[ ρѕℓ ]

[unflagging]

[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

I can tell, believe me

[unflagging]

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.

[advancedbosoms]

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.

[unflagging]

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.

[unflagging]

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.

[unflagging]

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.

[unflagging]

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.

[advancedbosoms]

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.

[unflagging]

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.

[advancedbosoms]

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.

[unflagging]

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.

[unflagging]

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.

[advancedbosoms]

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!"

[unflagging]

"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.

[unflagging]

It reminded him, vaguely, distantly, of his wedding night. But there were no promises here, no vows, no sacraments. Not even the expanse of desert. No fire, save for the little lights in the lantern. Stone, yes, but not the same stone. Cold, yes, but not the same cold. A woman's body, yes, but not the same, not the same, not the same. At least there was blood.

Maybe she was going to lose her mind after all. The thought passed vaguely through his head and was gone again.

She could bite and scream all she wanted, he still held her and rode her hard. And the next thing he knew, he was coming down inside her, shaking and groaning as he did.

Again, a vague thought: would she feel the same cold that so many did? Or would the span of worlds between them hide that from her? (Keeping her from conceiving would be easy--that's magic--but the cold could still seep in.)

He lay on top of her, spent and breathing, breathing in the smells of cold and stone and flesh and sex.

[advancedbosoms]

Cold wasn't right.

Maybe it was the demon part of her, or maybe it was that light of hers. Maybe just the fact that he wasn't the first evil thing inside of her.

Whatever it was, she wasn't any colder than she had been.

As he fell on top of her, she stopped fighting. Cordelia lay between him and the cold of the stone, suddenly still. She was satiated and empty all at once, pleased and ill, numb and over sensitized.

She wondered if she was going to be sick on him, but she didn't care quite enough to move.

When she spoke, it was with the same tone a person might use when mentioning a dead rat on their floor. Clipped, disgusted, cold.

"Was it good for you?"

[unflagging]

He laughed, hoarse and breathy, and rolled off of her at last.

"Better than the first time, definitely."

[advancedbosoms]

She leapt up. She ran across the room, she slammed the door behind her, she locked him in. She gathered Bert and they left the temple, somehow, going somewhere far away from this man.

Only she didn't do any of it.

She imagined it, but she remained where she was. Naked, bruised, bleeding. Staring at the ceiling.

What would it be like, she wondered, to be this man's other? Was it always like this? Rough and twisted and full of shame after? Or was it something you grew used to, like a strong smell that gradually seemed to fade, the longer you were exposed to it?

"Don't you ever wanted to be loved, Flagg? Aren't you lonely?"

[unflagging]

Cordelia, you are officially terrible at pillow-talk. That's all there is to say about that.

He let his head loll towards her and grinned at her.

"I have been loved. Does that surprise you? I have been loved and adored. I've had some say they were even willing to give their lives for me."

Lonely was another matter entirely.

[advancedbosoms]

"Did they know you?" she asked.

She even turned to look at him, though she didn't offer a smile in return.

"Or was it like someone falling in love with Rory Fletcher?"

[unflagging]

He stretched languidly and rolled onto his stomach. The size of this altar (or whatever it might be) was truly a boon (it would be in bad taste to call it a blessing, wouldn't it?).

"Some did, some didn't. Some knew full well who I was from the outset, some came to know it, others never understood. But I very much doubt that even for them it was like falling in love with Rory Fletcher."

Another smile, just for her.

"I like how you're picking and choosing names for me now. Who I am, what I call myself."