, wanting to taste of it even as a groan of his own rumbles in response low in his throat.

Deeper, deeper-- there. The kiss becomes a bite, the edge of pleasure so sweet it edged along pain, as they finally lock together with a roll of his hips.

It's the last warning he can give.

His breath a pant against her lips he begins to move. A slow withdrawal, a rolling thrust back deep... then again, and again, faster, harder with each.

Her body receives him in more ways than one. His breath is in her lungs, his groan rumbles in her own chest, and his cock is sliding deeper and deeper, his flesh and hers becoming one. A small sound rises from her throat when he bites her, akin to a whimper. She tightens her hold on his shoulder and her hold on his hair as he begins to move, and she moves with him, rocking with him, against him, taking him deeper and deeper as his thrusts get harder and faster. She pants openly now, each breath carrying a soft cry, fingernails digging into his back and hand twisting in his hair.