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The movie flashes across the screen in the living room. It’s an old, holiday-themed classic, with soft tones of black and white, a smooth jazz soundtrack. Something he picked out from a lifetime ago.
He indulges you, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the floor, popped on a cast-iron skillet in the kitchen, dusted with sea salt and melted butter. A thick blanket fending off the winter chill as you lounge against him - an arm around your waist, your head tucked against the crook of his shoulder.
If you’re honest, you lost the plot of the movie a bit ago, the slow, dreamy dialogue going fuzzy in your ears - too busy concentrating on the warm hand on your waist, the lazy brush of his thumb and knuckles on the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up.
Your head turns, a soft kiss pressed against his shoulder, collarbone, then the bare skin of his neck. He hums low in his throat, still facing the large television, but when you glance up, you see his eyes are looking at you, watching.
The blanket pools around you as you shift, carefully twisting, drawing a knee over until they map his, until you’re straddling his thighs. His hands rest high on your hips as you lean in, continuing your path.
Throat, jaw, temple.
“Tired of old classics, dove?” He asks, voice low as your lips touch his cheek, causing you to pause your journey to his mouth.
“No. I love old classics,” You smile, “But you, sir, are distracting me.”
Fingers rest on strong shoulders as you lean in, finally reaching your destination, sighing softly when his mouth meets yours.
He’s warm beneath you, in a thick knitted sweater, warm woolen trousers. Alfred’s idea of loungewear - you had checked before, and the man did not own a single pair of sweatpants or jeans.
But that made it easier for you, to press yourself close, slowly rocking your hips against his. You shift, flush against him, his hands gripping you now as your tongue brushes his lip, and this time he’s groaning.
They part, letting you to deepen the kiss as grind yourself against the bulge that is quickly stiffening beneath you, his own fingers slipping under your shirt, trailing up warm skin. The soundtrack of the movie making you lose track of time, everything going soft and slow and hazy.
It’s only when his hand cups your breast, a soft pinch to your tight nipple, the loud, needy moan that follows - that he pauses, seeming to come back to himself. Your fingers have curled their way under his sweater, tugging at an undershirt - a dull, needy throb in the soft space between your thighs.
“Perhaps,” he breathes, eyes still closed as is he is loathe to say it, “Perhaps we should go somewhere a little more private?”
You’re already leaning back in, humming as you reach skin, as you press yourself against his palm, “No one is here.”
“Even so.” He pulls back now, still reluctant.
Lips brush against the scruff of his beard, your palm flattening against his chest as you roll against him, the heat low and hot in your belly.
He stifles a groan, his look stern, “Now who’s being distracting? Be good, dove. For me.”
You unwind from his lap - he’s right of course.
Ms. Dory would never step foot in this room again if she ever found out. The blanket lies pooled and movie still runs as you make your way to his room, as you lead the way, fingers tightly clasped.
There’s a few detours before you make it to your destination. Pauses in the hallway, a palm on your waist as you turn, minutes lost in the slow exploration of hands, mouths as you lean against the wall, a desk - and then finally at the edge of his bed.
Layers are peeled off, discarded, your shirt getting lost on the floor so he can map bare skin, lingering there as he follows you onto the bed.
It’s an unspoken thing, how you find yourselves as before - his back against the pillows lining the headboard, your hips straddling his, the press and drag of your bare cunt against his cock.
Watching how it presses against his belly, trapped between you. How he’s seemingly unhurried with your joining, content to let you grind against him, his mouth busy as he find places on your neck that make you squirm.
It’s you who breaks first - a hand splayed flat across a broad shoulder, the other wrapping around him. That catches his attention, the tight grip of your fist - angling him so you can lift up on your knees.
Watching him watch you as you lower yourself onto him. Missing the way his lips part with a groan because your own eyes are closing as you take him, air sucked in through teeth with the pressure as he stretches you out.
Sinking until you’re flush, knees pressing into the mattress as he grips the flesh on your hips. As you start to move, as you lift up, before rocking your hips back down.
Arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance, as an arm curls around your back, his hand splayed against your spine.
Your pace staying slow as the pleasure grows, his mouth on your neck, your breasts, as you lift, and then dip. A grind of your hips sending a spark that jolts through you, your moves still leisurely.
But somewhere along the journey that began with your lips on his shoulder to now, with the shallow rocking of your hips - his patience has grown thin.
Not expecting the tight grip of his hand on your waist, the other pressing between your shoulder blades to crush you against him. The shift as his knees raise, feet pressing flat as he uses his weight against yours. Keeping himself deeply seated in you as he pushes forward - until you’re gasping in surprise as your back hits the mattress.
Until he’s the one hovering above you, the smallest curve of a smirk as he adjusts you beneath him, pleased at the turn of events. Getting you back from before - interrupting you, this time.
Hands hooking under your knees, pushing your thighs back towards your chest, and then apart, until you’re spread open wide for him. Your breath caught in your chest as he shifts his weight back onto bent knees that press into the bed.
The drag of his cock as he pulls out, almost all the way. Your breath finally coming as a sharp gasp when his hips snap, seating him back inside. Eyes drifting over the expanse of his chest, the flex of his arms as he does it again. As he watches the way you wrap around him, the slick shine of his cock before it disappears into you.
It makes your toes point and then curl, how deep he feels at this angle. Your hands reaching up toward your head, twisting and grasping at the sheets. The soft brush of his thumb against the sensitive skin by your knee as he begins to thrust.
Spearing deep into your tight heat, barely withdrawing before he does it again. With the tilt of your hips he’s rocking against a spot that has you panting, aching.
“You couldn’t wait, could you?” He all but growls, a sharp exhale of breath as your eyes fix on him, “Just had to have my attention, even though the movie wasn’t even half over.”
The words transfix you, his low voice layering with his expression - a sternness is that only surface-deep. It has you arching into him as you bite back a smile, your eyes going half-lidded and wanting.
His own eyes bright, almost slipping because he knows just how much you like it when he gets a little bossy. How he enjoys it just as much when you beg, in your own way, like you had downstairs.
But it’s not hard for him to tap into it, not really. Letting his voice drop lower, quieter, “You have it now, love.”
Hands gripping just a little tighter, a rough thrust that makes you moan.
“All of me.”
And you do - have all of him. His focus and his cock and so, so much more than that. You can see it, in the heavy gaze of his eyes, hear it in his words, feel it in his touch.
So you reach for him, hands leaving the rumpled, wrinkled sheets where they had twisted beneath your fingers. Grasping on to the backs of his hands, curling around his wrists - just wanting that extra bit of connection.
“Alfred,” You moan his name, nails biting into his skin. “Please.”
You’re not even sure what you’re asking for - your brain a loose hazy of soft affection, as the pleasure in your lower belly climbs and climbs.
He can feel the tightness in your limbs, the way you clench him. The blink of your eyes above panting, parted lips.
A hand shifts, leaving the underside of your thigh, curving around your wrist - drawing it down to your center. They map your fingers, his index and middle pressing down, lining them up against your clit.
“Give me something to watch, now.” His words are soft, but spoken so low, carefully drawn out, “I want you to show me. Show me how you rub that pretty little clit of yours, and I’ll keep fucking you. Just the way you like it.”
You make a little sound - a whimper, a moan - as he continues, “Can you do that for me, darling?”
It has you moving without thinking - your fingers moving in a small circle, the movement practiced. He expects an answer and you give it, a sighed out “yes”, as you touch yourself.
His answering moan is reverent, eyes lingering on your face, a curve of lips and flash of teeth before his eyes drop.
Watching as he slows from the sharp snap, to something softer. A steady sawing of his hips, clever eyes catching what makes you gasp, the muscles flexing in your leg.
Bringing you higher and higher together, until he’s abandoning the grip of his other hand. Leaving your thigh to catch the fingers that still tighten around him.
Lacing them, bringing your clasped hands up to rest next to your head, as he braces himself over you. Close enough now to brush his nose, his lips, along your cheek. For you to hear the sharp exhale of his breath in your ear.
You arch into him, fingers stuttering. Losing focus for just a moment, horribly distracted by his closeness, the press of his mouth against the hollow just under your ear that muffles his groan.
A soft tsk falls from his lips, the scrape of his beard against your neck.
“Keep going, dove.” He croons, his fingers tightening in yours, “Love the way you clench around me. You feel so fucking good, darling.”
Your grip on his hand is equally tight, his weight pinning your hips to the bed. It doesn’t stop the unconscious rock as you try to meet his thrusts, your eyes fluttering shut as the fingers between your thighs press a little harder, circle a little faster.
The words slide through your teeth, a breathy stream of messy thoughts, “Oh god please, I’m so close-”
His answering hum is low, almost a growl. Angling his head so he can kiss you fiercely, until you’re moaning into his mouth as your thighs jerk, tightening around his waist.
Your pulse pounding in your ears as he grinds against the spot, as the circle of your fingers sends you hurtling over the edge. A blinding pleasure stealing your words and your breath - thudding between your thighs that swells until its racing up your spine as down your limbs.
His lips against your check, pressing as he murmurs against your skin, “Christ, good girl. Just like that.”
Slowing the thrust of his hips so he can feel the tight clench of your pussy around him, the way your knees press into his waist. Fingers circling until the waves ebb, until your limbs are relaxing onto the mattress.
But his words from before, echo. Giving you ideas, your own eyes flicking down to where his barrel chest presses into yours.
“Will you let me watch, too?” You sigh, tongue peeking between your teeth as you smile at him, letting him see how your gaze slowly drags back up to meet his.
He’s still now, resting heavy in you. A rough exhale of breath as he regards your request, his own look dark and hungry.
All it takes is another “please” before he’s easing from you, shifting until his knees bracket your thighs. A hand wrapped tightly around the thick, jutting shaft of his cock, your eyes fixed on the sharp jerk of his fist.
Where he’s slick with your arousal, your release. Aiding him, as his hips flex into his grip. A groan rattling in his chest as your hand reaches to cup him, thumb stroking over the skin as you gently squeeze his sack. The other stroking his inner thigh, nails dragging over the sensitive skin.
Your name on his lips, sounding broken. Almost worshipful, as he watches you watch him. The heave of his chest as his release approaches, the flushed head of his cock disappearing beneath thick fingers.
Until he’s groaning beautifully, the sound deep and rough and loud. You eyes pulling to watch his face, the way his lips form the dirty string of curses that fall before he’s there.
Angling himself over the curve of your stomach as he comes - his release arcing to reach the underside of a breast, pooling in the valley between. Until he’s spent himself completely, until he’s marked you so thoroughly.
A look in his eye, that tells you he’s enjoyed this as much as you have. Watching, seeing you then - and then now. One that says “mine” in a way that no words are needed. You both just know.
He cleans you carefully afterwards, wiping himself from you. Lips finding yours tenderly, the words sighed out against your mouth - helplessly susceptible to your charms.
“Oh, dove. The things you do to me.”
It’s not long later, that you find yourselves back downstairs. The television dark, the last slow scrolling of the credits inching up the screen.
Considerably cozier as you fit yourself next to him, unable to help a small jest.
“You know what?” You yawn, tugging the blanket back around you again, “That might have been the best movie I’ve ever seen.”
His own long-suffering sigh, affection lacing it as his hand finds yours. Smiling, as you grab the remote.
Starting the movie over, again.