Who: Moriarty & Bruce Banner Where: On the Beach What: ... well. When: After the Beach Party Rating: NC-17. Seriously. This is pornography. Open: No Status: In Progress
In Progress. G-docs. Will be updated as we go.
Moriarty sat next to Bruce for the entirety of the cookout, digging dips in the sand with her wedge heels and idly surveying the other island refugees from behind her heart-shaped sunglasses. She watched Banner make idle small talk with whoever passed by, but she didn’t participate, preferring to stay silent beneath the brim of her sunhat. She wasn’t exactly known for being social anyway, so she managed to get away with it. A few times, glancing over at Bruce, she thought about the fact she wasn’t wearing any bottoms beneath her sundress and the thought of letting him sneak a hand beneath her thighs while still chatting away about fruit plates made her damp enough to think about grabbing that towel early. She’d leaned over, just once, to whisper in his ear just what the thought of him was doing to her cunt, and then gave his leg a pant and relaxed back into her seat as though she’d just asked him a question about where he’d left his car keys or something equally as innocuous.
Because the simple uncomplicated truth of the matter was that he made her come and there weren’t many people with the precision, patience or power that she needed grinding in the the slick between her legs that managed much of anything, but he had and that was enough to make her sit up and pay attention. It was enough to get her to a beach fucking barbeque, it was enough have her desperate to rub her knees raw in the sand and grit as she swallowed down so much of him she couldn’t breathe.
And he knew it, the son of a bitch fucking knew it which was why he took slow pulls from his beer, why he seemed interested in everything anyone said to him and why he smiled his shy little knowing smirk while she was doing everything not to cross her legs and squirm in her chair. But still he kept her waiting and she wondered for just a moment if self-control actually got him hot. If her being forced to sit pretty and act interested in something besides his cock got him hard. She bet it must, it certainly made sense that that kind of restraint was a thing for him.
After hours of fantasies about getting on her knees in front of the goddamn party guests or lifting her skirt and settling hard in his lap, Banner finally got to his feet, casually bent and pulled a rolled up towel from their bag and tossed it at her before starting off down the beach, beer in one hand, other stuffed into the pocket of his purple shorts. She wanted to scream. Never in her life had she felt so completely at a man’s beck and call and she was going to make him pay for it.
Slowly, she extracted herself from the party to follow him down the beach and around a dip in the shore that offered some seclusion. They were still, really, in full sight of anyone who might happen around the bend, but this was good enough. There was a treeline and a fucking picnic table and if Bruce made her wait any longer she’d just take care of herself and he could watch. So Moriarty stopped walking and she took off her sunhat, throwing it onto the ground to stake the territory as her own and lowering (but not removing) her heart-sunglasses to look over them and meet Bruce’s gaze.
The Other Guy had the power - he had the presence of mind and the denial of social convention that everyone thought Bruce Banner lacked - to make Moriarty scream and beg for satiation. And though Bruce Banner knew that his persona denied any congress between himself and the Other Guy, the presence of Moriarty (or Irene Adler, whatever the fuck she wanted to call herself at the moment), made him reach inside of himself for the strength the Other Guy had. The anger, the power, the pure self-assured ability to bring any situation to his advantage. That was why his behaviour at the barbeque seemed unassuming. That was why, with Irene as close as he played his game, he could smile and think of her dripping cunt and her red mouth puckering around his cock.
When he tossed her the towel -- when he wondered what she wore beneath that glorious sundress and what was tossing beneath her hat -- and walked off to find a more suitable location for their rendevous, it was with nothing other in mind than finally doing what he wanted and who he wanted for a change. Letting Bruce Banner flow into whatever power the Gamma radiation had unleashed and then some. Relinquishing a measure of his humanity to learn how to feel something again.
So when he finally stopped, when he turned around to look at her and motion her forward with one crook of his finger, he smirked and pulled a red lollipop out of his pants pocket.
“Hey, Lolita.”
“Hey yourself.” Irene stepped up to him and wrapped her hand firmly around the wrist that held the lollipop. She was not and never would be afraid of him and as much as he made her weak in the knees and no matter how much she wanted to drop him in the sand and bury her teeth in the hair on his chest, she would never go down without a fight and never give him without getting everything she wanted.
The sunglasses slid down her nose as she ripped the plastic off the thing with her free hand. She held him steady, her pale blue eyes never leaving his as she lapped her tongue across his fingers, up the stem of the candy and across its sugary surface. She drew a small circle on it with the tip of her tongue, kissed it once and then took it into her mouth, pulling it free from his grip with her teeth. She didn’t let go of his wrist though, still holding him in place as she pulled the lollipop from her mouth with the other hand and twirled it in her fingers.
She stepped in close enough that her breasts ghosted across the front of his shirt and tilted her chin up, giving him a smirk in place of a kiss.
The twitch of his cock with each swirl of her tongue upon his fingers escalated the need to remind her that this was his plan, his dare. His power. In his free hand he gathered handfuls of her skirt, rucking it up around her waist to claw his fingertips across her backside (to growl in her ear when his fingertips found her bare and hot and dripping) and squeeze her into the erection harnessed by his shorts.
He caught her earlobe with his teeth, worrying it firmly before scraping across her neck and kneading his newly emptied hand across the generous breadth of her breast, finding a nipple to give it a half painful pinch. A laugh in her ear, his hand pushing aside a strap upon her dress to bare a shoulder and press the neckline down further. “We had a deal, didn’t we?”