Hi there! This is a side blog where I will post my writing (fanfiction/some original work), and anything I find inspirational.
Requests are: CLOSED.
Note: THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU THINK IT IS.
I stare at Droog open-mouthed, and his fingers move from my ear to my chin.
"What do you say to that, Slick?"
His white eyes blaze at me, his challenge intrinsic in his stare. His lips are parted—he’s waiting, coiled to strike. Desire—acute, liquid and smoldering, combusts deep in my belly. I take pre-emptive action and launch myself at him. Somehow he moves, I have no idea how, and in the blink of an eye I’m on the bed pinned beneath him, my arms stretched out and held above my head, his free hand clutching my face, and his mouth finds mine.
Droog’s tongue is in my mouth, claiming and possessing me, and I revel in the force he uses. I feel him against the length of my body. He wants me, and this does strange, delicious things to my insides. Not the Inspector, not one of the broads from the jazz club, not evil Snowman. Me. This beautiful man wants me. My inner god glows so bright he could light up Midnight City. He stops kissing me, and opening my eyes, I find him gazing down at me.
"Trust me?" Droog breathes.
I nod, wide-eyed, my heart bouncing off my ribs, my blood thundering around my body.
He reaches down, and from his pants pocket, he takes out his silver-grey silk tie… that silver grey woven tie that leaves small impressions of its weave on my skin. He moves so quickly, sitting astride me as he fastens my wrists together, but this time, he ties the other end of the tie to one of the spokes of my black iron headboard. He pulls at my binding checking it’s secure. I’m not going anywhere. I’m tied, literally, to my bed, and I’m so aroused.
He slides off of me and stands beside the bed, staring down at me, his eyes dark with want. His look is triumphant, mixed with relief.
"That’s better," he murmurs and smiles a wicked, knowing smile. He bends and starts undoing one of my shoes. He removes my shoes and my socks efficiently and slowly peels off my pants. He lifts me and pulls the quilt and my duvet out from underneath me and places me back down, this time on the sheets.
"Now then." He licks his bottom lip slowly. "You’re biting that lip, Slick. You know the effect it has on me." He places his long index finger over my mouth, a warning.
Oh my. I can barely contain myself, lying helplessly, watching him move gracefully around my room, it’s a heady aphrodisiac. Slowly, almost leisurely, he removes his shoes and socks, undoes his pants, and lifts his shirt off over his head—
Boxcars almost yelps, jumping in his seat before hastily trying to cover up the papers on his desk with his forearms. He glances over his shoulder at the door to see a a very impatient Droog standing in its frame, looking as though he’s been trying to get his attention for some time.
"You’ve been in your room for hours; you missed dinner. What are you doing?" Droog seems to lean slightly into the room. He notices the papers, and the pen that seems tiny in Boxcars’s bulky hands. "Are you writing?" He invites himself in.
Oh no no no no no. Boxcars gulps and tightens his forearms over the papers. Yes, he writes. Fiction. Friend fiction. Sometimes… erotic friend fiction but there’s much more than that honestly Droog just happened to catch him at a bad time.
Okay, so he has a guilty pleasure, but doesn’t everybody?
He continues to reassure himself mentally, but as Droog approaches, his forearms tighten and his heart beats faster. “It’s nothing, Droog, it’s just uh— um—”
Droog raises his brow. “If it’s nothing, let me read it.”
"Nah that’s alright Droog—"
"Are you hiding something?"
"No I just don’t want you to read it."
"No I mean—" he flusters, and in doing so relaxes his arms a little. Droog takes the opportunity to swipe the page he’d been writing on out from under his elbow and take a few steps back. Boxcars nearly squeaks with horror, but collects himself, scowling. "Droog, if you don’t give that back I’ll—"
Droog shoots him a look that shuts him right up.
It’s awkwardly quiet as Droog reads the page, Boxcars’s hands hovering as he sits there unsure of what to do. He’s not sure whether to snatch the paper and suffer the consequences or just leave in embarrasment. He’s a brute; he’s not supposed to write these sorts of things. He ends up just sitting there and scolding himself while Droog reads.
As he does, one of Droog’s brows slowly begins creeping up his forehead. Otherwise he’s straight-faced. Boxcars can’t tell what he’s feeling.
"Oh my indeed," the other man mutters out of the blue. Boxcars looks up at him with his hands clenched, anxious, anticipating a good beating.
"I don’t own a silk grey tie."
Droog catches his gaze, still straight-faced, and continues. “I only own white and red ties. Also you might want to work on your sentence structure. And characterization. You make Slick sound like an inexperienced prude, which he isn’t.” He shoves the paper between Boxcars’s fingers before turning and making his way out of the room.
Boxcars stares blankly at the empty doorway, speechless.
After a minute or so it clicks. His eyes go wide at the implications of his last few words.
"HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT DROOG?" He shouts at his retreating form. "HOW?"
But Droog doesn’t reply, and the question remains without an answer.
Thankfully he has friend fiction to supply him with one.
(The italicized excerpt is from Fifty Shades of Grey. It belongs to its respectful owners, I just changed a few things.)