Title: That Throwaway Feeling
Author: bythespring
Rating: M
Characters: Emma/Jefferson
Warnings: sex, mild BDSM, PWP (no, seriously), spanking, biting, AU! (I know)
Summary: Emma Swan needs to let go.
This was not how she planned her day to go.
To say that Emma was having a bad day would be the understatement of the century. Well, maybe not the century, but at the moment Emma felt like she was taking the cake. There were sometimes when she didn’t understand why she was where she was. Today felt like everything was going to hell and taking her along with it.
She goes through the day in motions, keeping a lid on what she’s feeling but taking charge. Everything needs to be taken control of at some point and Emma Swan is always up to the task. Being a bail bondswoman kept her on her toes and alert but it drained her. Her latest job ended up being a mess and a half, turns out information got lost in the system, hence why they even thought they needed her at first when they really didn’t. By the time she’s done sorting the mess out, night has fallen and all she wants to do is stop and breath. She knows it’s going to be one of those nights, and she needs him, she needs her fix.
She calls him just before she starts the drive home; he picks up on the fourth ring. What do you need? He’s always brisk, never drawing out phone calls, Emma figures that he would feel like he was being interrupted even if he was lounging around doing nothing.
She doesn’t have time to waste either. A break, are you available?
I’ll be there in an hour, and he hangs up.
It only takes her 10 minutes to get back to her apartment, even in Boston, traffic dies down after 11pm. She doesn’t need to do much to get ready, her place is clean and in order, and whatever he wants he’ll bring with him. She hesitates and then goes into her bedroom. She has twenty minutes until he arrives, he’s never early and never late. She goes through her draws and pulls out what she was looking for. Nothing fancy, plain black with a narrow lace border. She takes off her dingy cotton bra and underwear, for a moment she regrets not showering but in an hour she won’t be allowed to care.
She slips back into her jeans and red blouse, he doesn’t like her dressing up and she likes that she doesn’t need to please with him anything but herself. She paces, the clock seems to have stopped and she’s about to throw her hands up in frustration when she hears a knock on the door.
He says no form of greeting and neither does she and he doesn’t wait for her to invite him in. She shuts the door and starts to follow him. He stops suddenly and she mimics his body, he turns slowly to face her, eyebrow cocked and she waits.
He speaks, I didn’t say you could follow me, the tension could be cut with a knife, Emma swallows hard, knowing it’s in her best interest to stay silent. He begins unbuttoning coat, he wears it no matter what the weather is outside. One a rare occasion he’ll ask her to help him, let her fingers brush against the wool to reveal always two pieces of a three piece suit. He asks her nothing now, his gaze is focused on her face intently.
This thing that they have, it started almost by accident. She had been at a bar, it was one of her few nights off and he was there, sitting a chair over, sipping something even stronger than her whiskey. Idle conversation started, he bought her a drink and she reciprocated. He kept his eyes on her face, never trailing down over the black dress she knew made her look great. She was about to slide off the stool, thinking he wasn’t interested in what she was, when he spoke. You have a hard time letting go, do you? He caught her off guard. I’ve spent my entire life letting go.
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the side of her face softly, just asking. What happened next was impulsive and stupid, but when he had her slayed out over her bed, breath hot against her neck, she didn’t care. It continued from there, the occasional phone call, usually after a day that she wanted to forget. Sometimes it was sweet, nothing between them but skin, fingers laced and her body on fire. But sometimes, like tonight, she didn’t want him acting like a lover.
He takes her by the wrist and pulls her towards her bedroom. He lets go of her and sets down the bag he brought by her nightstand. He pauses. Jefferson is particular about everything, his clothes, his coat, how he likes his tea and his lighting. He turns on the lamp on her nightstand closest to him, making sure it’s on the dimmest setting. He smiles wide at her then, take off your clothes, and feel free to not rush.
Not breaking eye contact, Emma begins to unbutton her blouse, slowly. This is one of her favourite parts of the evening, the slow reveal, drawing it out. He doesn’t reach out to help her. He’s not here to help her. Emma can feel goose bumps breaking out over body, his blue gaze wavering only slightly when the black lace makes its first appearance. She slips the blouse off of her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground. Her jeans come off easily and automatically his hands are reaching towards her.
He doesn’t touch her, he comes close, nearly brushes her skin, the offending fabric that still covers her. He twines his index finger through one of her curls, rubbing the silky strands almost roughly. Get on the bed, it’s an order not a request and she complies. He guides her to lie on her stomach and then she can hear the opening of his bag. She knows he won’t blindfold her, it’s one of the few things she doesn’t let him do. There are some things she won’t let him use either. He has never suggested handcuffs, knowing it would be too close to her work and too close to times when the cold metal burned her wrists as she was taken away.
Jefferson prefers fabric, he’s the most tactile person Emma knows, sometimes she wonders if he prefers touching it over her. Gently he slips the piece of silk between her lips, like horse getting it’s bit. He wraps her left wrist first then her right and weaves the excess through one of the metal bars of her headboard. It’s secure, but she knows he makes it loose enough she could get out if she needed to. She trusts him; he’s never done anything she hasn’t wanted.
Her hands secure he starts to touch her, fingers running over her wrists, down her arms, trailing up to her neck. He leans over her, he’s still dressed and she can feel him start to dig his nails in a bit, she arches into his touch like a cat begging to be stroked. She’s painfully turned on, she can’t shift without feeling the lace bite into her skin or him pressing against her. She knows he’s going easy on her, light touches, the lack of him ordering her, controlling her.
I know what you’re thinking, his voice is rough, he’s no longer touching her, instead she can hear him rise up and off of the bed. She could turn and face him but she resists, waiting for him. He continues, I’m not asking anything of you, but, that’s all what people have been doing, haven’t they? Asking you this and that and the other, I’m not asking you tonight, Emma, I’m telling you.
The smack is unexpected, she hears it before she registers the stinging sensation radiating from her thigh. A whimper is caught in her throat and he does it again, she can’t help but raise her hips off the mattress to meet his pleasuring giving hands. He grabs her hips and pushes her down, she can feel his belt buckle press against her ass but his bare chest is flush against her back. He lets his teeth graze over ear lobe, through her hair, over her shoulder. He bites his way down her spine, the entire time his fingers press bruises against her hipbones.
She moans, she can’t help it. She presses her face against her forearms, he hasn’t even touched her clit but she thinks she’ll die if he doesn’t soon. His hands roam everywhere else, his mouth joining in biting her, kissing her, his tongue tracing patterns on her skin. He stops suddenly, she moans, half with relief half with frustration. Shake your head yes or no, are you attached to these pesky articles of clothing? She shakes her head no, the gag silencing her and her body speaking for her.
Good, he’s rummaging through his bag again and soon she hears the sound of scissors cutting through fabric. Her bra goes first. He’s not quick about it, his touch is feather light over the newly exposed skin. Turn over, his voice is quiet but strong and she complies. His lips are against her throat immediately. He sets the scissors on the nightstand, and puts his hands to good use spreading her legs further apart. He shifts lower, mouthing over her sternum and trailing to her left breast. His tongue lashes out, over her areola mercilessly, making it painful hard.
Now that she can see him, she tugs at her bonds, wanting to tangle her fingers through his thick hair, force him lower down her body, to her core where she aches. He smiles at her wickedly, like the cat that got the cream. The scissors are in his hand again and soon there’s nothing hiding her from his gaze. His eyes are dark as he takes her in. His grin becomes even more wicked, I know it’s not conventional in these sorts of proceedings, but I insist.
Before she can blink, his teeth are biting into the flesh of her thighs and his fingers are dancing over her labia. He slips a finger into her tight heat and a second soon follows. Sweat has broken out over her body, Emma clench her fists, her eyes shut and all she can feel is his mouth on her and his fingers thrusting in and out, getting her ready for him.
Her orgasm comes quickly, she’s been at the edge almost as soon as he finished binding her wrists. She screams around the gag and she pulses around his fingers. Her eyes are closed and she feels him slip up her body. His fingers, still dripping from her, snake around her jaw and he makes her look at him. I didn’t say you could come, did I? She shakes her head, realizing the implications as soon as the words left his lips. I was going to fuck you, I was going to take you like you are now and from behind, until you couldn’t take it anymore. I was going to fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk for the next two days without feeling me in every single step. But I won’t fuck you now.
She whimpers, he’s lying beside her now, his right hand ghosting over her flushed skin. Emma, listen to me next time, trust me. His words have been chosen carefully. Their eyes lock again, blue meeting blue and he smiles. Tenderly he unties her wrists, he both kisses and bites where the fabric has indented in her flesh. He frees her mouth next, her lips never touching his.
They’re done for that night, she remains lying on the bed, watching him pull on his shirt and vest, buttoning everything, making everything orderly and right. His scissors disappear into the bag and soon he disappears out her door. It’s how it always is with them, no proper goodbye, no words shared. Emma gets up and showers, noting where bruises and bite marks have bloomed over her skin. She has tomorrow off, she won’t need to cover them yet, she can enjoy him a little longer. She changes her sheets and slips into her bed and then into sleep.
Everything is under control.
Author: bythespring
Rating: M
Characters: Emma/Jefferson
Warnings: sex, mild BDSM, PWP (no, seriously), spanking, biting, AU! (I know)
Summary: Emma Swan needs to let go.
This was not how she planned her day to go.
To say that Emma was having a bad day would be the understatement of the century. Well, maybe not the century, but at the moment Emma felt like she was taking the cake. There were sometimes when she didn’t understand why she was where she was. Today felt like everything was going to hell and taking her along with it.
She goes through the day in motions, keeping a lid on what she’s feeling but taking charge. Everything needs to be taken control of at some point and Emma Swan is always up to the task. Being a bail bondswoman kept her on her toes and alert but it drained her. Her latest job ended up being a mess and a half, turns out information got lost in the system, hence why they even thought they needed her at first when they really didn’t. By the time she’s done sorting the mess out, night has fallen and all she wants to do is stop and breath. She knows it’s going to be one of those nights, and she needs him, she needs her fix.
She calls him just before she starts the drive home; he picks up on the fourth ring. What do you need? He’s always brisk, never drawing out phone calls, Emma figures that he would feel like he was being interrupted even if he was lounging around doing nothing.
She doesn’t have time to waste either. A break, are you available?
I’ll be there in an hour, and he hangs up.
It only takes her 10 minutes to get back to her apartment, even in Boston, traffic dies down after 11pm. She doesn’t need to do much to get ready, her place is clean and in order, and whatever he wants he’ll bring with him. She hesitates and then goes into her bedroom. She has twenty minutes until he arrives, he’s never early and never late. She goes through her draws and pulls out what she was looking for. Nothing fancy, plain black with a narrow lace border. She takes off her dingy cotton bra and underwear, for a moment she regrets not showering but in an hour she won’t be allowed to care.
She slips back into her jeans and red blouse, he doesn’t like her dressing up and she likes that she doesn’t need to please with him anything but herself. She paces, the clock seems to have stopped and she’s about to throw her hands up in frustration when she hears a knock on the door.
He says no form of greeting and neither does she and he doesn’t wait for her to invite him in. She shuts the door and starts to follow him. He stops suddenly and she mimics his body, he turns slowly to face her, eyebrow cocked and she waits.
He speaks, I didn’t say you could follow me, the tension could be cut with a knife, Emma swallows hard, knowing it’s in her best interest to stay silent. He begins unbuttoning coat, he wears it no matter what the weather is outside. One a rare occasion he’ll ask her to help him, let her fingers brush against the wool to reveal always two pieces of a three piece suit. He asks her nothing now, his gaze is focused on her face intently.
This thing that they have, it started almost by accident. She had been at a bar, it was one of her few nights off and he was there, sitting a chair over, sipping something even stronger than her whiskey. Idle conversation started, he bought her a drink and she reciprocated. He kept his eyes on her face, never trailing down over the black dress she knew made her look great. She was about to slide off the stool, thinking he wasn’t interested in what she was, when he spoke. You have a hard time letting go, do you? He caught her off guard. I’ve spent my entire life letting go.
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the side of her face softly, just asking. What happened next was impulsive and stupid, but when he had her slayed out over her bed, breath hot against her neck, she didn’t care. It continued from there, the occasional phone call, usually after a day that she wanted to forget. Sometimes it was sweet, nothing between them but skin, fingers laced and her body on fire. But sometimes, like tonight, she didn’t want him acting like a lover.
He takes her by the wrist and pulls her towards her bedroom. He lets go of her and sets down the bag he brought by her nightstand. He pauses. Jefferson is particular about everything, his clothes, his coat, how he likes his tea and his lighting. He turns on the lamp on her nightstand closest to him, making sure it’s on the dimmest setting. He smiles wide at her then, take off your clothes, and feel free to not rush.
Not breaking eye contact, Emma begins to unbutton her blouse, slowly. This is one of her favourite parts of the evening, the slow reveal, drawing it out. He doesn’t reach out to help her. He’s not here to help her. Emma can feel goose bumps breaking out over body, his blue gaze wavering only slightly when the black lace makes its first appearance. She slips the blouse off of her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground. Her jeans come off easily and automatically his hands are reaching towards her.
He doesn’t touch her, he comes close, nearly brushes her skin, the offending fabric that still covers her. He twines his index finger through one of her curls, rubbing the silky strands almost roughly. Get on the bed, it’s an order not a request and she complies. He guides her to lie on her stomach and then she can hear the opening of his bag. She knows he won’t blindfold her, it’s one of the few things she doesn’t let him do. There are some things she won’t let him use either. He has never suggested handcuffs, knowing it would be too close to her work and too close to times when the cold metal burned her wrists as she was taken away.
Jefferson prefers fabric, he’s the most tactile person Emma knows, sometimes she wonders if he prefers touching it over her. Gently he slips the piece of silk between her lips, like horse getting it’s bit. He wraps her left wrist first then her right and weaves the excess through one of the metal bars of her headboard. It’s secure, but she knows he makes it loose enough she could get out if she needed to. She trusts him; he’s never done anything she hasn’t wanted.
Her hands secure he starts to touch her, fingers running over her wrists, down her arms, trailing up to her neck. He leans over her, he’s still dressed and she can feel him start to dig his nails in a bit, she arches into his touch like a cat begging to be stroked. She’s painfully turned on, she can’t shift without feeling the lace bite into her skin or him pressing against her. She knows he’s going easy on her, light touches, the lack of him ordering her, controlling her.
I know what you’re thinking, his voice is rough, he’s no longer touching her, instead she can hear him rise up and off of the bed. She could turn and face him but she resists, waiting for him. He continues, I’m not asking anything of you, but, that’s all what people have been doing, haven’t they? Asking you this and that and the other, I’m not asking you tonight, Emma, I’m telling you.
The smack is unexpected, she hears it before she registers the stinging sensation radiating from her thigh. A whimper is caught in her throat and he does it again, she can’t help but raise her hips off the mattress to meet his pleasuring giving hands. He grabs her hips and pushes her down, she can feel his belt buckle press against her ass but his bare chest is flush against her back. He lets his teeth graze over ear lobe, through her hair, over her shoulder. He bites his way down her spine, the entire time his fingers press bruises against her hipbones.
She moans, she can’t help it. She presses her face against her forearms, he hasn’t even touched her clit but she thinks she’ll die if he doesn’t soon. His hands roam everywhere else, his mouth joining in biting her, kissing her, his tongue tracing patterns on her skin. He stops suddenly, she moans, half with relief half with frustration. Shake your head yes or no, are you attached to these pesky articles of clothing? She shakes her head no, the gag silencing her and her body speaking for her.
Good, he’s rummaging through his bag again and soon she hears the sound of scissors cutting through fabric. Her bra goes first. He’s not quick about it, his touch is feather light over the newly exposed skin. Turn over, his voice is quiet but strong and she complies. His lips are against her throat immediately. He sets the scissors on the nightstand, and puts his hands to good use spreading her legs further apart. He shifts lower, mouthing over her sternum and trailing to her left breast. His tongue lashes out, over her areola mercilessly, making it painful hard.
Now that she can see him, she tugs at her bonds, wanting to tangle her fingers through his thick hair, force him lower down her body, to her core where she aches. He smiles at her wickedly, like the cat that got the cream. The scissors are in his hand again and soon there’s nothing hiding her from his gaze. His eyes are dark as he takes her in. His grin becomes even more wicked, I know it’s not conventional in these sorts of proceedings, but I insist.
Before she can blink, his teeth are biting into the flesh of her thighs and his fingers are dancing over her labia. He slips a finger into her tight heat and a second soon follows. Sweat has broken out over her body, Emma clench her fists, her eyes shut and all she can feel is his mouth on her and his fingers thrusting in and out, getting her ready for him.
Her orgasm comes quickly, she’s been at the edge almost as soon as he finished binding her wrists. She screams around the gag and she pulses around his fingers. Her eyes are closed and she feels him slip up her body. His fingers, still dripping from her, snake around her jaw and he makes her look at him. I didn’t say you could come, did I? She shakes her head, realizing the implications as soon as the words left his lips. I was going to fuck you, I was going to take you like you are now and from behind, until you couldn’t take it anymore. I was going to fuck you so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk for the next two days without feeling me in every single step. But I won’t fuck you now.
She whimpers, he’s lying beside her now, his right hand ghosting over her flushed skin. Emma, listen to me next time, trust me. His words have been chosen carefully. Their eyes lock again, blue meeting blue and he smiles. Tenderly he unties her wrists, he both kisses and bites where the fabric has indented in her flesh. He frees her mouth next, her lips never touching his.
They’re done for that night, she remains lying on the bed, watching him pull on his shirt and vest, buttoning everything, making everything orderly and right. His scissors disappear into the bag and soon he disappears out her door. It’s how it always is with them, no proper goodbye, no words shared. Emma gets up and showers, noting where bruises and bite marks have bloomed over her skin. She has tomorrow off, she won’t need to cover them yet, she can enjoy him a little longer. She changes her sheets and slips into her bed and then into sleep.
Everything is under control.
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