[I had to reach way back into my memory for The Basic Eight but I hope you like this.]
Flan keeps her hands to herself, just stares into Natasha's eyes, wondering if they have an end. Her mind is full to the brim with cheesy lines.
"Take me, Natasha," she wants to cry out, and Natasha would, exuberantly, but Flan would never ask for that, or would she?
Natasha is always just one place off, the eyes just slightly the wrong color, the skin just a bit too smooth, the voice just too high-pitched to be right.
But all it adds up to for Flan is a pounding heart and desire. And Natasha knows, knows without the lines, and reaches out.
"Strip," she demands with a laugh.
Flan struggles out of her clothes, breaking buttons, snapping elastic, until she and her awkward body are thrown across the rumpled bedclothes and she looks up at Natasha, shining and perfect, above her.
"Say it," Natasha taunts.
"I want you," Flan tries, but Natasha only shakes her head.
"No, say it," she insists. In case Flan thinks she's only teasing, Natasha reaches down and tweaks her nipple, which hurts a bit and makes Flan ache.
"Don't stop," she says.
"That's not what I need to hear."
"Fuck me," says Flan firmly, sounding entirely unlike herself and entirely too much like Natasha. And that's all Natasha needs to hear -- soon her fingers are sliding into the warmth between Flan's legs. No kissing, no foreplay, no prelminaries, just her hand thrusting, Flan moaning and throwing her legs wide apart.
"You're so damn hot, Flan," Natasha says.
And she is, so hot she's at the edge just from those fingers, just from the thoughts and the words and then her eyes are screwed shut and Natasha's palm brushes her clit and she's coming, her back arched and her hips off the bed.
Can Natasha feel it, the way she pulses, the way the excitment rushes through her, finally knowing why they call it a climax.
"You're the best," the say simultaneously, and Flan falls asleep in the wet bedclothes and refuses to open her eyes again.
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timeasmymeasure
The Basic Eight, Flan/Natasha, MA (adult material)
Date: 2011-12-19 10:05 pm (UTC)Flan keeps her hands to herself, just stares into Natasha's eyes, wondering if they have an end. Her mind is full to the brim with cheesy lines.
"Take me, Natasha," she wants to cry out, and Natasha would, exuberantly, but Flan would never ask for that, or would she?
Natasha is always just one place off, the eyes just slightly the wrong color, the skin just a bit too smooth, the voice just too high-pitched to be right.
But all it adds up to for Flan is a pounding heart and desire. And Natasha knows, knows without the lines, and reaches out.
"Strip," she demands with a laugh.
Flan struggles out of her clothes, breaking buttons, snapping elastic, until she and her awkward body are thrown across the rumpled bedclothes and she looks up at Natasha, shining and perfect, above her.
"Say it," Natasha taunts.
"I want you," Flan tries, but Natasha only shakes her head.
"No, say it," she insists. In case Flan thinks she's only teasing, Natasha reaches down and tweaks her nipple, which hurts a bit and makes Flan ache.
"Don't stop," she says.
"That's not what I need to hear."
"Fuck me," says Flan firmly, sounding entirely unlike herself and entirely too much like Natasha. And that's all Natasha needs to hear -- soon her fingers are sliding into the warmth between Flan's legs. No kissing, no foreplay, no prelminaries, just her hand thrusting, Flan moaning and throwing her legs wide apart.
"You're so damn hot, Flan," Natasha says.
And she is, so hot she's at the edge just from those fingers, just from the thoughts and the words and then her eyes are screwed shut and Natasha's palm brushes her clit and she's coming, her back arched and her hips off the bed.
Can Natasha feel it, the way she pulses, the way the excitment rushes through her, finally knowing why they call it a climax.
"You're the best," the say simultaneously, and Flan falls asleep in the wet bedclothes and refuses to open her eyes again.