He doesn’t have to tell her twice. A little moan - more like a gasp with some voice in it - slipped from her mouth and she tightened her grip on his shoulders, feeling the friction between her legs from where his erection had begun to press into her. Heat and bodies were mingling and she let herself fall into the ease of being kissed hard, let her mind be quieted by the feeling of his mouth hungry against her own.
This was the kind of relief she needed. On nights where sleep eluded her and where coffee wasn’t enough to take away the bite of her tiredness, she needed to lose herself in the physicality of something like sex or pain. It rejuvenated her and revitalised her, making her heart race and pump the positive emotions through her blood stream. ❝ Don’t care. ❞ She grunted in reply, her mouth tugging away from his to leave bites along his jaw and at his throat, nails grazing over his scalp idly. ❝ Fuck me on the counter or on the floor. Fuck me against a wall if you want. Just do it. ❞
Her hips arched towards him, grinding themselves against his body and realising that she was stuck in her own pants. His were pajamas, they were easily disposed of. She had to get free of her running gear somehow, too. With his hands on her, keeping her lifted, she kicked away her shoes and readjusted her body against him, crashing her lips against his again with a murmur of, ❝ If I don’t get these pants off, neither of us get what we want. ❞
‴look atcha,‴ a growly comment passes his lips, a small laugh following shortly after. Sure, he was pretty eager himself, but to be met with the same level of eagerness made his heart race for a moment. Kinda made him feel like when he was a teenager having sex for the first time. Fumbling around and nervous out of his goddamn mind. The nervousness was gone, he had nothing to be ashamed of…nothing to be worried about.
‴So goddamn eager t’ get fucked–and heck, t’ get fucked by me.‴ Let him live, Nat. Don’t say that he was just the closest–because he’d probably lose the mood then. Just…play along. Let him be happy. He’d also be glad to fuck her in different places in his apartment, especially against the wall, it was a personal favorite. The bites against his throat only made the man more eager to please, one hand wandering from her leg to grasp at her ass, still attempting to keep this whole balance stable especially as she shifts around to kick her shoes off.
At this point, he’s really not the one for kissing, he prefers to move now, but she’s having issues–and having their mouths together is one of them. ‴Well then, I’m gonna put you down and we can see who can get your pants off the fastest.‴ He doesn’t waste any time, nearly just dropping her down, but making sure she stays on her feet. Wouldn’t want any nasty tumbles while they’re trying to have sex. Stepping back, Brock drops to his knees–an odd sight. Please take it in and appreciate it, Natasha. His fingers fiddle with her pants, lips kissing across her hips and partially down her thighs. ‴ya know what would be fun–nah–nah, for later. It’ll be for later, pretend I ain’t said nothin’. Jus’ get these damn pants off. My dick is startin’ t’ hurt.‴
❝ Sex is sex. There’s always a bit personal. You’ve got two people putting pieces of each other into body parts. I’m okay with that kind of personal. ❞ He was gruff and she felt a smirk tugging at her lips and leaned into the counter as he moved closer. But there’s no cowering, feeling the tightness in his pants against her. He dwarfed her in height but Natasha was far from backing down, instead dragging her fingers from a spot on his chest down to the waistband of his pajamas and giving the elastic a little flick. ❝ Easy, tiger. ❞
She used the moment of shifting to prop her hands onto the counter and pull herself up, legs draping around his hips lazily to tug him in and eager fingers slipping into his hair while she hovered her lips over his, ❝ If you just want me to look at you, the sex is gonna be pretty boring. I was hoping for a lot more touch to be involved. ❞ Natasha crushed her mouth against his then, dragging fingertips over his scalp and tightening her legs so that he would grind against her.
‴Sex doesn’t have t’ be super damn personal,‴ is all he manages, because, really, it doesn’t have to be personal…well, to him it doesn’t. He’s used to having sex with someone and never talking to them again. It’s just how he rolled usually–he didn’t get attached because his line of work called for near death a lot. He wasn’t so selfish as to drag someone into a relationship and then possibly die. He wasn’t ready to hurt someone that way. He was a horrible man, sure. Just not that horrible.
Now, wait, that’s ruining his boner. Uh, right. Oh.
Natasha was talking to him–and a hand was going down his chest. Oh hello there. He smirks lightly, rumbling softly in response to her attentions, hands fitting at her waist as she lifts onto the counter. And fuck yes, he’s pressed against her a little better now. His eyes flicker down between them, his hands pulling her closer to him, Rumlow pressing his hard heat against her legs with a low growl.
‴Ya know–‴ he starts, huffing into her quick kiss before squeezing her waist, hips pressed harder to her body in an attempt to get some much needed friction. His kiss is filled with a deep hunger, their equal taste of bitter coffee stirring into Rumlow’s mouth and nearly making him grumble happily. It’s one thing to kiss someone, it’s another to be hungry for it, to want it to not end, so he deepens it, head tilting and arms winding around her.
Her sitting on the counter doesn’t last too long, the man breaking for air and hoisting her up, a hand drifting to the back of her leg as the other stays around her body. ‴I don’t think we’ll make it t’ the bed,‴ he pants, biting her lip as he goes back for another hungry kiss.
he is lust.
he is sex in the back seat of a car.
he is hickies on the beach.
he is groping in a movie theater.
he is ass grabbing in an empty aisle.
he is dirty whispers on the phone.
he is pressed thighs and lip biting.
he is moaned names.
he is trembling and goosebumps.
he is breathlessness after a touch.
he is frustration and dark eyes.
he is insanity and clawing nails.
he is the pleas of more.
he is the begs of not stopping.
he is the fantasies that have your hand between your thighs, wishing it was his mouth instead.
he is sex.
he is lust.
he is a drug.
one you’ll take with a scream of pleasure and a whimper for another.
โ the dangers of dating a boy who knows exactly what he’s doing. (via tonkinwrites)
he wants to huff, wants to fight against it, because, well, thats the Rumlow way. To fight what life has given you. And life has given no clothes today and the curtains open.
Fan-fuckin-tastic.
‴yeah. yeah, okay.‴
It’s a rumble of a sound, one that masks his frustration. When they switch things up, Rumlow never goes down lightly, but it’s a good break from being the dominant person all the damn time. It’s what he does for work, it’s what he does at home. A break is nice. Even in the form of no clothes…
