Work Text:
You’re watching TV in your underwear when Cronus Ampora walks through the door without waiting for you to answer his knock. You invited him, you knew he would be here around this time. But just seeing him swagger through the door into your space, into your home, is enough to make your gut twinge with…
...well, with anger, first and foremost. With utter loathing for the possessive way he looks around the room, for the movement of his hips, purely for the fact that he’s fully dressed and you’re not.
But with all of that comes with the urge to cross your legs and squeeze your thigh muscles, so really the only thing for it is to get him undressed as soon as possible. Then you’ll be on even ground...mostly.
He flops down onto your couch and immediately scoots over until he’s pressed up next to you, all hot torso and leering eyes.
“Hey, Porrim,” he says, nodding slowly, taking in all of you. “...Sweetheart.” One arm wraps not-so-casually around your shoulders so that his fingers can trace patterns on your neck. You wonder how long you’ll have to wait before he slips a hand under your bra, your breath coming faster now, hot rage making blood throb between your legs.
He’s not here for love, and any attention he pays to your body would give foreplay a bad name. It’s all about ownership, and more importantly, pissing you off. And it’s working.
You decide to return the favor.
He grunts when you thrust a hand between his thighs and squeeze, and no wonder--he’s already a little hard, and you’re not being gentle. He tries to play it cool, though--”Aw, babe, didn’t know you wanted it that bad--” and you snarl, which makes the bulge in his jeans twitch absurdly under your hand. You give him the most condescending look you can muster, and he turns bright red.
And then he drops the arm that was around your shoulders to your waist and pulls you roughly into his lap. On the TV screen, some fast food advertisement plays loud and obnoxious and totally unnoticed as Cronus grinds slowly against your ass, clearly savoring the experience. He drags his tongue over the skin under your right ear and you make a quick, involuntary noise. It’s disgusting and horrible and you want to ride him with your hands around his throat.
“Bitch, you like that, huh?”
“Where’d you get that line from, an amateur porno?” you growl, pushing back against him hard enough to make him cry out. You knock his hands away from you and stand up, blocking the TV, your hands on your hips.
“Strip,” you say, and then, when he fails to comply immediately, “Take it all off, you needy little fuck. Why don’t you show me what I’m supposed to want so bad.”
“Bitch,” he says again, his voice low, his eyes dark and glaring.
“Is that the only word you know?” You’re not afraid of him; this is what both of you want, all the tension from the hot, black anger that’s been building between you for months breaking like a fucking dam.
Which is why he does, in fact, strip his shirt off as you watch, taking it in. Once he’s got himself unzipped and managed to shimmy his jeans down his thighs, still red-faced and furious, you help him out a little, jerking the pants down around his ankles with one bare foot. His tented purple boxers are briefly the spectacle of the room as both of you stare at them, and then he makes some noise deep in his throat and reaches out again, gripping your forearms and pulling you down.
You let him, this time, because the fury that comes with kneeling in front of Cronus Ampora of all people is bewilderingly arousing. He slides forward on the cushions of your couch, hands tangling in your hair, murmuring, “Do it, fucking take it--”
You bite his inner thigh, hard enough to hurt a little but not enough to crush the skin. He yelps, growls, tugs hard on your hair so your face is mashed against the cloth covering his erection. You shift for a better angle and open your mouth against him for a moment, give him that little magnanimous gesture. You wait until he’s relaxed, making pleased noises deep in his chest, then pull away and push yourself up, hands braced on his thighs. He only resists a little, still gripping your hair as you move against his grasp.
His face when your hands move towards his nipples is priceless. You raise your eyebrows, driving a knee into his crotch, and murmur, “Don’t tell me no one’s ever given these some attention before…”
“Por--fuck--you--fuckin’--aah!”
He moans like something straight out of a wet dream, something you definitely didn’t get to hear over the phone last time, and you keep pinching and rolling the hard flesh between your fingers with sheer vindictive pleasure.
“Was that a whimper, tough guy?” you ask loudly, letting him hear the laugh in your voice, and you drag your fingernails down his chest and his ribs and the twitching muscles of his stomach.
You should’ve known he’d turn it around and go for your breasts after that (later than you’d expected, but probably only due to circumstance), but it takes you by surprise when he pushes you away and twists so that you thud down onto the sofa, your legs still mostly hanging off it. There isn’t much room for him, either, and it takes a little awkward maneuvering before he’s straddling you, one foot on the ground, the other knee resting on the cushions.
He doesn’t bother trying to get your bra off, just drags it up around your collarbones. At first you’d think he’d never seen a topless woman before; he’s like a high schooler, squishing your breasts together with open palms and squeezing roughly and being generally indelicate.
You’re just opening your mouth to make a scathing remark about his clumsiness when he lowers his head and proves that he’s somehow, miraculously, much much better with his mouth. Your presence of mind vanishes between the reluctant and completely involuntary sounds coming from you.
The look he gives you when he finally draws away is totally obscene. Panting, the last sound of furious pleasure dying in your throat, you put both of your hands on his head and shove, forcing him back so that he’s level with your stomach, your hips, your panties, which are sensible and black and...damp.
“Hey hey hey!” Cronus shouts, trying to push back and almost falling off the couch. “What’re you doing?”
“Oral goes...both ways,” you snap, still a little out of breath. “Or didn’t you know?”
“Well--”
“First time for anything,” you say, and manage for a moment to push his head down and, well...grind on his face. Even if the friction weren’t welcome to a lot of desperate nerve endings down there, it would still have been satisfying to do that. He’s probably never even heard the word cunnilingus in his life.
You only let his head go when you feel the heat of his open mouth and the hard edges of bared teeth, but as soon as he straightens the pressure is replaced by a hand, shoving your underwear unceremoniously to one side.
“You’re so wet,” he says, with supremely irritating triumph. Like it has anything to do with his (almost non-existent) technique.
Asshole. You nudge the foot that’s still on the couch between his legs, where his boxers have shifted down far enough to be completely pointless, and say, “You’re one to talk. Surprised you haven’t tried sticking that anywhere else yet.”
“I can try that,” he growls, lunging forward again, but you catch his shoulders before he can get completely on top of you and the resulting imbalance sends you both rolling onto the floor, with you on top. You bang your knees and he seems to have hit his head on the floor, and both of you take a moment to groan and swear. Then he looks up, his sleek black hair irreparably mussed and falling in his face, and hooks two fingers under the waist of your panties.
You hiss as his fingernails scrape your hip, and he laughs. You think he must have wilted somewhat after his head collided with the floor, but once again, pissing you off seems to be an effective aphrodisiac. You swat his hand away and start working your way out of the panties yourself.
“So, how much do you want it?” you manage, your voice jerky as you kick the discarded underwear down around one ankle. It’s not the most suave dirty talk, especially for someone who’s idly considered doing work as a professional dominatrix, but it’s enough. It’s enough because it’s the kind of thing you know he’s fantasized about saying to you.
“Bitch,” you try, turning his favorite word back on him--and he almost objects, but then you settle down on his hips and slide over him and he just whines. It’s extremely gratifying, the anger and pleasure mixing on his face. “Slut,” you add, your voice harsher, and he forces himself into a sitting position, panting almost in time with you, and grips your thighs, lifting you off of him and god, you can’t believe you thought you might need lube, you never thought your body would respond so eagerly to the idea of fucking Cronus Ampora.
Then again, you could never have predicted it happening like this, either, so whatever.
He gets you lined up, fingers digging into your skin, and pushes you down onto him all in one hard movement. You’ve had bigger, but to be honest it’s been a while and you’ve been doing this long enough to know it doesn’t fucking matter. You dare him, between heavy breathing and groans, to go as hard as he thinks he can, and you come together again and again, furious and violent, mouths meeting with the movement of your hips.
He’s a sloppy kisser, lots of tongue and sliding lips and by the time he withdraws there’s lipstick spread all over his mouth. You snarl and bite his smeared, swollen lower lip and he grins.
“You’re--disgusting--”
“You’re just--aaahh--in denial--wanna be--put in your--place--”
“Nnnnhhh says the guy--who gets off--on this shit--” You don’t have enough reach to smack his ass, so you lean back in his lap to hit him in the face instead. He moans tightly, then seems to realize the sound came from him and flushes even darker than before.
“Fuckin’--”
“Bigoted--”
“Stubborn--”
“Perverse--”
“Whore--”
“Desperate--”
And then, and then, and then…
Your traded curses turn into loud, breathless cries--still bearing a closer resemblance to insults that each other’s names. It’s the most energetic, violent orgasm you’ve ever had, and that’s saying something. You finish chest to chest, nose to nose, taut against each other and glaring into each other’s eyes, breathing hard into each other’s mouths.
And then, slowly, Cronus lets go of you and lies back and you pull away onto your knees, your thighs trembling a little. You collapse next to him, basking in post-coital endorphins and the satisfaction of an argument finished with no regrets. The show you were watching might have come back at some point, but it’s on commercials again now. You listen idly to all the reasons why you should buy a new Camry, only rolling your head to look at Cronus when he finally talks.
“...I didn’t enjoy the thing with the nipples, y’know,” he murmurs, as though the thought only just occurred to him. “I was just--”
You put your hand over his mouth and say, “You’re ruining it.”
He makes a petulant mmph kind of noise (you make a mental note to put a gag on him next time), but doesn’t move your hand away. The relative silence continues.
“...I can’t believe you’ve never eaten someone out before,” you say slowly. “You should do some research before--”
One of his arms shifts under yours and, despite the awkward angle, he manages to put a hand over your mouth in return. You turn your head enough to glare at him. He raises his eyebrows. You sigh through your nose and go back to staring at the ceiling.
It doesn’t last long. You get up first, dump his clothes on him, and go to clean up and change into your pajamas. You can tell by the look on his face when you come back in that he was expecting something sexier than sweatpants and a tanktop, and he grumbles when you start pushing him towards the door.
“But--babe, c’mon, at least let me sleep on the couch! It’s late and it’s a long drive home and--”
You interrupt him, rolling your eyes--”Don’t babe me, Ampora. Letting someone sleep over, that’s the kind of thing you do when you want them to like you. Out the door. Now.”
“But you like havin’ sex with me,” he says slyly, digging in his pocket for his smokes. “What if I’m just so injured by how damn cold you’re bein’, I decide not to come back? How about that?”
You smile “If it makes you angry, all the better. Save it for ‘next time’, if I decide to allow one. Also, no one can know about this.”
“No one can know,” he agrees immediately. And then both of you stand there for a moment in silence, torn between your usual mutual dislike and the strange sense of camaraderie that comes from a shared secret. He walks out the door without another word, looking as thoughtfully stunned as you are, and you close it behind him with strange, new thoughts running through your head.
You’ve flirted with coworkers before, but this will really take it to another level. A completely new level, in fact. Those little acts of petty torment at work will have a different purpose. But somehow...it’s better. Like things have suddenly slotted into place with this shared secret. Everything is the way it should be, and the possibilities are endless.
You go to bed that night wondering how best to introduce him to the joys of strap-ons.