( they're not rare gems in a man's vocabulary, those three words. ani's heard the glitter and gold in them more times than she's seen it in bended knees, velvet ring boxes, soulless engagement rings that looked more at home on hand models than her own finger. i love you gets scuffed down to the cheap, nickel-plated: i love your pussy, i love what you let me do to you, all roughly translated to the obvious: i love the way you make me feel — the way men drive fast cars for sport, lift priceless artifacts. adrenaline to a junkie, cocaine to a high flyer. a fucking commodity, loved for its parts and its purpose, never the whole.
her breath hitches and hiccups in her chest. obvious as a faltering heart, the stumble in ani's rhythm. her hips jerk out of sync. the strength in her neck gives out, melting her head back into the carpet, an ink spill of dark hair floating around them. her fingertips twitch once, twice against his jaw. press down into his pulse, trying to count the truth in its hammering beats. what has ani made him feel? goddamn insane, probably. left behind. forgotten. both his crime and punishment. he can't love her for that. he shouldn't, if he saved any of his smarts. if he still knows how to run the numbers on getting away with a good haul.
she feels it, still. sticky, aching, fucked-out proof where he grinds her open, fills and floods her. a shake of her head. less disbelieving, more — coming to terms with the shellshock. jake's own russian roulette. his press of a cigarette burn to raw skin, baiting her out, proving she's always, always loved him back through the bullshit swagger and snapping teeth.
her legs slip off their perch. not exhausted by the welcome strain that means she's well-loved and well-fucked, but intentional. hitching around his waist so they can clasp together at the dimples of his back, cuffs him to her with the smooth curve of her thighs and the bruised heat of her. a life sentence spent inside of her, if she has any say in it.
it's not perfect; ani's hand presses clumsily to his, drags it on her clit for those final, urgent heartbeat of seconds it takes to come around his cock. merciless, squeezing him through every shudder like she's making sure the promise stays, that she takes him for every drop he's saved for her. still sobbing on the inhale through her own aftershocks, bossy, needy pleas of yeah, there and jake.
she folds into him. ani mikheeva, larger than life, melting down into something small enough to hold, small enough to need, allowed to ask for something back. the coil of her arms around his neck locks him close, a hand cupping the back of his skull, encourages the bite of his teeth, the marks she would willingly wear like heisted diamonds. not an inch of daylight between his body and hers, with all of ani's vining, begging limbs keeping him rooted in her. not liable for take-off, anytime soon. )
Got you, motherfucker. ( a softer echo, surrender and victory. ani tilts her head, mouth brushing wherever she can reach. his temple, the sunshine hair tickling her nose, warm exhales punched out against his ear. betraying herself, with how hopeful — hopeless? — the demand sounds: ) Say it again.
no subject
her breath hitches and hiccups in her chest. obvious as a faltering heart, the stumble in ani's rhythm. her hips jerk out of sync. the strength in her neck gives out, melting her head back into the carpet, an ink spill of dark hair floating around them. her fingertips twitch once, twice against his jaw. press down into his pulse, trying to count the truth in its hammering beats. what has ani made him feel? goddamn insane, probably. left behind. forgotten. both his crime and punishment. he can't love her for that. he shouldn't, if he saved any of his smarts. if he still knows how to run the numbers on getting away with a good haul.
she feels it, still. sticky, aching, fucked-out proof where he grinds her open, fills and floods her. a shake of her head. less disbelieving, more — coming to terms with the shellshock. jake's own russian roulette. his press of a cigarette burn to raw skin, baiting her out, proving she's always, always loved him back through the bullshit swagger and snapping teeth.
her legs slip off their perch. not exhausted by the welcome strain that means she's well-loved and well-fucked, but intentional. hitching around his waist so they can clasp together at the dimples of his back, cuffs him to her with the smooth curve of her thighs and the bruised heat of her. a life sentence spent inside of her, if she has any say in it.
it's not perfect; ani's hand presses clumsily to his, drags it on her clit for those final, urgent heartbeat of seconds it takes to come around his cock. merciless, squeezing him through every shudder like she's making sure the promise stays, that she takes him for every drop he's saved for her. still sobbing on the inhale through her own aftershocks, bossy, needy pleas of yeah, there and jake.
she folds into him. ani mikheeva, larger than life, melting down into something small enough to hold, small enough to need, allowed to ask for something back. the coil of her arms around his neck locks him close, a hand cupping the back of his skull, encourages the bite of his teeth, the marks she would willingly wear like heisted diamonds. not an inch of daylight between his body and hers, with all of ani's vining, begging limbs keeping him rooted in her. not liable for take-off, anytime soon. )
Got you, motherfucker. ( a softer echo, surrender and victory. ani tilts her head, mouth brushing wherever she can reach. his temple, the sunshine hair tickling her nose, warm exhales punched out against his ear. betraying herself, with how hopeful — hopeless? — the demand sounds: ) Say it again.