Official Porn Battle Post: BSG, Private Practice, Bones, Harry Potter, HDM
All my porn ficlets in one place, for posterity and cross-posting purposes! The rest of my recs will probably go up this week, once I get home from vacation.
Title: Vessel
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Prompt: Tigh/Caprica, curse
Original post: here
"You are a curse, a blight on this fleet," Tigh growls. Her legs are so tight around his waist that they squeeze the words out of him like paint from a metal tube. He's on his hands and knees on the cold floor and his palms will bruise, though the darker marks will adorn his hips, where she is hanging off him, her shoulder blades on the ground but her entire lower body lifted and soldered to his.
She doesn't speak to him, hasn't since their first joining; she simply stares up at him, into him, unflinching gaze locked with his as she clenches her muscles and breathes deeply and evenly through her nose, her nostrils flaring. She holds him inside her, contains him, absorbs him, a steady, pulsing, tight warmth wrapped all around his groin, until he's through spitting bitter words at her and he has to move. With a curse, he bores into her, thrusting her so sharply to the floor that her spine will be as purple as his hips. He works until he hits the release he needs, grunting all the more loudly to cover up her silence, to drown out her implacable stare.
The relief is always only temporary. He goes back and he goes back, renewing himself with her body, and she receives him.
"You bring shame to all of us," he rasps in her face. "Useless to your race, useless to this fleet, nothing but a whore full of secrets and lies." Neither her breathing nor her stare wavers. She squeezes her muscles around him and he gives in and slams her to the ground.
The president flies off on her godsforsaken mission to identify the Five, and the pounding in his temples is almost enough to burst through his flesh and thrum his whispery guilt out into the darkness.
"What do you think is going to happen to you? A frakking burnt-out toaster," he barks, his whole body quivering with tension; he won't talk for long today.
He finishes with a drawn-out groan and drops his full weight onto her, his arms giving out underneath him. He trembles; he can't move. All of a sudden her hands are on his back. He draws breath in a broken gasp, and he is sobbing into her hair. His body shudders and doesn't stop.
"Angel." Her yellow curls glisten with his tears. His voice cracks. "Angel."
Title: On Living Dangerously
Fandom: Private Practice
Prompt: Violet/Cooper, I can't
Original post: here
He imagines if he'd gone through with it. Swallowed his doubts and pushed his boxers down to his ankles in one quick flash, straightened up and allowed himself a moment's self-indulgent pride at the impressed gleam that would've filled Violet's eyes. He'd have smiled cockily and paid Violet's breasts a compliment (she wanted the DirrtyGirl700 treatment, right?) and slowly eased himself onto the bed, inviting her to follow with a single glance. He would have been hard almost before Violet even touched him, and he would have pressed an unexpected kiss to the corner of her mouth to distract her from wondering at the implications. He could have savored it, allowed himself an hour or so (or less; she wanted to fuck him, not accept his love, but regardless) of pretending that they were doing this for his reasons and not Violet's.
He would have tasted her slowly, searing every detail of Violet's lips and tongue and teeth and mouth into his mind in case he never got this chance again. His thumbs would have outlined her nipples, painting invisible bull's-eyes for the tip of his tongue to strike. He'd have nuzzled his face into her stomach, tickling her with his nose, making her giggle and getting drunk on the sound, then moved lower, teasing her, causing her to gasp and give thanks to whatever guiding star had pushed her to ask for this. He'd have given her the works, just the way she wanted; you didn't fuck twenty-odd women (of twenty-odd years) in a year's time without picking up a few tricks. He could've had her squirming and squealing at his mercy. Violet's curls strewn across her pillow, Violet's hot mouth and hotter cunt taking him in and soaking him up, Violet's feverish skin damp under his hands, Violet's heels imprinting his spine, Violet's thighs and Violet's fingers and Violet's neck and Violet's breasts and Violet's eyes and fuck.
So he can jerk off to her but he couldn't fuck her? She had asked for it. Violet had looked him in the eye and asked him for sex and he couldn't fucking give it to her.
I can't. His own feeble words bounced around inside his head.
"Coward," he told himself dully. "Idiot." He shut his eyes and tried to clear the image of Violet's body out of his head. He already knew he would fail. It seemed to be his habit these days.
Call her and apologize. "I can't," Cooper muttered. Tell her you love her. "I CAN'T," Cooper yelled.
He scrubbed his face and climbed into bed and dreamed that she hated him.
Title: Color Wheel
Fandom: Bones
Prompt: Hodgins/Angela, paintbrush, color
Original post: here
Angela sank down, stretching herself around him, and rolled her hips, setting a slow, smooth rhythm that had them both drawing deep, heavy breaths. Their eyes met and held, and a mischievous grin alighted on her face. He could swear her eyes started to glow.
Without stopping the steady pulse of her hips, she leaned over and reached for an object on her desk, drawing it quickly behind her back. A grin spread across his own face and he tensed in anticipation. "What?" he inquired warily.
She giggled and whipped out a paintbrush. "Will you be my canvas?" Her eyes sparkled.
"Oh, god."
She lowered the brush to the base of his neck and dragged it slowly down his chest. The bristles scratched lightly at his skin and he let out a sound that was half laugh and half growl. "Angela. That tickles."
She raised and lowered her eyebrows, grinning wickedly, and curved the brush around his nipples in gentle, circular strokes. She laughed in delight when he gasped and grabbed her waist.
"How's that feel, Jack?" she asked, all innocence.
He bucked his hips in response, forcing her to adopt a faster pace. "Put that away," he commanded, his voice tight. His eyes were smoldering, and she tossed the brush aside and clutched his forearms and pressed forward, arching her back.
"I'd- paint you- in shades of green," she sighed out between thrusts.
His fingers dug into her hips and he pulled her more sharply against him. She gasped. "Why green?"
"Because- Jack!- Because. You're a man of nature. The earth." She shut her eyes.
"I'd paint you in red," he said, a low edge to his voice. She imagined she could feel the vibrations of his words humming through her from between her legs, and bit her lip.
"Complementary colors?" she guessed, her fingers clenching in the sheet on either side of them.
"No," he whispered, his eyes pinned to her screwed-up face. "Fire."
He threw his hips up suddenly, bouncing her, and she cried out as she came. He pulled her down with one strong arm behind her back and held her to him, groaning as he spilled into her, and their hearts thundered together as her fire roared through his forest, devouring his body and soul in its all-encompassing blaze.
Title: On the Benefits of Consorting in the Workplace
Fandom: Harry Potter
Prompt: Bellatrix/Lucius, bite, better
Original post: here
Note: This isn't, you know, serious. I could never seriously write HP fic. This is purely for fun, fandomy, self-indulgent purposes. Which there is absolutely nothing wrong with. XD
Lucius Malfoy never did anything without a dash or two of competitive spirit, and really, neither did Bellatrix Lestrange. Add to this the fact that Bellatrix had spent the better part of her life wed to a wizard with less imagination than a horklump, and taking into account the inordinately high stress levels of being the Dark Lord’s two most relied-upon, and it really shouldn’t be a shock to anyone that Lucius and Bellatrix took full advantage of the ample opportunity they were provided with to pursue a discreet sexual relationship, nor, furthermore, that it was an intensely satisfying arrangement as far as both parties were concerned.
Their encounters would generally begin with an argument over which of the two was regarded more highly in the Dark Lord’s favor, a discussion related to the logistics of unleashing mass terror on the Muggle trains, a session of commiserating on the shortcomings of their respective spouses-well, to be completely honest, any sort of situation at all was fair game, since neither Lucius nor Bellatrix was above a simple, direct request for sex when they felt the inclination, which was always.
If their-what did we say?-ah, yes, encounters never began quite the same way, the way they ended was unfailingly predictable: torn robes and flesh were mended efficiently with a few incantations muttered amid heavy panting, with Bellatrix entirely certain that she had won, and Lucius remaining equally assured that he was the victor.
While it is true that in the games they played there was something to be said for losing, winning was far more satisfying. Lucius considered himself, not without basis, a master of control, and while Bellatrix could do exceptionally impressive things with her tongue, he was more than a match for her ministrations. She was forced to get creative; even Lucius had a hard time remaining passive when Bellatrix, the tip of her tongue flicking the head of his penis, simultaneously bit down halfway up his length. Bellatrix having made teeth fair play, Lucius had positively no qualms about branding her all over like an overzealous vampire, nipping not only at her neck and breasts, but her hips, thighs, and clitoris, and Bellatrix was forced to scratch his scalp hard in retaliation the first time he applied himself to the latter location.
They were both excellent multitaskers. Bellatrix could have one hand working all over his chest and the other massaging the erogenous spot along his jawline, her mouth laving and sucking his erect penis, and all the while be grinding methodically against his knee. Lucius enjoyed having one set of fingers in her mouth and the other between her legs while he devoted his tongue and teeth to her breasts. They were always up for trying new combinations, though.
Wands were useful, too. It was just like Lucius to lull Bellatrix into a pre-orgasmic haze, only to whip his wand out of nowhere and tether her to the nearest solid structure before she could react, leaving her screaming in frustration while he laughed. There was little in the world that Bellatrix found more pleasing than revenge, and the instant she was able to snatch up her wand Lucius found himself suspended upside-down in midair with his hands behind his back while Bellatrix raked her long, curved nails down his body, ankles to ears. However, they soon found better uses for this position, experimenting with the height of suspension and the alignment of their bodies until the combination of being upside-down and painfully aroused left Lucius with little blood for the midsection his body, and Bellatrix gave a long-suffering sigh and released him.
To any who might think to criticize these two loyal servants for their tendency to get distracted, it must be made clear that in fact, the activities that Lucius and Bellatrix engaged in behind closed doors allowed them to work all the more diligently on behalf of the Dark Lord. So much focused servitude naturally leads to a build-up of tension; it should be seen as a mark of their single-minded devotion to the Dark Lord’s vision that Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange were able to relieve their tension through screwing each other as opposed to going on unauthorized Muggle killing sprees that only jeopardized the work.
Thank you.
Title: Final
Fandom: His Dark Materials
Prompt: Marisa/Asriel, daughter
Original post: here
Note: I wrote this in the nick of time before the deadline, whereas the first full-length fic I posted for this fandom and this pairing lived inside my head for longer than anything else I've EVER written, and grew and developed over time, and the process for that piece was possibly my most rewarding writing process ever. The purpose of this note, I suppose, is to provide a place for me to officially express my apologies to Marisa Coulter, Lord Asriel, and Philip Pullman, not because I think the ficlet is bad, but because I did not write it with the same level of the utmost care and respect as I did my previous fic.
The click of the lock made Asriel look up from his papers.
“Edward is out of town.” Marisa. Her back pressed against the door and the laser beam of her gaze focused on his face. The golden monkey was curled about her legs, the wide blue orbs of his eyes seeking out Stelmaria’s.
Asriel closed his book carefully, screwed the top onto his inkwell. “I see.”
He rose slowly and walked over to her, daemon at his side, his eyes never leaving hers. He stopped just a few inches shy of touching her, and waited.
“I have something to tell you. Something important.” Her voice was low and throaty, and there was an unfamiliar note to it that put Asriel instantly on his guard.
“Well?”
“No,” she said, “After.”
His face hardened along with his voice. “Now, Marisa. What has happened?”
She didn’t back down. At her worst she was still a match for him; it was this fact that had drawn him to her in the first place. “No.” She slipped her lithe form around him, the monkey following like a shadow, and strode to the center of the room, where she stood facing him, her body firm like a challenge. He could feel the energy radiating off her, an anbaric force all her own. She was wild today; her hair hung loose about her face, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright, her breasts strained at the confines of her dress. Everything about her was calling to him, tempting him, beckoning him to her side, and with a sharp incline of his head, he gave in. The questions would come later.
He closed the distance between them in two easy steps, fastened his mouth to hers. His fingers curled into her hair, holding her in place as he kissed her forcefully, and her hands hesitated, clutching aimlessly at the air before settling upon his back. Her uncertainty rang through his consciousness like so many warning bells, but he forced the anxiety aside. After.
He undressed her and laid her out on the bed carefully before divesting himself of his own garments and lying next to her. He propped himself up on one arm and ran the other down her body, looping across her naked flesh. He loomed over her and searched her face briefly before lowering his lips once more to hers, kissing her almost violently while his roaming hand found its way between her legs, parting them. This was not a day for languishing. He pressed a thumb firmly against her, and her cry was muffled by his mouth. Her hand scrabbled over his torso, skittering downwards till she had him in her grip. He pushed off the bed, rolling over her; without ceremony, he plunged deep inside her.
Her hands moved to his forearms and her nails dug into his flesh as he rocked rapidly against her, his jaw set, his eyes unfocused. Marisa closed her eyes and held on and allowed herself to get lost in him. His scent swarmed into every crevice of her body; his breath washed over her in hot puffs. Every push of his hips ratcheted the heat expanding between her legs up another notch, and she clenched around him, encouraging him silently, only her ragged exhalations betraying how close she was.
She felt Asriel jerk once, involuntarily, and then he dropped to his forearms and rested his forehead against hers, gritting his teeth as he continued to pound into her even as his self-control slipped away from him. Marisa opened her eyes and all at once they were looking at each other, and she gasped more from the impact of his stare than anything else. She took a deep, shuddering breath. This is the last time. Asriel’s eyes widened: she realized she’d spoken aloud, and then she came undone. She clung to his shoulders until they were still, until only their racing heartbeats indicated that they were alive.
“Asriel.” She whispered, not because she feared breaking the silence, for Marisa Coulter had never minded jarring the atmosphere around her, but because she couldn’t trust her voice not to break.
He was up in an instant, back on his hands and knees, the sweat gathering on his brow. He said nothing. He was waiting for her.
She forced her eyes to remain open and locked with his, forced the rise and fall of her chest to remain even. “I am with child.”
The world constricted around them and bound them to their fate, which unraveled before them, invisibly: waiting.
*
Title: Vessel
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Prompt: Tigh/Caprica, curse
Original post: here
"You are a curse, a blight on this fleet," Tigh growls. Her legs are so tight around his waist that they squeeze the words out of him like paint from a metal tube. He's on his hands and knees on the cold floor and his palms will bruise, though the darker marks will adorn his hips, where she is hanging off him, her shoulder blades on the ground but her entire lower body lifted and soldered to his.
She doesn't speak to him, hasn't since their first joining; she simply stares up at him, into him, unflinching gaze locked with his as she clenches her muscles and breathes deeply and evenly through her nose, her nostrils flaring. She holds him inside her, contains him, absorbs him, a steady, pulsing, tight warmth wrapped all around his groin, until he's through spitting bitter words at her and he has to move. With a curse, he bores into her, thrusting her so sharply to the floor that her spine will be as purple as his hips. He works until he hits the release he needs, grunting all the more loudly to cover up her silence, to drown out her implacable stare.
The relief is always only temporary. He goes back and he goes back, renewing himself with her body, and she receives him.
"You bring shame to all of us," he rasps in her face. "Useless to your race, useless to this fleet, nothing but a whore full of secrets and lies." Neither her breathing nor her stare wavers. She squeezes her muscles around him and he gives in and slams her to the ground.
The president flies off on her godsforsaken mission to identify the Five, and the pounding in his temples is almost enough to burst through his flesh and thrum his whispery guilt out into the darkness.
"What do you think is going to happen to you? A frakking burnt-out toaster," he barks, his whole body quivering with tension; he won't talk for long today.
He finishes with a drawn-out groan and drops his full weight onto her, his arms giving out underneath him. He trembles; he can't move. All of a sudden her hands are on his back. He draws breath in a broken gasp, and he is sobbing into her hair. His body shudders and doesn't stop.
"Angel." Her yellow curls glisten with his tears. His voice cracks. "Angel."
Title: On Living Dangerously
Fandom: Private Practice
Prompt: Violet/Cooper, I can't
Original post: here
He imagines if he'd gone through with it. Swallowed his doubts and pushed his boxers down to his ankles in one quick flash, straightened up and allowed himself a moment's self-indulgent pride at the impressed gleam that would've filled Violet's eyes. He'd have smiled cockily and paid Violet's breasts a compliment (she wanted the DirrtyGirl700 treatment, right?) and slowly eased himself onto the bed, inviting her to follow with a single glance. He would have been hard almost before Violet even touched him, and he would have pressed an unexpected kiss to the corner of her mouth to distract her from wondering at the implications. He could have savored it, allowed himself an hour or so (or less; she wanted to fuck him, not accept his love, but regardless) of pretending that they were doing this for his reasons and not Violet's.
He would have tasted her slowly, searing every detail of Violet's lips and tongue and teeth and mouth into his mind in case he never got this chance again. His thumbs would have outlined her nipples, painting invisible bull's-eyes for the tip of his tongue to strike. He'd have nuzzled his face into her stomach, tickling her with his nose, making her giggle and getting drunk on the sound, then moved lower, teasing her, causing her to gasp and give thanks to whatever guiding star had pushed her to ask for this. He'd have given her the works, just the way she wanted; you didn't fuck twenty-odd women (of twenty-odd years) in a year's time without picking up a few tricks. He could've had her squirming and squealing at his mercy. Violet's curls strewn across her pillow, Violet's hot mouth and hotter cunt taking him in and soaking him up, Violet's feverish skin damp under his hands, Violet's heels imprinting his spine, Violet's thighs and Violet's fingers and Violet's neck and Violet's breasts and Violet's eyes and fuck.
So he can jerk off to her but he couldn't fuck her? She had asked for it. Violet had looked him in the eye and asked him for sex and he couldn't fucking give it to her.
I can't. His own feeble words bounced around inside his head.
"Coward," he told himself dully. "Idiot." He shut his eyes and tried to clear the image of Violet's body out of his head. He already knew he would fail. It seemed to be his habit these days.
Call her and apologize. "I can't," Cooper muttered. Tell her you love her. "I CAN'T," Cooper yelled.
He scrubbed his face and climbed into bed and dreamed that she hated him.
Title: Color Wheel
Fandom: Bones
Prompt: Hodgins/Angela, paintbrush, color
Original post: here
Angela sank down, stretching herself around him, and rolled her hips, setting a slow, smooth rhythm that had them both drawing deep, heavy breaths. Their eyes met and held, and a mischievous grin alighted on her face. He could swear her eyes started to glow.
Without stopping the steady pulse of her hips, she leaned over and reached for an object on her desk, drawing it quickly behind her back. A grin spread across his own face and he tensed in anticipation. "What?" he inquired warily.
She giggled and whipped out a paintbrush. "Will you be my canvas?" Her eyes sparkled.
"Oh, god."
She lowered the brush to the base of his neck and dragged it slowly down his chest. The bristles scratched lightly at his skin and he let out a sound that was half laugh and half growl. "Angela. That tickles."
She raised and lowered her eyebrows, grinning wickedly, and curved the brush around his nipples in gentle, circular strokes. She laughed in delight when he gasped and grabbed her waist.
"How's that feel, Jack?" she asked, all innocence.
He bucked his hips in response, forcing her to adopt a faster pace. "Put that away," he commanded, his voice tight. His eyes were smoldering, and she tossed the brush aside and clutched his forearms and pressed forward, arching her back.
"I'd- paint you- in shades of green," she sighed out between thrusts.
His fingers dug into her hips and he pulled her more sharply against him. She gasped. "Why green?"
"Because- Jack!- Because. You're a man of nature. The earth." She shut her eyes.
"I'd paint you in red," he said, a low edge to his voice. She imagined she could feel the vibrations of his words humming through her from between her legs, and bit her lip.
"Complementary colors?" she guessed, her fingers clenching in the sheet on either side of them.
"No," he whispered, his eyes pinned to her screwed-up face. "Fire."
He threw his hips up suddenly, bouncing her, and she cried out as she came. He pulled her down with one strong arm behind her back and held her to him, groaning as he spilled into her, and their hearts thundered together as her fire roared through his forest, devouring his body and soul in its all-encompassing blaze.
Title: On the Benefits of Consorting in the Workplace
Fandom: Harry Potter
Prompt: Bellatrix/Lucius, bite, better
Original post: here
Note: This isn't, you know, serious. I could never seriously write HP fic. This is purely for fun, fandomy, self-indulgent purposes. Which there is absolutely nothing wrong with. XD
Lucius Malfoy never did anything without a dash or two of competitive spirit, and really, neither did Bellatrix Lestrange. Add to this the fact that Bellatrix had spent the better part of her life wed to a wizard with less imagination than a horklump, and taking into account the inordinately high stress levels of being the Dark Lord’s two most relied-upon, and it really shouldn’t be a shock to anyone that Lucius and Bellatrix took full advantage of the ample opportunity they were provided with to pursue a discreet sexual relationship, nor, furthermore, that it was an intensely satisfying arrangement as far as both parties were concerned.
Their encounters would generally begin with an argument over which of the two was regarded more highly in the Dark Lord’s favor, a discussion related to the logistics of unleashing mass terror on the Muggle trains, a session of commiserating on the shortcomings of their respective spouses-well, to be completely honest, any sort of situation at all was fair game, since neither Lucius nor Bellatrix was above a simple, direct request for sex when they felt the inclination, which was always.
If their-what did we say?-ah, yes, encounters never began quite the same way, the way they ended was unfailingly predictable: torn robes and flesh were mended efficiently with a few incantations muttered amid heavy panting, with Bellatrix entirely certain that she had won, and Lucius remaining equally assured that he was the victor.
While it is true that in the games they played there was something to be said for losing, winning was far more satisfying. Lucius considered himself, not without basis, a master of control, and while Bellatrix could do exceptionally impressive things with her tongue, he was more than a match for her ministrations. She was forced to get creative; even Lucius had a hard time remaining passive when Bellatrix, the tip of her tongue flicking the head of his penis, simultaneously bit down halfway up his length. Bellatrix having made teeth fair play, Lucius had positively no qualms about branding her all over like an overzealous vampire, nipping not only at her neck and breasts, but her hips, thighs, and clitoris, and Bellatrix was forced to scratch his scalp hard in retaliation the first time he applied himself to the latter location.
They were both excellent multitaskers. Bellatrix could have one hand working all over his chest and the other massaging the erogenous spot along his jawline, her mouth laving and sucking his erect penis, and all the while be grinding methodically against his knee. Lucius enjoyed having one set of fingers in her mouth and the other between her legs while he devoted his tongue and teeth to her breasts. They were always up for trying new combinations, though.
Wands were useful, too. It was just like Lucius to lull Bellatrix into a pre-orgasmic haze, only to whip his wand out of nowhere and tether her to the nearest solid structure before she could react, leaving her screaming in frustration while he laughed. There was little in the world that Bellatrix found more pleasing than revenge, and the instant she was able to snatch up her wand Lucius found himself suspended upside-down in midair with his hands behind his back while Bellatrix raked her long, curved nails down his body, ankles to ears. However, they soon found better uses for this position, experimenting with the height of suspension and the alignment of their bodies until the combination of being upside-down and painfully aroused left Lucius with little blood for the midsection his body, and Bellatrix gave a long-suffering sigh and released him.
To any who might think to criticize these two loyal servants for their tendency to get distracted, it must be made clear that in fact, the activities that Lucius and Bellatrix engaged in behind closed doors allowed them to work all the more diligently on behalf of the Dark Lord. So much focused servitude naturally leads to a build-up of tension; it should be seen as a mark of their single-minded devotion to the Dark Lord’s vision that Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange were able to relieve their tension through screwing each other as opposed to going on unauthorized Muggle killing sprees that only jeopardized the work.
Thank you.
Title: Final
Fandom: His Dark Materials
Prompt: Marisa/Asriel, daughter
Original post: here
Note: I wrote this in the nick of time before the deadline, whereas the first full-length fic I posted for this fandom and this pairing lived inside my head for longer than anything else I've EVER written, and grew and developed over time, and the process for that piece was possibly my most rewarding writing process ever. The purpose of this note, I suppose, is to provide a place for me to officially express my apologies to Marisa Coulter, Lord Asriel, and Philip Pullman, not because I think the ficlet is bad, but because I did not write it with the same level of the utmost care and respect as I did my previous fic.
The click of the lock made Asriel look up from his papers.
“Edward is out of town.” Marisa. Her back pressed against the door and the laser beam of her gaze focused on his face. The golden monkey was curled about her legs, the wide blue orbs of his eyes seeking out Stelmaria’s.
Asriel closed his book carefully, screwed the top onto his inkwell. “I see.”
He rose slowly and walked over to her, daemon at his side, his eyes never leaving hers. He stopped just a few inches shy of touching her, and waited.
“I have something to tell you. Something important.” Her voice was low and throaty, and there was an unfamiliar note to it that put Asriel instantly on his guard.
“Well?”
“No,” she said, “After.”
His face hardened along with his voice. “Now, Marisa. What has happened?”
She didn’t back down. At her worst she was still a match for him; it was this fact that had drawn him to her in the first place. “No.” She slipped her lithe form around him, the monkey following like a shadow, and strode to the center of the room, where she stood facing him, her body firm like a challenge. He could feel the energy radiating off her, an anbaric force all her own. She was wild today; her hair hung loose about her face, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright, her breasts strained at the confines of her dress. Everything about her was calling to him, tempting him, beckoning him to her side, and with a sharp incline of his head, he gave in. The questions would come later.
He closed the distance between them in two easy steps, fastened his mouth to hers. His fingers curled into her hair, holding her in place as he kissed her forcefully, and her hands hesitated, clutching aimlessly at the air before settling upon his back. Her uncertainty rang through his consciousness like so many warning bells, but he forced the anxiety aside. After.
He undressed her and laid her out on the bed carefully before divesting himself of his own garments and lying next to her. He propped himself up on one arm and ran the other down her body, looping across her naked flesh. He loomed over her and searched her face briefly before lowering his lips once more to hers, kissing her almost violently while his roaming hand found its way between her legs, parting them. This was not a day for languishing. He pressed a thumb firmly against her, and her cry was muffled by his mouth. Her hand scrabbled over his torso, skittering downwards till she had him in her grip. He pushed off the bed, rolling over her; without ceremony, he plunged deep inside her.
Her hands moved to his forearms and her nails dug into his flesh as he rocked rapidly against her, his jaw set, his eyes unfocused. Marisa closed her eyes and held on and allowed herself to get lost in him. His scent swarmed into every crevice of her body; his breath washed over her in hot puffs. Every push of his hips ratcheted the heat expanding between her legs up another notch, and she clenched around him, encouraging him silently, only her ragged exhalations betraying how close she was.
She felt Asriel jerk once, involuntarily, and then he dropped to his forearms and rested his forehead against hers, gritting his teeth as he continued to pound into her even as his self-control slipped away from him. Marisa opened her eyes and all at once they were looking at each other, and she gasped more from the impact of his stare than anything else. She took a deep, shuddering breath. This is the last time. Asriel’s eyes widened: she realized she’d spoken aloud, and then she came undone. She clung to his shoulders until they were still, until only their racing heartbeats indicated that they were alive.
“Asriel.” She whispered, not because she feared breaking the silence, for Marisa Coulter had never minded jarring the atmosphere around her, but because she couldn’t trust her voice not to break.
He was up in an instant, back on his hands and knees, the sweat gathering on his brow. He said nothing. He was waiting for her.
She forced her eyes to remain open and locked with his, forced the rise and fall of her chest to remain even. “I am with child.”
The world constricted around them and bound them to their fate, which unraveled before them, invisibly: waiting.
*