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"Stop," she said suddenly, not quite afraid, not so easily achieved with this girl, but certainly feeling something like apprehension.

She bumped her knees, squeezing her thighs together which trapped him more than stopped him, of course, but instinctive reactions were just that.

"Don't--do that anymore."

Cordelia attempted to sound certain, but as she wrenched his hand free, the words had risen in tone to nearly a question.

She examined his hand then, brows furrowed. And cautiously, so focused, she moved his hand to brush his fingertips against her belly, dragging the red out against the white of her skin.

"No?" he asked quietly. But he let her guide his hand.

Now that, indeed, was a beautiful sight: white on red, blood on skin. He drew another aimless, spirally glyph just above her navel.

"What shall I do instead?"

She watched his hand, quietly and disconcertingly fascinated.

"What is that?" Cordelia asked. "I mean, what does it mean?"

And even ask she asked, she slipped her own finger between her own legs, in her own blood--and then raised a hand to mark his face. Cheeks and forehead, like a warrior.

He could mark her, but she would mark him too.

"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything."

And, in truth, it didn't (well, strictly speaking it could be made to mean something but, unto itself, it was only a swirling shape, vaguely primitive, the kind of marks one might find in paint on cave walls or, yes, on the sides of strange altars).

He closed his eyes and let her mark him--like bloodying the faces of young hunters after their first kill, perhaps. But, in her mind, perhaps still more at ritual.

"Some men would fear a bleeding woman, you know."

"I know."

It would have grossed another good portion of them out. She hadn't been sure he wouldn't be.

"I can't imagine it's the most blood you've had your hands in, though." Cordelia drew her fingers back, wiped them on the stone beneath her, not entirely unconvinced a portal was about to open around them.

When most girls went after a fling with a bad boy, they just found someone with a motorcycle and some alcohol problems. Apparently she went the whole nine yards.

He grinned and he laughed deep in his throat, down in his chest. He pulled them close together again, skin against skin.

"You're right about that."

Metaphorically, literally--being an executioner was a messy job, for one thing. But if only she knew, if only she knew, that even her boy, the boy she would go to again--if not tonight then after the week was out--even his blood was on his hands. He, in his disguise, all painted blue and crouching alongside the rabble of the Good Man's forces, had let fly the bolt that had ruined the fine, dark, keen eye of Cuthbert Allgood. And he laughed again, low and dark.

A good thing she didn't know, really. There would be enough guilt for this little (or maybe not so little) act after the fact, without throwing in the fact that the evil man in question had not been a mistake simply for being evil, or for being a man that wasn't Bert, but for being an evil man that had actually killed Bert.

Too Greek by far. She'd never loved those tragedies. Too much chorus, too many masks, and don't get started about the misogyny (though perhaps, she who lies beneath the body of her captor has no room to judge).

"I'm right about a lot more things than most people think."

Legs wrapped around hips, nudging him closer, urging him on, wondering what it was about his laugh that made her blood chill again.

He smoothed his fingers across her face again, just as gently as before. Just thumbs moving slowly and softly across her cheekbones, back to her ears. He tucked his face down low along her neck again. His hands slipped into the cave under her hair.

She already had her legs wrapped around him. He was already between her legs. But, still.

"Let me inside," he whispered softly. "Would you do that? Let me inside."

Invitations are formalities. He didn't require them. But he thought she might like to hear it.

It comforted her one moment, placed her on edge the next. She liked to hear it, enjoyed the control, but it reminded her of all those vampires she'd encountered over the years. Soulless, cruel monsters that were waiting patiently for some poor shmuck to invite them inside, so they could destroy a life.

Even so. She'd made her decision.

"Yes," said the poor shmuck.

He had already guessed (already known?) her answer. But it still made him smile to hear it.

He leaned away, but only a little, only the smallest space between them, and rolled his hips against hers. One more kiss, long and lasting and deep (he was both surprised and not that she would let him kiss here: there were those who would not, regardless of what other acts transpired between them), and he pushed against her and into her.

The room was cold, this stone altar was cold, even he was cold, but she was warm--so very warm--inside.

She inhaled--a sound that turned into a hiss as she sucked air between her teeth.

It hit her like a brick to the face. She'd done it. She'd had time to run away and leave and to push him away and even to say no, no, no, she would not let him in.

She hadn't, and now there was the altar, her body, and his inside. Welcome and invited, like a cherished friend.

Bert's face presented itself at the worst of moments...and she pushed it away, opening her eyes to look instead at the man above her. "Rory," she said. And that wasn't quite right either, so "Randall Flagg."

Well. She wasn't screaming mad yet, despite knowing (more or less) what he was. What a pleasant surprise. She'd looked up at him and called him by both names. And he drank it in with a sigh and a smile as his eyes fell softly shut with pleasure and delight (of more than one kind).

"Call me any name you like." He almost moaned the words. "I have enough to spare."

He moved inside her, arching his back. Another soft moan and his hands were on her face again.

"But I am fond of that one."

"Rory?" she groaned, legs squeezing around him, a silent urge for more, "Or Flagg?"

The hands on her face again. Not the first time tonight, and she didn't know how to take it. There was, of course, the pang of concern that he would snap her neck, but even so, it was so...tender, maybe that was the right word.

Roughness would have been less surprising. Even threats or a disassociation, those would have been expected. But this, what seemed like affection, threw her off guard.

Was he always like this, she wondered, or was it because she was Bert's? Not a question she was certain she could manage out loud at the moment, so instead of asking it, she only opened her mouth to moan.

"That one," he answered, his breath already going ragged. "I brought a world to its knees under that name. What did Rory Fletcher ever do besides trouble you?"

He could give her more--and happily so. He rolled his hips against her again, move inside here and against her. No moans from him, only his breath coming harder and faster (who would have thought monsters would breathe like that? but they always do, don't they? panting in the dark just beyond or seething under the bed.).

"Flagg," she cooed then.

Arms encircled around the bringer-of-worlds-to-their-knees, she moved with him, no longer bothered by the blood or the room or the cold, cold, cold stone. The momentary loss of self that came with physically joining to another person.

At least--all was forgotten, except that face that kept coming to mind.

"Don't tell him," she suddenly panted. "Don't tell Bert."

That broke his stride (unfortunately, frustratingly--and he'd been getting into it too). But only for a moment. Just use it as a pause, a moment of slowness.

"Now why..." he whisptered, "...would I ever do something like that?"

He could think of several good reasons, actually. But, no, this was an encounter to be kept between them, to be thought on by both involved, and for the secret third to be kept ignorant of--because that would make the whole thing better.

"I won't. I promise."

"Mmm."

She reached up to brush her thumb against his bottom lip, soft at first but then harder, slipping the tip of it inside his mouth. Bite me, came the silent invitation.

"Do you ever keep your promises?"

Cordelia suppose some bad men did. Mobsters did, right? Some of them seemed to have a whole honor thing going, if movies were any indication. Steal and kill and torture, but damn it, they were men of their word.

And bite he did: just as gently at first, just setting his teeth against her thumb, then harder, then a proper bite. Call it revenge for having bitten him, perhaps.

"Sometimes."

He had kept some promises--promises to kill, to main, to halt, to prevent, to trouble. He could keep his promises. If it suited him.

She screamed at the bite. Even if she had expected it, even if she wanted it, it hurt.

Cordelia yanked her hand back, shaking it out. It hurt, but she deserved that...and that jolt of pain even heightened the pleasure.

She took his head and brought it down, as if for a kiss, but then bringing him down to her shoulder instead. "Again," she demanded. Bite, fuck, just feel.

Did she really mean it? She must really mean it.

He breathed on her skin, kissed her just in the curve between her neck and shoulder, ran his tongue lightly across that same curve.

"As my lady demands."

And set his teeth into her skin.

She would certainly have a mark this time.

"Not a--"

And the lady wasn't spoken as, instead, she made another noise that landed between pain and pleasure. Not quite a scream this time, but she wasn't quiet even when whispering.

"Fuck me, baby," the brunette encouraged into his ear, the endearment escaping naturally with the rest, even if baby or sweetie, or honey he was not.

He grinned. He kept his teeth set against her neck, that mouthful of flesh, but he grinned. No need to ask him twice.

Now he grew rougher, gripping at her, pulling a little too hard, scratching at her skin, still holding on with his teeth. He pushed her legs wider and pushed into her harder, this bleeding woman.

If he had his way, she'd throw her legs over the edges of that altar and keep them there. If he had his way, she'd end up with bruises on her thighs and scrapes on her back. If he had his way, she'd stumble a little for a few days and both regret and remember this little encounter.

He might yet have his way.

Regret was imminent and unavoidable. Shame, self-loathing, wishes to go back and talk sense into herself? All of that was coming.

Even now, in the heat of the moment, she was aware of it.

Maybe that was why she encouraged the biting, the scratching. She deserved to hurt, and she didn't want to confuse this with anything like affection. Cordelia hated the term making love. It was flowery and indirect and sounded like something the heroine of a Harlequin Romance novel would say. But, hate or not, she understood why the term existed.

This wasn't a result of love, it was a result of hormones. Attraction, not affection. She didn't want to pretend any different.

So, really, she wouldn't protest if he wanted to hurt her. She might evrm encourage it.

Good. Don't protest. Don't fight. Encourage it. Or at least feel it. Feel the way he moves, the weight of him, the fresh pain when he sets his teeth into her neck again.

He was a little over-fond of biting, it must be said. But there was something satisfying about it in the moment (food and sex perhaps, meat and flesh maybe) and something almost even better after the fact knowing that there was a sign in the skin of what had happened. What was done could not be undone now. And though the mark would fade, what had been done had been done and could not be undone now or ever.

The very thought of it made him bite a little harder and growl down in his throat.

She had some of her own oral fixations, and perhaps if she weren't so distracted in the moment, she would have been turning to bite him herself.

Instead, Cordelia held him, eyes shut, hips moving with him and back against the stone altar again. She'd have scrapes and bruised and plenty of reasons to be tender tomorrow, but no matter now.

And, perhaps, she couldn't be entirely faulted for the whispered "Bert." It came out before she could stop it, though she wasn't sure if she was forgetting who was with her or if it was simply an acknowledgement of the source of her guilt.

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If this tag makes no sense, I blame certain log and journal samples >:E

Yayayayayayay

No, don't cheer. I bet you'll hate me when you see that app.

Oh. Good. Lord.

Do you regret ever letting me in so long ago? Do you? You should.

Daily! Obviously I hate playing with you.

I can tell, believe me

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