WhiskeyGhoul

It is with frivolity that he ambles around your sun-flooded room as the morning ripens and swells with warmth, and the great concrete gorges of the city of New York lie imposing and bleak-gray against the low-hanging skies. Rivers of car noise flow unhurried along the avenue, gurgling with intermittent horn hiccups and engine hisses, but it’s muted, sluggish, fading in the air laden with dust and slumber not quite shaken off yet. An eggshell of peace, easily cracked and peeled off; a halt of time between the first alarm and the next, when minutes stretch their limbs like drowsy cats yet seem to fly over your head just as swiftly as a flock of canaries. This wonderfully placid hour of gold, the one you’d keep sleeping through, none the wiser, if not for the promise of a vision that has become the favorite of your routine. A dark blue ink stain against the oranges that paint your mornings — a man basking in the sun’s glory in front of the window.

Before your half-lidded eyes Kurt is bare and candid. A stolen sliver of dusk given form and seemingly for the sole purpose of bewitching impressionable lasses such as yourself. He's all litheness and supple flesh, woven of lax muscle, adorned with ridges and grooves, and as he flexes his neck with a stifled groan, the indigo sea of his pelt moves in languid waves, sheen rippling across the expanse of his back. He yawns, cracks his joints, twists his tail in a mock show of checking its mobility; leisured poise softens every move in a manner that speaks of deliberateness: he knows you are awake and mesmerized by the tango of shadows and morning light on his body.

And who wouldn’t be when the dishevelment of his fur draws a map of your night rendezvous?

Shoulder blades splay like wings — between them furrows of raked hairs mark your nails' trail in a broken line. Your gaze climbs down the soft crest running along his spine, travels past the ravines of his waist and the slopes of his hips, slides across delicate hollows that shape his buttocks, and lingers for a moment too long in the canyon of his mighty thighs. There, beneath the crease of folded skin, shadows lurk, veiling his flesh in a display of modesty of sorts — as feigned as it could be, for the taste of him still coats your tongue in a musky tang, strangely soothing in its bitterish familiarity. You do not hurry to breathe with your mouth, savoring, keeping it in, smeared on the inside of your cheeks.

When you inhale, it’s through your nose, a barely there flutter of air that could have been a rustle of curtains caught in the breeze to anyone else but the man before you. You inhale, the chemical scent of clean sheets swallowed by the fragrant, rain-washed smell of August withering in its cage of brick and glass, and Kurt turns away from the window. Gold outlines the confident, sharp edges of his profile as if attempting to confine the darkness that clings to his features in a half-mask. 

Tufts of clumped hair — held together by the remnants of your joined pleasure — frame the curve of his belly and seduce your eye like bold criss-crosses that lead to hidden prizes. His pose is open and blunt, uninhibited with confidence that only comes to those whose soul thrives in its shell, tail coiling and uncoiling in a hypnotizing dance, and a stray glimpse at the shadow-draped softness weighing between his thighs is enough to make you blink away any drowsiness that still lingered.

“Ah, guten Morgen, Dornröschen." Kurt’s voice is a chime, and the settled mischievous coquetry in it rings muted just a tad by unconcealed fondness.

The sun rests its slim palms on the width of his shoulders, running its fingers through his fur, and every hair of it is swathed in gossamer gild. Thick honey of daybreak poured into the blue milk of midnight — like a minuscule solar eclipse. Here he is, standing in front of your window, the light a cloak behind his back and a crown atop his head, and you know not in whose image the Lord could have created such a being, but whoever he was, he was fucking ethereal.

Words are slow to brew in your mouth, so you respond with a stretch of your arms instead. The strain is warm in your muscles, and as you sit up, the duvet slides down helplessly, bunching up at your waist, and the sigil of Kurt’s gaze is almost as tangibly hot on your bared breasts as the fondle of the sun’s hand. His breath doesn’t quite catch, but the flexion of his tail betrays the interest just as plainly. An involuntary little flick up and down — a mental caress born of muscle memory. The shadows swirling between his thighs can’t hide the faint twitch, and you can’t shoo away the smugness from your grin. Two can play at that game.

“Guten Morgen auch dir, Prinz Charming," you sing-song, and Kurt snorts, stepping away from the window.

It is with confidence that he moves around your room, shameless like a cat spoiled rotten, and flakes of dust caught in the golden net float up, disturbed by the movement. His dark figure is a cutout of space amidst the jumble of old furniture you never got around to throwing away and sentimental trinkets, yet your tiny apartment in the heart — or rather in the atrium — of New York City has never felt more like home, this welcomed unearthliness slotting into its dull mundanity like a missing puzzle piece. 

Lumps of the tight suit lay cold and crumpled on the floor like patches of shed skin; you watch, head tilted to shoulder in lazy curiosity, as Kurt bends to pick them up and toss them on the chair for later, and the sight of the frizzy fur of his ass is the most tantalizing.

Somewhere in the hallway, one floor above, a front door slams shut, and your ceiling vibrates with the sheer impact of it. Kurt eyes the plaster, cracked enough as it is, and notes with mischievous casualness, “I believe we gave your neighbors quite a headache last evening, Schatzi."

"Headache" would be an understatement. At this point the scandalized side-eyes during elevator rides barely even scald your face with embarrassment, although at first you forced yourself to take the stairs every morning for two weeks straight. Mind-blowing sex and thin walls of American apartment complexes do not mix well, and to everyone else’s misfortune, Kurt is an amazing lover.

You groan.

“We did, yet it is I who will have to apologize to poor Mrs. Tuffin. Again.”

Kurt only chuckles at that — the carefree posture of someone who is not obliged to face a sweet elderly dame next door with a surprisingly keen ear for her age every Sunday. His smile is a scimitar unsheathed, a sharp blade to your poor heart, and the shadows on his face move and fold into lovely crinkles around his mouth. Oh, how shallow your indignation runs for this sly devil, and he knows it all too well, treading in its waters without a worry in that blue head of his.

He makes it to the doorway, an open maw where the sun doesn’t reach, and you call for him in hesitation as well as acceptance.

“You could always come with me, you know. She bakes great wafers”.

Kurt stops momentarily and something smolders in his gaze.

“I’m sure I’m missing out on the fun, Liebling, but you know I can’t." He lingers for another second and offers like a consolation, “I can make breakfast, though. Your favorite, what say you?”

He winks and casts off his golden mantle as the dark hallway swallows the outline of his body, and you swallow your disappointment. 

He may not stay as long as you’d want — he barely ever does — but you know he tries to for as long as he can allow. And you know that when, unconcerned with covering yourself, you follow his trail into the cramped kitchen, he will be dancing to some ditty he heard on the TV a few nights back, tail swishing along the whole humble length of the room; that he will use it to pull you closer, your nakedness warm and yielding against his own, and that one of his hands will travel. You know his lips will be creamy with butter, tingly with the fizz of laughter, but just in a matter of half an hour, when the indigo is hidden underneath scarlet and black and the gold is faded pale, they will taste of bitter coffee with one sugar cube and tender oaths.

And you know that one evening — not this one, perhaps not even the next, but some evening — you will walk into your apartment, looming with shadows, dull with quietness, and the bathroom door will be left ajar, just enough for a strip of light to dash the darkness. Inviting wordlessly. And Kurt will be there, a tang of iron dusting the air, exhaustion fogging the crescents of his eyes, yet the sharpness of his smile not blunted and the ambiguity of his pose not concealed with discomfort. You won’t remember who reached out first, but the yearning will run through your fingers in a tremble that will hinder unbuttoning your blouse and make you pull a little too harshly on his hair. He will press himself against you, fur to skin, soothing, warm with rushing blood, and the breathy chuckles will make your skin prickle with adoration. With anticipation of yet another of your personal solar eclipses.

He may not stay as long as you’d want, but you know that he will always come back to you.

Alright venting time. I read and reread this piece so many times, yet I'm still not satisfied with it and I don't think I'll ever be. It was supposed to be a collection of different situations where Kurt is not, quote, "abashed of being naked around you" because we all know he is a freak, but halfway there it transformed into something else entirely, so yeah. I don't like it at all, but I do like the image of butt-naked Kurt walking around my room so I had to get it out of my system in a form of a text that was at least coherent and legible. It's a clumsy attempt but an attempt nonetheless, so that's what counts right?

Anyway I apologize for any grammatical, syntactic, and punctuation errors or any weird phrases, given that I'm not a native English speaker. Constructive criticism is always welcomed.

© credits to all the original owners of the photos.

it’s quick the first time, just a flicker, barely anything, the kind of glance she could probably deny if she really wanted to. then it happens again, slower, her eyes lingering near your chest before lifting back to your face like nothing happened.

by the third time, she isn’t as subtle as she thinks she is, and there’s something almost delicious about watching someone so composed get ruined by the shape of your boobs beneath fabric.

your shirt doesn’t hide enough, not really. it stretches softly across your chest, the fabric resting over the swell of your boobs and shifting whenever you breathe. you’re not sure whether it’s the cold kitchen air or emily’s attention that makes your nipples tighten, but either way, the reaction is obvious enough that her eyes catch on it instantly.

she sees the little peaks pressing against your shirt. she sees the way your chest rises a little harder when you notice her looking. she sees the way your body gives you away before you can decide whether you want to tease her for it.

and the longer she stares, the more aware you become of every inch of yourself, your boobs feeling warm and sensitive beneath the thin fabric, your pussy already starting to feel wet between your thighs.

you stop mid-sentence, letting the silence settle between you with purpose, and emily only realizes something is wrong when your voice cuts off completely. her eyes snap back up too fast, sharp and guilty despite the calm expression she tries to arrange over her face.

“what?” she asks, and it would almost be convincing if her voice didn’t come out lower than before, rougher at the edges, like she had been thinking about something entirely different from what you were saying.

you raise an eyebrow, staring at her while she holds your gaze with the stubbornness of a woman who refuses to confess without being cornered. the pause stretches.

her thumb strokes once along the stem of her wine glass, a tiny little tell that makes heat curl low in your stomach. then you ask, “were you even listening to me?”

emily’s mouth curves into that smooth, dangerous smile, the one she uses when she knows she’s been caught but hasn’t decided whether she wants to admit it yet.

“of course i was,” she says, far too easily. you stare at her. she stares back. then, like her body betrays her before her pride can stop it, her gaze drops again, dragging right back to your chest for one brief, shameless second.

when she looks up this time, there’s no saving it, and the faintest flush rises across her cheekbones. you laugh, quiet and disbelieving, and emily exhales through her nose like she’s irritated with herself more than with you.

“don’t start,” she says, but there’s no bite in it, no real warning, just that low velvet tone that makes your thighs press together.

“you’re staring,” you say, and the words come out softer than you meant them to. emily sets her wine glass down with a quiet click, slow and deliberate, like she’s making a choice. “i know,” she says. not defensive. not embarrassed. just honest enough to make your breath catch.

the simple admission changes the air between you completely, taking the conversation from playful to charged so fast it leaves you warm all over. she doesn’t move toward you yet, which somehow makes it worse. she just stands there, eyes darker now, letting herself look at you openly, and the weight of her attention feels almost physical, like her hands are already on your skin.

you step closer because you can’t help yourself, because there’s something addictive about watching emily’s composure fray in real time. her gaze dips again, slower now that the pretense is gone, and her lips part just slightly when your chest rises with your breath.

she notices everything. the way your boobs shift beneath your shirt, soft and full enough to pull her attention down again. the way your nipples are hard now, straining against the fabric like your body is begging for her mouth before you even say a word.

the way your thighs press together because your pussy feels slick already, warm and wet and aching from nothing more than being watched by her.

“you wore that on purpose,” she says quietly, and it sounds less like an accusation than a confession of weakness. you tell her you didn’t, but your voice is already thinner than it should be, already giving too much away. emily’s smile turns knowing, almost cruel in how soft it is.

“maybe not consciously,” she says, and her eyes drop again, taking in the way the shirt clings to the rounded weight of your boobs. her attention makes your skin prickle.

it makes your nipples tighten further, your stomach flutter, your pussy throb with that slow, needy pulse of arousal. the dampness between your thighs is impossible to ignore now, your underwear clinging wetly against you every time you shift.

her hand lifts slowly, giving you every chance to pull away even though both of you know you won’t. she touches your waist first, fingertips light through your shirt, dragging up your side in a patient line that makes your stomach tighten.

she’s watching your face now, because emily likes proof. she likes seeing the way your lips part, the way your breath catches, the way your eyes flutter when her thumb brushes just beneath the curve of your boob.

the contact is barely anything, just the edge of a touch, but it makes your whole body feel too warm. your boobs feel heavy and sensitive under her attention, your nipples aching for more pressure, and your pussy gives another wet little pulse like it knows exactly where this is going.

“emily,” you warn, but it comes out more like a plea. she hums, innocent and unbearable, letting her thumb skim a little higher until she’s brushing over you through the thin fabric.

the pressure makes your breath hitch, especially when her thumb grazes the hardened peak of your nipple. your body reacts instantly, your back arching just enough to press more of your chest into her hand.

emily sees it. of course she sees it. her eyes darken like the sight of you getting needy from one touch is almost enough to ruin her by itself.

“what?” she asks, like she didn’t just spend an entire conversation staring at you. you open your mouth to answer, but she kisses you before you can say a damn thing.

at first, it’s controlled, warm, almost teasing, her lips moving against yours with the kind of patience that makes you ache. then your fingers curl into the front of her blouse, pulling her closer, and something in her restraint gives.

the kiss turns deeper fast, her body pressing yours back against the counter until the edge digs into your lower back. her hands slide to your waist, then up, slow and deliberate, as if she’s giving herself permission inch by inch. when she finally cups your chest over your shirt, her palm warm and firm around your boob, you gasp against her mouth.

the sound does something to her. you feel it in the way she groans softly, in the way her fingers tighten, in the way her kiss gets rougher for one messy second before she reins herself in again. her hand fits over you like she’s been thinking about it for ages, squeezing gently at first, then with more confidence when your body melts into the touch.

your boob feels soft and full in her palm, your nipple hard against the fabric, every slow press of her fingers sending sparks down your stomach. your pussy feels wetter by the second, slick gathering between your folds, warm enough that you can feel it soaking into your underwear.

“i was trying to be respectful,” she says against your lips. you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as her mouth drags to your jaw. “you failed.”

“miserably,” she says, and then she kisses down your neck like she wants to prove it. her mouth is hot and slow, lips dragging over your pulse, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips push forward without thinking.

one hand stays on your chest, kneading through the fabric, while the other settles at your lower back and pulls you closer until there’s barely any space left between you.

she’s still composed in pieces, still careful, still attentive, but there’s hunger underneath it now, dark and obvious and impossible to ignore. every touch feels deliberate, like she’s been thinking about your boobs under her hands for longer than she wants to admit.

when her thumb rubs over your nipple through your shirt, your knees nearly weaken, and emily’s mouth curves against your skin.

“that sensitive?” she asks, voice low enough to make you shiver. you try to answer, but she does it again, firmer this time, rolling your nipple beneath her thumb until a soft, broken sound slips out of you.

the pleasure goes straight between your thighs, making your pussy clench around nothing. you can feel how wet you are now, how slick and swollen everything feels, how badly your body wants more pressure.

emily pulls back just enough to look at you, and the expression on her face is devastating. smug, affectionate, starving. like she wants to tease you for falling apart so quickly and kiss you for it at the same time.

“you have no idea how distracting you are,” she says, her eyes dropping again, shameless now. “standing there, talking to me like i’m supposed to focus, wearing this little thing like i’m not only human.” heat rushes through you so fast it leaves you dizzy.

you tell her she should have said something, but the words barely survive the way she’s touching you. emily’s fingers hook under the hem of your shirt, slow enough to make anticipation crawl over your skin.

“i was trying to behave,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice now. “clearly, that was a mistake.” then she lifts your shirt, waiting just long enough for your nod before pulling it up and off you completely.

the fabric drops somewhere near your feet, forgotten immediately, because emily is staring again. only this time there’s nothing between her eyes and your bare skin, nothing to soften the way her composure cracks wide open.

your boobs are exposed to her completely now, warm and soft, rising with your uneven breaths. your nipples are hard from the cool air and from the way she’s looking at you, tight little peaks that make her eyes go darker the longer she stares.

the silence that follows feels filthy in itself. emily looks at your chest like she’s been handed something sacred and obscene, her eyes moving over the fullness of you slowly, taking in the curve, the softness, the way your body is already reacting for her.

her hands settle on you carefully at first, palms sliding over your ribs before she cups both of your boobs with a reverence that makes your throat tighten. then her thumbs brush over your nipples, and the soft moan that leaves you makes her inhale sharply.

your boobs feel almost too sensitive beneath her hands, heavy and warm and aching as she squeezes them with slow, possessive pressure. she watches the way they fit in her palms, the way your nipples stiffen under her thumbs, the way your whole body arches when she touches you just right.

“pretty,” she says, almost under her breath. then, rougher, like the word isn’t enough, “fuck, you’re so pretty.” and before you can even process the way her voice has changed, she lowers her mouth to you.

the first touch of her lips against your boob is slow enough to be cruel. she kisses around your nipple first, soft open-mouthed presses that leave damp warmth behind, while her hand kneads the other boob with steady, possessive pressure.

you can feel how badly she wants to rush, how much effort it takes for her to take her time, and somehow that makes it worse. when her tongue finally flicks over your nipple, your back arches off the counter, and emily makes a quiet sound like she’s pleased with herself.

she does it again, dragging her tongue over the sensitive peak before closing her lips around it. the suction is gentle at first, teasing, but when your fingers slide into her hair and pull, she groans against you and sucks harder.

your whole body reacts to her mouth. heat pools between your legs, slick and insistent, every slow pull of her lips sending another pulse of want through you.

your pussy feels soaked now, wet enough that your underwear clings uncomfortably to you, every shift making the damp fabric rub against your swollen clit. emily knows exactly what she’s doing, and worse, she’s paying attention to every single reaction. when you gasp,

she repeats the motion. when your hips twitch, her hand tightens at your waist. when your fingers tug at her hair, she looks up at you with your nipple still in her mouth, eyes dark and smug and completely ruinous.

the eye contact makes you throb. it makes you feel exposed in the best way, like she can tell exactly how wet you’re getting without needing to touch you there yet. your boobs rise and fall beneath her mouth, one wet from her tongue, the other held firmly in her hand while she rolls your nipple between her fingers.

you feel warm everywhere, flushed and sensitive, your pussy pulsing with every drag of her mouth. there’s a slick ache between your thighs now, needy and impossible to ignore, and the worst part is that emily can tell.

she can tell from your breathing. from the way your thighs keep squeezing together. from the way your hips keep shifting like your body is trying to find friction all on its own.

“this is why i wasn’t listening,” she says against your skin, lips brushing damply over your boob as she speaks. “you were talking, and all i could think about was this.” her hand slides down your stomach as she says it, fingers spreading over the soft, warm skin there before dipping lower.

she doesn’t rush, because emily is a menace when she knows you want something. she kisses across your chest, giving the other boob the same slow attention, tongue circling before she sucks your nipple into her mouth.

your thighs press together, desperate for friction, and she notices immediately. of course she notices. emily prentiss notices everything.

her hand slips between your thighs over your clothes, pressing just enough to make your breath break. “there it is,” she whispers, like she’s found the answer to a question she already knew. your hips roll into her touch, needy and automatic, and she smiles against your chest before kissing lower, then back up again.

she keeps one hand on your boob while the other rubs slow, firm pressure between your legs, not enough to give you what you need, just enough to make you ache for more. it’s maddening. it’s perfect.

you’re hot everywhere, trembling against the counter while emily takes you apart with her mouth, her hands, and that steady, devastating focus she usually saves for interrogations.

“you’re soaked, aren’t you?” she asks softly, and the way she says it makes your stomach flip. not mocking exactly, but pleased. deeply pleased. your pussy throbs at the words, wet and swollen beneath your underwear, and you hate that she can feel how hard you react through the layers between her hand and your body.

you try to glare at her, but it falls apart the second she presses her palm against you again, firmer this time. “all because i got caught staring?” she continues, her voice warm with amusement. “or because you wanted me to?” you say her name, half warning and half surrender, and emily’s smile turns downright wicked.

she kisses your nipple once more, slow and open-mouthed, then lifts her head to look at you properly. “tell me to stop,” she says, and the softness of it hits just as hard as the hunger.

because beneath all the teasing, beneath the dark eyes and the greedy hands, she’s still emily. still careful with you. still waiting for you to choose her back.

you shake your head, already breathless, already ruined enough that pride feels pointless. “don’t stop.” emily’s expression changes at that, something hot and tender flickering across her face before she kisses you again.

this time, there’s no pretending either of you are going back to the conversation. she kisses you like she’s done being patient, mouth deep and hungry while her hands move over you with more confidence. she palms your chest, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re making soft, helpless noises into her mouth.

every sound seems to pull her further under, making her touch rougher, her breathing heavier, her body press harder against yours. she slips one thigh between yours and lets you grind against her, just once, just enough to make you shudder.

the pressure against your soaked pussy makes you gasp into her mouth, your wet underwear dragging over your clit in a way that sends a sharp pulse of pleasure through you.

“good girl,” she whispers against your mouth, and the praise goes straight through you. she feels the way you react, feels the tiny jerk of your hips, and her smile is slow and knowing. “oh,” she says softly. “you liked that.”

you don’t answer, because answering would mean admitting how badly those two words affected you, and emily already knows anyway. she kisses down your throat again, her mouth returning to your chest like she can’t stay away from it now that she’s allowed to touch. her tongue traces over your nipple before she sucks it back into her mouth, her hand sliding lower to keep pressure between your legs.

the combination makes you dizzy. your boobs feel swollen and sensitive under her mouth and hands, your nipples slick from her tongue, your skin hot everywhere she touches.

your pussy feels even wetter now, slick spreading messily into your underwear, your clit aching from the pressure of her thigh and the teasing rub of her palm. every time you grind down, the damp fabric drags against you, and every time you make a sound, emily’s mouth gets greedier.

your fingers tighten in her hair, your head tipping back, your body trapped between the counter and the warm, relentless weight of her attention. emily looks completely gone now, composed mask finally cracked, replaced by something hungry and intimate and almost reverent.

and the worst part is, she still manages to sound controlled when she leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “next time you want my attention,” she whispers, her hand squeezing your boob again while her thigh presses between yours, “just wear this.”

your laugh breaks into a moan when she moves against you, slow and deliberate. “or don’t,” she adds, voice dipping darker. “i seem to get distracted either way.”