It's Desmond~ It's Desmond time~
Because when he says 'Back to business' I know what he's saying, he's saying 'Aw yeah, it's business time.' :D
So I wrote this as a sort of follow-up but not to the last one, seeing as it's not funny and the Vaultie isn't a complete and utter raging fucktard in it.
But finally, you get your bow-chikka wow-wow. So enjoy~! And please suggest a title. Ima' rate it R16 because if you're 16, you shouldn't be banned from reading about something you're legally able to do.
I am completely unsurprised to find out that Desmond Lockheart fucks the same way he talks, cruelly.
He’s completely unapologetic as he slams me against the wall so hard I’ll have bruises in the morning and he doesn’t give a damn that he’s probably drawing blood as he nips at my neck.
I don’t think he feels sorry that I don’t have any clothes other than the ones that he is currently ripping off me and discarding to the floor. Never mind that I’ll never be able to wear them again; Desmond probably hasn’t even let that fact cross his mind.
If it’s even registered with him that it might hurt when he pushes me roughly up the wall so I’m cradling his hips with my thighs and his hands grab my ass and pull me towards him, I highly doubt he’s going to feel guilty about it and Jesus fuck I can see that wicked smirk on his face as he thrusts into me.
And there is no denying that he’s damn good at what he’s doing and there is no ignoring the part of me that maybe sort of loves him for his cruel, unrepentant arrogance especially now as I’m going up in flames because of it.
But there is no way I can ever tell Desmond how I feel. Oh, he probably knows already; god knows he’s observant enough to have an inkling at the least, but as long as I don’t tell him, we can both pretend it’s not there. We can both pretend it’s just sex and spare my heart being torn to shreds by that terrible talent he has with words.
Yes… I think that man could make the most hard-bitten raider curl up and cry if he decided they were even worth his time. With Desmond, it’s not that he’s calling you something horrible; it’s that he’s calling you something horrible and making you believe it. He’s got this knack of picking your insecurities with a single glance and then hitting where it hurts every single goddamn time. It’s a gift he uses rather skilfully to get what he wants, I might add; I wouldn’t have helped him if he didn’t and I most certainly wouldn’t be letting him fuck me senseless against a wall for anything less either.
I’m probably going to be regretting this tomorrow, no matter how good it feels when he makes me come once then twice and than its three fucking times and he’s still not done yet. I’ve let him break me down then build me back up with these painful yet totally amazing things he’s doing and oh, I’m going to hate myself for it soon.
For a brief moment, so brief I wonder vaguely if it actually happened or if it’s just wishful thinking, after he finally comes and we slump against each other, panting and spent, his arms are around me and his lips pressed into the crook of my neck. Not like Desmond Lockheart, but like a lover.
And then it’s gone and he’s already straightening his hair and putting that back on and buttoning this up again and I’m still sagging against the wall like a goddamn bag of flour, just watching him. His eyes lock on mine for a second and he smiles that superior smile he is oh-so good at.
“Not too shabby, kid.” He says in that spine-tingling accented growl of his and when I’ve analyzed it for any sarcasm and it’s come out clean, I feel a thrill at the rare praise.
I can’t help but let him get to me. It’s not really right that I’ve gone and let him insult the shit out of me and make me cry then suddenly turn around and fuck me like he owns me, but somehow, I kind of like it that way. God knows there is nobody else in the world I’d let do it.
I know it can never be anything more than his hands on me and the sweat and the bittersweet pleasure he can give and really, that’s just fine. Desmond doesn’t really do people, I guess. I can’t imagine that he ever wanted a wife or a girlfriend or even just a friend-friend before the bombs fell and I certainly can’t imagine he’d ever get the urge to obtain one now. It would be just too un-Desmond.
So I love him a little in silence and help him out and relieve his tension as much as I possibly can because hey, we’re both getting something out of it. And when Calvert is dead and we part ways, I’m not going to complain or cry or beg him to stay because we both know he won’t and wishful thinking isn’t getting me anywhere. See, even in some world where we could be together in that way, I don’t think I’d go for it because despite how very good Desmond is at making me feel worthless, I know I’m not and I know I deserve more than him in the end.
This… What we have in this moment is enough. And it’s good. And when it ends and he’s gone from my life, I know he’ll never miss me.
And you know what, Desmond? I fully intend to return the favour.
The song 'You Make Me Feel Like a Whore' by Everclear was totally written about Desmond. :D Check it oooouut~ And as always, thanks for reading.
And can I just say; people always say how their muse hates them, meaning they've abandonned them. Well, my muse hates me, but he sits by my side and tells me just how much he actually does. Thanks Desmond.
So I wrote this as a sort of follow-up but not to the last one, seeing as it's not funny and the Vaultie isn't a complete and utter raging fucktard in it.
But finally, you get your bow-chikka wow-wow. So enjoy~! And please suggest a title. Ima' rate it R16 because if you're 16, you shouldn't be banned from reading about something you're legally able to do.
I am completely unsurprised to find out that Desmond Lockheart fucks the same way he talks, cruelly.
He’s completely unapologetic as he slams me against the wall so hard I’ll have bruises in the morning and he doesn’t give a damn that he’s probably drawing blood as he nips at my neck.
I don’t think he feels sorry that I don’t have any clothes other than the ones that he is currently ripping off me and discarding to the floor. Never mind that I’ll never be able to wear them again; Desmond probably hasn’t even let that fact cross his mind.
If it’s even registered with him that it might hurt when he pushes me roughly up the wall so I’m cradling his hips with my thighs and his hands grab my ass and pull me towards him, I highly doubt he’s going to feel guilty about it and Jesus fuck I can see that wicked smirk on his face as he thrusts into me.
And there is no denying that he’s damn good at what he’s doing and there is no ignoring the part of me that maybe sort of loves him for his cruel, unrepentant arrogance especially now as I’m going up in flames because of it.
But there is no way I can ever tell Desmond how I feel. Oh, he probably knows already; god knows he’s observant enough to have an inkling at the least, but as long as I don’t tell him, we can both pretend it’s not there. We can both pretend it’s just sex and spare my heart being torn to shreds by that terrible talent he has with words.
Yes… I think that man could make the most hard-bitten raider curl up and cry if he decided they were even worth his time. With Desmond, it’s not that he’s calling you something horrible; it’s that he’s calling you something horrible and making you believe it. He’s got this knack of picking your insecurities with a single glance and then hitting where it hurts every single goddamn time. It’s a gift he uses rather skilfully to get what he wants, I might add; I wouldn’t have helped him if he didn’t and I most certainly wouldn’t be letting him fuck me senseless against a wall for anything less either.
I’m probably going to be regretting this tomorrow, no matter how good it feels when he makes me come once then twice and than its three fucking times and he’s still not done yet. I’ve let him break me down then build me back up with these painful yet totally amazing things he’s doing and oh, I’m going to hate myself for it soon.
For a brief moment, so brief I wonder vaguely if it actually happened or if it’s just wishful thinking, after he finally comes and we slump against each other, panting and spent, his arms are around me and his lips pressed into the crook of my neck. Not like Desmond Lockheart, but like a lover.
And then it’s gone and he’s already straightening his hair and putting that back on and buttoning this up again and I’m still sagging against the wall like a goddamn bag of flour, just watching him. His eyes lock on mine for a second and he smiles that superior smile he is oh-so good at.
“Not too shabby, kid.” He says in that spine-tingling accented growl of his and when I’ve analyzed it for any sarcasm and it’s come out clean, I feel a thrill at the rare praise.
I can’t help but let him get to me. It’s not really right that I’ve gone and let him insult the shit out of me and make me cry then suddenly turn around and fuck me like he owns me, but somehow, I kind of like it that way. God knows there is nobody else in the world I’d let do it.
I know it can never be anything more than his hands on me and the sweat and the bittersweet pleasure he can give and really, that’s just fine. Desmond doesn’t really do people, I guess. I can’t imagine that he ever wanted a wife or a girlfriend or even just a friend-friend before the bombs fell and I certainly can’t imagine he’d ever get the urge to obtain one now. It would be just too un-Desmond.
So I love him a little in silence and help him out and relieve his tension as much as I possibly can because hey, we’re both getting something out of it. And when Calvert is dead and we part ways, I’m not going to complain or cry or beg him to stay because we both know he won’t and wishful thinking isn’t getting me anywhere. See, even in some world where we could be together in that way, I don’t think I’d go for it because despite how very good Desmond is at making me feel worthless, I know I’m not and I know I deserve more than him in the end.
This… What we have in this moment is enough. And it’s good. And when it ends and he’s gone from my life, I know he’ll never miss me.
And you know what, Desmond? I fully intend to return the favour.
The song 'You Make Me Feel Like a Whore' by Everclear was totally written about Desmond. :D Check it oooouut~ And as always, thanks for reading.
And can I just say; people always say how their muse hates them, meaning they've abandonned them. Well, my muse hates me, but he sits by my side and tells me just how much he actually does. Thanks Desmond.