NSFW Short [Coda]

When they come home, it's to the scent of rosemary. Not a common thing to smell from the Graves-Maeson household. Coda can't even remember if they've ever used rosemary before. They enter the apartment, remove their nursing clogs, and call, "Did someone break in just to cook me dinner, because I know that can't be Graves in the kitchen."Usually, you'd laugh at something like that. Maybe even quip. But there's only a buttery herb scent perfuming the quiet. "Graves?" they try again, coming around the small partition wall that hides the entryway from the rest of the open-plan apartment.And there you are, sitting nonchalantly on a barstool with a charcuterie board of goodies in front of you. The rosemary scent comes from a butter glaze you're absently dabbing onto a piece of bread. Coda's mouth waters at the sight of it - you know their weakness for charcuterie.You glance up at them as if only now realizing they're there. With a slight smirk, you bite a small bite of the bread and raise an eyebrow at them. No words. Just that look.It's an odd look to be giving over a plate of food - something more akin to a proposition. But Coda can't help themself - they step toward you, motioning for you to hand over the rest of the piece.You still say nothing, simply raise the morsel up for them to take - to close for their hand, but perfectly in range for their mouth. The lean down to take it, lick your finger for good measure, and groan in pleasure at the flood of flavors. Not just rosemary - the tiniest zing of garlic, the softest heat from cayenne. "Damn," Coda murmurs, shaking their head once they've finished the piece, immediately reaching for another cube of sourdough. "You used your day off well, I see.""Hmm," you demure, shifting on the barstool and nudging their thigh with your knee.Your bare knee.Your bare knee is connected to a bare thigh. It's only then that Coda notices that you're naked except for that stupid fucking googly-eyed apron you bought them years ago. Coda can practically hear their own head whirr to a stop, gears grinding. The cube of sourdough is still between their fingers, hovering above the array of goodies that suddenly seem way less appetizing than you do."Graves."You arch a brow, legs subtly parting, subtly dragging the apron further up your thighs. Coda swallows down the groan that almost slips out when you flash your inner thighs. They try to think of something to say, something to feign nonchalance, but it's impossible. It's fucking impossible when your legs keep spreading, keep showing more and more and -They drop the bread and shove the food out of the way, grabbing you unceremoniously and plopping you onto the breakfast bar. You finally break, laugh spilling from your grinning lips.But they don't want you to laugh. Not anymore.Coda pulls your legs wide - you yelp, dishes jostling as you grip for the edges of the bar, searching for purchase. "Coda-"They don't respond, getting to their knees and yanking you into a better position, your ass hanging off the counter and secured only by their arms. You're already aroused, hot and pulsing for them, when they lower their mouth to you. That's good - they don't have the patience for a proper lead-up. They want you on their tongue, your voice crying out, no chance of silence. It doesn't take long for you to be panting, whimpering, praising - Coda listens to your tone more than your words - you've descended into half-coherency, anyway.That's still too much. They need you to be wrecked. To be torn apart and howling for them.That's all they've ever needed, they're beginning to realize. But that's a tricky thought for another time. For now, there is nothing more than you quivering beneath their hands, their tongue, their heat.