BDS ficlet: "Bloodsport" Connor/Murphy, NC-17
Bad language, naughty situations, twincest, but no BDSM. Figures that the title doesn't really jive with the story, but, oh well. Have some smut, lovelies, with that Thanksgiving pie!
Bloodsport
by Meixia
Warning: no bdsm, but does contain bad language. mostly smut, but I can't help throwing in that bitter chunk of chocolate.
Notes: Told from Murphy's POV. First time doing first person POV for BDS. I try to avoid writing in 1st POV, so this was sort of an experiment for me. Not beta'd, all mistakes are mine.
Bloodsport
Connor can be a bitch when he wants to be. I tell him, give me five minutes! cause I need to shower, and the bastard shows up in three at the shower curtains, grabbing at me like a bitch in heat. He’s naked and jittery, all nerves and cock and sweet flesh, but the shower isn’t the best place to fuck, so I try to push him back a little - get off, you sonofabitch - but he won’t let go and we end up tumbling to the floor. A bruise blossoms on my shin where I hit the tub, and I’m half-under, half-out of the jet spray. There’s going to be fucking water stains on the floor, stupid ass. Why did you have to go and do that?
He scrambles, turns off the water, then slides his arms underneath mine to pull me to my feet. Out of the tub completely now, I slip a little, not horny at all, thanks, and much more concerned with falling and breaking my neck. The amount of deaths occurring in residential bathrooms is un-fucking-believable. I’ve always believed that this is where you do your business, not where you fuck. There’s a bed for that purpose.
Being the bitch that he is, he stands me upright and interlaces his fingers with mine, smiling like a cat. I know these animal descriptions flat out contradict each other, but Connor is a fucking chameleon. You wouldn’t think to look at him that he’s loud in bed, or that he hogs the covers. Something that I predict will happen before this night is over. With much effort, I turn off the lights, drag him out of the bathroom and deposit him on my bed. His bed hasn’t been used in forever, and it would feel wrong to disturb his pristine sheets now.
He sprawls there, languid and smooth, relaxed, waiting. I want to take my time, trace every contour and every fold of skin, lick a path into his heart with my tongue. He raises an eyebrow, lifts his hips up just slightly, and smiles. He knows exactly how to get what he wants, the bastard.
It’s a cold night out, so the room is cool enough that when I touch my lips to his pelvic bone, the skin there feels slightly chilled but still as smooth as porcelain. Ivory. Bone. The thought doesn’t necessarily come out of left-field; I always think about insane shit when I’m with him. He’s part of my neurosis, and I think I’m part of his, too. We never could do anything alone. He makes a sound in the back of his throat that I want to call a whimper, but then his fingers ensnarl my hair and pushes my face down into his pubic hair, his cock nudging my lips, and the sound turns into a soft growl. I love this place. I love his cock. He twists his fingers and snags my hair into tighter knots, so much that my scalp feels like it’s on fire, and urges me to suck. But not yet, not yet. I haven’t said hello to that wanton face.
I shake my head to free myself of his hands and slowly kiss my way up, briefly stopping at his nipples and paying extra attention to the hard nubs. Lick, suck, kiss. Lick, suck, kiss. Until they pebble impossibly harder under my tongue. Finally, I’m staring into his eyes, and he’s smiling again, grinning with his mouth open. I can see his tongue, the sharp rows of teeth, and my eyes travel down to his neck to see him swallow, gulp for air, swallow again. I have him by the fucking balls, every time. It’s something I’ll miss, when he leaves. I don’t know how or when, but isn’t that always what happens?
His head lifts off the pillow to claim my mouth in a kiss. Soft at first, his lips slightly dry. I open my mouth for his tongue and he gives it to me, slides it in long and deep, before I push it out to claim his mouth with my own. The kiss turns incredibly wet and noisy, but I don’t give a fuck. No one can hear us, we don’t exist, we have only this and each other. I kiss him until it actually hurts. When he brakes away with a wet and dirty sound, his mouth gives a whole new definition for kiss-bruised lips. You gonna suck me off? he asks. The fucker.
Without a word, I slide down his body, my hands trailing down his sides until I reach his navel. Maybe he’ll like this, or maybe he won’t. It’s not like he has a choice. I reach up and find his hands, lacing my fingers with his to prevent him from pushing me off or pushing me down. I’ve learned that the trick is to tease as much as possible. His navel is pretty ordinary, slight indention in the skin, small, round, fucking adorable. I nuzzle it with my nose, my hair tickling his belly, and he squirms, making that groaning sound again. Sexual oddities, or whatever. But I think I may be developing a fetish for Connor’s navel. I don’t know why I decide to laugh, but I do, and I attempt to cover it with a hum instead. He seems to like it, though, and twists his hips up against me even more.
Giving one last perusal to the navel with my lips, kissing the ring of skin around it, I release his hands and move further down to hum against his now straining cock. We compared sizes once, but I don’t really care anymore. I want it in my mouth and in my ass and in me, ripping me down the middle. It’s unlike any other sensation in the world, only slightly less good than waking up in a warm nest of bedsheets and Connor, the smell of us still thick in the air.
Fuck-fuck-fuck, he says, frustration and need coating his voice. I’ll give you what you want. His cock is hard and already salty with pre-come in my mouth. I want to lick a trail of fire up the underside, and it’s what I attempt to do. He rewards me with guttural moans and dirty, breathy panting. I love this about him. No one ever gets to see him like this except me. He’s so needy, so dirty, the thought of sinking into him almost enough to make myself climax, but I don’t. There’s procedure here, priority. Suck Connor off first. Make him come so hard that he shakes. I wrap my hand around the base and start to bob slowly up and down, enjoying the feeling of his cock in my mouth, inching further up and taking more in every time. He hisses, twists, whispers a string of no-no-no-no-no which really means yes-yes-yes-yes-yes, and I hum around his cock, swirl my tongue around the underside in firm swipes, writing his name, C-O-N, and he comes, pulsing hot and thick three times into my mouth. I’m ready for it. I swallow like a good lover. Lap it up like fucking ambrosia.
He gives a full body shudder and I feel him go lax beneath me. Moans a little, post-coital, and blinks down at me with a happily blissed-out look on his face. One of these days, I’d like to take a picture. He’d probably kill me in my sleep afterwards.
Shower, he says. Fuck no. I need to get off, damn it. Please? Even when he begs with just his fucking eyes, I can’t resist. He laughs, hauls me off the bed with his arms around my waist, and walks me to the bathroom, tripping a little along the way when our legs get tangled. His cock rests snugly against my ass, but I’m going to be good and ignore it. For now.
What are you trying to pull? He says I need to learn the joys of wet sex in the shower. I’m not really into the whole slipping-and-cracking-my-head open thing.
He wants me to at least try the wet-and-wild, and I have no choice. He’s got me by the teeth, me and my greedy heart. I realize I can’t give this up for anything. And by this I mean Connor, the sex, the respect, the connection. I don’t really need the love, but I’m getting it. It’s not that bad. Tastes kind of sweet on the tongue when you say it, and it tastes like a tart when he punches me for being stupid. Sour, sweet, something to savor, I guess, if everything else feels this good.
He needs it. I don’t.
Yeah. Right.
I need it like I need a fucking hole in the head.
end.
Bloodsport
by Meixia
Warning: no bdsm, but does contain bad language. mostly smut, but I can't help throwing in that bitter chunk of chocolate.
Notes: Told from Murphy's POV. First time doing first person POV for BDS. I try to avoid writing in 1st POV, so this was sort of an experiment for me. Not beta'd, all mistakes are mine.
Bloodsport
Connor can be a bitch when he wants to be. I tell him, give me five minutes! cause I need to shower, and the bastard shows up in three at the shower curtains, grabbing at me like a bitch in heat. He’s naked and jittery, all nerves and cock and sweet flesh, but the shower isn’t the best place to fuck, so I try to push him back a little - get off, you sonofabitch - but he won’t let go and we end up tumbling to the floor. A bruise blossoms on my shin where I hit the tub, and I’m half-under, half-out of the jet spray. There’s going to be fucking water stains on the floor, stupid ass. Why did you have to go and do that?
He scrambles, turns off the water, then slides his arms underneath mine to pull me to my feet. Out of the tub completely now, I slip a little, not horny at all, thanks, and much more concerned with falling and breaking my neck. The amount of deaths occurring in residential bathrooms is un-fucking-believable. I’ve always believed that this is where you do your business, not where you fuck. There’s a bed for that purpose.
Being the bitch that he is, he stands me upright and interlaces his fingers with mine, smiling like a cat. I know these animal descriptions flat out contradict each other, but Connor is a fucking chameleon. You wouldn’t think to look at him that he’s loud in bed, or that he hogs the covers. Something that I predict will happen before this night is over. With much effort, I turn off the lights, drag him out of the bathroom and deposit him on my bed. His bed hasn’t been used in forever, and it would feel wrong to disturb his pristine sheets now.
He sprawls there, languid and smooth, relaxed, waiting. I want to take my time, trace every contour and every fold of skin, lick a path into his heart with my tongue. He raises an eyebrow, lifts his hips up just slightly, and smiles. He knows exactly how to get what he wants, the bastard.
It’s a cold night out, so the room is cool enough that when I touch my lips to his pelvic bone, the skin there feels slightly chilled but still as smooth as porcelain. Ivory. Bone. The thought doesn’t necessarily come out of left-field; I always think about insane shit when I’m with him. He’s part of my neurosis, and I think I’m part of his, too. We never could do anything alone. He makes a sound in the back of his throat that I want to call a whimper, but then his fingers ensnarl my hair and pushes my face down into his pubic hair, his cock nudging my lips, and the sound turns into a soft growl. I love this place. I love his cock. He twists his fingers and snags my hair into tighter knots, so much that my scalp feels like it’s on fire, and urges me to suck. But not yet, not yet. I haven’t said hello to that wanton face.
I shake my head to free myself of his hands and slowly kiss my way up, briefly stopping at his nipples and paying extra attention to the hard nubs. Lick, suck, kiss. Lick, suck, kiss. Until they pebble impossibly harder under my tongue. Finally, I’m staring into his eyes, and he’s smiling again, grinning with his mouth open. I can see his tongue, the sharp rows of teeth, and my eyes travel down to his neck to see him swallow, gulp for air, swallow again. I have him by the fucking balls, every time. It’s something I’ll miss, when he leaves. I don’t know how or when, but isn’t that always what happens?
His head lifts off the pillow to claim my mouth in a kiss. Soft at first, his lips slightly dry. I open my mouth for his tongue and he gives it to me, slides it in long and deep, before I push it out to claim his mouth with my own. The kiss turns incredibly wet and noisy, but I don’t give a fuck. No one can hear us, we don’t exist, we have only this and each other. I kiss him until it actually hurts. When he brakes away with a wet and dirty sound, his mouth gives a whole new definition for kiss-bruised lips. You gonna suck me off? he asks. The fucker.
Without a word, I slide down his body, my hands trailing down his sides until I reach his navel. Maybe he’ll like this, or maybe he won’t. It’s not like he has a choice. I reach up and find his hands, lacing my fingers with his to prevent him from pushing me off or pushing me down. I’ve learned that the trick is to tease as much as possible. His navel is pretty ordinary, slight indention in the skin, small, round, fucking adorable. I nuzzle it with my nose, my hair tickling his belly, and he squirms, making that groaning sound again. Sexual oddities, or whatever. But I think I may be developing a fetish for Connor’s navel. I don’t know why I decide to laugh, but I do, and I attempt to cover it with a hum instead. He seems to like it, though, and twists his hips up against me even more.
Giving one last perusal to the navel with my lips, kissing the ring of skin around it, I release his hands and move further down to hum against his now straining cock. We compared sizes once, but I don’t really care anymore. I want it in my mouth and in my ass and in me, ripping me down the middle. It’s unlike any other sensation in the world, only slightly less good than waking up in a warm nest of bedsheets and Connor, the smell of us still thick in the air.
Fuck-fuck-fuck, he says, frustration and need coating his voice. I’ll give you what you want. His cock is hard and already salty with pre-come in my mouth. I want to lick a trail of fire up the underside, and it’s what I attempt to do. He rewards me with guttural moans and dirty, breathy panting. I love this about him. No one ever gets to see him like this except me. He’s so needy, so dirty, the thought of sinking into him almost enough to make myself climax, but I don’t. There’s procedure here, priority. Suck Connor off first. Make him come so hard that he shakes. I wrap my hand around the base and start to bob slowly up and down, enjoying the feeling of his cock in my mouth, inching further up and taking more in every time. He hisses, twists, whispers a string of no-no-no-no-no which really means yes-yes-yes-yes-yes, and I hum around his cock, swirl my tongue around the underside in firm swipes, writing his name, C-O-N, and he comes, pulsing hot and thick three times into my mouth. I’m ready for it. I swallow like a good lover. Lap it up like fucking ambrosia.
He gives a full body shudder and I feel him go lax beneath me. Moans a little, post-coital, and blinks down at me with a happily blissed-out look on his face. One of these days, I’d like to take a picture. He’d probably kill me in my sleep afterwards.
Shower, he says. Fuck no. I need to get off, damn it. Please? Even when he begs with just his fucking eyes, I can’t resist. He laughs, hauls me off the bed with his arms around my waist, and walks me to the bathroom, tripping a little along the way when our legs get tangled. His cock rests snugly against my ass, but I’m going to be good and ignore it. For now.
What are you trying to pull? He says I need to learn the joys of wet sex in the shower. I’m not really into the whole slipping-and-cracking-my-head open thing.
He wants me to at least try the wet-and-wild, and I have no choice. He’s got me by the teeth, me and my greedy heart. I realize I can’t give this up for anything. And by this I mean Connor, the sex, the respect, the connection. I don’t really need the love, but I’m getting it. It’s not that bad. Tastes kind of sweet on the tongue when you say it, and it tastes like a tart when he punches me for being stupid. Sour, sweet, something to savor, I guess, if everything else feels this good.
He needs it. I don’t.
Yeah. Right.
I need it like I need a fucking hole in the head.
end.