Yield
Title: Yield
Pairing: Sara/Joe
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex. Language.
Notes: If all else fails... write your own Looper porn ;)
He expects her to be ferocious.
In the couple of seconds between when he recognizes Sara's intent and when she acts upon it (seconds that feel like years; he's been at his job so long that it's become difficult sometimes to tell the difference), Joe thinks about the first time that he saw her. About the look on her face. About her eyes.
There is something small and feral and frightened inside of her; something that tells him instinctively that she should not be backed into a corner. And desire, he knows, is vulnerability. Desire for anything: more money, more drugs, more sex... more time. It can all fuck you up, flip you out, make you come at something you covet with your claws out and your teeth bared.
With your eyes red like that goddamn plastic frog.
Joe thinks she's going to do her best to destroy him for making her want, so he braces himself to take what he's earned. Both hands against the dresser, his heart firing shots against the back of his teeth, his dick hard enough to drive the nails into his own coffin (in the end, he knows, he won't even have one; he will simply cease to exist, dropped into the endless chasm dividing now and then.)
She surprises him, though. Nothing should, seeing as he can crawl between worlds like some kind of fucking sci-fi cockroach, but she does.
Oh. She does.
Sara launches herself at his chest and then she just... yields.
It's like she's retreated back into cell memory, like she remembers what it's like to blinkblinkblink and then just go under, into that cozy violet haze of surrender. She's pliant underneath him, her hips rocking his body, and everything is quiet and hot and safe. He thinks maybe it was like this for Cid, tucked up neat inside her belly before the world shattered against his skin.
Her hair smells like hay and perfume. Joe buries his face in it up to his eyes and holds her against him, feels the fragile rattle and hum of her nerves and the dry fever of her breath. Her orgasm is not the roar he imagined, but a long, low purr.
His own rushes through him, faster and harder and more urgent than the future bearing down, and for one perfect fucking moment, there is nothing that exists but now.
Pairing: Sara/Joe
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex. Language.
Notes: If all else fails... write your own Looper porn ;)
He expects her to be ferocious.
In the couple of seconds between when he recognizes Sara's intent and when she acts upon it (seconds that feel like years; he's been at his job so long that it's become difficult sometimes to tell the difference), Joe thinks about the first time that he saw her. About the look on her face. About her eyes.
There is something small and feral and frightened inside of her; something that tells him instinctively that she should not be backed into a corner. And desire, he knows, is vulnerability. Desire for anything: more money, more drugs, more sex... more time. It can all fuck you up, flip you out, make you come at something you covet with your claws out and your teeth bared.
With your eyes red like that goddamn plastic frog.
Joe thinks she's going to do her best to destroy him for making her want, so he braces himself to take what he's earned. Both hands against the dresser, his heart firing shots against the back of his teeth, his dick hard enough to drive the nails into his own coffin (in the end, he knows, he won't even have one; he will simply cease to exist, dropped into the endless chasm dividing now and then.)
She surprises him, though. Nothing should, seeing as he can crawl between worlds like some kind of fucking sci-fi cockroach, but she does.
Oh. She does.
Sara launches herself at his chest and then she just... yields.
It's like she's retreated back into cell memory, like she remembers what it's like to blinkblinkblink and then just go under, into that cozy violet haze of surrender. She's pliant underneath him, her hips rocking his body, and everything is quiet and hot and safe. He thinks maybe it was like this for Cid, tucked up neat inside her belly before the world shattered against his skin.
Her hair smells like hay and perfume. Joe buries his face in it up to his eyes and holds her against him, feels the fragile rattle and hum of her nerves and the dry fever of her breath. Her orgasm is not the roar he imagined, but a long, low purr.
His own rushes through him, faster and harder and more urgent than the future bearing down, and for one perfect fucking moment, there is nothing that exists but now.