Author: candycentric - AKA Cc
Rating: R (a soft one at that)
Warnings: I'm pretty sure there was massive amounts of cold medicine involved when I wrote this. So, yeah. . .
Prompt: Kitchen sex. Duh.
Word Count: 971
Disclaimer: Dark Angel is not mine, I just like to pretend.
Author's Name: Could not for the life of me think of a title for this. Also, I'm serious about the cold medicine. Prepare yourselves. And Logan lovers, I'm sorry, it just popped out.
Summary: "It’s less of an avoidance to romp on Alec's five hundred thread count sheets and more of a rarely make it all the way to the bedroom type of issue."
Alec and Max rarely fuck in bed.
It’s less of an avoidance to romp on Alec's five hundred thread count sheets and more of a rarely make it all the way to the bedroom type of issue.
The bathroom tends to get a lot of action. More specifically, the shower area of the small room. It usually begins from a chain reaction of certain events. When one begins losing articles of clothing – whether it be for bathing purposes or getting a better look at a brand new and still shiny gunshot-slash-stabbing-slash-blunt-traum
And then so did the pants.
The wide ledge around the tub (to hold up a leg, or two) and the nifty reinforced shower head pipe (a grip for Max’s hands, most often) makes for unusually long showers and more than satisfied users.
That’s not to say that the rest of the bathroom gets altogether ignored. On more than one occasion Max had been standing in front of the mirror doing something mindless like washing her face or brushing her hair, when Alec had come in and changed the game plan by pulling her panties straight down, plopping her on the counter, dropping to his knees and diving in.
The first time this happens she’s sure the world has tilted off it’s axis and is spinning wildly out of control, until her brain catches up to her hands which are simultaneously gripping the edge of her precarious seat and clutching Alec’s hair in a desperate attempt to keep him right. The fuck. There.
The second time does not end nearly as well when she almost breaks an ankle off after attempting to prop a foot on the extremely NOT closed toilet lid. It’s two weeks later before everything is totally healed and two months later before a third time is attempted, which goes smoothly, much to her ankle’s relief.
It becomes a unspoken rule that the seat remain down at all times.
- - -
All sorts of unsavory behaviors end up happening on the sofa.
The most common is that she gets bent over it. A lot.
He likes to say that it’s because it puts her at the perfect height (which it does) and that he can’t get enough of watching her backside jiggle (also true) but Max thinks there’s more to this favorite position that may have to do with the forty two inch flat screen sitting in front of said sitting device. It takes her a while to notice that her ass usually ends up waving in the air when a football game is on after trying to get some quality snuggle action from him. Her suspicions are further reinforced when he yells a particularly loud and odd timed ‘fuck yeah!’ while he’s balls deep in her that so happens to coincide with a touchdown just made by his team. He pauses when she cranes her head around with a ‘did that just happen’ look, before replying with a half-grin, shrugging his shoulders and a new found zeal to make her forget her own name.
And the fact that yes, apparently that did just happen.
Max intends to yell about it later (when she's not getting rammed six ways 'til Tuesday) but he has become a master at the art of distraction and it just gets ignored until next time.
- - -
Now the kitchen, the kitchen is definitely where shit goes down the most. Or up, that is, depending on how you want to look at it.
It didn't take Alec long to come to the conclusion that for all of his mate's beauty, brains and breasts, the chick couldn't cook worth a god damn motherfucker.
And that's putting it mildly.
No, seriously, who else can ruin a can of Campbell’s Chicken & Stars?
He was forced to take matters into his own hands before the situation grew to out-of-hand proportions. In practically no time at all, they went from Chef Boyardee to Chef Alec's Grilled Chicken, Pot Pie, Meat Loaf and the occasional New York Strip.
Max is thrilled. She has never eaten so good and continually bestows him with her own special brand of appreciation, afraid that the delicious entrees might somehow disappear from her daily enjoyments.
Cue blowjobs in the kitchen.
What else could a guy ask for?
Pouty lips? Check. Nice rack? Check. Cigarette burn eyes? Another check. An ass tighter and rounder than the wheel’s on Logan’s chair? Triple check.
She is his perfect woman. May might not be perfect, but she is perfect for him. And the head she so willingly gives – that she pretends is only in exchange for the provision of his culinary skills – is damn near perfect as well. The right amount of tongue and lips and hands and teeth grazing and it’s all so much more than he ever thought he could have.
She is so much more.
Just as he is it for her. Alec, in all his entirety, is her end game. And she’s living her own special brand of paradise each second of each day. Because no matter what shit she has to battle past these walls of brick and two-by-fours, she can make it. She can beat it. Because at the end of the day she’s heading right back home to him.
So she gets down on her knees to worship at his altar and gives her mouth as a living, breathing sacrifice.
While he holds the back of her head, pulling her in every time she gets too far away. It is constant battle, since he believes she could never be too close.
Sometimes he wishes he could shrink Max down and surgically implant her in his heart. To keep her with him always.
But it wouldn’t really matter, because she’s already there.