1 . Name: imstupid @ 2011-10-19 01:39

quick, porny fill from the request thread:

"Scouts Mom x opposite teams Scout.

Scenario would be something in the lines of Scouts Mom visiting the base, meeting the other teams Scout, and then rounding up with plenty interesting thoughts about how much he looks like her own handsome angel of a son but isn't really him... Then either just her fantasies or actual sex between them happens, the writer can choose which is more comfortable. "


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One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)


He had such a handsome face. Boyish, mischievous, with a glint of fight in his eyes that only a woman who raised eight boys herself could recognize- he had to have been the youngest, growing up. Only the runts get that look in their eyes, you had reminisced fondly.

But you had been thoroughly unprepared for the crackling electricity of having that glint focused on you.

It had been a blur then, a chaotic derangement of hands and sheets and clothes. Somehow, through some abysmal action too small to remember, you had ended up leaving the base and following him here to his bunk, buzzing with curiosity and guilt.

You cradle his face in your hands, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. Each skin to skin point of contact sparks with something pervasive, decadent. It is something so inherently wrong that, at that moment, you need it more than anything else. With a careful finger tip you trace his ear, chin, jaw, feeling the moment his poker-face falls and he folds into you. His expression crumples and he curls forward, a sobbing, shivering man. A poor broken boy.

You shush him softly, drawing his body to you. "It's ok" you soothe, shifting and pressing against the swell of his naked arousal. "It's ok." You gently smooth the hairs at the nape of his neck as you slowly, achingly lower yourself on to him. When was the last time he had a proper hair cut? You gasp as he thrusts up to meet you. Is he taking good care of himself? Your hips twitch involuntarily as you're fully seated in his lap, eyelids fluttering closed at the tingling spike of pleasure. He's just a baby.

He cries and reaches for you. Winding his arms around your neck, he reminds you so much of your Scout.

Your Scout, who never outgrew his mama's hugs. Who'd insist on hugs even after he was old enough to dress himself, old enough to move away, old enough to be drafted. Old enough to leave you, old enough to be pried from your arms and dropped into some foreign, faraway war zone where your outstretched arms couldn't reach him anymore. Old enough to wipe his own tears.

"Jesus, sorry, it's just.. Ya look like someone I know, s'all."

But now you have him, and he isn't Scout, but he's awful close. And it's hard to dwell on yesterday's ghosts when today is right here, warm and pink and panting in your grasp. It's too open, too raw, and you can't even pretend you don't understand exactly what he means.

"It's alright, hun. I know the feeling."

You wrap your legs around his waist and he accommodates you easily, strong arms encircling you as he stares up at you with a tear streaked face and something close to adoration. Close enough that you can easily pretend its something deeper, something much sweeter.

His hands wander, skirting around your hips and the marks on your stomach, to rest over your chest. Loosely cupping a breast in each hand he squeezes and with a gasp you arch to meet him. The action inspires a decadent ache somewhere deep inside you that is so exquisitely horrible you can only shiver and sigh. He matches each of your pants with a moan of his own, hips snapping forward faster and faster in a building rhythm. You open your mouth and you can feel the name there, heavy and slick on the tip of your tongue, and it's so close. So close.

He sniffs, attempts a crooked and watery grin.

"You love this, dontcha."

It's a statement, not a question, and normally you'd be put off by such an unabashed attempt at cockiness but something about it... something about it coming from him made it ok. He made it ok- all freckles and gap teeth and big, bright eyes. My baby's eyes. Eyes still wet, still embarrassed, still searching your face for something you couldn't place but wanted, more than anything, for him to find. "I love..." you try to respond but the words jumble and stick in your throat, too heavy to pass your lips. "I love..."

You love. You're too gone to try, anymore. You love.

He grunts, thumbing your nipples and leaning forward to press short, open mouthed kisses against one. Each kiss lasts a bit longer than the next, until they finally cease altogether as he seals his mouth against you and sucks and it's searing, painful, wonderful- and he's crying, again.

"It's ok. It's ok."

Mama's here now. Everything will be ok.