Not Pretty, But Something.
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Rating:
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Category:
1 through F › Cruel Intentions
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
3
Views:
4,553
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Cruel Intentions, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
2/3
TITLE: Not Pretty, But Something 2/3.
AUTHOR: Belinda (eyebrowofdoom@yahoo.com)
SERIES: Fucking Normal People 1/?.
DISTRIBUTION: gimme a little sugar and just ask...
RATING: NC-17. Contains SLASH, ie explicit m/m sex; drugs, coarse language, and other reasons for living. Also allusions to past sexual activity between what were probably minors.
SUMMARY: The seduction and betrayal of Greg McConnell by Blaine Tuttle. Blaine's POV.
NOTE: CI 2 was an unpleasant hallucination caused by some funky gear probably supplied by an unscrupulous Blaine, and none of its back story holds, as far as I'm concerned. :)
FEEDBACK: Feed the kraken! Squeak! I mean, roar! Constructive criticism helps keep fabled sea-monster bowels regular.
DISCLAIMER: the characters are from the movie Cruel Intentions, and do not belong to me. This fic has no connection to the makers of the movie and I receive no money from writing it.
[RECAP: Now the movie is finished, and here we are. There is a faint shift in the springs of the couch. Greg practically has his arm around me. I guess he's processing that information.]
He watches the credits intently. That bottom lip of his is pushed out.
I lay the back of my hand on his thigh. Just lay it there.
He turns his head and looks at me.
He's not pretty the way, say, Sebastian is pretty. But he's... something. The long line of the bones of his face. The way he drops his head and his blue eyes go dark when he's confused.
I guess it helps that he's confused most of the time around me.
I twist around in my seat, and lean over and rub my forehead against the inner elbow of the arm he has across the back of the sofa. The skin there is warm and soft and creased.
I do that very slowly, for a little while.
I exchange my forehead for my open mouth there on his inner elbow, and ease out a mouthful of hot air. Very lightly, I trace the crease with the tip of my tongue. It’s salty.
Then I stop.
"Did you like it?" I ask.
He stares at me.
Then he leans over.
There are two things that can happen now. The second one is that he squeals something like "You're a freak, man!", cringes back like he's been burnt, and stomps out of the room.
We've certainly had that one before, and it's old, but they say some things never go out of style.
He's still leaning over. He may have leant too far for number two. I think we're on schedule for number one.
And here it is.
He kisses like you would think a big jock kisses. Hard, wet, deep and all of a sudden. A lot of tongue.
I really can't say I mind. He cups my jaw with his hand and fills my mouth. He tickles inside my ear with a fingertip for a second, then slides his fingers into my hair, grips my hair, like how he'll want to grip it with both hands later. The other hand creeps along my knee.
Moving right along.
I make a sound in my throat, and take a hold of his jaw and push his face away. Flatten my knee to escape his grip there. Then I'm up off the couch. As quickly, I am down again, kneeling straddled across his lap.
"Ah, Gregory," I simper. I'm just Greg's happy little faggot. No, I don’t mind if he calls me names afterwards. Hell, I’m barely human. I just want to get my little faggot rocks off.
It takes him a second, and then he's pulling my shirt out of my waistband and pushing it up in front, licking down the middle of my chest. Stroking his hands up and down my back. Now clamping that mouth of his on my nipple.
Oh God.
Hey, I never said I didn’t like it.
His hands separate my ass cheeks through my pants, and start to knead. Pants that are already getting uncomfortable in front.
I told Sebastian before that the only reason I put up with Greg's crap is the *mouth like a Hoover*. But I lied.
It's... this. All of this. The ragged breaths. The frantic hands. I'm the only piece of man Greg's going to get for months at a time, and he needs the taste to last him. He needs to drink it down deep.
He’s breathing frantically, eyes closed; my ass aches from the way he's squeezing it. I've got to get the man up and into bed or we're in real danger of a pants-down-only job here: he's ready to roll me over, throw me down and just nail me. No matter if I complain it hurts, either.
I know I can make him behave better if I can just get him into bed and naked, with all the lights on. If I can kick all the covers off, and leave us with the honesty of being alone together on that expanse of cotton. Nowhere for him to look but where he can't help but want to. Nowhere to hide his glazed eyes, his rampant prick.
But somehow, in the space of no time at all, I've managed to end up lying on my back along the couch with Greg between my knees. My shirt got unbuttoned. He's running his hand over my belly, tickling.
He's sucking my ear lobe. Increasingly firmly, wetly.
"Up the hall, baby?" I say, my hand on the back of his neck. My voice doesn't quite come out right.
Then I lose words altogether, because now his hand is on the front of my pants. Tracing. Cupping. Massaging. Circling.
When it moves back to my belly, I can talk again. "Baby?" I say, "Bed, baby?"
We need to get the stage set, after all.
***
When Greg and I first started to fuck, the breathless, frantic, no proper lube thing was fun. It was also really chafy. And there’s only so much you’re prepared to take, of being held down and sweated over, then being insulted afterwards. So, the summer of eleventh grade, I decided I was going to teach Greg to behave. Here’s what I did.
We'd never seen each other over summer before. The likes of him and the likes of me do not soiree, needless to say. But he had summer training that year. So I swung by school, caught him alone between the gym and the dorm and batted my eyelashes at him. Offered him a cream soda -- suspected that that one sailed right past him. Got him over to my house on the weekend, anyway.
So his other training began.
I considered the setting carefully. Made the bed, went with the plaid linen. Put certain very beautiful, but perhaps a little confronting, representations of the masculine form away in the cupboard. Burned a little clove and cinnamon oil. Not too much.
*tbc*
AUTHOR: Belinda (eyebrowofdoom@yahoo.com)
SERIES: Fucking Normal People 1/?.
DISTRIBUTION: gimme a little sugar and just ask...
RATING: NC-17. Contains SLASH, ie explicit m/m sex; drugs, coarse language, and other reasons for living. Also allusions to past sexual activity between what were probably minors.
SUMMARY: The seduction and betrayal of Greg McConnell by Blaine Tuttle. Blaine's POV.
NOTE: CI 2 was an unpleasant hallucination caused by some funky gear probably supplied by an unscrupulous Blaine, and none of its back story holds, as far as I'm concerned. :)
FEEDBACK: Feed the kraken! Squeak! I mean, roar! Constructive criticism helps keep fabled sea-monster bowels regular.
DISCLAIMER: the characters are from the movie Cruel Intentions, and do not belong to me. This fic has no connection to the makers of the movie and I receive no money from writing it.
[RECAP: Now the movie is finished, and here we are. There is a faint shift in the springs of the couch. Greg practically has his arm around me. I guess he's processing that information.]
He watches the credits intently. That bottom lip of his is pushed out.
I lay the back of my hand on his thigh. Just lay it there.
He turns his head and looks at me.
He's not pretty the way, say, Sebastian is pretty. But he's... something. The long line of the bones of his face. The way he drops his head and his blue eyes go dark when he's confused.
I guess it helps that he's confused most of the time around me.
I twist around in my seat, and lean over and rub my forehead against the inner elbow of the arm he has across the back of the sofa. The skin there is warm and soft and creased.
I do that very slowly, for a little while.
I exchange my forehead for my open mouth there on his inner elbow, and ease out a mouthful of hot air. Very lightly, I trace the crease with the tip of my tongue. It’s salty.
Then I stop.
"Did you like it?" I ask.
He stares at me.
Then he leans over.
There are two things that can happen now. The second one is that he squeals something like "You're a freak, man!", cringes back like he's been burnt, and stomps out of the room.
We've certainly had that one before, and it's old, but they say some things never go out of style.
He's still leaning over. He may have leant too far for number two. I think we're on schedule for number one.
And here it is.
He kisses like you would think a big jock kisses. Hard, wet, deep and all of a sudden. A lot of tongue.
I really can't say I mind. He cups my jaw with his hand and fills my mouth. He tickles inside my ear with a fingertip for a second, then slides his fingers into my hair, grips my hair, like how he'll want to grip it with both hands later. The other hand creeps along my knee.
Moving right along.
I make a sound in my throat, and take a hold of his jaw and push his face away. Flatten my knee to escape his grip there. Then I'm up off the couch. As quickly, I am down again, kneeling straddled across his lap.
"Ah, Gregory," I simper. I'm just Greg's happy little faggot. No, I don’t mind if he calls me names afterwards. Hell, I’m barely human. I just want to get my little faggot rocks off.
It takes him a second, and then he's pulling my shirt out of my waistband and pushing it up in front, licking down the middle of my chest. Stroking his hands up and down my back. Now clamping that mouth of his on my nipple.
Oh God.
Hey, I never said I didn’t like it.
His hands separate my ass cheeks through my pants, and start to knead. Pants that are already getting uncomfortable in front.
I told Sebastian before that the only reason I put up with Greg's crap is the *mouth like a Hoover*. But I lied.
It's... this. All of this. The ragged breaths. The frantic hands. I'm the only piece of man Greg's going to get for months at a time, and he needs the taste to last him. He needs to drink it down deep.
He’s breathing frantically, eyes closed; my ass aches from the way he's squeezing it. I've got to get the man up and into bed or we're in real danger of a pants-down-only job here: he's ready to roll me over, throw me down and just nail me. No matter if I complain it hurts, either.
I know I can make him behave better if I can just get him into bed and naked, with all the lights on. If I can kick all the covers off, and leave us with the honesty of being alone together on that expanse of cotton. Nowhere for him to look but where he can't help but want to. Nowhere to hide his glazed eyes, his rampant prick.
But somehow, in the space of no time at all, I've managed to end up lying on my back along the couch with Greg between my knees. My shirt got unbuttoned. He's running his hand over my belly, tickling.
He's sucking my ear lobe. Increasingly firmly, wetly.
"Up the hall, baby?" I say, my hand on the back of his neck. My voice doesn't quite come out right.
Then I lose words altogether, because now his hand is on the front of my pants. Tracing. Cupping. Massaging. Circling.
When it moves back to my belly, I can talk again. "Baby?" I say, "Bed, baby?"
We need to get the stage set, after all.
***
When Greg and I first started to fuck, the breathless, frantic, no proper lube thing was fun. It was also really chafy. And there’s only so much you’re prepared to take, of being held down and sweated over, then being insulted afterwards. So, the summer of eleventh grade, I decided I was going to teach Greg to behave. Here’s what I did.
We'd never seen each other over summer before. The likes of him and the likes of me do not soiree, needless to say. But he had summer training that year. So I swung by school, caught him alone between the gym and the dorm and batted my eyelashes at him. Offered him a cream soda -- suspected that that one sailed right past him. Got him over to my house on the weekend, anyway.
So his other training began.
I considered the setting carefully. Made the bed, went with the plaid linen. Put certain very beautiful, but perhaps a little confronting, representations of the masculine form away in the cupboard. Burned a little clove and cinnamon oil. Not too much.
*tbc*