I Want Your Heaven and Your Oceans Too

I Miss You

Porn without much plot, with a small slice of angst---you've been warned!  

His hand slides deftly down the length of her spine, his fingers tracing engraved ink. His touch is soft, but she can feel the need underneath; the pulsing heat as he palms her lower back possessively.

She is his. Her curves, belong to him and he grabs on to the jut of her hips, tugging her closer. The flat planes of her stomach, the dip where her neck and shoulder meet...he lays his claim on her, with hands first and then his lips, biting and kissing any surface of exposed skin he comes across.

The swell of her throat. Her collarbone. It's all a canvas, laid out for him to sweep delicate strokes onto. He does so, reverently, yes, but with purpose, so that there is little confusion as to who she belongs to.

He lavishes his attention on her breasts now, kneading and pinching the sensitive peaks, replacing fingers with his mouth as she braces herself; one hand on the wall, the other in his hair.

Her thighs. She knows he likes that they are full, and they are strong, and he drags his tongue over bare skin, teeth scraping muscle. He licks his way across to her other leg, tugging so that she is precariously balancing, her foot resting on his shoulder as he rains kisses on the spot behind her knee.

The moans are quiet still, not having reached a desperate edge, just audible enough so that she can make them out over the sounds of her own breath. He lowers her back to the floor, working his way up, kissing her ankle, her calf, up to her legs again, his touch concentrated now. She knows what he wants, and she is aching.

Roughly, his hands part her thighs and he's on his knees, entering her with two fingers, filling her up, stroke by stroke. He curls them expertly and she makes a sound from somewhere in the basement of her larynx, grinding against the pressure, the hand entangled in his hair pulling so hard he hisses in pain.

He looks up at her, smirking and she knows he is going to retaliate, and he does, plunging his tongue into her folds, without pretense, no fair warning. The circles he makes on her clit are weighted and she brings her hands to his shoulders, squeezing hard as something coils in her belly, a heat that blooms low and furls its way up.

She's gasping for breath, lightheaded, reaching the precipice, knuckles white, silently begging him to bring her over, needing this, needing him, his fingers still buried deep while he slows down, drawing out her release until she tugs his hair again, a silent plea and he complies, pressing into the soft flesh at the apex of her thighs with his free hand.

Shuddering, she rides out her orgasm against him, pushing air through her teeth as he drags his tongue over her slit one more time.

It takes a minute or two to regain oxygen, but he isn't in a hurry; he lingers to plant small, barely-there kisses on her lower half, brushing his lips across freckles and beauty marks, coming to rest his forehead on her stomach, his own breathing ragged.

He can't seem to get enough; the way he runs the tip of his nose over her skin, drinking her in, how his hands want to caress all of her at once...it's so much. Love and lust and longing...there's not a solitary word for it and if she considers the matter long enough, outside of these four walls, the weight, the depth, of her feelings is huge and overwhelming and though she's used to theatrics and over the top spectacle, it's difficult to reconcile this enormous wave without being terrified she'll be pulled under.

Because as much as she belongs to him, he belongs to her, too.

"What are you afraid of?" He is humming into her temple, softly stroking her hair and she is flush against him. She likes being in his arms and though there are very few places she feels completely safe, when he holds her there is nothing much than can touch her.

Everything, she wants to cry out. Being destroyed by outside forces. By distance. The press. Our past. People who don't understand---who could never, who will never. I'm scared of loving you so much I can't breathe when I look at you...I'm scared because I miss you even when you're here with me; I'm anticipating the next time we're apart. I'm scared to want another human being that much. I'm fucking scared this whole thing is going to consume me.

"Of losing you." It is a small portion of the truth and though her voice is drawn, it fills the space of the large room.

"I'm here."

And she knows she doesn't have to explain herself; he understands, he always does...even if he can't guarantee anything. "Show me."

Eyes flashing, he takes her by both shoulders, crashing their mouths together and he lifts her as she wraps her legs around his hips, heels digging into the curve of his backside.

Sometimes, it was easier to allow the flames to engulf her, swallow her whole, rather than consider the future. She could narrow her vision and make everything very, very small so that it was just them and his lips trailing heat down her neck, over her throat, the throbbing between her legs; phantom pleasure from where his fingers had been minutes before, his mouth. Concentrating on feeling instead of fear. On pleasure instead of potential heartbreak.

Even when she wanted him hard and rough and maybe teetering on dangerous, he couldn't help but be tender. It infused everything he did, whatever he touched. She was the strings of his guitar, a brush of a piano key. He was a paradox, in that sense, and she loved it because in her way, so was she.

The shove onto the bed is gentle and he is on top of her, the sensation of bare skin on bare skin delicious and in an instant, she was drunk on him. It never took long.

His mouth sinks into her ribcage and he takes his time, scattering butterfly kisses over the sensitive flesh. "Tell me, Stefani."

"I want to know that you're mine. All mine."

Their eyes lock.

"Only yours," he husks, bending her leg at the knee, baring his teeth down lightly on her calf.

In one swift motion, he sinks into her, cursing, as she groans, low, and pulls him in deeper, moving in sync; in a perfectly orchestrated rhythm. 

"Yours," he repeats on a sharp exhale and she trembles underneath him, her nails creating indented crescents on the small of his back. "God, Stef..."

His breath is hot and gravelly in her ear and he grabs her hands, hoisting them above her head and interlacing their fingers. "C'mon, B...Christ, please, I..."

Crushing into him, she pushes hard and his mouth's on her jugular and she's there, exploding with a muted scream as he follows right after her, gasping out her name.

"You're not gonna scare me off." 

She doesn't ask for reassurance, but he gives it to her all the same, a trait that's uniquely Bradley, something that brought her immense comfort when he was her director.

Her fingers sweep over his chest hair; she runs her thumb across his side, skating down the ladder of his ribs. She loves him the most after sex, she thinks. He's full of gentle promises like this and when he spoons her, pretzeling her legs with his, the heel of his hand resting over her heart, she can almost believe him.

In this house, in this room, in this bed, they are invincible; nothing can wound them, not careless words or accusations or silly fabricated couplings.

For now, they are safe.

Even if it's only temporary.

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