( she says, as obvious a lie as his was. how many ways to say i haven't been happy since your best friend impregnated me, and you both left me in a burning church to die, but for a change of pace morgan doesn't feel vindictive of it. sometimes, rarely but occasionally, even her own venom feels poisonous to her. plaguing herself with thoughts of that day does nothing but make this vacuous space inside her feel deeper, less whole. she never really forgave embry for it, but she loves him, which is her own cross to carry. he and lyr are the only people in the world she feels anything loving towards and, well.
one's a kid, and the other one sometimes behaves like one. poor, sad embry. his life is very hard.
probably, the same could be said about her. anyone could look at morgan leffey and see the endlessly spoiled daughter of two politicians, who can take weeks and weekends off work to go fuck her brother in some remote mansion in the family's name, and they'd be right enough that it wouldn't matter that morgan walks through life like a ghost, like she really did die in carpathia a hundred years ago. a buttery, stocking-clad foot presses up the center of embry's chest and gives him a gentle kick back, making room enough for morgan to ease her blouse up and over her head with a kitten stretch. life is months of walking dead on her feet, interrupted by brief, shimmering moments when she remembers she is alive and she does have feelings, dark and tarry as they are. this is one of those good moments — when she can look up and see embry, her baby brother, affected by her. yearning echoed back in her own expression.
her mouth twists up in a grin, sitting up so she can meet him, one hand cinching around his throat while the other palms through his hair, morgan leaning it to press her mouth to the corner of his, matching his breaths until the air leaves him. they hold. then, she lets him go, feeling his panting mouth against hers as she kisses him, undoing the leftover buttons of his shirt, and yanking the tails from his pants.
she was wrong, the first time she told embry he couldn't keep up with ash. as it turns out, he's as much of a masochist as morgan is a sadist, which she's sure lead ash and embry to have a very normal relationship, that neither of them want to talk about. the lucky thing — embry reminds morgan of ash, and morgan hates ash with a fire that can only come from a place of loving, longing, and what ifs. it makes being rough on him as easy as breathing, the exact thing she wishes she could do to ash. )
Want me to go easy on you? ( they could, after all, be normal siblings having normal sibling sex together? she snorts, fumbling embry's belt, just opening his pants enough for her to lay her palms flat on his cock, the heel of her hand meanly grinding into him. ) Why do I bother asking? I'm the older one, I'm supposed to convince you to do what I want.
[ the wonderful thing about morgan is that she knows him better than anyone else, except for ash. or maybe that's not even true anymore. ash had been so close to understanding him, so fucking close to cracking him open fully and getting to the truth. an absurd part of embry is resentful that ash hadn't disassembled his lie, that he breaks him until he's kneeling at his feet over everything else — except when it'd come to this. it's the worst thing to hate ash for, because it's exactly what he wanted. and yet even when embry gets what he wants, he's not happy. there's a flaw somewhere in his design that stops him from ever being fucking happy.
and morgan understands that. she doesn't pity him the way ash does, because while they both know embry will eventually die drunk and alone because he's read brideshead revisited too many times, morgan doesn't try to make him feel better for it. she doesn't tell him it's okay. she doesn't weaponize her big, sad eyes on him unless it's to get her way, which rarely has anything positive in it for him. he knows what he's getting, which is her biting mouth and acerbic tongue, and it leaves him wanting and breathless and fucking pissed about it every time. ]
Convince me better.
[ it's all for show, to put up the front that he isn't easy when they both know he is, to pretend that he doesn't want to be choked and ridden and bruised by his own goddamn sister — stepsister, still an important distinction. he groans deep in his throat, his hips pressing into her hand. on some level, he loves this. he loves her.
his fingers dig into the mesh fabric of her hosiery, tearing a hole right at the crease of her thigh. widening it takes no effort, exposing the little strip of fabric from her lacy black thong, soaked through and doing a poor job of covering up her swollen pinky cunt beneath. the first touch feels like heaven, no hesitation in sliding into her wet folds, slick and warm and waiting. he thumbs at her clit in a quick rhythm, because isn't that what she's doing to him? sibling revenge. ]
Give me another hit. [ it's better when it's served up by his sissy. ] I've been on good behavior and I'm starving.
( convince him better? a smile curves up on morgan's lips, the same colgate commercial grin as ash, except both of them rarely express themselves via a smile, and when they do it means inherently different things. flipped coin mannerisms and all — ash is inherently good, and morgan is inherently a born and bred, silver spoon sucking prodigal infant of a political tycoon in the republican party, who was raised on the caviar of may-december relationships. ash grew up eating toasted ravioli in the city center of kansas city missouri which, shocking everyone in the midwestern united states of america, actually does have multiple streetlights. morgan was born bad. wrong. or something like that.
she wasn't born as self-sacrificial as either of her brothers, but she has moments nearing their levels of self-loathing. reflecting on what a good, good person their gilded president is, how infallible, how he never makes a wrong choice, alongside the gutting reality that he chose to let her and their unborn child burn up in a church, where she wouldn't have even been, if he bothered to see her. embry's god, his forlorn love, his one that got away, the person he always, always chooses over morgan. bubby left her in that church, too.
the point is — she smiles, a smile that says you can't make me do anything and fuck you a hundred million times over. if he wants a hit, then morgan flattens her hand and reels back, slapping him hard across the face with a satisfying crack, her fingers lingering on his cheek to sink into his mouth, dragging him back to meet her like a fish caught on a hook. the red impact mark on his cheek almost looks like a blush, which would be far more novel on embry than a hand print. )
Who wants you on good behavior? You're so much more fun the other way.
( she tosses him to the side with some effort, wriggling out of his grasp and getting the silver platter, cutting up a bump for him that she sets up on the flat part of her thumb. she's almost maternal about it, almost sisterly, presenting her hand and pinching embry's nostril for him while he snorts, crawling into his lap and laving her tongue over his prickly upper lip, his pronounced cupid's bow, to taste the lingering residue. )
Coke dick is a real thing, bubby. Don't go where I can't fuck you.
( testing, her hips swivel on him, happy to find him still hard. she's wet. these things find each other — his weeping erection feeling hot and swollen against her slick, messy folds. it doesn't take effort to arrange him at her entrance, to sink down on him and gasp at the pleasurepain of the first stroke. her body clenches around his, hands sinking into his renaissance curls, pulling hard to yank his head back. her teeth catch on his chin, nipping. )
Don't come, either. Not until I say so. Not until you beg for it. ( she bites his jawline all the way down, until she's biting at his ear, pressing her tongue into the shell, hips grinding down on his in the same motion. ) Or else I'm gonna beat you black and blue, bubby.
[ fucking shit. the slaps brings his cock to attention but also pisses him the fuck off, and for a moment he wants to tie her up with her own goddamn pantyhose. sometimes he doesn't believe morgan cares about him at all, like she took whatever love and affection she held for him and splintered it the moment he hadn't come for her in carpathia. he believes her when she says she won't forgive him. but he idiotically still wants to try to make her, even with every reminder that she won't.
his anger fades as quick as a spark, as quick as a snort of cocaine and the warm lick of morgan's lips. embry has a lot of anger that never goes anywhere except back into himself, and more so now that ash isn't fucking all the bad thoughts out of him. he thinks about saying something, about maybe opening up a little now that the drugs are settling in and loosening his tongue, but then he's enveloped in morgan's hot, wet cunt, and all he can do is whisk a drawn-out moan from between his clenched teeth and hope to fucking god she's on birth control. pregnancy is a touchy topic and he doesn't want to get slapped again — at least not for that, because that won’t be fun. ]
You can't make me beg. [ his sooty lashes flutter against his cheeks at his big boy proclamation, his eyes dropping to the flushed outline of her nipples through her lacy bra. ] This is nice.
[ his fingers ghost along her back, sliding beneath the band and pulling it away from her skin, making like he's going to unhook it and free the titties, but he just stretches it a good few inches and then snaps it back so it leaves a satisfying little mark against her perfectly porcelain spine. he never gets these chances with ash, never gets to sneak little moments of mischief in, because with ash it’s like his head is being held underwater while he fights to stay within an inch of his life, but with morgan — she’s a prowling wildcat that likes to play with her food. it’s a dangerous game, a different kind of losing than when he kneels at ash’s feet. a part of embry feels like he owes her this.
he owes her a lot, for leaving her in that church. for trusting ash’s lead. for not regretting the choice even if he’d wanted to die the second the doctors told him she’d never regain full motion in her shoulder again.
he squeezes the curve of her ass, wrapped up tight in her hosiery, and presses his hips tighter into hers. no coke dick here, because he’s shuddering into her heat, ready to blow his load like he’s a teenager fumbling around in morgan’s panties while one of vivienne moore’s christmas parties rages downstairs. morgan, sometimes, would bring an annoying date, someone who oozed money and followed her around like a pathetic dog. embry would just show up alone, a habit that’s followed him into his thirties, and make out with the prettiest person there. ]
Shit. [ he lifts her so his cock just barely touches her entrance, then pushes in again, sinking into her body’s blissful heat with a groan. how could she tell him not to come? he feels compelled to bind himself to her stupid commands, to the poor, sad detriment of his cock. ] Morgan, I haven’t — shit, I haven’t fucked anyone in —
[ forever, it feels like, because he’s been too busy being hopelessly fucking sad about ash and jenny, following them around like the permanent bachelor he is. he twists to tip morgan onto the bed, so that they’re facing each other and he can nip hungrily at her bra, licking right through the rough lace, as he reaches down to lift one of her legs so he can fuck all the way inside of her. ]
( with a tone of voice that says haven't you looked in a mirror lately? i own you too regardless of how much of a lie it is. there's a similar sting to the lie as there is the snap of her bra strap — a comfortable, familiar pain like pressing a thumb into a bruise or the soft part of a fruit, feeling it concave and fragile in your hands. not that she, morgan leffey, is fragile. not that it's ever been an option for her. maybe once she was a little girl with lofty ideas about romance and love, her promised million dollar house in upstate new york, a politically interesting husband with idealist morals to compliment her rigid pessimism, two and a half perfect kids and a cat, or something. obviously it's not how it went down. the end goal is never love anymore — it's just the bitter heartbreath seconds of feeling momentarily whole and alive, not feeling full but feeling passably content. morgan takes those moments when they come, breezy and ephemeral. it hasn't been a long time for her — not when america is riddled senseless with billionaire tycoons, and senators with wives, and wives with house of representatives seats. not when lyonesse is there, full of perfectly acceptable people who might take a glance at her and say sure, i'll can try out white, skinny, and bruisable for the night.
it's not embry's point, obviously, but none of his words are load bearing in that sentence — not anything he actually wants to say, not anything close to what he means. it's always ash, with him. ash in the newspapers, ash on the dancefloor, ash getting married, ash on a train that's always headed in a direction away from him. being a whore runs in the family, and embry hasn't been holding up his end of the moore-leffey bargain of biblical self-loathing. their little secret, knowledge from the great beyond — they're both so full of wanting, despite how loathsome they are. only, morgan doesn't find embry loathsome. lovesick and cruel, sometimes, a perpetual circle of endless hope and battering disappointment, but not unlovable. morgan shivers, full to bursting with her brother's cock, pinned on her back. it's hard to imagine him holding a gun, despite having visited him in carpathia, in his ugly fatigues, in his dangling dogtags — like this, he's just her boyish little brother, charming girls with his dimpled smile and pretty cock. nothing's ugly about embry, not one single thing. )
Hold.
( she presses a fist against his belly, keeping him from thrusting back inside her, so she can lift up on her elbow and find their silver tray. it puts an unfun amount of pressure pain on her bad shoulder, but once she flinches and sinks her teeth into her lip she's fine, cunt fluttering on his cock like a happy cunt should, ducking to the side and snorting a too fat line, but it doesn't matter because worst case scenario she has an overdose and dies, and that is hardly anyone's worst case anything. resetting her position underneath him, a catlike grin curves up the corner of her lips, a sharply pointed acrylic nail pressed against her pink tongue as she wets her pointer finger, eventually arching up until her mouth is back against his ear, hand skating around his hip. )
Are you saying you're tight like a virgin for me? ( she maneuvers her hand into his wrinkled pants, fingers dropping down the curve of his ass until she pressing against his hole, teasing with the idea of pushing in. ) I remember virgin Embry. I might be the only one who does. ( her pussy seizes tightly around him, muscles working hard to clamp him in, to cut off blood flow, to make his dick hers and hers alone. ) If you fill up my cunt, I'll fill up yours. But you have to ask nicely. You know the score.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
( she says, as obvious a lie as his was. how many ways to say i haven't been happy since your best friend impregnated me, and you both left me in a burning church to die, but for a change of pace morgan doesn't feel vindictive of it. sometimes, rarely but occasionally, even her own venom feels poisonous to her. plaguing herself with thoughts of that day does nothing but make this vacuous space inside her feel deeper, less whole. she never really forgave embry for it, but she loves him, which is her own cross to carry. he and lyr are the only people in the world she feels anything loving towards and, well.
one's a kid, and the other one sometimes behaves like one. poor, sad embry. his life is very hard.
probably, the same could be said about her. anyone could look at morgan leffey and see the endlessly spoiled daughter of two politicians, who can take weeks and weekends off work to go fuck her brother in some remote mansion in the family's name, and they'd be right enough that it wouldn't matter that morgan walks through life like a ghost, like she really did die in carpathia a hundred years ago. a buttery, stocking-clad foot presses up the center of embry's chest and gives him a gentle kick back, making room enough for morgan to ease her blouse up and over her head with a kitten stretch. life is months of walking dead on her feet, interrupted by brief, shimmering moments when she remembers she is alive and she does have feelings, dark and tarry as they are. this is one of those good moments — when she can look up and see embry, her baby brother, affected by her. yearning echoed back in her own expression.
her mouth twists up in a grin, sitting up so she can meet him, one hand cinching around his throat while the other palms through his hair, morgan leaning it to press her mouth to the corner of his, matching his breaths until the air leaves him. they hold. then, she lets him go, feeling his panting mouth against hers as she kisses him, undoing the leftover buttons of his shirt, and yanking the tails from his pants.
she was wrong, the first time she told embry he couldn't keep up with ash. as it turns out, he's as much of a masochist as morgan is a sadist, which she's sure lead ash and embry to have a very normal relationship, that neither of them want to talk about. the lucky thing — embry reminds morgan of ash, and morgan hates ash with a fire that can only come from a place of loving, longing, and what ifs. it makes being rough on him as easy as breathing, the exact thing she wishes she could do to ash. )
Want me to go easy on you? ( they could, after all, be normal siblings having normal sibling sex together? she snorts, fumbling embry's belt, just opening his pants enough for her to lay her palms flat on his cock, the heel of her hand meanly grinding into him. ) Why do I bother asking? I'm the older one, I'm supposed to convince you to do what I want.
no subject
and morgan understands that. she doesn't pity him the way ash does, because while they both know embry will eventually die drunk and alone because he's read brideshead revisited too many times, morgan doesn't try to make him feel better for it. she doesn't tell him it's okay. she doesn't weaponize her big, sad eyes on him unless it's to get her way, which rarely has anything positive in it for him. he knows what he's getting, which is her biting mouth and acerbic tongue, and it leaves him wanting and breathless and fucking pissed about it every time. ]
Convince me better.
[ it's all for show, to put up the front that he isn't easy when they both know he is, to pretend that he doesn't want to be choked and ridden and bruised by his own goddamn sister — stepsister, still an important distinction. he groans deep in his throat, his hips pressing into her hand. on some level, he loves this. he loves her.
his fingers dig into the mesh fabric of her hosiery, tearing a hole right at the crease of her thigh. widening it takes no effort, exposing the little strip of fabric from her lacy black thong, soaked through and doing a poor job of covering up her swollen pinky cunt beneath. the first touch feels like heaven, no hesitation in sliding into her wet folds, slick and warm and waiting. he thumbs at her clit in a quick rhythm, because isn't that what she's doing to him? sibling revenge. ]
Give me another hit. [ it's better when it's served up by his sissy. ] I've been on good behavior and I'm starving.
no subject
she wasn't born as self-sacrificial as either of her brothers, but she has moments nearing their levels of self-loathing. reflecting on what a good, good person their gilded president is, how infallible, how he never makes a wrong choice, alongside the gutting reality that he chose to let her and their unborn child burn up in a church, where she wouldn't have even been, if he bothered to see her. embry's god, his forlorn love, his one that got away, the person he always, always chooses over morgan. bubby left her in that church, too.
the point is — she smiles, a smile that says you can't make me do anything and fuck you a hundred million times over. if he wants a hit, then morgan flattens her hand and reels back, slapping him hard across the face with a satisfying crack, her fingers lingering on his cheek to sink into his mouth, dragging him back to meet her like a fish caught on a hook. the red impact mark on his cheek almost looks like a blush, which would be far more novel on embry than a hand print. )
Who wants you on good behavior? You're so much more fun the other way.
( she tosses him to the side with some effort, wriggling out of his grasp and getting the silver platter, cutting up a bump for him that she sets up on the flat part of her thumb. she's almost maternal about it, almost sisterly, presenting her hand and pinching embry's nostril for him while he snorts, crawling into his lap and laving her tongue over his prickly upper lip, his pronounced cupid's bow, to taste the lingering residue. )
Coke dick is a real thing, bubby. Don't go where I can't fuck you.
( testing, her hips swivel on him, happy to find him still hard. she's wet. these things find each other — his weeping erection feeling hot and swollen against her slick, messy folds. it doesn't take effort to arrange him at her entrance, to sink down on him and gasp at the pleasurepain of the first stroke. her body clenches around his, hands sinking into his renaissance curls, pulling hard to yank his head back. her teeth catch on his chin, nipping. )
Don't come, either. Not until I say so. Not until you beg for it. ( she bites his jawline all the way down, until she's biting at his ear, pressing her tongue into the shell, hips grinding down on his in the same motion. ) Or else I'm gonna beat you black and blue, bubby.
no subject
his anger fades as quick as a spark, as quick as a snort of cocaine and the warm lick of morgan's lips. embry has a lot of anger that never goes anywhere except back into himself, and more so now that ash isn't fucking all the bad thoughts out of him. he thinks about saying something, about maybe opening up a little now that the drugs are settling in and loosening his tongue, but then he's enveloped in morgan's hot, wet cunt, and all he can do is whisk a drawn-out moan from between his clenched teeth and hope to fucking god she's on birth control. pregnancy is a touchy topic and he doesn't want to get slapped again — at least not for that, because that won’t be fun. ]
You can't make me beg. [ his sooty lashes flutter against his cheeks at his big boy proclamation, his eyes dropping to the flushed outline of her nipples through her lacy bra. ] This is nice.
[ his fingers ghost along her back, sliding beneath the band and pulling it away from her skin, making like he's going to unhook it and free the titties, but he just stretches it a good few inches and then snaps it back so it leaves a satisfying little mark against her perfectly porcelain spine. he never gets these chances with ash, never gets to sneak little moments of mischief in, because with ash it’s like his head is being held underwater while he fights to stay within an inch of his life, but with morgan — she’s a prowling wildcat that likes to play with her food. it’s a dangerous game, a different kind of losing than when he kneels at ash’s feet. a part of embry feels like he owes her this.
he owes her a lot, for leaving her in that church. for trusting ash’s lead. for not regretting the choice even if he’d wanted to die the second the doctors told him she’d never regain full motion in her shoulder again.
he squeezes the curve of her ass, wrapped up tight in her hosiery, and presses his hips tighter into hers. no coke dick here, because he’s shuddering into her heat, ready to blow his load like he’s a teenager fumbling around in morgan’s panties while one of vivienne moore’s christmas parties rages downstairs. morgan, sometimes, would bring an annoying date, someone who oozed money and followed her around like a pathetic dog. embry would just show up alone, a habit that’s followed him into his thirties, and make out with the prettiest person there. ]
Shit. [ he lifts her so his cock just barely touches her entrance, then pushes in again, sinking into her body’s blissful heat with a groan. how could she tell him not to come? he feels compelled to bind himself to her stupid commands, to the poor, sad detriment of his cock. ] Morgan, I haven’t — shit, I haven’t fucked anyone in —
[ forever, it feels like, because he’s been too busy being hopelessly fucking sad about ash and jenny, following them around like the permanent bachelor he is. he twists to tip morgan onto the bed, so that they’re facing each other and he can nip hungrily at her bra, licking right through the rough lace, as he reaches down to lift one of her legs so he can fuck all the way inside of her. ]
no subject
( with a tone of voice that says haven't you looked in a mirror lately? i own you too regardless of how much of a lie it is. there's a similar sting to the lie as there is the snap of her bra strap — a comfortable, familiar pain like pressing a thumb into a bruise or the soft part of a fruit, feeling it concave and fragile in your hands. not that she, morgan leffey, is fragile. not that it's ever been an option for her. maybe once she was a little girl with lofty ideas about romance and love, her promised million dollar house in upstate new york, a politically interesting husband with idealist morals to compliment her rigid pessimism, two and a half perfect kids and a cat, or something. obviously it's not how it went down. the end goal is never love anymore — it's just the bitter heartbreath seconds of feeling momentarily whole and alive, not feeling full but feeling passably content. morgan takes those moments when they come, breezy and ephemeral. it hasn't been a long time for her — not when america is riddled senseless with billionaire tycoons, and senators with wives, and wives with house of representatives seats. not when lyonesse is there, full of perfectly acceptable people who might take a glance at her and say sure, i'll can try out white, skinny, and bruisable for the night.
it's not embry's point, obviously, but none of his words are load bearing in that sentence — not anything he actually wants to say, not anything close to what he means. it's always ash, with him. ash in the newspapers, ash on the dancefloor, ash getting married, ash on a train that's always headed in a direction away from him. being a whore runs in the family, and embry hasn't been holding up his end of the moore-leffey bargain of biblical self-loathing. their little secret, knowledge from the great beyond — they're both so full of wanting, despite how loathsome they are. only, morgan doesn't find embry loathsome. lovesick and cruel, sometimes, a perpetual circle of endless hope and battering disappointment, but not unlovable. morgan shivers, full to bursting with her brother's cock, pinned on her back. it's hard to imagine him holding a gun, despite having visited him in carpathia, in his ugly fatigues, in his dangling dogtags — like this, he's just her boyish little brother, charming girls with his dimpled smile and pretty cock. nothing's ugly about embry, not one single thing. )
Hold.
( she presses a fist against his belly, keeping him from thrusting back inside her, so she can lift up on her elbow and find their silver tray. it puts an unfun amount of pressure pain on her bad shoulder, but once she flinches and sinks her teeth into her lip she's fine, cunt fluttering on his cock like a happy cunt should, ducking to the side and snorting a too fat line, but it doesn't matter because worst case scenario she has an overdose and dies, and that is hardly anyone's worst case anything. resetting her position underneath him, a catlike grin curves up the corner of her lips, a sharply pointed acrylic nail pressed against her pink tongue as she wets her pointer finger, eventually arching up until her mouth is back against his ear, hand skating around his hip. )
Are you saying you're tight like a virgin for me? ( she maneuvers her hand into his wrinkled pants, fingers dropping down the curve of his ass until she pressing against his hole, teasing with the idea of pushing in. ) I remember virgin Embry. I might be the only one who does. ( her pussy seizes tightly around him, muscles working hard to clamp him in, to cut off blood flow, to make his dick hers and hers alone. ) If you fill up my cunt, I'll fill up yours. But you have to ask nicely. You know the score.