S/C fic - Possession
I’m grumpy. My stupid Office, isn’t working and has been “fixing” the problems for 4 hours. This Shouldn’t take long, thanks for your patience. My ass. I want my Word. I can’t even open my old stories. This computer has been nothing but issues for the last 16 months.
But, I digress. While I just saw the most beautiful photo of Heughan, posted from SA, this fic is a tribute to @artistsassenach and her amazing manips she’s been doing, (like crazy, mind you) of late. I know Hannah doesn’t really read fic, but the story is inspired by the Family Heughan. And, some Barbour, as well. There’s still smut.
All my fics can be found, here: http://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingSummerBreeze/works
Disclaimer (for my new followers): I’m a shipper. I believe in end-game. I don’t hate on anyone, I don’t even allow them in my atmosphere, let alone my lane. If you feel otherwise, feel free to un-follow. I show no animosity. My blog is for happiness, not bitchy, high-school antics. I’m a firm believer that if you have nothing nice to say, nothing productive to insert into a conversation, you say nothing at all.
the state of having, owning, or controlling something.
I thought I had hit my possessive overdrive the first time I heard my last name in conjunction with her first. We had made reservations at some little Bed & Breakfast in Skye, nearly two years ago, and the simple introductory, Reservation under Caitriona Heughan had sent me flying. I was only two feet behind her, carrying the luggage, but I may as well have been swinging from the clouds.
The pride I felt. The heat in my chest, as I absorbed the name - Caitriona Heughan. I never thought anything could overcome that. But that wasn’t the case. It happened, over and over. over the next eight months.
I had been gone for days. Promotional tours, while she worked. I had arrived back home, sometime in the early morning hours. I should have let her sleep. I could see her exhaustion on her face, as slumber engulfed her. But I couldn’t help myself; we had been separated for nearly a week, and my body called to hers. I sensed the same, as she rolled onto her side, the sheet dropping from her breast to expose her nakedness. I smiled, the dimness of the room not hindering my expression as she extended her arm, taking hold of my hand and pulling me in beside her.
We had skimmed over foreplay, needing our body’s submission far greater. We needed to feel each other wrapped around our skin. Tenderness would wait until passion had its fill.
I pushed into her quickly, as her hands dug into my back. I wouldn’t last long. Neither would she. I felt the tenseness in my abdomen, and closed one hand around her throat. Not tightly, just enough. She smiled the smile of a the devil, as he lured you in, all the while allowing you to think it was your idea.
One hand fell to my ass, pushing me deeper inside her, as her other one scratched the back of my neck, pulling me into her.
Me came in a thunderous explosion of colour and light and screams and cries.
It was hours later, as passion had given up command of our bodies, the tenderness could finally pass through the doors. I kissed her gently, but thoroughly. Our tongues expressing our love. When we parted, there was a bit of sorrow, like I wasn’t ready to move on. But she smiled, the glorious smile of an angel, handing you over to God, and I found myself traversing down her body. Like the dark giving way to the light of the morning, so did our bodies, as I kissed her softly, tasting the sweat and saltiness of her skin. It did not bother me, that I would soon be tasting our joint passion, between her legs. I took some strange and sick erotic pleasure in that cocktail.
Spreading her thighs, the stickiness of our union painting abstracts across her alabaster skin. I would feed off her, and while I would never choose a Balfe-Heughan smoothie as a beverage at a restaurant, there’s something quite different when your between her thighs, and she’s moaning above you, urging you on, and you dart your tongue out, for that first taste, that sets my caveman urges afire.
But as I ended the trail around her breasts and dipped further down her torso, a darkness crossed under my eyes, and I pulled back to get a better view. And as I perched upon my elbows, staring down at the naked form below me, a stick figure, drawn complete with a smiley face and a waving hand, looked back at me.
I brushed her stomach, as if some imaginary cartoon had suddenly clouded my vision, but alas, it remained. Its grin not sinister, but shy.
I looked up to her face, then. A soft smile and a single tear falling into the abyss of dark waves, settled upon her features. I felt her stroke my hair, her thumb lazily drawing back and forth across my tumble, allowing realization to flourish inside my brain.
I looked at her stomach once more, and there was that feeling again. That pride and possessiveness that should send me straight to hell. I felt an overwhelming sense of happiness as I let the stick-figure into my heart. I kissed her belly, then. And I cannot remember anything after, other than Caitriona pulling me up to her, turning us over, and her body making love to mine as I lay in a bed of emotions, my mind drunk on happiness and wonder.
When she began to show, when her belly made the world aware of our union, I was proud, taking every chance to claim her body as mine, with a hand to her stomach, and a slight rub of possession. She was mine, and what lay nestled in her belly, was too.
But when the time came, one lazy Saturday morning, as she pleasured herself atop my body until she cringed in pain, falling to my side, it wasn’t possessiveness that I felt. I was no longer filled with pride or joy, but was drowning in fear and worry. My pride turned to fault. I was the reason she was in pain. I was the reason she clenched my hand with each contraction as the anguish wracked its way through her body.
No, the pride did not return for many weeks.
I watched from the door-frame, as Caitriona placed our daughter in the bassinet. She flicked the little music box to lullaby’s, and called me forth with her hand.
I brushed her hair behind her ears, before wrapping my arm around her waist to stare down in the cradle before us.
I kissed her temple. “Are you alright?”
I felt her head fall against my shoulder, as our blonde-haired beauty settled into slumber.
“Yes. She wouldn’t take much tonight.” I watched as her hands rubbed her breasts in an ache I would never understand.
I took Cait’s hand, pulling her away and into our bedroom.
We curled into each other, fighting off sleep so as to not close our eyes off to each other too soon. The night always came too soon.
I let my hand fall to her breast, gently weighing it. She laughed, but didn’t push me away.
“They’ve always been spectacular, but God, they feel amazing.”
She laughed again, more out of a sarcastic amusement. “They don’t feel amazing. And they look even worse. Naked, anyway. Through clothes, they look fantastic.”
I pulled on the hem of her nighty, a breasts falling loose. “They still look pretty good to me.”
One of her hands cradled my head, as the other draped itself across my hand on her breast.
“Did you want to taste?”
It was asked in such a childlike manner, it pulled me from my thoughts. I watched her face, shy and needy.
We had spoken about it. I had said I wanted to taste her. Some weird perversion I only felt comfortable talking about with her. I had put the child inside her, so the milk was mine. It was the most absurd thought, but there it was. But she was sore. That much I knew. She had given birth four weeks ago, and was tired. Her body, a mass of emotional turmoil.
“I don’t have to. Not tonight. You’re exhausted.”
She shook her head, a delicate smile crossing her face, “I want you to. I can’t have you inside me yet, well, beyond my mouth…”
I felt the corner of my mouth rise. “Thank you for that.”
Her shoulders shrugged, “I may be tired. I may be sore. I may not know what the hell my body is doing from one moment to the next. But the only thing I do know, is that when I have you inside me, wherever that may be, I have this,” she looked away, cocking her head to the side in thought, before turning back, “sense of possessiveness, or something. Like I own you. I know, it’s silly.”
I shook my head, knowing. “Not silly at all. I think I may know how you feel.”
She took me to her breast then. I was soft and gentle at first, unsure of whether it was pleasure I would be giving her, or its close counterpart, pain.
But as I suckled, finding a new way of caring for her nipples, Caitriona’s hand fell to my head, holding me to her bosom. It took a moment or two, but the milk began to flow. I let it flow passed my lips, and I drank her sweet nectar, like a bee to a flower. My body, instinctively, draped itself across hers, and she held me tightly. To her body. To her breast.
I could feel my hardness beneath my shorts, and I ground against her thigh shallowly. This wasn’t about me. I wanted her to feel pleasure. But I’m a man, and giving her pleasure, does the same for me.
I set one breast free, claiming the other, learning its tricks and temperament for giving me what I wanted. I palmed her other breast, making sure it knew it hadn’t been forgotten. Catriona moaned heavily against me, a leg wrapping around my rubbing thigh.
I drank from her. I possessed her. And when she came hard against my body, my thigh coated in her juice, I claimed responsibility for her climax as well. Exactly as she’d been doing each morning with me.