#chasing tornadoes

Long. Elegant. And inside you. Stephen’s fingers moved with purpose, vivacity. Your body moved of its own accord. Hips rutting, hands clawing at ruffled sheets, toes curling. Your body felt warm as white spots blotted out the ceiling. You were moaning, speaking, but unsure of what you said. Stephen went rigid, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he kissed you through your earth wracking orgasm.

When you came down from the high, body glistened with sweat. Stephen’s cocked brow roused something in you.

“What?” you huffed, not even attempting to make yourself modest as you watched his fingers slip out of you, slick and delicate.

“So… you really think I’m a god?”

Your eyes went large, “Wha—When? I never—stop teasing, Stephen.”

His laughter filled the room, a strange sensation settling over your chest as you fought back your own laughter.

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes. “I’ll stroke your ego, just this once. You did prove skilful with those fingers of yours.”

He stretched out his palm, holding it horizontal over your stomach. ”Steadiest hands in the business.”

You sat up on your knees, brining your lips to taste yourself on his fingers. He let out a huff, all arousal.

You made sure to draw out each syllable of your sentence, sounding raspy with desire. “We’re supposed to be having sex right now, not comparing resumes.”

He snaked his other hand around your waist and pulled you flush against him. His body was more than ready, if the heat and pulsing of his bulge were any indication. Feeling catty, you gyrated your hips against his erection, beyond satisfied at his reaction. His lips parted and his head lolled back, eyes shut, grip ironclad as he enjoyed the friction between you two.

“How rude of me,” he pulled you tighter. “Let’s rectify the situation.”

“Mmmm, let’s.”

The tension between the two of you was palpable. Hot and thick. Stephen glanced down at your lips, parted and beckoning him closer. You snaked your hips, making sure to illicit all the heady sounds you could from him.

At last, when he grunted, you let out a laugh of triumph and said, “What are you waiting for? Kiss me already.”

“Gladly!” He ravished you. Your tongue, your body and your mind were consumed by him, by his cologne clinging to your skin and his tongue worshiping yours. It was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. But two could play at that game.

 You spun round, making sure to use your strength to get Stephen under you, pinned beneath your thighs and the mattress.

“My turn,” you said, placing rough kisses along his neck and collarbone, sure to leave marks. His scent was stronger there, and you could almost smell the faintest touch of antiseptic, the smell that haunted the hospital break room and corridors. You remembered one of your earlier sex fantasies from your first days as an intern. The thought of having passion overcome logic, of having sex in a supply closet, hands pressed to mouths so you wouldn’t make a peep while the rush of daily routine and potential discovery waited behind the door. That thought got you riled up, before you knew it, you were panting—closer to moaning—and your hips moved with purpose. With need.

You leaned close to Stephen’s ear and whispered, “Tell me Stephen… tell me how you imagined this moment. How many dreams I’ve occupied. How many times you’ve touched yourself thinking about me. How—”

Stephen leaned forward, tangling his fingers by the nape of your neck, locking them into a tight pull before capturing your lips. Deftly, his free hand found your breasts and kneaded, slowly. His hips worked in tandem with yours, building that friction to a glorious sensation. You traced your fingers over his lean chest, feeling the curves and dips and softness of is physic. When he broke the kiss, you were both flushed and breathless.

“Did that answer your question?” he cocked up an eyebrow.

“Not even close,” you whined, and suddenly his hand slipped between your legs, applying pressure to your throbbing bundle of nerves. Stoking the fire.

“Enough with the delayed gratification, I need to be inside you.”

You reached for your bedside table and retrieved a condom wrapper. Biting the foil, you nudged your head at the pillows. “Lay down. It’s my turn to take control.”

A darkness flashed in Stephen’s eyes, and you swallowed. He did as you commanded, making it a show of languishing against your pillows, moving his hips so his pelvis and flat stomach rocked before your eyes. Inviting. Teasing.

Your gaze raked over his body, landing on his sizeable endowment. You smirked, ripping the foil open. “You know, I see where that cockiness comes from.”

“And I must say, I’m finding this new side of you…” his fingers trailed light patterns against your belly. “Very enticing.”

You slipped the condom on, enjoying the feel of his girth and length and curve. Savouring it by squeezing slightly, until he had to close his eyes and take in a sharp breath that trembled on its way out again.

“Good,” you said, guiding him inside you, moaning with pleasure as each inch slipped inside.

 Sex with Stephen was different. Especially in daylight, with no shadows to blanket over you. Your bodies behaved intimately, as if you’d been bygone lovers rekindling an old flame. Everything was new, his size, your motions, your responses to one another, but one thing was clear, you both fought for dominance, and you both relished in the high of it all.

 You rolled out of bed at the smell of early dinner; salt and butter. The crackling of the pan was oddly homely. It seems Stephen wasted no time getting comfortable in your apartment.

You reached for your bathrobe and realised it wasn’t on the hook. So, Stephen had no qualms borrowing your clothes either. You bit back a smile, imagining how ridiculously short your bathrobe would look on his long frame.

You left your room in an oversized t-shirt and smelled something new and bitter as you sat down on the kitchen table. Dark roast coffee.

“Making yourself at home, I see,” you laced your fingers together to rest your chin atop.

Stephen didn’t turn around, he merely hummed. It was a breezy tone. Different from the sound he made when he was thinking, or agitated. It was new. You liked that.

“You label everything, it wasn’t rocket science,” he teased.

“My, my, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you just tried to make a joke.”

Stephen grumbled something under his breath, reaching for the coffee pot to pour a healthy serving into a cup and place it in front of you. “Here, preoccupy yourself with that.”

“But you didn’t ask if I like it with cream and sugar.”

“I’m pretty sure I know exactly how you like it.” His tone was suggestive.

You blushed. Deeply. At a loss for words, you took the coffee and let the dark flavour consume you. A satisfied moan trickled up your throat. Stephen smirked, showing a little teeth. Somehow, he looked his age, for the first time since you met him. He looked comfortable.

“That is how I like it,” you nodded your head.

Stephen turned back to the stove when a framed photograph caught his eye. He pointed the flat end of the wooden spatula at it. “Is that your family?”

You glanced up, looking at the photograph of you and Irene—your sister. You were both seated on bleachers, smiling too widely at the person who was holding the camera. A partial thumbprint blurred the top left corner. Beside Irene was her husband, Rafael and their son Max—who was a carbon copy of your sister, dark curls, vibrant hazel eyes and a round jaw.

“Yeah,” you said sheepishly. “That’s my sister Irene, and her husband and son.”

“Hmmm,” Stephen hummed. He was thinking this time..

“‘Hmmm’ what?”      

“Nothing, it’s just…” his eyes narrowed. “Your bone structures are different.”

“Questioning our genealogy now?”

“Force of habit.”

“You must be great at parties,” you remarked sarcastically.

Stephen rolled his eyes, plating the food decoratively. He offered you the one with the larger helping. You played around with the food, watching him chew absentmindedly as he pretended not to find the photograph intriguing.  

“Your assumption is correct,” you took a fork full of eggs benedict. “Our facial structures aren’t similar because we’re both adopted.”

“I see,” he adjusted himself in his chair, trying to make himself appear less rigid. His eyes flicked back to Irene, and then Max. “Must be quite the age gap.”

You huffed, “Not as wide as you’d think. The city does that to some people. Ages them, I guess. Not that her job is a cake walk either.”

“Is that why you’re afraid of leaving this place, even though we both know you want more?” he cocked an eyebrow. “Afraid the big, bad city will gobble you up and spit you back out again?”

You thought of something uncouth to say, something that would sting and get him to drop this issue, but you chose to swallow that knee-jerk reaction. “And here I thought we could go five minutes without arguing,” you sighed. “Let’s not rehash this.”

He raised his hands, palms towards you. “Not arguing. Just an observation.”

There was a long pause, and most of it was filled with the ambient noises of cutlery scraping plates and the slurp of hot coffee. When you visibly relaxed, Stephen asked more questions. Simpler ones. About your college years and why you had so many festival t-shirts, and why Jan always knew everything that happened in the hospital.

Soon enough, you welcomed his inquisition. Took to telling him things easily, as if retracing the past with an old friend. It was the sort of easy interactions you shared with Mike, except you couldn’t hold Stephen’s gaze for longer than two seconds at a time. You always found an escape—the one potted plant by the window sill, Spike lounging on his floor cushion, the wind-chimes shaped like dragonflies, the spot of hollandaise sauce on the plate. Anything.

The early dinner somehow managed to stretch past actual dinner time, and the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder. You washed the dishes while Stephen dried, the conversation still going strong.

“So why neurosurgery?” you dipped your mug into the soapy water a few times before handing it to Stephen.

Ignoring your question, he glowered at your washing technique. “For the love of… I hope that’s not how you wash your hands after dealing with patients,” 

“The mug only had coffee in it.”

“Just…” he pressed his fingers to his nose. “Trade places with me.” He took the mug and swapped places with you, placing the dishcloth on your shoulder. The simple action made you shudder. He watched your movements from the corner of his eye, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “Intrigue. That’s what drew me to neurosurgery. There’s nothing quite like the human brain.”

You laughed. He frowned.

“What? Not the answer you were expecting?” he handed you a plate.

“To be honest, no. I thought you’d’ve said something more arrogant.” You emoted how you imagined Stephen would, making your voice deep and comical as you plastered on a frown: “‘Anyone can open and close the chest cavity. But the brain? That’s all about talent.’ Something like that.”

“Please,” he rolled his eyes. “A monkey could perform heart surgery.”

You snapped your fingers, “Like that, see. Nail on the head there.”

“Christine says that all the time,” he noted, before going stiff for a brief moment.

As Stephen dried the last mug, you turned to lean your back against the sink, a gnawing sensation in your stomach making you uneasy. “Do you think I’m a bad friend?”

He sighed, placing the mug gently on the rack. “Christine and I haven’t been… close in that way, not in a long time. If that’s what you mean. As for the friend part, I think only you can answer that. But I have no regrets. About today. Or all the countless nights I’ve had thinking about you.”

Your heart quickened again and you hid your blush behind your hair. Stephen lifted your chin, a sincerity to his features.

“Do you?” he asked.

“I—” you bit your lower lip. “I should. But I don’t.”

Stephen’s breath hitched. Instinctively, he closed the space between the two of you, lowering his face so his lips were inches from yours. “Good,” he whispered before stealing the air from your lungs with a fevered kiss.

“Wait…” you barely managed to get a word out as Stephen hoisted you onto the counter. “Stephen…”

He let out a satisfied grunt, “Say it again. Just like that. Say my name again.”

You didn’t mean to oblige, but when his name graced your lips again, you found it sounded even headier than before. “What are we doing?”

 “I don’t know, but it feels right,” he tightened his grip around your hips as he kissed your neck.

“We shouldn’t,” you panted. “Once was a mistake, we can get away with saying that. But if we do this… again… that complicates things. We both know you don’t do complicated.”

He smirked, biting at the tender flesh he’d just finished sucking on. “Neither do you.”

“But—”

He sealed your lips with a greedier kiss. His stubble leaving red marks across your jaw. “Tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.” He hunkered lower to kiss down your sternum, his free hand rolling a taut nipple between thumb and finger. “Today, let me just have this. Have you.”

You let out a moan and somewhere behind the heat of your ears, you heard Spike drop the last flower pot. You didn’t care, you just wanted Stephen. Near you. Above you. Inside you. Again.

“Okay,” you mewled, lacing your fingers through his hair. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed as he lifted your shirt and got on his knees, pleasantly thrilled to find you weren’t wearing underwear. He licked his lips, looking up at you as if you were the sun, and said: “You’re so frustratingly beautiful, you know that?”

“You’re not so bad yourself, doctor.”

Stephen’s smile turned wolfish. “Call me that again.”

“I’d be happy to, doctor.”  

Sparks flew, a continuous stream of electricity making your toes curl and your fingers feel static. You and Stephen had ignited something in each other. Something beyond the sex. And both of you were afraid of how raw it was. Every time Stephen called your name, your heart found new ways to react. For the first time in a long time, you felt warm. Wanted. Beautiful.

Today you were his. And he was yours. Tomorrow be damned.

tags: @raindancer2004​ @captaincutebutt​ @demonstracija​ @melisssaa​

“Oh, you’re right, boy,” you plopped next to Spike on the couch. “I don’t have work today.” You slipped out of your work trousers and lounged about for a hot, undecided minute in nothing but the oversized festival t-shirt you wore to bed and your koala print underwear.

Spike growled again, his long tail knocking over a small flower pot. You rolled your eyes, “Right, breakfast, you utter flower fiend.”

Your cellphone rang. Caller ID registered it was the hospital. You turned to Spike, “Maybe they need me back after all.”

You cleared your throat twice before answering, “Hel—”

“Child,” Jan’s chipper tone came racing through your phone’s speaker. She had that whisper-shout octave that told you she was using the receptionist phone for personal reasons. “What have you done to this poor man?”

“Who?” You leaned onto the couch, Spike clawed his way off the couch arms and stomped all over your stomach, reminding you of the alcohol nausea. “Oof, Spike, ow.”

“Stephen, who else?” Jan continued. “He’s been walking about with a permanent scowl all morning. Never seen him look so…constipated. Is it true you two went to Gloria’s last night?”

“How on earth do you know everything that goes on in this town?” You let out an impressed huff.

“Tiny told me,” Jan said. “Well, actually, Tiny told his sister Tina. And Tina’s church buddies with my niece Francis, and she told the group chat. Did you know Tiny’s had the biggest crush on you since the New Year’s party last year? Poor guy. Think he’s seeing someone over a dating app or something. Can’t keep up.”

“There’s a group chat?” You scoffed. “Why am I not part of it?”

“Because you don’t like my cornbread,” Jan retorted. “Anyway, the real reason I called was because my neighbour—Ed—would like to set a date.”

“A date?” Your eyes went wide. Then you felt guilty for not calling Teddy back. Why is dating so hard?

“So you can talk about his Prius?”

“Oh, shit, yes. That kinda date….” You stood up to look at your day planner on the kitchen table. “Umm, next week Thurs—hang on, what am I saying, I don’t have work. I’m free all week.”

“I’ll let him know,” before she hung up, Jan added. “Oh and wear anything with bees on it. He’s into honey farming and bee conservation. May bump down the price if you schmooze him a little.”

“Thanks, Jan. I owe you.”

“Big time.”

The line went dead and you sighed. Spike stepped on your toes, another growl for attention coming from his mouth.

As you sliced up a banana into Spike’s bowl, your doorbell went off. You looked at the wall clock in your kitchen, chewing the inside of your cheek in thought. Everyone you knew was probably at work.

“Who could that be?” You set Spike’s bowl down and the lizard chewed like a baby with no teeth. Without thinking to get decent, you opened the door to a very flustered looking Stephen Strange. He held up the tray of take-out coffee up to his eye-line, but his lips quirked into a secret smirk.

“Stephen—What?—Why?—You should be at the hospital,” you blurted in surprise.

“I—uh—felt like we’d need to…discuss certain—uh…” He cleared his throat. “Would you mind putting pants on?”

“Pants? What…” you looked down at your exposed thighs and blushed. “Pants! Right, yeah, come in. Sit anywhere you like…Errr, just don’t try and pet Spike, he bites strangers.”

“Your son bites people? Can’t say I’m entirely surprised…” Stephen raised a brow as he shrugged his coat off and placed the coffee tray on a table. “Isn’t it a school day?”

“Spike’s not that kind of son,” you shouted out from your bedroom.

“Ouch,” Stephen took a sharp inhale, waving his hand about as if he’d been burned. You went rushing into the kitchen.

“Spike get back here and apologise,” you said to the Iguana. Spike waddled away before you could scold him as blood dropped from Stephen’s finger.

Stephen glared at you with a look of disbelief, “Your son is a fat lizard?”

You bit back a laugh as you placed Stephen’s hand under running water in the sink. “Don’t worry, he’s rabies-free. But if you develop a sudden, unexplained dislike of water, let me know.” You quipped.

Stephen rolled his eyes at you. It didn’t escape your notice that he wasn’t as rigid around you as before. Even with his hand in yours under the rushing faucet.

“So what are you doing here?” You asked. “On a workday no less.”

“It’s a small town, managed to finish my rounds early. Turns out there aren’t that many brain injury cases to deal with,” he chuckled lowly. Your heart picked up its pace. “Besides, I wasn’t getting much done. Too distracted thinking about the…”

You turned to look at him, “The what?”

Stephen’s eyes lingered on your lips for a fraction of a second before he pulled away, “Thinking about your total lack of professionalism yesterday.”

You scoffed, “Yeah, well you deserved it.” You reached up for a cabinet overhead and pulled some emergency plasters from a hiking first aid kit you’d forgotten to put away.

“Here,” you handed him the plaster. He took it sheepishly, making it a point so his fingers never came in contact with yours.

“Listen,” he began peeling off the waxy plastic of the plaster. “Last night, I don’t know what you were thinking—Probably weren’t thinking with all those vodka-lime’s you downed—but I’m not here to be anybody’s, Dr Grey—”

You laughed, “Dr Grey?”

“Yes, from that medical drama series that you and Christine used to watch in college,” Stephen looked up at you as if you grew a third eye.

“You mean Derek Shepard? Because—and no offence—I don’t really think you have the…spunk to be Meredith.”

“Does it matter if the analogy sticks?”

“What’s this analogy implying?”

Stephen took a step closer, his voice going deadly sharp, “That I’m not here to get tangled up in any romantic…drivel.”

“Good,” you smirked and Stephen cocked his head to the side. “Because I never took you for the romantic type.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” you riffled through the bread tin and asked over your shoulder: “Bagel?”

“What?” Stephen’s vein by his temple was beginning to throb, hands akimbo.

You took out the cream cheese from the fridge and smeared some over the ready sliced bagel, “You brought coffee, I’m asking if you want a bagel to go with it…on your way out of my apartment?”

“Think I’ll just have the coffee, thanks,” there was heat beneath his words, no sincerity as he strode over to the tray of coffee.

“You know where the door is. Unless you’re so far up your own ass you need someone to guide you out,” you bit back, feeling petty.

Stephen turned on his heel, finger pointing at you, “You think you’re so high and mighty. Looking down on me because I actually have aspirations I want to chase. So what if I’m ambitious? It’s miles better than being some doe-eyed fellow who passed on their chance at a residency because they’re too scared of the big, bad city.”

You gasped, eyes going wide. How did he know that?

“Yeah, I ran into Arlene during my rounds. She’s quite the talker when not fumbling with paperwork like a little mouse,” Stephen huffed, dropping his coffee cup on the table. Some of it spilled and burned his hand, but he kept a good poker face. “So don’t go acting as if you being here is because you’re some sort of bleeding-heart when you and I both know you’re just scared. Ever since I came into town, I’ve just been a constant reminder of the future you’re too scared to want to want!”

“You really are a piece of work aren’t you?” You folded your arms over your chest to hide the fact they were shaking. “And you wonder why no one sticks around, what with your terrible bedside manner and arrogant as fuck personality—waltzing about like you own every hospital and know all there is to know about how the world works.” You poked his chest several times. “Well, fuck you, your obnoxious brain and that high horse you rode on.”

“Fuck me?” Stephen raked a rough hand through his hair, cheeks going red. “Fuck you!”

“Fuck me?” You craned your head back. “No, fuck you!”

You poked him even harder and Stephen grabbed your hand to stop your index finger from bombarding his sore chest. He tugged and you were pulled in.

Breath hot against each other’s cheeks. Lips mere centimetres away. A flush set on both your cheeks.

Then, without warning, he kissed you and there was nothing delicate or chaste about it. It wasn’t like the innocent little make-out session you’d shared on your doorstep. This was different, full of pent up tension and the heat of the argument. It was rough and fast and demanding. Soon, you were clawing at each other’s clothes as you led Stephen into your bedroom.