Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/6075921.

Rating:
Mature
Archive Warning:
Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category:
F/M
Fandom:
Bates Motel (2013)
Relationship:
Norma Bates/Alex Romero
Character:
Norma Bates, Alex Romero
Additional Tags:
Oral Sex, Sex, Love, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Light Bondage
Stats:
Published: 2016-02-21 Words: 2407

Lazarus

by

Summary

An extension of the end scene in my one-shot Doomed in the End. [A Normero mini-shot. Rated M for sexual content. PWP. For Beth and Ariane, who initially suggested it, and Grave, whom requested the original.]

Like Lazarus, I thought.

Alex Romero, back from near-death. My private miracle.

Impossible to think that mere days ago I watched him sleep, sedated and bruised, a mess of broken bones and fragility. How close I’d come to losing the man I’d thought nigh immortal.

The man who now held his hand around my throat, firm but not squeezing, and pressed his mouth to my ear to whisper, “Norma, I want you to beg for it,” as if I hadn’t heard him the first time.

He’d covered me with his flannel shirt, so that his chest lay bare against my back but my shoulders remained warm. A sweet acknowledgment of something I’d made passing mention of in conversation. And he, being the sort of man I’d always known him to be, locked that detail away for future care. Predictable.

Loving, and singular, but predictable.

“Do you understand?” he asked when I didn’t immediately comply with his command. His fingers tightened just enough that breathing became intentional and oxygen precious. I felt the gentle graze of teeth on the back of my neck, the scuff of his unshaven chin against my skin when he bit down. Not hard, not painful, no, none of that. Merely control.

And, for a reason I couldn’t quite pinpoint, it made me giggle.

Instantly, he grew still above me. Hand on my throat, mouth on the back of my neck, but utterly unmoving. I could practically feel the concern radiating off him, a barrage of silent questions trying to ascertain what, precisely, the problem was. But then my laughter dimmed, and I pushed my hips back against his groin as a form of silent encouragement, and I felt him relax against me.

“Always a smart ass,” he whispered. A low voice, calm but somehow heated, and maybe even a little dangerous; the very sound of it twisted my stomach into knots, every nerve from the neck down suddenly hot, buzzing with electricity.

I wanted to speak but the words caught in my throat. I managed his name, quiet and semi-mangled in the heat of the moment, but he tightened his grip and leaned in close and whispered, “be quiet” and “hold still” in such a way that I was neither quiet nor still, but trembling suddenly and murmuring his name like a desperate, aching prayer.

Only vaguely aware of a draft, the sound of fabric on skin; by the time I realized my shoulders were bare he had my wrists tied securely to the headboard with the flannel shirt, sleeves knotted up tight. More effective than cuffs.

“Alex, what’re you…?” I tried to look over my shoulder, but his hand was on my chin in a flash, mouth still against my ear when he whispered:

“Keep your eyes forward.”

“Alex,” I said, softly, “don’t be so demanding. I just want to know—”

The sound hit me before the sensation; a sharp, startling slap on the ass. More bark than bite, as they say, the pain (if you could even call it that) a tinge of a sting, but the clap of palm to skin reverberating around the room, and the heft of his voice following, solid like a second impact, so that I shivered with each word, whatever I’d intended to say consumed by him.

“I said be quiet. And,” he broke off mid-sentence to reach above me, check the security of my bonds with a couple of firm tugs, and then kiss his way down the straight of my spine until he reached my tailbone and I felt the tip of his tongue trace lightly along the band of my panties, “keep your eyes forward.”

Part of me wanted to protest. No matter that my heart was beating so fast I could hear it in-between each breath, feel it pounding in every pulse point. Some essential, combative, possibly obnoxious piece of me wanted to turn around, and glare, and give him some rambling, indignant, you’re-not-the-boss-of-me speech.

Sure, my thighs trembled and my knees felt weak and every time I felt him move, even just slightly, I held my breath and lightly tugged on my restraints, but still.

Stop playing the cop, I wanted to say. Don’t be so: demanding dominant controlling overwhelming extraordinary intoxicating.

But then the tips of his fingers ghosted over the curve of my ass, and I felt his mouth dip low, trailing along the line of my panties where hip met groin, and then a slightly-pained sigh (still bruised, still tender; I’d almost forgotten in the haze of it all) as he shifted position, until finally he stretched out on his back on the mattress, his head settled just-so beneath my hips.

“Alex,” I started to say again, despite his demand that I remain silent, because it was alarming being this vulnerable, this exposed. On my knees, hands outstretched and tied in front of me, naked save for the panties, with his head between my thighs? I felt the flush of it—a mixture of thrill and embarrassment—spark up through every vein until my cheeks felt uncomfortably warm; I didn’t need a mirror to tell me I was blushing. “Alex, please—”

I felt the heat of his tongue through the cloth a few seconds before his hands ran up the length of my thighs, over the curve of my hips. Whatever I’d been about to say lost the moment his mouth found my body.

Little sensation through the fabric, just the heat and teasing, here-and-there pressure, his lips and chin and cheek nuzzling against me; like a cat, I thought, affectionate and sensual and slow, marking me, scenting me, claiming me.

More intimate than erotic, at least until his fingers slipped under the sides of my panties, rolled the material into a makeshift rope, and before I could speak or moan or ask what, exactly, he was doing, I felt the cloth glide back and forth between my lips and up and over my clit, and then there was nothing. Nothing to say, or do, or ask, just my mouth falling open and my eyes drifting shut and my head falling forward while my hips rocked against my will. Slowly at first, shock colliding with arousal, and then faster, led by the rhythm he set, grinding myself against the fabric and whimpering in appreciation of his creativity and skill.

Only when I felt the pressure of his mouth again—and texture, this time, the smooth silk of his tongue and the inside of his bottom lip—clamping gently around my clit, drawing it against his tongue, suckling in time with the constant back-and-forth stroke of the panties did I let myself moan. Fully, and properly, the end of it trailing off into his name.

He echoed back, a soft warm sound in the back of his throat, the vibration trailing up through his lips and my flesh while I writhed above him. And he kept echoing those soft, warm sounds as I writhed above him, my breath hitching with each passing second, every inch of my body alive and swollen and sweat-drenched, as if my organs and bones were too big for my skin and the temperature in the room had, somehow, shot up into the low nineties.

The crest of it built slowly: at first an easy, tolerable heat low in my gut, spreading out through limbs and up my spine until, somewhere along the line, it turned to coiling waves, every beat of my heart bringing the orgasm closer. But then I felt him let go of my panties, his mouth no longer suckling but teasing with a thousand tiny kisses on my clit, the tip of his tongue spreading the fold of me open so that his fingers could slide inside. Thicker than I’d initially expected, so that when he began to slowly curl and move them just-so it made me jump, until then jump settled back into shivering, and I whispered, “Alex, please,” not caring about how desperate or breathless I sounded, and he turned his head to kiss the tender inside of my thigh and whispered back, “you’re so wet,” and that made everything seem a thousand times better and worse simultaneously, and I spread my thighs farther, pushing my hips back, waiting for him to—

“It won’t be that easy, Norma,” he whispered, a heady chuckle rumbling in his chest. And just as quick as they’d arrived his fingers slid out, and I heard rather than saw the wet-pop of his mouth, sucking the taste of me off his skin, and the low appreciative moan that followed.

“Please, Alex, I just—” He slapped my ass again, not as hard as the last time, but body still shaking, sensitive and on the edge, it startled me, and the whimper that escaped was half-ache and half-sob.

He slid out from beneath me, kneeling on the bed once again, and when I felt his bare chest against my back I was grateful for the warmth of it; his skin damp with sweat, the scent of him animalic and utterly right, and when he reached to adjust my wrist restraints I briefly thought he meant to untie me.

But, no. He merely loosened them enough that he could grab me, an arm slung under my waist, and flip me onto my back. Still tied, still intoxicatingly helpless, but able to look up at him, watch his eyes trail from my lips to my breasts to my thighs and back again. No attempt to disguise his want; he let his gaze linger, unashamed, until I felt myself start to blush and fidget. I moved to draw my legs together, some vague misinformed attempt at modesty, but his hands were on my knees in seconds, spreading my thighs apart and bending down to kiss me, his face rough and mouth still slick with the taste of me.

“Beg me for it,” he said again, and in the haze and the heat of it I blinked, momentarily confused—and then distracted, because just as quickly he leaned down and kissed each nipple, a bright, plucking little kiss that drew the skin taut that made me arch my back and thrust my breast up against his lips and tug at the damned shirt, whimpering and frustrated because all I wanted to do was run my fingers through his hair and cradle his head against me and, yes, beg for him.

Instead, between my gasping, gulping breaths, I said, “What? I don’t know what you—”

“Beg me, Norma,” he whispered, ghosting those kisses from nipple to round swell of breast, up and over my collarbone to my neck and the line of my jaw and, finally, the full-plush of my mouth, swallowing all my oxygen and flicking the tongue of his tongue against my bottom lip until every second his weight lightly rested atop me felt like agony and paradise all at once. “Beg me to fuck you.”

“Alex, please.”

“Say it.”

“I—”

“Norma,” he whispered again, kissing the corner of my mouth, sucking on my bottom lip, his thumb smoothing over the blade of my cheekbone until his hand came to rest at my chin, cupping my face firmly. Almost too firmly, were it not for the half-lidded, hazy, utterly blatant affection in his eyes. “Say it.”

“Please,” I echoed back, and I leaned up (as best I could, what with my hands still tied above my head) and kissed his hard, nipping his lip until he made a sound in the back of his throat, though he certainly didn’t pull away, “please fuck me.”

There was only the metallic click of his zipper; he didn’t bother to remove his jeans or even his shoes, just reached a hand down and freed himself and then he was buried inside me, no warning or hesitation, and for a brief moment it to was too much: too much, too big, too fast, my body stretching to accommodate him and my hips bucking up against his to find a groove, a rhythm, which he promptly set.

And then it was settled, his weight holding me down, his knees and hands spreading my thighs wider than I’d thought possible, and he when he thrust into my hard, the entire bed shaking with the force of it, he kissed the tip of my chin and whispered “you’re so tight,” and I made some inarticulate, messy string of noises in response.

He took me hard, and deep; wouldn’t let me move, just held me down, his eyes flitting between my face and my breasts as they swayed with the force of his body, and when my body tightened around him, the first signal of my rapidly approaching climax, he groaned and nestled his face in the crook of my neck and said, “tell me you want me to come,” and I didn’t immediately say anything, just squeezed my body around him again so that he moaned, an edge of agony laced through it this time, and he said, “say it,” and I whispered “come for me, Alex, please,” and I felt him seize within seconds of my own orgasm crashing over me, an endless rolling wave shivering up through limbs to the tips of fingers and toes, so that I bucked and writhed beneath him and tugged at the shirt holding my wrists in place and rocked with the final hard, aching thrusts of his hips as he groaned low, over and over, against my shoulder, sounding as desperate as I’d ever heard him.

Time lost to breath; only aware of his heart beat against my chest and the rapid cadence of his lungs. How long it took us to calm, I couldn’t have said. Seconds, minutes, hours, it all felt the same to me. But, somewhere along the time, he reached up and freed my wrists; adjusted himself so that his weight didn’t press down so heavily; and titled his chin up to greet me, brown eyes meeting mine, and I knew he was going to say, “I love you,” and I smiled, and pressed my mouth to his, and whispered, “hold me,” and so he said nothing, just nodded and let himself fall onto his side, pulling me against him, my back cradled against his chest, the first moment of true safety I’d felt in God only knew how long.

And then it was the nothingness of sleep.

A bit like Lazarus, really.

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