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[Herein shall there be PSLs and goings-on.

Please exercise caution if you so choose to read this. Flagg being Flagg, I cannot guarantee everything that goes on here will be safe for work or even safe for life.]

Comments

[advancedbosoms]

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."

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

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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."

Yayayayayayay

[advancedbosoms]

"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.

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

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"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.).

Oh. Good. Lord.

[advancedbosoms]

"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."

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

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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."

Daily! Obviously I hate playing with you.

[advancedbosoms]

"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.

I can tell, believe me

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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.

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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.

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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.

[advancedbosoms]

"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.

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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.

[advancedbosoms]

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.

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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.

[advancedbosoms]

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 it was any consolation, he would likely have scraped knees, scraped palms, and a sore jaw. But it was all quite worth it.

Ever her accidental whispers, even being called by the wrong name (but hadn't he been a Robert before? Absolutely--and more than once) were quite worth it.

He let go of her neck and laughed low in her ear. Take it slow for a second. Right names or wrong names or no names at all, he did kind of want her to whisper and whine and moan and scream.

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Her palm moved.

Chest, shoulder, neck, and finally to his hair. Her fingernails scraped against his scalp, hard as she moved down against the base of his neck, feeling the skin gather beneath her nails.

Cordelia groaned, as if she were the one hurting, as if she was trying to break her own skin. A response to his laugh, wanting to punish him for being so pleased with all of this.

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Can you really blame him for being pleased with all of this? A typical snatch-and-grab kidnapping of one's enemy (enemy's woman, maybe) for the sake of interrogation and/or information results in accidental seduction and culminates (or climaxes? hee hee) in spontaneous and unexpected and rough and somewhat bloody sex on top of what may or may not be an altar to some forgotten and elder god.

It's like the plot to a really weird porno.

No, one cannot blame him for being pleased with all this.

He grabbed for her hips--such soft curves, quite the perfect things with which to be rough--and held her there. She can bite and scratch and claw and pull all she wants--let her do it, bring it on. It really only urged him on, made him move a little faster, made him really and truly think about who it was he was lying on top of. A good thing to think about.

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He didn't stop her, and so she kept going on.

If not for the moving hips, the gasps of pleasure, the way she drew closer? It might have seemed as if she were trying to get away, or as if this was happening against her will, the way she was clawing at skin and digging nails into his shoulders, biting at skin and lips and tongue.

No pretense here. No more fighting the urge to leave some marks, cause some damage.

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He liked it, well and truly liked it this way. No pretense. No tender caresses (not anymore, anyway). No soft hands. No soft gasps and whispers. It was so much better to fight with or against.

He didn't moan, didn't groan, so much as growl and nearly roar through gritted teeth. Blood and sex and violence. Best combination ever.

She could hate him later for ignoring what the advice columns and the women's magazines called her "needs" (because he had considered those "needs" at first, though it wasn't fair to call it any kind of conscientiousness and certainly nothing like kindness or generousness--it was more at something that could be done to a woman that would make her hate him and hate herself all the more after). Sure. Let her hate him for that.

He was too wrapped up in her teeth and her skin and her nails and all the sharp points of stinging pain on his back and shoulders to really think about too much else. He was too close to the edge to think clearly. He was crazy enough to begin with. Muddle that mind with more magic and blood and sex and violence and just try, just try, to get something sensible and progressive out of it.

Just try.

[advancedbosoms]

It was possible that an orgasm could never really come as a surprise. Not unless you had that horrible and rare disease, the one where a person couldn't hold down a job or have any kind of normal social life because every time they sneezed or hiccuped or hit a bump in the road, their muscles would spasm and a sudden orgasm would hit them.

But really, in any normal situation, there was a build up. You felt it coming (pleasing wordplay if ever there was any), and there was a logic behind it. Dirty logic, maybe. If you have good sex, then you will experience a sudden burst of pleasure. Or, maybe, it could be clinical. When a penis is inserted into the vaginal cavity and moved in and out, the result is often an orgasm for one or both parties.

Still. Even so.

The logic behind it was there, the reasoning was clear, and it still hit her with an unprecedented surprise. Turning to see a llama in a party hat outside your window, maybe, or the surprise you might experience if your meatloaf started talking to you in the middle of dinner.

She pressed close, eyes suddenly open wide as it hit her. No close and closer and nearly there but bam. Cordelia gasped, short and shallow breaths that made her chest rise and rise and rise before falling again with a shudder that overtook her body enough to nearly hurt.

Stranger yet, the fact that as it happened, her mind fell blissfully blank, somehow gliding to a complete emptiness, devoid of any thoughts, emotions, expectations.

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Such a fantastic feeling--for her, most likely, but he couldn't deny a bit of a thrill with it, to feel her tense and shuddering and gasping. She'd hit that like slamming into a brick wall, if he did say so himself.

He still had a moment or two left himself, if he was careful (frantic as this coupling had been, it wasn't as frantic as some, and a couple of thousand years of practice means that one can get pretty good at a little delayed gratification). He slowed, and stroked her face with his thumbs again, and kissed her softly and gently on her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids. Softly, sweetly, aimlessly, perhaps to soothe, perhaps to congratulate.

Oh, but now that that had hit her, she might start coming around, start coming to her senses. He did have a moment or two more, but only that much. Better hurry. It was an obscene description for the act, but it was the moment for obscenity: he'd just have to ride her, and hard.

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She allowed the kisses.

Not really thinking of what they might mean or even who the man giving them was, she simply enjoyed the affection. She even turned her head this way and that, granting his lips or hands access to whatever valleys or hills of her body he was caressing.

Even when he kept moving, she simply sighed. Absent, distracted, content. But then the moment passed.

He would likely feel her moment of realization, as much as he saw it.

Her relaxation turned to sudden tensing muscles, her closed eyes snapping open. Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

"Off," she said, pushing at his shoulders. "Get off of me, get off!"

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"Too late for that," he said and laughed raggedly. "You had your pleasure, now I'll have mine."

He caught her hands where they pushed at him and drew them up over her head, pinning them there. She must be pinned and held down. She must be stuck through. Any butterfly collection metaphor would do here, pinned and wriggling. He bore down on her with all his weight and all his strength.

He leaned back down to her ear again. She could try to bite. He'd take that risk.

"Hush, now. Hush, hush. It'll be over soon, sweetheart. Be a good girl. Just hold on. Almost done, sweetheart. I held onto your boy just as tightly when I was fucking him. Do you remember? Your turn."

He bit at her again.

[advancedbosoms]

Her heart was not sweet.

Perhaps it usually was sweet, and tender. But her heart felt cold and hard now, like some fruit that had sat too long in the fridge, past ripeness until it shriveled into something unrecognizeable.

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast.

Cordelia fought against him, kicking, trying to break her hands free. He bit her and she screamed, and she bit him too, and she yelled at him to stop. This had been a mistake, and she didn't want him leaving his horrible, evil seed inside of her.

The screams choked up inside of her until only a pained, strangled noise emerged.

Forgive me. They were delicious. So sweet and so cold.