wide-eyed you look me over, unbuttoning my skin
For Valentine's Day, a collection of Porn Battle XIV fics, and one bonus.
sing, caged bird, Dune Chronicles, Paul Atreides/Irulan Corrino, trapped, obsession
Irulan’s wedding to Paul ‘Muad’Dib’ Atreides was a grand affair. Representatives from every major house, and every desert tribe. A dress so heavy with ornament that it scratched the stone floors of the palace. Had she not been trained since childhood she could not have moved in it.
Paul, the new emperor of Dune and of the universe, brushed aside her veil of strung diamonds and kissed her carefully. Through the Fremen ceremony his unearthly eyes had never wavered from his concubine’s face, but now he raised Irulan’s hand in his and presented her to the crowd of thousands as his wife.
Empty pageantry. Like the rest of her life.
--
She sits at every council meeting, but Paul and Alia make arbitrary, ironclad decrees and ignore all other voices.
Her throne is at Paul’s side, but all eyes see only the glory of Muad’Dib, and all ears hear only Alia’s strident preaching. She floats through the imperial court like a ghost. Maybe that will be her legacy; the Ghost Empress, wife of the great Muad’Dib.
Irulan begins to write another book.
The Lady Jessica is unfailingly polite to her, but distant, suspicious. Chani prefers to pretend that Irulan does not exist.
Paul is distant and strange, now. Burdened with rule, with his destiny, with the jihad that will never end, he grows even more taciturn and abrupt. When he comes to Irulan, which he does infrequently and without warning, he seems almost resigned, like he’s bowing to the inevitable future.
She worries for him. As she worries for herself.
--
Paul is gentle with her, as it is not in his nature to be cruel without necessity, but she misses the moody, sharp tongued boy he was once. The man he has become does not even see her. He touches her with the same thoughtless affection he would show a pet. When he kisses her she fights back tears and struggles to remain still though her hands itch to pull him close.
She lets herself feel as he makes love to her. Traces the muscles of his back and shoulders as he moves above her. He has never bothered to learn what pleases her and so she has learned to take what she can from these brief moments where he is only hers.
She winds her legs around his hips and digs her nails into his arms as if she could keep him with her just by holding on. But she knows, even as he shakes and gasps and hides his face against her hair, even as she trembles in the grip of her own climax, her eyes fixed on him, she knows that his thoughts are not of her. That his heart belongs to another.
The worst of Irulan’s many torments is that she loves him still.
Falling, Labyrinth, Jareth/Sarah Williams, curiosity, spark, dream, crystal, control, power
Sarah’s head is spinning. Everything is spinning, actually. The chandeliers, the shimmering walls, the other dancers. Ropes of pearls dangle from the… ceiling? The walls waver and shine and curve up and up and… she loses her balance and stumbles into a group of masked revelers who scream with laughter and drag her back to her feet. They’re all clutching ornate wine goblets but not a drop spills on her dress.
Her dress is so beautiful, made of starlight and silver tissue. She has never worn anything so lovely, but she’s looking for someone and it’s terribly important. She has to gather the dress up in both hands to walk and the magnificent spread of her spangled skirts catches on spindly golden chairs and tables piled high with jewel-like fruit that no one is eating.
Dancers crowd the ballroom, leering at her with cruel goblin mouths and bright animal eyes behind their masks. She struggles past a woman in a severe gown of owl feathers and a mask like the face of a monkey. Her skull-masked partner whispers something to her and they look at Sarah and laugh.
Sarah turns her face away quickly, hoping to escape their eyes, and that’s when she sees him.
--
The tall man in midnight blue disappears behind a column and a group of dancers wearing masks made of leathery leaves. Sarah tries to follow but her path is blocked. A masked man in a tattered jester’s hat offers her a wine goblet, but when she takes it the cup is shining and empty. No one is drinking, she sees; they just hold the goblets and laugh and dance.
She turns, trying to find the tall man again. She can’t quite recall who he is, but he must be the one she’s looking for.
More dancers spin across her path. She can’t tell how they move so quickly while she struggles with the encumbrance of her beautiful dress. She staggers in a new direction, thinking she sees a flash of starry midnight blue, but it’s only a reflection on the shimmering wall.
Frustrated, she whirls back, and a woman moves her painted fan aside, and he is there. Sarah stares, awed and confused as he glides toward her.
He takes her in his arms and they dance. Sarah is unsurprised to find that she knows how to dance, though it’s not something she knew before… before this. Before something.
His face is cold and remote and she cannot look away.
--
The dance begins to feel… different. The other dancers spin and the walls never end and his face is the only still thing in the room.
A sharp glance of light strikes from the crystal chandelier and she has a confusing flash of being somewhere else. Somewhere dark and soft and hung with curtains that move in a wind she can’t feel.
She isn’t wearing the dress anymore but her jeweled necklace pools heavily in the hollow of her throat. There’s a gentle touch on her stomach, her thigh, and she sighs with pleasure and the chandeliers sway.
Her dress is so heavy, and there’s laughter all around her. None of the other dancers impede their steps, but Sarah is lost just trying to follow. He raises one eyebrow at her and she knows that he is a king.
The king of something important and light strikes a woman’s jeweled mask and Sarah is lost in softness and a body against hers and the sharp edged pleasure-pain of being taken, of belonging. She raises her hand to touch his shoulder and ends up twining her fingers in the trailing ends of his pale hair as they dance.
He smiles faintly at her confusion and it is anything but reassuring. He guides her expertly through a one-handed spin and pulls her close with his hand on her waist. A man in a peaked mask and a tri-cornered hat tosses a bunch of crystal grapes into the air while his partner twirls.
The light is ruby-colored and blinding and she is rapt, clutching at him and sobbing for breath. Her body rent and aching and alight with sensation. She shatters like glass and a sound like a scream of bird rings in her ears.
Her ankle turns at the next step and she stumbles. The Goblin King smiles and his courtiers continue to laugh, dancing with empty wine goblets and fake food and glowering through their masks.
This isn’t right, Sarah thinks. This isn’t right!
fly your colors, Pirates of the Caribbean,Elizabeth Swann/Jack Sparrow, sea, want, freedom, pirate, Caribbean, waves, salt, rum, candlelight, compass, fires, salt, swaying, power, king
--
As though Elizabeth Swann, Pirate King, was going to stay on that island and wait.
--
Jack, Captain Jack, doffs his battered, treasured hat and sweeps her a deep and elegant, if slightly insouciant, salaam.
“Your majesty,” he says, and his gold teeth flash in the Caribbean sun.
Elizabeth raises her eyebrows and looks down her nose at him like a society matron at tea. “Whenever this wreck can be made ready, Captain,” she says and Jack grins even wider and whirls on his crew.
“Get ready to make way, you scallywags,” he says, and Mr. Gibbs repeats the order at the top of his lungs. Pirates jump and scramble. The sails unfurl and fill with wind.
She catches Jack’s eye as she turns her face into the sea spray. He winks.
--
Later, Jack licks rum and sea salt off her body, pressed skin to skin in the captain’s bunk as the ship rocks and creaks and sighs to itself on the calm water. The candles flicker and sputter and pick out the gold threads in the wall hangings, the sheen on the brass fittings of Jack’s sea chest. His moustache tickles and Elizabeth squirms.
“Where shall we sail, majesty?” he murmurs, kissing her throat. “I await your command.”
Elizabeth winds her legs around him and sighs as he moves. Jack buries a groan into the damp weight of her hair.
“We’ve been to the ends of the earth and the land of the dead,” Elizabeth says. She traces Jack’s tattoos with rope roughened hands, clutches him closer. “So, I think we go wherever the compass takes us.”
Jack’s dark eyes flare and he catches her mouth, rough and wild and hers to command. This fire does not scald her.
“We go wherever we want.”
Burn, Demon's Lexicon series, Alan Ryves/Nick Ryves, comfort, talk, two worlds, lesson
“I would burn the world for you,” Nick says, and Alan should worry because he knows it’s literal. But he also knows that it’s Nick trying to put his feelings into words, an awkward and unnatural thing for a demon.
The thing is, Alan doesn’t worry because the sentiment is mutual.
--
Nick bites like being told he doesn’t have to hold back is an unexpected gift.
“In this set of circumstances,” Alan tries to clarify even while his higher brain functions retreat under the press of Nick’s teeth. “Here, with me, it’s okay. Other people might not - oh, fuck - appreciate it.”
Nick raises his head, pressing Alan into the bed as his weight shifts. His black eyes are fierce and hot. “I don’t want any other people,” he says, inflectionless with truth as only a demon can be.
“Well,” Alan says, stutters, really, “that’s… that’s beside the point, but,” - this is not a conversation he is capable of having with his thighs spread around Nick’s hips - “mm, I think you get the gist.”
Nick rolls his eyes and rocks his hips down. Alan makes a sound he’ll deny to the grave, and gives in to the pounding of his blood.
--
Alan tries to be gentle with Nick. Gentleness and care aren’t points he can make once and trust Nick to remember. He has to prove the value of kindness over and over.
He tries to be gentle, but when Nick presses into him he grabs with rough hands and groans in his throat. “Again,” he gasps, his fingers leaving white indentations on Nick’s arms, his ribs.
Nick bares his teeth in what could only loosely be called a smile and rocks his hips, making no pretense at gentle. Alan bites back something that wants to be a snarl and a demand. “Please,” he says instead. He’s trying to teach by example, here.
Nick gives into the plea like it’s an ingrained habit. Slides back into him in a series of short jerks that make Alan see stars, that make the skin where he once wore demon marks burn and ache. Nick kisses him breathless, dark and heavy and Alan catches himself smiling.
In two worlds, there is nothing he has ever wanted more.
Sinking, The Lost Boys, David/Michael/Star, found, held, earthbound
The wine is heady and thick and the others are dancing around the cave and yelling, chanting. Michael has never felt so alive and so peaceful at the same time.
Star is tugging at his arm, wrapped in her embroidered shawl like a child, or an old woman. She doesn’t need to pull him; he’d gladly go anywhere with her.
He takes another swig from the archaic bottle.
David is dancing around the rim of the old fountain, walking between lit pillar candles and old stubs. He looks at Michael as Star pulls him further back into the cave. His smile is oddly sweet and maybe it’s that which makes Michael wave the bottle at him, beckoning.
--
Star’s bed is enclosed by draping shawls and scarves and necklaces of shells. The firelight picks out metallic threads in the hangings and through the gauze and lace the candles in the cave shine like unfocused stars.
He can still hear the others, whooping and laughing and calling to each other but they seem distant and disconnected from here, this moment, this world of torn silk and decaying lace and biker leather.
Star is soft and light and wrapped in layers of scarves and jewelry and peasant skirts. She kisses him with her hands on his face and his head is full of the crashing of waves. His jacket slides away and he thinks, oh, right, David.
He’s too drunk for surprise, or to pretend this isn’t exactly what he wants. David is arctic pallor and leather like armor and his skin is cool to the touch.
Star draws him back down and David presses and Michael folds, down into the nest of blankets and shawls that is Star’s bed. Star light and sweet and silent beneath him and David’s weight on his back, murmuring enticements and promises and kissing them into Michael’s spine.
Michael shifts, inexpertly, and Star draws in a startled breath and tips her head against his chest. He feels David’s hands - cold, strong, and with oddly long fingernails - curve around his throat. He turns his head far enough that they can kiss over his shoulder. Deep and messy and sharp. Their teeth click and David sucks on his lower lip, rough and indulgent and Michael knows his mouth will be swollen for days.
Star sighs and strokes his ribs, her bracelet’s chiming. David presses him down and bites at his shoulder with surprising force,
Outside the waves crash. The night whispers. There’s blood on the wind.
Evidence, The Following, M, Emma/Jacob/Paul, possessiveness
Jacob's still shaking, still on the verge of tears.
"Tell us what you need," and Emma kisses him quiet, tips him back into the bulwark of Paul's chest. "Tell us what you want."
"I want you to hold me down," Jacob's fingers are cold under her shirt. "I want you to take me apart," and Paul's mouth on his neck becomes teeth, becomes blood rising to the surface, becomes Jacob arching back, laying himself open for them.
Paul leaves bite marks everywhere he can put his teeth. Wraps his hands around Jacob's wrists and holds him, Jacob struggling not because he wants to get away, but because he wants to feel Paul trapping him, wants Paul's fingers bruised into his skin for days. Emma rises over him on her knees and leans across to kiss Paul over his shoulder. The sound of their mouths together, Paul's familiar stubble scraping over Emma's skin.
Jacob smiles, feeling his lip split and bleed where Emma bit him.
"Something funny?"
Paul shifts behind him and he knows every inch of that body. Memorized it in the dark of their bedroom telling themselves it was a secret and they could never have this.
"Just nice to see you two getting along."
They take him at his word; they hold him down, Paul pinning his arms while Emma rides him like he's a car she stole. Every touch becomes a grip that will leave marks, every kiss has teeth. He won't be able to walk tomorrow and he relishes the thought.
If he died right now, if Paul held him down and Emma opened his throat with a chef's knife and he pumped his life blood all over the sheets, all over Paul and Emma and, god, they'd probably fuck covered in his blood but, if he died right now the police would find Paul and Emma all over him. Bite marks and skin under his nails and bruises that match Paul's hands and DNA in the sweat he's slick with.
"Fuck," he sighs, shivery with sensation.
"Was that a request, baby?" and Emma doesn't wait for an answer, tugs him up onto his knees and down onto his elbows, Paul's hands sliding in the sweat along his spine and he groans at the first push, curves his back and Paul bottoms out in three strokes and stills for a moment. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck he missed this.
Emma whimpers, her hands painfully tight in his hair, and he hears the slick, wet sound of a kiss. Jacob rocks a little, pinned and impaled and aching and Paul rewards him with a slap that sends lightning through his nervous system and a thrust.
Jacob tilts his head to the side so he can breathe, so Emma can wrap her fingers around his throat and keep him from breathing, and watches his blood drip onto the sheets as Paul pounds into him.
He belongs.
sing, caged bird, Dune Chronicles, Paul Atreides/Irulan Corrino, trapped, obsession
Irulan’s wedding to Paul ‘Muad’Dib’ Atreides was a grand affair. Representatives from every major house, and every desert tribe. A dress so heavy with ornament that it scratched the stone floors of the palace. Had she not been trained since childhood she could not have moved in it.
Paul, the new emperor of Dune and of the universe, brushed aside her veil of strung diamonds and kissed her carefully. Through the Fremen ceremony his unearthly eyes had never wavered from his concubine’s face, but now he raised Irulan’s hand in his and presented her to the crowd of thousands as his wife.
Empty pageantry. Like the rest of her life.
--
She sits at every council meeting, but Paul and Alia make arbitrary, ironclad decrees and ignore all other voices.
Her throne is at Paul’s side, but all eyes see only the glory of Muad’Dib, and all ears hear only Alia’s strident preaching. She floats through the imperial court like a ghost. Maybe that will be her legacy; the Ghost Empress, wife of the great Muad’Dib.
Irulan begins to write another book.
The Lady Jessica is unfailingly polite to her, but distant, suspicious. Chani prefers to pretend that Irulan does not exist.
Paul is distant and strange, now. Burdened with rule, with his destiny, with the jihad that will never end, he grows even more taciturn and abrupt. When he comes to Irulan, which he does infrequently and without warning, he seems almost resigned, like he’s bowing to the inevitable future.
She worries for him. As she worries for herself.
--
Paul is gentle with her, as it is not in his nature to be cruel without necessity, but she misses the moody, sharp tongued boy he was once. The man he has become does not even see her. He touches her with the same thoughtless affection he would show a pet. When he kisses her she fights back tears and struggles to remain still though her hands itch to pull him close.
She lets herself feel as he makes love to her. Traces the muscles of his back and shoulders as he moves above her. He has never bothered to learn what pleases her and so she has learned to take what she can from these brief moments where he is only hers.
She winds her legs around his hips and digs her nails into his arms as if she could keep him with her just by holding on. But she knows, even as he shakes and gasps and hides his face against her hair, even as she trembles in the grip of her own climax, her eyes fixed on him, she knows that his thoughts are not of her. That his heart belongs to another.
The worst of Irulan’s many torments is that she loves him still.
Falling, Labyrinth, Jareth/Sarah Williams, curiosity, spark, dream, crystal, control, power
Sarah’s head is spinning. Everything is spinning, actually. The chandeliers, the shimmering walls, the other dancers. Ropes of pearls dangle from the… ceiling? The walls waver and shine and curve up and up and… she loses her balance and stumbles into a group of masked revelers who scream with laughter and drag her back to her feet. They’re all clutching ornate wine goblets but not a drop spills on her dress.
Her dress is so beautiful, made of starlight and silver tissue. She has never worn anything so lovely, but she’s looking for someone and it’s terribly important. She has to gather the dress up in both hands to walk and the magnificent spread of her spangled skirts catches on spindly golden chairs and tables piled high with jewel-like fruit that no one is eating.
Dancers crowd the ballroom, leering at her with cruel goblin mouths and bright animal eyes behind their masks. She struggles past a woman in a severe gown of owl feathers and a mask like the face of a monkey. Her skull-masked partner whispers something to her and they look at Sarah and laugh.
Sarah turns her face away quickly, hoping to escape their eyes, and that’s when she sees him.
--
The tall man in midnight blue disappears behind a column and a group of dancers wearing masks made of leathery leaves. Sarah tries to follow but her path is blocked. A masked man in a tattered jester’s hat offers her a wine goblet, but when she takes it the cup is shining and empty. No one is drinking, she sees; they just hold the goblets and laugh and dance.
She turns, trying to find the tall man again. She can’t quite recall who he is, but he must be the one she’s looking for.
More dancers spin across her path. She can’t tell how they move so quickly while she struggles with the encumbrance of her beautiful dress. She staggers in a new direction, thinking she sees a flash of starry midnight blue, but it’s only a reflection on the shimmering wall.
Frustrated, she whirls back, and a woman moves her painted fan aside, and he is there. Sarah stares, awed and confused as he glides toward her.
He takes her in his arms and they dance. Sarah is unsurprised to find that she knows how to dance, though it’s not something she knew before… before this. Before something.
His face is cold and remote and she cannot look away.
--
The dance begins to feel… different. The other dancers spin and the walls never end and his face is the only still thing in the room.
A sharp glance of light strikes from the crystal chandelier and she has a confusing flash of being somewhere else. Somewhere dark and soft and hung with curtains that move in a wind she can’t feel.
She isn’t wearing the dress anymore but her jeweled necklace pools heavily in the hollow of her throat. There’s a gentle touch on her stomach, her thigh, and she sighs with pleasure and the chandeliers sway.
Her dress is so heavy, and there’s laughter all around her. None of the other dancers impede their steps, but Sarah is lost just trying to follow. He raises one eyebrow at her and she knows that he is a king.
The king of something important and light strikes a woman’s jeweled mask and Sarah is lost in softness and a body against hers and the sharp edged pleasure-pain of being taken, of belonging. She raises her hand to touch his shoulder and ends up twining her fingers in the trailing ends of his pale hair as they dance.
He smiles faintly at her confusion and it is anything but reassuring. He guides her expertly through a one-handed spin and pulls her close with his hand on her waist. A man in a peaked mask and a tri-cornered hat tosses a bunch of crystal grapes into the air while his partner twirls.
The light is ruby-colored and blinding and she is rapt, clutching at him and sobbing for breath. Her body rent and aching and alight with sensation. She shatters like glass and a sound like a scream of bird rings in her ears.
Her ankle turns at the next step and she stumbles. The Goblin King smiles and his courtiers continue to laugh, dancing with empty wine goblets and fake food and glowering through their masks.
This isn’t right, Sarah thinks. This isn’t right!
fly your colors, Pirates of the Caribbean,Elizabeth Swann/Jack Sparrow, sea, want, freedom, pirate, Caribbean, waves, salt, rum, candlelight, compass, fires, salt, swaying, power, king
--
As though Elizabeth Swann, Pirate King, was going to stay on that island and wait.
--
Jack, Captain Jack, doffs his battered, treasured hat and sweeps her a deep and elegant, if slightly insouciant, salaam.
“Your majesty,” he says, and his gold teeth flash in the Caribbean sun.
Elizabeth raises her eyebrows and looks down her nose at him like a society matron at tea. “Whenever this wreck can be made ready, Captain,” she says and Jack grins even wider and whirls on his crew.
“Get ready to make way, you scallywags,” he says, and Mr. Gibbs repeats the order at the top of his lungs. Pirates jump and scramble. The sails unfurl and fill with wind.
She catches Jack’s eye as she turns her face into the sea spray. He winks.
--
Later, Jack licks rum and sea salt off her body, pressed skin to skin in the captain’s bunk as the ship rocks and creaks and sighs to itself on the calm water. The candles flicker and sputter and pick out the gold threads in the wall hangings, the sheen on the brass fittings of Jack’s sea chest. His moustache tickles and Elizabeth squirms.
“Where shall we sail, majesty?” he murmurs, kissing her throat. “I await your command.”
Elizabeth winds her legs around him and sighs as he moves. Jack buries a groan into the damp weight of her hair.
“We’ve been to the ends of the earth and the land of the dead,” Elizabeth says. She traces Jack’s tattoos with rope roughened hands, clutches him closer. “So, I think we go wherever the compass takes us.”
Jack’s dark eyes flare and he catches her mouth, rough and wild and hers to command. This fire does not scald her.
“We go wherever we want.”
Burn, Demon's Lexicon series, Alan Ryves/Nick Ryves, comfort, talk, two worlds, lesson
“I would burn the world for you,” Nick says, and Alan should worry because he knows it’s literal. But he also knows that it’s Nick trying to put his feelings into words, an awkward and unnatural thing for a demon.
The thing is, Alan doesn’t worry because the sentiment is mutual.
--
Nick bites like being told he doesn’t have to hold back is an unexpected gift.
“In this set of circumstances,” Alan tries to clarify even while his higher brain functions retreat under the press of Nick’s teeth. “Here, with me, it’s okay. Other people might not - oh, fuck - appreciate it.”
Nick raises his head, pressing Alan into the bed as his weight shifts. His black eyes are fierce and hot. “I don’t want any other people,” he says, inflectionless with truth as only a demon can be.
“Well,” Alan says, stutters, really, “that’s… that’s beside the point, but,” - this is not a conversation he is capable of having with his thighs spread around Nick’s hips - “mm, I think you get the gist.”
Nick rolls his eyes and rocks his hips down. Alan makes a sound he’ll deny to the grave, and gives in to the pounding of his blood.
--
Alan tries to be gentle with Nick. Gentleness and care aren’t points he can make once and trust Nick to remember. He has to prove the value of kindness over and over.
He tries to be gentle, but when Nick presses into him he grabs with rough hands and groans in his throat. “Again,” he gasps, his fingers leaving white indentations on Nick’s arms, his ribs.
Nick bares his teeth in what could only loosely be called a smile and rocks his hips, making no pretense at gentle. Alan bites back something that wants to be a snarl and a demand. “Please,” he says instead. He’s trying to teach by example, here.
Nick gives into the plea like it’s an ingrained habit. Slides back into him in a series of short jerks that make Alan see stars, that make the skin where he once wore demon marks burn and ache. Nick kisses him breathless, dark and heavy and Alan catches himself smiling.
In two worlds, there is nothing he has ever wanted more.
Sinking, The Lost Boys, David/Michael/Star, found, held, earthbound
The wine is heady and thick and the others are dancing around the cave and yelling, chanting. Michael has never felt so alive and so peaceful at the same time.
Star is tugging at his arm, wrapped in her embroidered shawl like a child, or an old woman. She doesn’t need to pull him; he’d gladly go anywhere with her.
He takes another swig from the archaic bottle.
David is dancing around the rim of the old fountain, walking between lit pillar candles and old stubs. He looks at Michael as Star pulls him further back into the cave. His smile is oddly sweet and maybe it’s that which makes Michael wave the bottle at him, beckoning.
--
Star’s bed is enclosed by draping shawls and scarves and necklaces of shells. The firelight picks out metallic threads in the hangings and through the gauze and lace the candles in the cave shine like unfocused stars.
He can still hear the others, whooping and laughing and calling to each other but they seem distant and disconnected from here, this moment, this world of torn silk and decaying lace and biker leather.
Star is soft and light and wrapped in layers of scarves and jewelry and peasant skirts. She kisses him with her hands on his face and his head is full of the crashing of waves. His jacket slides away and he thinks, oh, right, David.
He’s too drunk for surprise, or to pretend this isn’t exactly what he wants. David is arctic pallor and leather like armor and his skin is cool to the touch.
Star draws him back down and David presses and Michael folds, down into the nest of blankets and shawls that is Star’s bed. Star light and sweet and silent beneath him and David’s weight on his back, murmuring enticements and promises and kissing them into Michael’s spine.
Michael shifts, inexpertly, and Star draws in a startled breath and tips her head against his chest. He feels David’s hands - cold, strong, and with oddly long fingernails - curve around his throat. He turns his head far enough that they can kiss over his shoulder. Deep and messy and sharp. Their teeth click and David sucks on his lower lip, rough and indulgent and Michael knows his mouth will be swollen for days.
Star sighs and strokes his ribs, her bracelet’s chiming. David presses him down and bites at his shoulder with surprising force,
Outside the waves crash. The night whispers. There’s blood on the wind.
Evidence, The Following, M, Emma/Jacob/Paul, possessiveness
Jacob's still shaking, still on the verge of tears.
"Tell us what you need," and Emma kisses him quiet, tips him back into the bulwark of Paul's chest. "Tell us what you want."
"I want you to hold me down," Jacob's fingers are cold under her shirt. "I want you to take me apart," and Paul's mouth on his neck becomes teeth, becomes blood rising to the surface, becomes Jacob arching back, laying himself open for them.
Paul leaves bite marks everywhere he can put his teeth. Wraps his hands around Jacob's wrists and holds him, Jacob struggling not because he wants to get away, but because he wants to feel Paul trapping him, wants Paul's fingers bruised into his skin for days. Emma rises over him on her knees and leans across to kiss Paul over his shoulder. The sound of their mouths together, Paul's familiar stubble scraping over Emma's skin.
Jacob smiles, feeling his lip split and bleed where Emma bit him.
"Something funny?"
Paul shifts behind him and he knows every inch of that body. Memorized it in the dark of their bedroom telling themselves it was a secret and they could never have this.
"Just nice to see you two getting along."
They take him at his word; they hold him down, Paul pinning his arms while Emma rides him like he's a car she stole. Every touch becomes a grip that will leave marks, every kiss has teeth. He won't be able to walk tomorrow and he relishes the thought.
If he died right now, if Paul held him down and Emma opened his throat with a chef's knife and he pumped his life blood all over the sheets, all over Paul and Emma and, god, they'd probably fuck covered in his blood but, if he died right now the police would find Paul and Emma all over him. Bite marks and skin under his nails and bruises that match Paul's hands and DNA in the sweat he's slick with.
"Fuck," he sighs, shivery with sensation.
"Was that a request, baby?" and Emma doesn't wait for an answer, tugs him up onto his knees and down onto his elbows, Paul's hands sliding in the sweat along his spine and he groans at the first push, curves his back and Paul bottoms out in three strokes and stills for a moment. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck he missed this.
Emma whimpers, her hands painfully tight in his hair, and he hears the slick, wet sound of a kiss. Jacob rocks a little, pinned and impaled and aching and Paul rewards him with a slap that sends lightning through his nervous system and a thrust.
Jacob tilts his head to the side so he can breathe, so Emma can wrap her fingers around his throat and keep him from breathing, and watches his blood drip onto the sheets as Paul pounds into him.
He belongs.