More oneshots! I'm writing the second chapter to the Scorminique fic, just can't be arsed to work on it right now.
We live in my flat. My small, crowded, top-floor flat. The flat that has stacks upon stacks of books crammed into bookshelves, duvets and pillows everywhere, and no dining table. The flat that I pay for because I refuse to let him.
He's trying to convince me again.
"Half," he says, as though that'll satisfy me. I snort derisively.
"None," I reply, and tilt my head to the right.
"Forty-sixty."
"No." It doesn't look right.
"Seventy-thirty?"
"No, Ron."
"Eighty-twenty and that's my final offer," he says. I turn around to look him in the eye, crossing my arms.
"Is it now?" I reply. He nods, and I laugh. "Too bad. Because you aren't paying and that's final."
I turn back to the wall, which we have cleared of stuff so the warm yellow is without anything to block it. The surrounding cases and boxes are covered in tarps to keep them safe. God knows what'll happen when I paint.
"Please?" His words are closer than I expected, and I jump a bit and turn around to scold him, only to see his piteous face. His blue eyes – the eyes I can't resist whatsoever – are aimed at my own brown ones, trying to find a chink in my armour. But I shake my head once more and spin back around before he distracts me.
As I dip the end of my fingers into a can of pumpkin orange paint, I hear him mutter "Fuck" and head off to another room. I smirk and smear the paint across the wall in a streak, so it mixes lightly with the rose and red already up there. I'm painting a mural. But it won't be done for at least a few days. I'm terrible at murals. They take forever.
I hear the click of a lighter and groan. Without a second thought, I take my hand out of the bucket of gold and stalk to the room I'm sure he's in. The one with the biggest window and no smoke detector.
A cigarette hangs in his mouth, and I can see the smoke seeping through his lips. I want to gag, but I've gotten used to the scent and taste of it. It doesn't bother me, the smoking. Him dying early because of it does.
"Give it to me," I order, my hand not covered in gold paint stuck out, waiting. Ron turns to look me up and down before rolling his eyes and blowing a puff of smoke out the window. I roll my own eyes at him and drop down next to him on the heavy sill of the window.
"Give me the cigarette, Ronald," I demand. He doesn't react. I slap his thigh harshly, and he simply throws me a reproving glare.
"No hitting, love," he grumbles. I laugh mirthlessly.
"You're talking to me. Do you really think violence won't be incorporated?"
He takes a drag of nicotine instead.
I sigh and turn around on my heel, portraying the thought that I've given up, and I hear his little chuckle in the back of his throat. I think of this as a cue, and make a grab for it.
He's so damn tall though and holds it away, but I'm not giving up. I quickly lean over his lap to grab it, using both arms, but his own that isn't holding up what I want to rid him of coils around my middle and drags me away. I glare, he smirks. And the battle begins.
For at least another five minutes, it's a fight for the cigarette, neither of us entirely winning or losing, the other not relenting their actions. It's not until we've progressed to the floor on top of a fuzzy comforter and I'm reaching over his face that he gives in.
Well…in a way. See, my tits kind of hung out of my low-cut shirt, and the bra did little to save me when he skilfully yanked it away and began to suck.
I groan gently, melting at the feel. It's a bit pathetic, the way that he can turn me to clay at such a small touch. But he knows his power and has great control over it. This was just one of those times when he ignores said control.
"Fuck," I grumble my head now against the blanket and my tit in his teeth. But I'm smart, and I hurriedly snatch the cigarette from his fingers. He bites down extra hard for that and I squeak a bit before pulling away, shirt still low and exposing my chest.
He sits up, leaning back on his hands against the blanket, and looks at my crouched stature on the sill, holding the cigarette between my index and middle finger. He glares. I smirk. Our roles reversed.
"Let me pay the rent."
"No. Stop smoking."
"No."
We're at a stalemate that can be avoided by the obvious, but we're both too caught up in one another's eyes to notice. Finally, Ron states it.
"Look, how about a compromise." I listen a bit closer. "If you let me pay for the rent of this place, I'll stop smoking."
"No way in hell," I snap back.
"Seventy-thirty, I pay seventy."
"No."
"Half. Last chance before I go and buy some more cigarettes."
I glare at him, angry that he's put me in such a place, before nodding jerkily, and he smiles at me. A genuine smile. This of course makes me smile. I look at the smoking stick of nicotine for a moment before putting it out and tossing it from our top-floor window.
"I need to paint –"
"You need to let me continue what I was doing," he corrects, and motions to my chest. I look down to see that I'm still top- and braless, but I don't mind. I like the cold.
"Can we continue somewhere more comfortable?"
"Yes, yes we can."
And before I know it, he grabs my hand, yanks me up, and suddenly I'm against the wall with his lips attacking mine. I react instantly, my fingers running through his ginger locks (the gold paint has dried, so now my hand is no longer wet).
He moves his lips down from my lips to my neck, then further until he reaches my tits again and begins to massage and suck on them. I groan gently, my head leant back and my eyes shut slightly. He knows what this does to me. He does it on purpose just for that.
"I'm going to make you scream," he mutters gruffly against my flesh, and I smile.
"Don't you always?"
"Harder. Faster. More intensely."
Then suddenly my top is completely gone and my jeans are being unbuttoned. I look down at him like he's insane until I see the smirk of revenge and my knickers fall to the floor. And then his tongue fucking me.
"This is cruel, lovely Lady Karma, isn't it?" I manage to say through clenched teeth. He chuckles a bit and licks deeper.
"Perhaps."
"For making you stop smoking?"
"Yes." I feel a finger probe my opening as he switches to circle my clit with his tongue. Like the girl I know I am, I tilt my head back and let out a soft, throaty groan. The feel of his calloused fingertips pressed against my thighs, pushing them a bit farther apart to allow him more access only heightens my excitement.
It's a miracle I don't scream when he's suddenly inside me.
Faster than I thought possible – or I would've before I met him – he's tugged away his trousers and boxers, revealing a throbbing erection that I'd neglected to notice, and entered me. Hard. My fingers dig into his neck and shoulders, the places where I've been keeping my hands, and I can feel his lips curve up into a smirk against my throat.
"Don't just fucking stand there," I manage to gasp, eyes shutting. His hot breath hitting my skin makes me moan and he slowly moves.
It's obvious that this is difficult for the both of us. He's impulsive, hormone-and-emotion-driven Ron, having sex with me, the girl who lets her violent tendencies run away from her. When we do it, we do it well, and rough, and loud. Our neighbours hate us.
This is no different. With my nails nearly tearing the skin of his broad shoulders, his own hands cupping my arse, we groan in unison. I'm pinned up to the wall by his movements, pushing me harder and faster to the barrier until I'm writhing and wailing in pleasure. Our breathing seems to be heavier than usual, melding to become a symphony of erotic perfection.
Nothing else matters right now. Nothing but bringing ourselves over the edge of sanity.
I end first. I always do. I can be as strong as I want to towards the world, but inside, I'm weak. At this moment, though, I couldn't care less, because the euphoria coursing through my veins sends me to the point of speechlessness, save for the ear-piercing pleasured cry and following murmured moans.
At the feel of me losing it totally, he holds her close with those large hands, pressing his body against mine, and empties deep inside me, making us both shudder and groan.
Panting is all that can be heard for the longest of moments before he raises his lips to my ear and breathes out, "So how bout you let me pay for it all, hm?"
I let out a laugh before shoving him off, sending him staggering back a bit, making him pull out in the process, and I shakily regain my footing. He smirks a bit, but his eyes are smiling, content even though the nail-shaped dents in his shoulders should hurt like a bitch. I shake my head.
"Not in a million years, babe," I reply, my voice hoarse from screaming. He sighs overdramatically before pulling my short frame to his taller one and kissing me, sweet and deep. We're always nicer just after sex.
"Now go make me tea like a good housewife," I tell him, tossing him his boxers and pants and kicking him on the ass out the door. He rolls his eyes at my antics but does as he's told. Grinning, I gather up my own clothes, pulling them on, then looking out the window.
We lived in our flat now.
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