[ there's no comfortable, painless way to pin her, as it turns out. joints strain in uncomfortable directions, boney limbs knock together, and then she is flat on her back, hair a tangled mess against the pillow as she stares up at him.
it hurts him to do it. she can feel phantom pain in her own shoulders — she deserves to share that with him, she thinks. but it doesn't stop him.
she tries to surge up, to steal a kiss from him, all hunger awakened anew by recognizing itself in him. but his hand around her throat determines whether she makes it, even as she uses one hand to pull at the back of his neck, to draw him down to her, the other still fondling him. ]
her half-hearted attempts to dislodge him go nowhere ㅡ they weren't meant to, he thinks, so much as mavis wants to give that illusion of protest. to feel like she's been conquered again, and fully.
well, he's fine with obliging.
she's got her hand on him again, though, and the shiver passing through his body is only partly due to pain. )
Terror, ( he tells her, quite sincere. she has been a terror since the day they met; he wouldn't have it another way.
he bends to kiss her, his other hand slipping between them. there's a moment where he debates the merit of just tearing the clothing off her, but decides against it. there's no coin yo be frivolous, even if he is starting to suspect this was done deliberately. ) Next time don't wear so many layers.
[ underwear. a shirt. she'd shed the rest before joining him, desperate to leech from his warmth directly. it makes her face hot to think that even this is too much for him, abhorrent for the obstruction it provides.
a whimper as she squirms under the threat of his hand exploring the damp middle of those panties. her fingernails dig into the soft skin near his metal implant. ]
Just push it out of the way. [ her legs curl around him now, drawing him down to her with some urgency. ]
Still too many. ( it aggrieves him deeply, her need to wear clothes. particularly right now.
but shoving her underwear to the side is the kind of idea he can get behind. it's neat. efficient. they can review her need to wear underwear at all later.
her fingernails dig into his skin. it starts another cascade of feeling that's much harder to pin down. not quite pleasant, not quite a pain, just a hair to the left of being too much.
he exhales, fingers curling into the soiled fabric before pushing it aside. shoving it, really, because they've both waited enough already — and he has a point to prove. )
[ his fingertips brush against sticky, sensitive skin, and mavis shudders. a sense of clawing panic is buried under there, like something has gone wrong because no one has ever and her brain has therefore determined that no one should, except that she wants this and more. the eager twitch of her skin is proof enough of that.
she draws her legs tighter around him, as if by the sheer force of her heels bearing into the back of his thighs, she might drive him inside of her and relief the aching deficit. her spine arches slightly with the effort. she releases his cock only so that her hand, too, can pull at his waist, palm flat on the small of his back. ]
( it's a shame that he can't take a moment to admire her like this: skin flushed and hair mussed, looking every inch the wild desert creature.
it's a shame, but he's too busy aligning himself. with pressing in — thinking to be careful (because it turns out she hadn't be lying about her inexperience, and while he's not one to worry about the niceties generally, he also would rather avoid tears) but she's warm and slick and his focus slips, and he surges forward. )
Fuck — ( articulate to a fault.
the angle is all wrong. still, the heat of her body, the pressure and scent of her is ... it's a lot. but he realigns, tries again, and this time it's better. not easy, her body isn't used to this, but something clicks and it feels like something has shifted into focus around them, finally balanced. )
[ the first push is imperfect. she is slick inside, but his skin drags against hers. an awkward burning sensation startles her into digging her nails deeper into him.
but the next rock of his hips is better, more practiced, and she is able to figure out how to arch herself to slot against him, and he slides in and in and in until she holds all of him there within her, and she'd been right to wonder how he could fit, to think it an act of violence to make space for his cock inside of her, for though the stretch is numbingly sweet, that sense of fullness feels like being pushed to her very limits, to the muscle-shaking instant before collapse.
from her lips, a hungry sound. startled, breathy, half-pained and more like a yelp than anything she has ever heard from herself. she barely recognizes it as her own voice. is that the pitch or the feverish dizziness?
she wraps herself around him, squeezes, buries her face against the slope of his neck opposite where she had driven a knife into him and bites down like she means to take a piece of him with her. it's all she has to do, pinned beneath him this way, for when she tries to rock her hips, it's more wriggle than thrust, and there is only so much room for him to begin with, and the friction is dissatisfying. the next noise is more strangled, more needy, more insistent. ]
( it feels wrong to say she relaxes, but the tightness around him resolves into something more sustainable. (later, he will reflect on the fact that he should have been paying a little more attention to his own body and its reactions because — well. )
teeth pinch against his skin, and he bucks into her, harder and deeper like he's trying to get at the very core of her. this, at least, feels familiar. that moment when instinct kicks in and things become markedly more simple. that she's marked him again, a second (or is it third, now?) time sends a frisson of something through his veins.
the audacity of this girl.
he grunts and, on the next thrust, things spill over. a heady rush of sensation that knocks the wind out of him. )
once he bears down into her, deep enough to hurt, it's warmer and wetter — but that doesn't mean anything. even as he loses stamina, winded and grunting, mavis continues trying to buck against him. a futile flailing, hips strained to try and fuck herself on him.
a failing effort. he is soft enough, soon, that he slips out, and no amount of thrusting can push him back inside. with a grievous whine, she slaps at his chest. ]
Why aren't you ready anymore? [ she is breathless, flushed, and flustered by her own frustration. ]
the mortification steals up on him; he isn't fond. the immediate urge is to pull back, to put distance between himself and ... and this. but then mavis is pounding on his chest, making demands. )
Stop. ( he just needs a moment ㅡ honest. first thing's first, he grabs for her wrist, lifting it over her head. )
[ she is too startled to stop him from wrenching her wrist above her head, too overwhelmed by the sudden intense flood of grief and disappointment. it had felt so good, but been so brief before it was ripped from her. it leaves her unfulfilled, intense emotions sent careening by a sudden lack of direction. ]
No. No. [ she fights him, pulls at his grip, bares her teeth as she struggles. she doesn't want to stop. it's not fair that he'd made her. that he'd decided it was over before she could be satisfied. the lump in the back of her throat emerges as a sob that surprises her more than anyone. ]
( irritation flares—hers? his? does it really matter at this point? their edges run together. spillover was bound to happen.
still.
still. he's beginning to understand the prohibition against doing things this way. the headiness is one thing, the loss of your sense of self (however brief) is another matter entirely. )
You're worse than your fucking cat, ( muttered into her hair, tastes the salt on her skin.
it's clumsy work, trying to soothe her. it's made harder by the fact that he's not a natural at it, but fine. fine. she's worried he'll leave her hanging and he can't begrudge her that thought. )
[ a series of shuddering breaths force her anxiety to come down. she turns her face aside, into his, and only after some moments stops fighting him.
fresh heat washing into her chest and cheeks. he doesn't know what he's asking, does he? her cunt twitches around nothing, exacerbating the emptiness. cold wetness trickling up the nooks and crannies of her, leaving a wet spot on the mattress. ]
( she's listening, which is something. he eases off on his grip, shifting his body away from her. )
I want to try something. ( more creaking follows as he climbs off the bed. it's a miracle, honestly, that it's survived so far and he's reluctant to push his luck further.
the cold air sets off another round of shivers. ) Never thought I'd miss the desert, but here we are. ( there's a wryness to how he says it, an acknowledgement that maybe it's easier to see what you have when you don't have it anymore.
or maybe it's just that all the metal in his back makes the cold weather even more of a bitch. regardless, he persists ㅡ he settles at the foot of cot, reaches for mavis and tugs her down. )
[ she's shivering, too, without his body to cover hers. goosebumps race up her thighs, her upper arms. her tits, beneath her shirt. she is more aware, now, of her near-nudity. of her long, bare legs, of the way the air creeps in under the door of the basement.
but instead of cover herself more, as he yanks her down, she grabs for the blanket and pushes it down towards him, drapes it around his shoulders. she has known cold desert nights. he hasn't. he has been coddled by the excess of empire.
and, maybe, as much as she misses his warmth, she doesn't want his complaining to interrupt him, to make him reconsider his position on the floor. her toes feel like little blocks of ice. she presses them to his shoulders, under the edge of the blanket. ]
( it's — surprising, her giving up the blanket like that. pointless, ultimately, but the gesture is ... it's sweet. thoughtful.
she keeps doing that.
rather than lingering on this, though, aristaeus decides to be proactive. he has a decent enough theoretical knowledge of what's supposed to happen, here; the reality, it turns out, is a lot more visceral.
but, details.
he presses his lips to that place between her legs, close-mouthed. testing. changes the position of his mouth, eventually, when he has a better idea of what works. what sparks. )
[ there is a mess between her legs. of him, of her. his thumb holds aside her soaked panties so he can get at her cunt through the thick hair, sticky and matted.
it doesn't take long to feel good. she is already swollen and sensitive, aching for contact. the mere tug of his thumbs against her outer labia makes her breath short. but when his mouth touches her? she sighs and arches. it's almost too much, the sensitivity. when his lips, softer by far than her fingertips, brush over the bundle of nerves that she is plenty familiar with, she twitches, grabs his hair. ]
Inside. [ she growls. she wants to be full. it is too much to suffer more than that. too soft. ]
[ the light pressure makes her toes curl, her head spin. her grip on his hair tightens, and her legs curl to hold him there even as she squirms to get away, overwhelmed by the touch. ]
Bastard. [ it's too much. certainly too much. overwhelming to focus only on this, to be clenching around nothing. she croons, head turning towards the mattress. ] More than your tongue.
[ her heel drags down his shoulder blade, as if trying to kick him without pushing him away. ]
( right, well. more of that obviously. this is one of those wonderfully rare moments where everything works in symphony — the analytical brain taking in the feedback, categorizing it and adapting, while his hindbrain is one long possessive purr.
he did this.
the room is quiet except for her gasps and the occassional rustle of the bedsheets. his hands are banded around her hips, tongue curled around clit, and even the pain of being an ambitious bastard is worth it for how she shudders and writhes underneath him. he could, he thinks, drag this on for a long, long time. )
[ it's too much. brutally so. in truth, her want for something to fill her is just as much a want for distraction as anything else. the desire to draw attention off the punishing stimulation that makes her buck and squirm. but for all her thrashing and all his weakness, she can't seem to dislodge him.
and even if it feels like it comes from the end of a knife's point, there is a satisfaction in it, one that winds tighter and tighter inside of her. every breath is sharp and short, violently seizing her chest and shoulders because she can't stop the jerky, needy movements that react to every electric jolt his touch sends through her.
it would be a mistake to call her climax enjoyable. certainly she tips over some precarious edge. certainly her muscles clench, a tautness that runs down her calves and digs her heels into his shoulder blades. certainly there is a surge of slick fluid in her veins and between her thighs and the thrashing grows more. but it is like being dragged behind a horse. it scrapes and burns and leaves her with aches. ]
( he feels it all: how ready, how desperate. it's so different from the breeding center, with its almost perfunctory escalation. there, the pleasure had been secondary—pleasant, useful but not really the point of the thing.
mavis' breath has gone hot and short, her body pulling taut. then the pleasure crescendos. crashes.
and then she's collapsing like her strings have been cut. boneless, chest heaving.
he gets himself up, the mattress dipping again as he settles above her.
even in this strange twilight, he can see her pupils blown wide: dark and liquid. she watches him, unflinching. )
More of that. ( lowering himself down to kiss her, to let her taste herself on his tongue.
[ she is pliable under his touch as she recovers. her mouth opens easily to him, and she doesn't flinch away from the wetness gathered in his beard or the familiar almost sour musk of her own arousal.
her own climax. wrung forcefully from her. everything he does is brutal, invasive, even this. his tongue is thick in her mouth, and she gathers herself to bite down, then bite down onto his lip as well.
but her arms wrap around him, drawing him down to her. yes, more. it's not the kind of brutality she shies from. not the kind to shirk. ]
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no subject
it hurts him to do it. she can feel phantom pain in her own shoulders — she deserves to share that with him, she thinks. but it doesn't stop him.
she tries to surge up, to steal a kiss from him, all hunger awakened anew by recognizing itself in him. but his hand around her throat determines whether she makes it, even as she uses one hand to pull at the back of his neck, to draw him down to her, the other still fondling him. ]
no subject
her half-hearted attempts to dislodge him go nowhere ㅡ they weren't meant to, he thinks, so much as mavis wants to give that illusion of protest. to feel like she's been conquered again, and fully.
well, he's fine with obliging.
she's got her hand on him again, though, and the shiver passing through his body is only partly due to pain. )
Terror, ( he tells her, quite sincere. she has been a terror since the day they met; he wouldn't have it another way.
he bends to kiss her, his other hand slipping between them. there's a moment where he debates the merit of just tearing the clothing off her, but decides against it. there's no coin yo be frivolous, even if he is starting to suspect this was done deliberately. ) Next time don't wear so many layers.
no subject
[ underwear. a shirt. she'd shed the rest before joining him, desperate to leech from his warmth directly. it makes her face hot to think that even this is too much for him, abhorrent for the obstruction it provides.
a whimper as she squirms under the threat of his hand exploring the damp middle of those panties. her fingernails dig into the soft skin near his metal implant. ]
Just push it out of the way. [ her legs curl around him now, drawing him down to her with some urgency. ]
no subject
but shoving her underwear to the side is the kind of idea he can get behind. it's neat. efficient. they can review her need to wear underwear at all later.
her fingernails dig into his skin. it starts another cascade of feeling that's much harder to pin down. not quite pleasant, not quite a pain, just a hair to the left of being too much.
he exhales, fingers curling into the soiled fabric before pushing it aside. shoving it, really, because they've both waited enough already — and he has a point to prove. )
no subject
she draws her legs tighter around him, as if by the sheer force of her heels bearing into the back of his thighs, she might drive him inside of her and relief the aching deficit. her spine arches slightly with the effort. she releases his cock only so that her hand, too, can pull at his waist, palm flat on the small of his back. ]
no subject
it's a shame, but he's too busy aligning himself. with pressing in — thinking to be careful (because it turns out she hadn't be lying about her inexperience, and while he's not one to worry about the niceties generally, he also would rather avoid tears) but she's warm and slick and his focus slips, and he surges forward. )
Fuck — ( articulate to a fault.
the angle is all wrong. still, the heat of her body, the pressure and scent of her is ... it's a lot. but he realigns, tries again, and this time it's better. not easy, her body isn't used to this, but something clicks and it feels like something has shifted into focus around them, finally balanced. )
no subject
but the next rock of his hips is better, more practiced, and she is able to figure out how to arch herself to slot against him, and he slides in and in and in until she holds all of him there within her, and she'd been right to wonder how he could fit, to think it an act of violence to make space for his cock inside of her, for though the stretch is numbingly sweet, that sense of fullness feels like being pushed to her very limits, to the muscle-shaking instant before collapse.
from her lips, a hungry sound. startled, breathy, half-pained and more like a yelp than anything she has ever heard from herself. she barely recognizes it as her own voice. is that the pitch or the feverish dizziness?
she wraps herself around him, squeezes, buries her face against the slope of his neck opposite where she had driven a knife into him and bites down like she means to take a piece of him with her. it's all she has to do, pinned beneath him this way, for when she tries to rock her hips, it's more wriggle than thrust, and there is only so much room for him to begin with, and the friction is dissatisfying. the next noise is more strangled, more needy, more insistent. ]
no subject
teeth pinch against his skin, and he bucks into her, harder and deeper like he's trying to get at the very core of her. this, at least, feels familiar. that moment when instinct kicks in and things become markedly more simple. that she's marked him again, a second (or is it third, now?) time sends a frisson of something through his veins.
the audacity of this girl.
he grunts and, on the next thrust, things spill over. a heady rush of sensation that knocks the wind out of him. )
no subject
once he bears down into her, deep enough to hurt, it's warmer and wetter — but that doesn't mean anything. even as he loses stamina, winded and grunting, mavis continues trying to buck against him. a futile flailing, hips strained to try and fuck herself on him.
a failing effort. he is soft enough, soon, that he slips out, and no amount of thrusting can push him back inside. with a grievous whine, she slaps at his chest. ]
Why aren't you ready anymore? [ she is breathless, flushed, and flustered by her own frustration. ]
no subject
the mortification steals up on him; he isn't fond. the immediate urge is to pull back, to put distance between himself and ... and this. but then mavis is pounding on his chest, making demands. )
Stop. ( he just needs a moment ㅡ honest. first thing's first, he grabs for her wrist, lifting it over her head. )
no subject
No. No. [ she fights him, pulls at his grip, bares her teeth as she struggles. she doesn't want to stop. it's not fair that he'd made her. that he'd decided it was over before she could be satisfied. the lump in the back of her throat emerges as a sob that surprises her more than anyone. ]
no subject
still.
still. he's beginning to understand the prohibition against doing things this way. the headiness is one thing, the loss of your sense of self (however brief) is another matter entirely. )
You're worse than your fucking cat, ( muttered into her hair, tastes the salt on her skin.
it's clumsy work, trying to soothe her. it's made harder by the fact that he's not a natural at it, but fine. fine. she's worried he'll leave her hanging and he can't begrudge her that thought. )
I can fix it, but you need to let me.
no subject
fresh heat washing into her chest and cheeks. he doesn't know what he's asking, does he? her cunt twitches around nothing, exacerbating the emptiness. cold wetness trickling up the nooks and crannies of her, leaving a wet spot on the mattress. ]
Let you what? [ suspicious. resentful. ]
no subject
I want to try something. ( more creaking follows as he climbs off the bed. it's a miracle, honestly, that it's survived so far and he's reluctant to push his luck further.
the cold air sets off another round of shivers. ) Never thought I'd miss the desert, but here we are. ( there's a wryness to how he says it, an acknowledgement that maybe it's easier to see what you have when you don't have it anymore.
or maybe it's just that all the metal in his back makes the cold weather even more of a bitch. regardless, he persists ㅡ he settles at the foot of cot, reaches for mavis and tugs her down. )
no subject
but instead of cover herself more, as he yanks her down, she grabs for the blanket and pushes it down towards him, drapes it around his shoulders. she has known cold desert nights. he hasn't. he has been coddled by the excess of empire.
and, maybe, as much as she misses his warmth, she doesn't want his complaining to interrupt him, to make him reconsider his position on the floor. her toes feel like little blocks of ice. she presses them to his shoulders, under the edge of the blanket. ]
no subject
she keeps doing that.
rather than lingering on this, though, aristaeus decides to be proactive. he has a decent enough theoretical knowledge of what's supposed to happen, here; the reality, it turns out, is a lot more visceral.
but, details.
he presses his lips to that place between her legs, close-mouthed. testing. changes the position of his mouth, eventually, when he has a better idea of what works. what sparks. )
no subject
it doesn't take long to feel good. she is already swollen and sensitive, aching for contact. the mere tug of his thumbs against her outer labia makes her breath short. but when his mouth touches her? she sighs and arches. it's almost too much, the sensitivity. when his lips, softer by far than her fingertips, brush over the bundle of nerves that she is plenty familiar with, she twitches, grabs his hair. ]
Inside. [ she growls. she wants to be full. it is too much to suffer more than that. too soft. ]
no subject
there's pain, a flood of adrenaline and he moans against her.
but he gets the message. shifts again, tries something new. swipes his tongue inside her and, then, inspired, decides to suck. )
no subject
Bastard. [ it's too much. certainly too much. overwhelming to focus only on this, to be clenching around nothing. she croons, head turning towards the mattress. ] More than your tongue.
[ her heel drags down his shoulder blade, as if trying to kick him without pushing him away. ]
no subject
he did this.
the room is quiet except for her gasps and the occassional rustle of the bedsheets. his hands are banded around her hips, tongue curled around clit, and even the pain of being an ambitious bastard is worth it for how she shudders and writhes underneath him. he could, he thinks, drag this on for a long, long time. )
no subject
and even if it feels like it comes from the end of a knife's point, there is a satisfaction in it, one that winds tighter and tighter inside of her. every breath is sharp and short, violently seizing her chest and shoulders because she can't stop the jerky, needy movements that react to every electric jolt his touch sends through her.
it would be a mistake to call her climax enjoyable. certainly she tips over some precarious edge. certainly her muscles clench, a tautness that runs down her calves and digs her heels into his shoulder blades. certainly there is a surge of slick fluid in her veins and between her thighs and the thrashing grows more. but it is like being dragged behind a horse. it scrapes and burns and leaves her with aches. ]
no subject
mavis' breath has gone hot and short, her body pulling taut. then the pleasure crescendos. crashes.
and then she's collapsing like her strings have been cut. boneless, chest heaving.
he gets himself up, the mattress dipping again as he settles above her.
even in this strange twilight, he can see her pupils blown wide: dark and liquid. she watches him, unflinching. )
More of that. ( lowering himself down to kiss her, to let her taste herself on his tongue.
definitely more of that. )
no subject
her own climax. wrung forcefully from her. everything he does is brutal, invasive, even this. his tongue is thick in her mouth, and she gathers herself to bite down, then bite down onto his lip as well.
but her arms wrap around him, drawing him down to her. yes, more. it's not the kind of brutality she shies from. not the kind to shirk. ]