[She already has her fingers twisted in his hair, a grip that's as desperate as it is controlling. Keeping his head down, forehead practically to her sternum, between her breasts. Bare, like the rest of her; and no kissing. Cool recycled ship air that does not feel cool against flushed skin.
Already he's pushed his way into her, but that's what she wants. Legs hooked around him, encouragement in the way that she lifts her hips to meet his thrusts, in the ragged little breaths she steals in between. She does not always enjoy being the one getting fucked, but right now
right now she hears an echo, somewhere, someone. A voice, more like an impression, nothing that is her or Erik, and her eyes jump open, caught off-guard in a way that she never is. It's just them, but the jolt of surprise is one that Johanna feels all over, a spasm that clenches her against his cock and grips her fingers in his hair. A stare that narrows into suspicion, as her jaw clenches.
[ Erik is doing work, shoulders bowed forward over sinew twisting in his arms, rough, rasping breaths entirely preoccupied with pumping into her. In the past it’s been hard to get him to make even that much noise, but this is a library. Sounds carry.
Until she spasms and he grunts, rhythm cut short mid-stroke, tension met with a matching flinch, equal and opposite.
He twists enough to look up at her, bulled neck and ears flushed red, three days into a beard with a dead eye and scarring chewed deep into his shoulder. ]
I know, [ he says, after a spare breath or two to wind down. It sounds a little like sorry, with this particular tip of his brows, partway into something equal parts grin and grimace. ] It’s huge.
[Her brief daze leaves her focusing somewhere over his shoulder--but when he shifts, she feels it; she blinks as she focuses on him. Easy to do, considering the sheer weight and general very filling presence of him. Also not so easy to focus, if he only knew, but--
Well, he's not exactly wrong. But he's not right, either, and Johanna actually laughs. If it's emasculating, it's only really by accident. Her amusement is genuine, like she doesn't know, but her fingers--slid down now to the back of his neck--tighten, to pull him back.]
Shut up.
[A little breathless, and a little--almost--fond. Determination sets in on her next, insistent in the way that she pulls at him, circles her hips to resume that rhythm--a move that makes even her feel raw and her breath shudders, then. But her intent to keep enjoying this is still clear, so: continue.]
[ A twinge of suspicion chases unfocus and refocus, subdued in a late furrow between his brows.
But it rounds into a huff of hot air when she laughs, any lingering doubt mollified by her pulling him back into step, even if he is slower to get back with the program than she might like. There’s resistance in the scruff of his neck; he rakes a kiss down broad around her breast before curling his spine up to meet her. Deeper.
Better for him.
Somewhere in the exchange, there was a change in angle of approach. Warm kisses cool in a trail after his teeth. Emasculation doesn’t seem to be a problem for him.
[Johanna is not very good at waiting her turn. Not when there's no merit in waiting, anyways. Right now the merit is in her determination to enjoy this, no matter psychic voyeurism or selfishness. It isn't quite that at first, anyways, not even with that first deeper push, forceful enough that she loses her laugh, pushes her hips up a little as she tightens her grip on his neck, his mouth warm on her, the prickle of gooseflesh on bare skin, and then--
Nothing. Johanna stares up at the ceiling. A huff of breath against the top of his head, blunt fingernails pricked into the back of his neck.
She puts up with it a moment longer. The thrust of him against her, in her, sharp angle of hips. One leg hooked on him, her other foot braced against the side of the library table. This should be better than it is, and, irritated, she sets her teeth together and pointedly pushes her hips up against the next thrust of his hips, interrupting the rhythm. Her fingernails prick deeper at the same moment. Hey, and also: behave. He might be unaware that selfishness is getting points off, but here's his cue.]
He jarrs off rhythm again when her hip bones butt against his, a cursory effort made to keep on track for an unsteady pump or two until her nails sink in, and he stops entirely. The breath he stifles warm down her middle flushes broad and flat, tangible as a sigh, frustration clamped raw along his ribs.
He pulls out.
And reaches to draw her up into a sit at the table’s edge against him, his clear eye cut cool into an unspoken you’re lucky I like you, thinning patience threaded through with humor. Familiar. He doesn’t show any teeth, but funnels another long breath in under her jaw as he leans to guide himself back in.
Provided she doesn’t close him off, his thumb follows the ridge of his shaft up to the warm and the wet, kneading in after the knot of her clit. ]
[Suspiciously malleable for someone so recently resistant and typically combative, Johanna is easily moved. No protest, no resistance. One shuddery breath when he pulls out, loose-limbed, pulled to the edge of the table like she's barely conscious.
She certainly isn't too conscious of his approach toward irritation.
But when he pushes in again, she moans, loud--not because of him; in fact, it might seem too loud, too enthusiastic. A reaction to two separate sensations, one here and one registered somewhere else, a pinch at her nipple that makes her arch her back against him. Good timing: it pushes her against his thumb, arches her right into that touch--dizzying, and this moan is more for him, more desperate than usual. The sensation of his thumb pressed against her--of his cock--and then of fingers, unseen, brushed at hipbones, and a voice in her ear--
Blindly, she grabs at Erik's forearm, like to steady herself, or to get more--pushed against him, deep. Even more desperate when she moans, again. Maybe he's just that good.]
[ Erik is very aware of his abilities in the bedroom library. He is comfortable with his hands and with what he can do with them, with his cock, with the amount of effort typically involved in coaxing along this kind of response
particularly from Johanna.
So here is his nose, following her nose, larger and harder and blunt, while he tries to look down it at her, through the stupid look on her face and into her brain. He’ll settle for her eyes. ]
Did you take something.
[ is a very direct (and irritable) sort of question, made more pressing by the absence of a lilt at the end. There’s a growl sanded in around the edges instead, pipes clagged coarse, the bare minimum of breath diverted from the business of fucking her. Because he doesn’t stop. His left hand wraps around behind instead, gripping hard to test how steady she is before it makes a gentler pass at her breast, fingertips in light ahead of a harder push of his thumb outward. ]
[She meets his gaze for a moment at least, eyes colored dark and heady. Even in the moment there's something sharp in there. It's a good thing that he doesn't stop; there's an or else to that sharpness. Responsive to touch and thrust, at least, if not words, she loses some of her intensity as her head lolls to the side, mouth dropped open, loose in the neck. The pitch of her moan climbs higher; the grip of her hand tightens, insistent.
The answer to his question could be: maybe yes. The real answer is in a room somewhere else, simultaneous feeling of slender rough fingers. The push of his fingers against her breast echoes a feeling already there, traces along skin prickled with gooseflesh. Her nipple, already stiff. There's almost an angry desperation to her breath as she lifts her hips against him, fucking herself even as she's being fucked.
Through her teeth, she manages two words, snatched out between high breaths:]
Shut. Up.
[--And if that's to him, or to Kate, belatedly--who knows, and she cuts off a moment later with another high moan, back arching, taken up with the moment.]
[ She tightens her grip and Erik rankles, nostrils flared, teeth sawed out into a grimace. ] Johanna. [ Grated, anger for anger. Her head is lolling and his fingertips are going all pins and needles; the lean of his forehead after hers has taken an aggressive tilt, raking for leverage.
All the while he’s rubbing his thumb in firm around the around the roll of her clit, breaths shorter, the pain shooting back through the bones of his arm (and all associated impatience) made manageable by moaning, arching desperation.
His brain isn’t in charge of what stays where. He doesn’t even bristle much when she tells him to shut up, jaw dropped open and gritted shut, low burning fury powering back up into her.
They can argue about manners and respect when he isn’t mounting up under his skin, muscle knitting tight in his shoulders, getting ready to come. ]
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jumps right in nsfw leaks
Already he's pushed his way into her, but that's what she wants. Legs hooked around him, encouragement in the way that she lifts her hips to meet his thrusts, in the ragged little breaths she steals in between. She does not always enjoy being the one getting fucked, but right now
right now she hears an echo, somewhere, someone. A voice, more like an impression, nothing that is her or Erik, and her eyes jump open, caught off-guard in a way that she never is. It's just them, but the jolt of surprise is one that Johanna feels all over, a spasm that clenches her against his cock and grips her fingers in his hair. A stare that narrows into suspicion, as her jaw clenches.
What the fuck.]
no subject
Until she spasms and he grunts, rhythm cut short mid-stroke, tension met with a matching flinch, equal and opposite.
He twists enough to look up at her, bulled neck and ears flushed red, three days into a beard with a dead eye and scarring chewed deep into his shoulder. ]
I know, [ he says, after a spare breath or two to wind down. It sounds a little like sorry, with this particular tip of his brows, partway into something equal parts grin and grimace. ] It’s huge.
no subject
Well, he's not exactly wrong. But he's not right, either, and Johanna actually laughs. If it's emasculating, it's only really by accident. Her amusement is genuine, like she doesn't know, but her fingers--slid down now to the back of his neck--tighten, to pull him back.]
Shut up.
[A little breathless, and a little--almost--fond. Determination sets in on her next, insistent in the way that she pulls at him, circles her hips to resume that rhythm--a move that makes even her feel raw and her breath shudders, then. But her intent to keep enjoying this is still clear, so: continue.]
no subject
But it rounds into a huff of hot air when she laughs, any lingering doubt mollified by her pulling him back into step, even if he is slower to get back with the program than she might like. There’s resistance in the scruff of his neck; he rakes a kiss down broad around her breast before curling his spine up to meet her. Deeper.
Better for him.
Somewhere in the exchange, there was a change in angle of approach. Warm kisses cool in a trail after his teeth. Emasculation doesn’t seem to be a problem for him.
But he has shut up. ]
no subject
Nothing. Johanna stares up at the ceiling. A huff of breath against the top of his head, blunt fingernails pricked into the back of his neck.
She puts up with it a moment longer. The thrust of him against her, in her, sharp angle of hips. One leg hooked on him, her other foot braced against the side of the library table. This should be better than it is, and, irritated, she sets her teeth together and pointedly pushes her hips up against the next thrust of his hips, interrupting the rhythm. Her fingernails prick deeper at the same moment. Hey, and also: behave. He might be unaware that selfishness is getting points off, but here's his cue.]
no subject
He jarrs off rhythm again when her hip bones butt against his, a cursory effort made to keep on track for an unsteady pump or two until her nails sink in, and he stops entirely. The breath he stifles warm down her middle flushes broad and flat, tangible as a sigh, frustration clamped raw along his ribs.
He pulls out.
And reaches to draw her up into a sit at the table’s edge against him, his clear eye cut cool into an unspoken you’re lucky I like you, thinning patience threaded through with humor. Familiar. He doesn’t show any teeth, but funnels another long breath in under her jaw as he leans to guide himself back in.
Provided she doesn’t close him off, his thumb follows the ridge of his shaft up to the warm and the wet, kneading in after the knot of her clit. ]
no subject
She certainly isn't too conscious of his approach toward irritation.
But when he pushes in again, she moans, loud--not because of him; in fact, it might seem too loud, too enthusiastic. A reaction to two separate sensations, one here and one registered somewhere else, a pinch at her nipple that makes her arch her back against him. Good timing: it pushes her against his thumb, arches her right into that touch--dizzying, and this moan is more for him, more desperate than usual. The sensation of his thumb pressed against her--of his cock--and then of fingers, unseen, brushed at hipbones, and a voice in her ear--
Blindly, she grabs at Erik's forearm, like to steady herself, or to get more--pushed against him, deep. Even more desperate when she moans, again. Maybe he's just that good.]
no subject
bedroomlibrary. He is comfortable with his hands and with what he can do with them, with his cock, with the amount of effort typically involved in coaxing along this kind of responseparticularly from Johanna.
So here is his nose, following her nose, larger and harder and blunt, while he tries to look down it at her, through the stupid look on her face and into her brain. He’ll settle for her eyes. ]
Did you take something.
[ is a very direct (and irritable) sort of question, made more pressing by the absence of a lilt at the end. There’s a growl sanded in around the edges instead, pipes clagged coarse, the bare minimum of breath diverted from the business of fucking her. Because he doesn’t stop. His left hand wraps around behind instead, gripping hard to test how steady she is before it makes a gentler pass at her breast, fingertips in light ahead of a harder push of his thumb outward. ]
no subject
The answer to his question could be: maybe yes. The real answer is in a room somewhere else, simultaneous feeling of slender rough fingers. The push of his fingers against her breast echoes a feeling already there, traces along skin prickled with gooseflesh. Her nipple, already stiff. There's almost an angry desperation to her breath as she lifts her hips against him, fucking herself even as she's being fucked.
Through her teeth, she manages two words, snatched out between high breaths:]
Shut. Up.
[--And if that's to him, or to Kate, belatedly--who knows, and she cuts off a moment later with another high moan, back arching, taken up with the moment.]
no subject
All the while he’s rubbing his thumb in firm around the around the roll of her clit, breaths shorter, the pain shooting back through the bones of his arm (and all associated impatience) made manageable by moaning, arching desperation.
His brain isn’t in charge of what stays where. He doesn’t even bristle much when she tells him to shut up, jaw dropped open and gritted shut, low burning fury powering back up into her.
They can argue about manners and respect when he isn’t mounting up under his skin, muscle knitting tight in his shoulders, getting ready to come. ]