( 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 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.