[Meme] Alphabet Drabble - J
Ninth response to the Alphabet Drabble Meme
Title: An exercise in purple with bonus bait-and-switch!
Prompt: J is for Jerk. For sanguincarn
Fandom/RP-verse: Gaia Online: ICRS
Character/Pairing: Tek and Magda
A/N: Tek and Magda are RP characters in the Gaia Online "shop" Interplanetary Criminal Relocation Service. Tek belongs to sanguincarn, whom I owe a giant apology for failing to do Tek justice. Magda is my character whose suffering amuses me greatly. (Dance, my puppet, dance!) ... I need a life, don't I? Foul language and possibly racy (because I fail at tastefully sexy) imagery under the cut.
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"Say it," he murmurs, whisper soft but no less commanding.
It occurs to her, just then, how loud her heart is beating in her ears. How cold his body is pressed up against her. How confining and suffocating the cage of his arms are. And how meeting his gaze may be the biggest mistake she ever makes. For in the depths of his blood-red eyes, she sees a myriad of things.
Pain, far-reaching and brazen-faced, being in the forefront. Pain from his teeth digging into the tender flesh where her neck meets her shoulder. Pain from his nails raking trails of crimson along her inner thigh. Pain from his tongue lathing at fresh wounds and reopened scars. Pain from his words wrenching control from her mind and imprinting in her a hunger so feral, so primal she can barely breathe. Pain from being denied what she wants, what she needs, until she loses all sense of her self and does what she has been resisting all her life.
Then there is Pleasure, sliver-thin and glimmer-brief, lining the fringes. Pleasure from pale hands teasing and stroking and caressing her where she is most sensitive. Pleasure from his lips alternating between robbing her of breath with deep, desperate kisses and savoring every inch of her body. Pleasure from his voice whispering that he wants her, loves her, needs her with such crippling intensity that she believes him. Pleasure from relinquishing control over her darker self, her true self, from succumbing and becoming that which she has always been.
And in between: Infectious madness. Forgotten promises. Dust-covered trophy brides. Skeletons in closets and houses and graves. Shallow grievances. Nightmares made real. Things too grave to know and things too precious to speak of.
Her breath catches in her throat as she struggles to fight off the capricious visions and the feverish yearning he has set alight in her. She focuses on the Pain, on the ache, on the inevitability rearing its ugly head when he's sated, and bored with her, and leaves her broken; little more than an empty shell, a mere shadow of her former self.
"Say it," he repeats, the undertone of urgency more distinct the second time.
"Make me," she spits back. Panic seizes her immediately as the line of his mouth takes a maliciously confident curve.
"I hoped you would say that," he leers, the weight of his body against hers becoming more insistent, red eyes glittering in wicked delight.
She screws her gray eyes shut, believing such an act would break the hypnotic spell of his gaze. Her blindness only makes the sensation of his fingers brushing against her cheek more pronounced, and her jaw clenches from the giddy shiver that thrills over her skin. She hears the appreciative rumble in his chest, and feels the pressure of his hand skimming the curve of her breasts shift from feather-soft to rough caressing.
The apples of her cheeks flush, heat unfurls in her core, and a gasp escapes her as her back arches on instinct. From behind closed lids, she's suddenly aware of a flash of light and her ears catch an electronic click. She dares a peek, and is outraged to find him holding a camera-phone, the screen displaying a picture of her mere seconds ago.
"Blackmail? Are you fucking serious?!" she seethes.
He pulls away from her, the smirk on his face brushing away the aura of mystique and intrigue like gossamer cobwebs, holding the compromising digital image of her out of reach.
"You seem to have forgotten I'm a firm believer of Pix or it didn't happen," he sneers, quickly tucking his phone in his back pocket. "If you want it, mannequin," he crooks a finger at her in taunt, "Come and-"
"You fucking asshole!" She cuts him off, throws her full weight behind the fist aimed at his nose (hears cartilage giving way with a satisfying crunch), and they both go down. "You promised me! You fucking promised me you wouldn't pull this sort of moment-breaking shit! WE HAD A DEAL!!" She shrieks, far more interested in painting her knuckles with his blood than retrieving the incriminating photograph.
As they wrestle he shouts at her, something about how she shouldn't be so fucking surprised, about how he wasn't really going to show it to anyone. She's not really listening to him, too livid and upset and feeling so very betrayed that he would take advantage of her when she was in so vulnerable a position. Even when he has her beneath him and her arms pinned on either side of her head, she continues turning the air blue with profanity.
He says nothing to counter her accusations, doesn't bother to wipe at the blood from his broken nose and split lip. She finally stops her tirade but only because she's hiccuping too hard to talk straight. It's not because he's staring at her with red eyes that promises pain, pleasure, forgotten promises, petty arguments, half-baked ideas, and on occasion sincere apologies. No one will ever be able to convince her otherwise.
"I hate you," she mutters weakly once her breathing goes back to normal.
When she tries to pull her wrists free he holds fast. He leans in until he's resting his forehead against hers and whispers, "No fucking duh, tell me something I don't know."
And their lips meet.
Title: An exercise in purple with bonus bait-and-switch!
Prompt: J is for Jerk. For sanguincarn
Fandom/RP-verse: Gaia Online: ICRS
Character/Pairing: Tek and Magda
A/N: Tek and Magda are RP characters in the Gaia Online "shop" Interplanetary Criminal Relocation Service. Tek belongs to sanguincarn, whom I owe a giant apology for failing to do Tek justice. Magda is my character whose suffering amuses me greatly. (Dance, my puppet, dance!) ... I need a life, don't I? Foul language and possibly racy (because I fail at tastefully sexy) imagery under the cut.
-----------------
"Say it," he murmurs, whisper soft but no less commanding.
It occurs to her, just then, how loud her heart is beating in her ears. How cold his body is pressed up against her. How confining and suffocating the cage of his arms are. And how meeting his gaze may be the biggest mistake she ever makes. For in the depths of his blood-red eyes, she sees a myriad of things.
Pain, far-reaching and brazen-faced, being in the forefront. Pain from his teeth digging into the tender flesh where her neck meets her shoulder. Pain from his nails raking trails of crimson along her inner thigh. Pain from his tongue lathing at fresh wounds and reopened scars. Pain from his words wrenching control from her mind and imprinting in her a hunger so feral, so primal she can barely breathe. Pain from being denied what she wants, what she needs, until she loses all sense of her self and does what she has been resisting all her life.
Then there is Pleasure, sliver-thin and glimmer-brief, lining the fringes. Pleasure from pale hands teasing and stroking and caressing her where she is most sensitive. Pleasure from his lips alternating between robbing her of breath with deep, desperate kisses and savoring every inch of her body. Pleasure from his voice whispering that he wants her, loves her, needs her with such crippling intensity that she believes him. Pleasure from relinquishing control over her darker self, her true self, from succumbing and becoming that which she has always been.
And in between: Infectious madness. Forgotten promises. Dust-covered trophy brides. Skeletons in closets and houses and graves. Shallow grievances. Nightmares made real. Things too grave to know and things too precious to speak of.
Her breath catches in her throat as she struggles to fight off the capricious visions and the feverish yearning he has set alight in her. She focuses on the Pain, on the ache, on the inevitability rearing its ugly head when he's sated, and bored with her, and leaves her broken; little more than an empty shell, a mere shadow of her former self.
"Say it," he repeats, the undertone of urgency more distinct the second time.
"Make me," she spits back. Panic seizes her immediately as the line of his mouth takes a maliciously confident curve.
"I hoped you would say that," he leers, the weight of his body against hers becoming more insistent, red eyes glittering in wicked delight.
She screws her gray eyes shut, believing such an act would break the hypnotic spell of his gaze. Her blindness only makes the sensation of his fingers brushing against her cheek more pronounced, and her jaw clenches from the giddy shiver that thrills over her skin. She hears the appreciative rumble in his chest, and feels the pressure of his hand skimming the curve of her breasts shift from feather-soft to rough caressing.
The apples of her cheeks flush, heat unfurls in her core, and a gasp escapes her as her back arches on instinct. From behind closed lids, she's suddenly aware of a flash of light and her ears catch an electronic click. She dares a peek, and is outraged to find him holding a camera-phone, the screen displaying a picture of her mere seconds ago.
"Blackmail? Are you fucking serious?!" she seethes.
He pulls away from her, the smirk on his face brushing away the aura of mystique and intrigue like gossamer cobwebs, holding the compromising digital image of her out of reach.
"You seem to have forgotten I'm a firm believer of Pix or it didn't happen," he sneers, quickly tucking his phone in his back pocket. "If you want it, mannequin," he crooks a finger at her in taunt, "Come and-"
"You fucking asshole!" She cuts him off, throws her full weight behind the fist aimed at his nose (hears cartilage giving way with a satisfying crunch), and they both go down. "You promised me! You fucking promised me you wouldn't pull this sort of moment-breaking shit! WE HAD A DEAL!!" She shrieks, far more interested in painting her knuckles with his blood than retrieving the incriminating photograph.
As they wrestle he shouts at her, something about how she shouldn't be so fucking surprised, about how he wasn't really going to show it to anyone. She's not really listening to him, too livid and upset and feeling so very betrayed that he would take advantage of her when she was in so vulnerable a position. Even when he has her beneath him and her arms pinned on either side of her head, she continues turning the air blue with profanity.
He says nothing to counter her accusations, doesn't bother to wipe at the blood from his broken nose and split lip. She finally stops her tirade but only because she's hiccuping too hard to talk straight. It's not because he's staring at her with red eyes that promises pain, pleasure, forgotten promises, petty arguments, half-baked ideas, and on occasion sincere apologies. No one will ever be able to convince her otherwise.
"I hate you," she mutters weakly once her breathing goes back to normal.
When she tries to pull her wrists free he holds fast. He leans in until he's resting his forehead against hers and whispers, "No fucking duh, tell me something I don't know."
And their lips meet.