(no subject)
For the 3/21/08 pornathon. Russ/Claire hatesex.
Claire's kiss comes out of nowhere, hands grabbing his face and those elaborate nails digging into the skin under his jaw, his sideburns. It's violent. It's a challenge. It brings up his hackles and a growl in his throat.
Russ shoves her back, snarling (her nails leave scratches along his face, his stubble burns her palms), and slaps her, backhand. Her head whips to the side and then back, and the snarl's on her face now, too. Before she can retaliate, he grabs her, fists his hands in her shirt (a button pops) and kisses her, no less violently, tongue in her mouth running on the inside of her lips over too-sharp teeth. No farther in. She bites, after all.
He won't let her win. She knows she can't lose.
He starts to fumble at her shirt and she slaps his hands away. "Bad dog," she pants, "you'll rip it."
"Fuck you," he rasps, pulls his shirt off over his head, and kneels to push her skirt up. She lifts one high-heel-clad foot and puts it on his bare shoulder, stopping him. He looks up at her, lips curling to a snarl again.
He's a pleasure to look at, she has to admit -- short but solidly built, compact and muscular. There's a long scar along one pec. She lifts her foot (his nostrils flare as the motion brings her legs apart) and traces the scar with the sharp-pointed toe of her shoe. Russ growls and grabs her ankle, lifting it up and over his shoulder and moving forward, pushing her skirt up.
He snorts. "You shave. Shoulda known."
"I'm not an animal," she husks.
He looks up at her and laughs hoarsely. "Nah, but you'll fuck one. So what's that make you?"
His mouth is on her before she answers; she sucks in one breath and then falls silent. Every sound his tongue and fingers force out of her is a victory.
Later she straddles him, and another button pops off her shirt. Her nails scrape along his pecs; when they scratch over the scar he gasps, and that's a victory for her. She considers, even as she churns against him, the idea of putting her hands over his throat -- they said that's how the son of a bitch who'd kidnapped them had chained him -- but rejects it. She doesn't want him to kill her.
They said he'd hurt his ribs then, too, that they'd never fully healed. If he's hurting he doesn't show it; she doesn't care -- and he doesn't seem to be hurting when he flips them over, pinning her hands over her head. She yanks them away, wraps them around his back, and digs her nails in again. He growls and moves faster.
She climaxes first -- for the second time tonight -- and he follows a few minutes later. He lays next to her, panting (like the wolf he is) for a minute, then hauls himself to his feet and start collecting his clothes. Claire sits up, adjusting her hair, her shirt, and watches him dress.
When his hand is on the doorknob, she says, "They'll smell me on you." On his face, his fingers, his chest and shoulders and thighs.
Russ throws a look over his shoulder. "I'll tell them we fought." He bares his teeth in a smile. "You say different and you're telling everyone you're into bestiality. And how'll that look?"
He leaves. His hair is so dark with sweat it disappears in the shadows outside.
Claire purses her lips, and looks down at her shirt and its missing buttons.
"Goddammit," she says to the empty room.
Claire's kiss comes out of nowhere, hands grabbing his face and those elaborate nails digging into the skin under his jaw, his sideburns. It's violent. It's a challenge. It brings up his hackles and a growl in his throat.
Russ shoves her back, snarling (her nails leave scratches along his face, his stubble burns her palms), and slaps her, backhand. Her head whips to the side and then back, and the snarl's on her face now, too. Before she can retaliate, he grabs her, fists his hands in her shirt (a button pops) and kisses her, no less violently, tongue in her mouth running on the inside of her lips over too-sharp teeth. No farther in. She bites, after all.
He won't let her win. She knows she can't lose.
He starts to fumble at her shirt and she slaps his hands away. "Bad dog," she pants, "you'll rip it."
"Fuck you," he rasps, pulls his shirt off over his head, and kneels to push her skirt up. She lifts one high-heel-clad foot and puts it on his bare shoulder, stopping him. He looks up at her, lips curling to a snarl again.
He's a pleasure to look at, she has to admit -- short but solidly built, compact and muscular. There's a long scar along one pec. She lifts her foot (his nostrils flare as the motion brings her legs apart) and traces the scar with the sharp-pointed toe of her shoe. Russ growls and grabs her ankle, lifting it up and over his shoulder and moving forward, pushing her skirt up.
He snorts. "You shave. Shoulda known."
"I'm not an animal," she husks.
He looks up at her and laughs hoarsely. "Nah, but you'll fuck one. So what's that make you?"
His mouth is on her before she answers; she sucks in one breath and then falls silent. Every sound his tongue and fingers force out of her is a victory.
Later she straddles him, and another button pops off her shirt. Her nails scrape along his pecs; when they scratch over the scar he gasps, and that's a victory for her. She considers, even as she churns against him, the idea of putting her hands over his throat -- they said that's how the son of a bitch who'd kidnapped them had chained him -- but rejects it. She doesn't want him to kill her.
They said he'd hurt his ribs then, too, that they'd never fully healed. If he's hurting he doesn't show it; she doesn't care -- and he doesn't seem to be hurting when he flips them over, pinning her hands over her head. She yanks them away, wraps them around his back, and digs her nails in again. He growls and moves faster.
She climaxes first -- for the second time tonight -- and he follows a few minutes later. He lays next to her, panting (like the wolf he is) for a minute, then hauls himself to his feet and start collecting his clothes. Claire sits up, adjusting her hair, her shirt, and watches him dress.
When his hand is on the doorknob, she says, "They'll smell me on you." On his face, his fingers, his chest and shoulders and thighs.
Russ throws a look over his shoulder. "I'll tell them we fought." He bares his teeth in a smile. "You say different and you're telling everyone you're into bestiality. And how'll that look?"
He leaves. His hair is so dark with sweat it disappears in the shadows outside.
Claire purses her lips, and looks down at her shirt and its missing buttons.
"Goddammit," she says to the empty room.