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abvjTitle: slipping in my faith until I fall
Summary:The details of how this occurs do not matter. She'll carry the reminders for days.
Rating: hard r/nc-17
Author's Notes: 1,401 words. Set immediately after 2x15, The Maltese Falcon Job. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
telaryn for the five act fic-a-thon going around. It was suppose to be porny comment-fic and ended up being, well, inundated with plot. I am who I am guys. Sorry. All mistakes are mine. These characters are not. Con-crit is both welcome and appreciated.
The details of how this occurs do not matter.
All that does matter is the way his mouth drops to her shoulder, teeth sinking into the skin there. His tongue darts out to soothe the harsh marks they leave in their wake just so he can repeat the process.
Eliot isn't concerned with sweetness or tenderness, and Sophie is glad, matches him bit for bit, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling and tugging until he winces, until his mouth seeks out hers and his lips crush against her own so hard she feels it in her teeth. He kisses her hard, forcing his tongue into her mouth, her bottom lip between his teeth, biting until the skin just about breaks. There's a sound low in her throat, a mix between a whimper and a moan, and he swallows it, allows it to fuel him. Sophie kisses him back in kind, wraps a leg around his, sinks the heel of her stiletto into the skin of his calf. Files away the smile of satisfaction that curls at the edges of his mouth in the back of her mind out of habit.
With a push, her back hits the counter awkwardly, forcing her to bend at an unnatural angle. It almost hurts. His leg settles between hers, practically makes her lose her balance, forces her up onto her tiptoes and she squirms for a better angle, reaches down for one of his hands that are splayed tightly across her hips and shoves it between them, under her dress, deep between her legs. He stills, just for a moment, just for a flicker of time, but Sophie feels it, reads it from the way his shoulders tense and urges him with her mouth, with her hips grinding against his hand to give her what she wants, what she needs. He does as he's told, using his other hand as leverage to push her up onto the counter, setting between her thighs as his fingers move against her tentatively at first, before growing harsher, harder, his mouth leaving hers to skim down the smooth line of her throat as she mews, arching her back against him.
She's always mused that Eliot was good with his hands, but she's never thought about it in this context until now, never thought about how it would feel to have that spark coil in the base of her spine as he slipped one, then two fingers inside her. Never thought about the way his breathing would be even and smooth, calm against the hollow of her throat as he drags her towards the edge, as he watches her start to fall apart before him.
When she's close Sophie reaches for him, fumbles with the buckle of his jeans, shoves them down somewhere near his ankles, forgotten. She palms him first, then wraps her fingers around him, loves the sound he makes when she does, the sharp hiss, the strangled intake of air as his own fingers continue to work against her, each jerk of his fingers inside of her solid, almost punishing. Sophie smiles through the lust, through the haze, victorious, because it's always a game with her – even now, even when they're fucking like they don't know one another, like they're strangers who are merely running in the same direction, from the same betrayal that pulsates like an undercurrent between them.
She does not think of that though. Does not think of anything but the feel of his weight solid against her, the way his fingers curl roughly inside of her and the blinding stillness it all causes.
With a neat flick of her wrist, her fingers start to work against him, pressure heavy, but even. Eliot doesn't seem to want that though. Protests by dragging his mouth back to hers, tongue flicking against hers wantonly, telling her everything he wants and needs with just a press of his tongue against the roof of her mouth. She understands, nods, and his hands leave the warmth and wetness between her legs to wrap around her own, taking them out of the equation by pinning them above her head against the cool wood of the cabinet above in a single, solid movement. She struggles for a moment, out of nothing but instinct, nails biting into the rough skin of his fingers, before relenting. Sophie feels his fingers dig deep into her right thigh, dragging her closer to the edge of the counter as the hardness of his cock presses against her inner thigh.
Tomorrow she will trace the bruises his fingerprints leave in their wake and remember, but today, right now, she lets out a solid breath of air as he pushes inside her without any and all preamble. She breathes and keeps on breathing, focuses on the rise and fall of her breaths in her head as he starts to move immediately, not waiting for the adjustment period to pass.
Their bodies move together frantically, a rhythm found and maintained, his fingers still tight as they encircle around her wrists. She opens her legs wider for him, allows him to go deeper, press into her harder, but it isn't enough.
"I need... Fuck, Eliot..." she starts and gasps, and words are failing her at every end, but he must know. Eliot must understand that she wants this fast and loose. She needs this to be hard and uncontrolled, needs it to be messy so it will soothe the anger that hums like a livewire under her skin, to calm the hurt welling deep in her chest and the complete and utter disarray inside of her head.
Eliot must inherently get it, he must understand her, all of her, because his hands tighten around hers above their heads, his mouth dropping to the place where bone meets neck, teeth sinking in without remorse.
He pulls back, thrusts into her hard, and the bone of her shoulder hits the cupboard behind her with force.
She doesn't feel a thing.
*
When Sophie comes she's silent except for a soft, hiss of a sigh, the inside of her cheek between her teeth as she tastes copper.
Eliot watches her the entire time.
*
After, he grabs a bottle of Nate's favorite whiskey down from the shelf, the one Nate fruitlessly hides behind Parker’s cereal because he thinks it’ll make a difference. Eliot pours two glasses and slides one over to her as they settle next to each other on the couch. It’s awkward, at first, as their breathing settles and the learn how to look at one another again. It quickly gives way to something else, though, and without hesitation, Eliot throws back the contents of his glass in a solid swig, wincing at the way it burns the back of his throat.
Still, he's angry, she can see that. Sophie can see it in the hard line of his shoulders, feel it in the bruises that are forming on her hips, in the imprints of teeth he left on her shoulder.
There's guilt, too. Naturally. A certain amount of regret that she notes when his eyes flick to her mouth, when his hands shake, just slightly, as he pours himself another drink. Sophie can't let herself be concerned with that, though, so she palms her drink between her hands, and settles back against the couch, waiting until he's ready to speak, knows from history, from experience that Eliot can’t be pushed too far or too fast without consequences.
"I'm not saving him," he mutters, finally, after a long moment. He reaches for the whiskey again, but thinks better of it. Knows better. "He doesn't deserve it. He's an idiot,” he shakes his head and she reaches for him for just a moment before her free hand curls into a fist and drops back into her lap. “You don't con your own crew. You just don't."
Sophie nods absently, doesn't dare point out the irony of him muttering those words to her of all people, and instead brings the cool glass to her mouth, allowing the whiskey to coat her lips.
Sophie does not think of Nate.
*
"Give it time," she says after a lull of silence. Her tone is calm, collected, certain.
As she sits there, still wet between her thighs, she can't decide just whom she is trying to fool.
Summary:The details of how this occurs do not matter. She'll carry the reminders for days.
Rating: hard r/nc-17
Author's Notes: 1,401 words. Set immediately after 2x15, The Maltese Falcon Job. Written for
telaryn for the five act fic-a-thon going around. It was suppose to be porny comment-fic and ended up being, well, inundated with plot. I am who I am guys. Sorry. All mistakes are mine. These characters are not. Con-crit is both welcome and appreciated. The details of how this occurs do not matter.
All that does matter is the way his mouth drops to her shoulder, teeth sinking into the skin there. His tongue darts out to soothe the harsh marks they leave in their wake just so he can repeat the process.
Eliot isn't concerned with sweetness or tenderness, and Sophie is glad, matches him bit for bit, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling and tugging until he winces, until his mouth seeks out hers and his lips crush against her own so hard she feels it in her teeth. He kisses her hard, forcing his tongue into her mouth, her bottom lip between his teeth, biting until the skin just about breaks. There's a sound low in her throat, a mix between a whimper and a moan, and he swallows it, allows it to fuel him. Sophie kisses him back in kind, wraps a leg around his, sinks the heel of her stiletto into the skin of his calf. Files away the smile of satisfaction that curls at the edges of his mouth in the back of her mind out of habit.
With a push, her back hits the counter awkwardly, forcing her to bend at an unnatural angle. It almost hurts. His leg settles between hers, practically makes her lose her balance, forces her up onto her tiptoes and she squirms for a better angle, reaches down for one of his hands that are splayed tightly across her hips and shoves it between them, under her dress, deep between her legs. He stills, just for a moment, just for a flicker of time, but Sophie feels it, reads it from the way his shoulders tense and urges him with her mouth, with her hips grinding against his hand to give her what she wants, what she needs. He does as he's told, using his other hand as leverage to push her up onto the counter, setting between her thighs as his fingers move against her tentatively at first, before growing harsher, harder, his mouth leaving hers to skim down the smooth line of her throat as she mews, arching her back against him.
She's always mused that Eliot was good with his hands, but she's never thought about it in this context until now, never thought about how it would feel to have that spark coil in the base of her spine as he slipped one, then two fingers inside her. Never thought about the way his breathing would be even and smooth, calm against the hollow of her throat as he drags her towards the edge, as he watches her start to fall apart before him.
When she's close Sophie reaches for him, fumbles with the buckle of his jeans, shoves them down somewhere near his ankles, forgotten. She palms him first, then wraps her fingers around him, loves the sound he makes when she does, the sharp hiss, the strangled intake of air as his own fingers continue to work against her, each jerk of his fingers inside of her solid, almost punishing. Sophie smiles through the lust, through the haze, victorious, because it's always a game with her – even now, even when they're fucking like they don't know one another, like they're strangers who are merely running in the same direction, from the same betrayal that pulsates like an undercurrent between them.
She does not think of that though. Does not think of anything but the feel of his weight solid against her, the way his fingers curl roughly inside of her and the blinding stillness it all causes.
With a neat flick of her wrist, her fingers start to work against him, pressure heavy, but even. Eliot doesn't seem to want that though. Protests by dragging his mouth back to hers, tongue flicking against hers wantonly, telling her everything he wants and needs with just a press of his tongue against the roof of her mouth. She understands, nods, and his hands leave the warmth and wetness between her legs to wrap around her own, taking them out of the equation by pinning them above her head against the cool wood of the cabinet above in a single, solid movement. She struggles for a moment, out of nothing but instinct, nails biting into the rough skin of his fingers, before relenting. Sophie feels his fingers dig deep into her right thigh, dragging her closer to the edge of the counter as the hardness of his cock presses against her inner thigh.
Tomorrow she will trace the bruises his fingerprints leave in their wake and remember, but today, right now, she lets out a solid breath of air as he pushes inside her without any and all preamble. She breathes and keeps on breathing, focuses on the rise and fall of her breaths in her head as he starts to move immediately, not waiting for the adjustment period to pass.
Their bodies move together frantically, a rhythm found and maintained, his fingers still tight as they encircle around her wrists. She opens her legs wider for him, allows him to go deeper, press into her harder, but it isn't enough.
"I need... Fuck, Eliot..." she starts and gasps, and words are failing her at every end, but he must know. Eliot must understand that she wants this fast and loose. She needs this to be hard and uncontrolled, needs it to be messy so it will soothe the anger that hums like a livewire under her skin, to calm the hurt welling deep in her chest and the complete and utter disarray inside of her head.
Eliot must inherently get it, he must understand her, all of her, because his hands tighten around hers above their heads, his mouth dropping to the place where bone meets neck, teeth sinking in without remorse.
He pulls back, thrusts into her hard, and the bone of her shoulder hits the cupboard behind her with force.
She doesn't feel a thing.
*
When Sophie comes she's silent except for a soft, hiss of a sigh, the inside of her cheek between her teeth as she tastes copper.
Eliot watches her the entire time.
*
After, he grabs a bottle of Nate's favorite whiskey down from the shelf, the one Nate fruitlessly hides behind Parker’s cereal because he thinks it’ll make a difference. Eliot pours two glasses and slides one over to her as they settle next to each other on the couch. It’s awkward, at first, as their breathing settles and the learn how to look at one another again. It quickly gives way to something else, though, and without hesitation, Eliot throws back the contents of his glass in a solid swig, wincing at the way it burns the back of his throat.
Still, he's angry, she can see that. Sophie can see it in the hard line of his shoulders, feel it in the bruises that are forming on her hips, in the imprints of teeth he left on her shoulder.
There's guilt, too. Naturally. A certain amount of regret that she notes when his eyes flick to her mouth, when his hands shake, just slightly, as he pours himself another drink. Sophie can't let herself be concerned with that, though, so she palms her drink between her hands, and settles back against the couch, waiting until he's ready to speak, knows from history, from experience that Eliot can’t be pushed too far or too fast without consequences.
"I'm not saving him," he mutters, finally, after a long moment. He reaches for the whiskey again, but thinks better of it. Knows better. "He doesn't deserve it. He's an idiot,” he shakes his head and she reaches for him for just a moment before her free hand curls into a fist and drops back into her lap. “You don't con your own crew. You just don't."
Sophie nods absently, doesn't dare point out the irony of him muttering those words to her of all people, and instead brings the cool glass to her mouth, allowing the whiskey to coat her lips.
Sophie does not think of Nate.
*
"Give it time," she says after a lull of silence. Her tone is calm, collected, certain.
As she sits there, still wet between her thighs, she can't decide just whom she is trying to fool.
