trashchildren | For Joan

She slides her arm under his head so that he doesn't have to strain to kiss her. He's responding well in particular to her thumb against the head of his cock, so she makes sure to use it here and there, just light brushes to tantalize and tease, until his body can't help but writhe with need, silently begging for release.

It's a good thing his knees aren't as bad as they were yesterday, because he can't stop himself from pushing his hips off the bed a little, yearning for more touch. Nor can he stop himself from letting out small moans and noises of pleasure, no matter how hard he tries.

He pulls back from the kiss, tilting his head back to catch his breath a little, and momentarily closes his eyes, but then forces himself to open them again, so he can look at her. He's already almost there.

She loves seeing him like this, the building pleasure taking over his body. She loves how his body is trying so hard to get a little more friction. She loves his sounds, even though (perhaps especially because) he's trying so hard to keep quiet. He's so close she can feel it, can feel the tension, the desire, the need.

"I love you," she whispers, gazing into those desperate eyes, her stroke quickening. "I want to see you come for me."

It's the first time she's said that during sex, and boy if it doesn't intensify everything. Well, the first part, not the second part. The second part has always been particularly effective, the sound of it going straight to his cock.

He bites his lip in a desperate attempt to keep quiet, a whimper escaping even so, gripping the edge of the bed tightly, his neck arching back as the orgasm rolls through him, sudden and intense.

God, he's so beautiful in the throes of his orgasm, and hearing that whimper makes Joan's ache of arousal between her legs that much more powerful. She slows her movements, gently and slowly stroking him, carrying him through the climax until he moves her hand.

He soon collapses back against the bed, shuddering a little as he puts his hand on hers to stop her, then just lies there for a bit, catching his breath.

After a few moments he props himself up again, and looks down, and, ah. Yeah, he definitely came on his shirt a bit.

"..It's fine, I've got a spare shirt," he says, laughing a little bit. They'll fix that afterwards.

She moves her hand and lies down next to him, just watching him in the afterglow, absolutely loving to see him breathless and sated.

"Yeah, I hoped you would," she says about the shirt. "I figured Beard would have brought you a couple changes of clothes."

Sometimes they plan for these things a little better, like he could've opened his shirt beforehand. Today that sort of stuff is not high on the list of priorities. And it was definitely worth it, as he now feels good all over, which isn't a feeling he's having a lot this week.

"Let's not talk about Beard while we're doing this, alright?" he says with a playful smile. Ted doesn't really want to think about the fact he's right on the other side of that door. Though it helps that he's pretty certain Beard would actually approve of them doing this.

She smiles, amused. "Sorry."

She idly begins unbuttoning his shirt. If they had been thinking, they could have definitely avoided getting semen on his shirt, but she's okay with the fact that they're not necessarily thinking practically right now. Practicality will have it's chance all too soon, when Joan leaves to protect him and they have to playact a breakup. They don't need to be too practical right now.

"How do you want me?" she asks, figuring it a good thing to ask so that they can be mindful of his injuries.

As Joan starts unbuttoning his shirt, he puts a hand on hers to stop her, and instead just reaches for the tissues next to his bed, cleaning off the worst of it instead. While he can't hide the bruises on his face, he doesn't want her to look at the ones on his sides, which are definitely worse. He doesn't want either of them to have to think about that right now.

He hums thoughtfully at the question, adjusting his positioning on the bed, propping up some pillows behind him. After a bit of moving around, he manages to sit up partially on his side, propped up on an elbow to make sure he doesn't put much weight on his ribs, and still able to reach all the areas he needs while she lies next to him.

You'd think this kind of meticulous accommodation would be a mood-killer, but honestly, for him it just shows how eager and determined they are to enjoy each other's company, despite whatever inconvenience.

Before he actually starts touching her, he takes a moment to just look at her. Lying there, hot and bothered, waiting for him, looking at him with affection and still that satisfaction at making him come.

"You're so beautiful," he says softly, smiling gently down at her. "I love you so much."

She gets why he stops her, remembering that his body is still badly bruised, a visual reminder of the hell that he endured. Sure he feels it, but it's not for nothing that injuries often don't hurt much until they're seen.

She watches as he positions himself, and moves to lie down on her back as close to him as possible so that he doesn't have to strain to touch her in all the right places. She looks up at him, her pupils wide, her cheeks flushed, smiling, so happy and so in love.

"I love you too," she answers. "So much."

More than she's ever loved anyone.

He puts a hand on her cheek and leans down to kiss her, softly at first, then deeper. He lets his hand wander, down her neck, trailing finger tips across her collarbone, down her side, tugging at her shirt a little so he can slip his hand inside it, up to grasp her breast, not minding that it's still inside a bra.

For a while he just explores her body like this with his hand, and he'd gladly touch every inch of her if he could, intentionally being a little bit slow, just to build up that need over time. Reaching over to grasp her ass, then around her hips and to the inside of her thigh. He pulls back a little from the kiss, just as he presses up the heel of his palm up against her crotch, but still on the outside of her pants.

She kisses him deeply, his slow hand doing an excellent job of steadily fanning the flames of her growing need. She moans softly when he touches her breast, and a little less softly when he touches her ass. Then she gasps as his palm presses between her legs, her hips yearning upward, her body so desperate for that sensation.

"That feels good," she whispers, looking up at him.

"Yeah?" he answers, smiling at the way she arches upwards as he rubs his palm against her. Touching her quite firmly, but the sensation dulled by the layer of clothing in between. "You want more of that?" he asks, his voice a deep, quiet hum.

Joan moans softly as he continues to rub her through her clothes, her hips flexing. "Yeah," she answers, already a little breathless. When he asks if she wants more she smiles. "I want you to touch me," she murmurs. Her smile deepens. "I love it when you touch me."

"Good thing I love touching you," he answers, leaning down to give her another kiss, just for a bit as he moves his hand to run his fingers just inside the lining of her pants. He tugs gently at the button at the front, and then nods down at it as a request. He's not going to waste time trying to open it one-handed.

"Good thing," she agrees with a smile, and hums into the kiss, touching his cheek. His touch along her abdomen sends a slight shiver through her. When he tugs at her button she gets the message and reaches down to unbutton and unzip her fly, and lowers her pants off her hips just a little to make it easier for his hand to slide under her underwear and between her legs.

"Thanks," he murmurs with a smile, watching her. He doesn't move his hand directly there, taking the long way by tracing his fingertips along the inside of her underwear, down her hipbone, along the inside of her thigh, being tantalizingly close before he finally gets there.

When he does, he starts off gentle, wetting his fingers as he runs them between her labia, his palm against her clitoris, using his whole hand to rub against her. Soft at first, then firmer as he responds to her bucking hips.

Her eyes drift closed as his fingers make their wandering way, feeling every touch, every trace, every sensation the sweetest torture as he got closer and closer to the ache between her legs.

Then he's touching her, so gentle, and Joan breathes a soft moan, her hips shifting ever so slightly against his hand. Then his touch grows firmer, and her body is responding in kind, her hips moving, chasing his touch, then as it gets more intense her hips are bucking. Joan bites her lip hard to try to stifle a whimpering moan that she cannot suppress, and her hands grip and twist the sheets.

Just watching her respond to his touch is the most delightful thing, knowing he's bringing her this pleasure. Someone usually so composed, watching her give herself over to it is mesmerizing.

He watches as her hands grip at the sheets. "Hold onto me," he requests quietly, wanting to feel the tightness of her touch. His arms, shoulders, neck and even hair are all safe for her to grab, after all.

Then he moves his hand further down, his middle two fingers slipping inside her and curling up, aiming for that sweet spot.

Joan is happy to oblige, reaching up, one arm wrapping over his shoulders while the fingers of her other hand slide into his hair and curl slightly, pulling his head down to meet her lips, kissing him hard. When his fingers slide inside her she moans helplessly, her grip on him tightening with the rest of her body as his fingers stroking her inside drives her to the edge.

He kisses her back happily, continuing to massage her until she's too breathless and helpless to continue kissing him. And then he abruptly softens his touch considerably, just to hear her whimper, to keep her there for a few moments longer.

He keeps her right there, trembling on the edge, and it is the most delicious torture imaginable. Joan is writhing and whimpering under his touch, clutching him, utterly lost in the sensation, in the intense pleasure that is all the more devastating in the delay of its resolution.

"Ted," she gasps, a plea.

The sound of her gasping his name is still the most wonderful thing he can imagine, overcome with pleasure. He leans down to give her a soft kiss as the moment draws on, her writhing next to him.

And then he obliges, intensifying his touch once more, faster and firmer, until his hand almost starts cramping.

That kiss is so simple, so sweet, so loving, and stood in delicious contrast to the sheer torment of being held on the very cusp of climax, her body shuddering.

Then his fingers speed up, giving her that last bit of sensation she needs, and her body arches as she comes with a strangled cry, her hands gripping him tightly.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject