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[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

[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."

[advancedbosoms]

"You told me what you want to be called."

Which was true. But she wasn't doing it as any service to him. He was right. Rory hadn't been evil, as far as she'd known. No murder, no rape, no kicking puppies. Best to separate the idea of that affable widower from Nebraska (and look at that) from this person beside her now.

"I half expected you to break my neck."

And she raised a hand to touch her neck, absently, as if verifying that no, he hadn't.

Even if maybe that would have been for the best.

[unflagging]

"Now where would breaking your neck have gotten us? I told you already: I was going to cut off your limbs, take our your eyes, deafen you on one side, break your voice, and keep you for my own. Breaking your neck would be a fast end to all of that." A pout. "And a shame, really."

[advancedbosoms]

"Yeah, well, I guess I assumed that you weren't going to take all the time to do that mid-fuck. But maybe you're more talented than I realized."

Ah yes. Look at her joking about the matter, as though it were some inside joke and not a threat to her person.

"Changed your mind, I hope."

[unflagging]

He ran a hand through his hair, looked away, looked back at her. All very casual.

"For the moment, yes."

[advancedbosoms]

"Well, that's something."

Something mostly being incentive to go, really. She'd made enough mistakes to last her a few centuries tonight. No need to press her luck and stay past her window of grace.

She sat up, drawing her shirt up against herself.

[unflagging]

"The key's on the floor," he said, draping himself a little dramatically across the stone. "Just in case you forgot."

[advancedbosoms]

For a moment, Cordelia considered taking offense at the comment; but all things considered, it seemed like a waste of her time.

So she slid off the altar without looking at him, pausing there to redress. She took her time, purposefully slow and casual, as if this had not been a completely scarring experience, as if she wasn't drowning in guilt at the very moment.

"I remember."

[unflagging]

He lay there, still stretched on his stomach, with his head resting on his folded arms, and he laughed. Quietly at first, just a grin towards the stone, then louder, a ringing sound in this round room.

He calmed himself again with a sigh and watched her as she dressed. Such a shame to see all those lovely curves disappear under those clothes again.

"I'm so glad you do."

[advancedbosoms]

She went to the key before she commented. Keep calm, walk to the key and pick it up as though this were any number of encounters she'd had in her life. Not as if it had been a colossally huge mistake.

"Something funny?" Cordelia asked, after she had crouched down to pick up the abandoned key.

[unflagging]

"Oh, nothing really. Maybe it's only funny to me."

He slid down to the floor himself now, collecting discarded his discarded shirt, his tossed-aside jeans. He passed a hand over his face and magicked off the blood as easily as he'd magicked off the spittle before. He flung it aside, a deft snap of his fingers. It spattered on the wall--only pinprick spots of red.

"I am glad you remember, though. Oh, truly, I am."