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04 December 2015 @ 12:59 pm

“And just when were you going to tell me this benefit lasts until midnight?”

Anita stiffens as she feels the words puff hotly into her ear. She turns to see Harper’s displeased face, the red lacquer of her lips curling disdainfully - and she swallows hard as her eyes pass slowly over the rest of her, savoring the sight.

The witch has clearly gone to great lengths to appear her best (read: the most intimidating breed of attractiveness that sends treacherous twitches down your fingertips and at the same time, terrifies you so completely you couldn’t act on your desires if you tried). Harper is sheathed in swathes of translucent black lace and striking gold accents - delicate link chains and beaded jewelry - strewn from gleaming spiked shoulder pauldrons, all of which are crowned by a heavy gold circlet set around her neck.

As Harper shifts her weight impatiently, Anita eyes the subtle play of light across the pattern of lace drawn taut over Harper’s dramatic angles with a distracted awe.

“Anita!” Harper just looks exasperated now, perhaps affected by Anita’s flattering display of slackjaw. She hooks a finger into the neckline of Anita’s simple black dress and pulls, and uses the other hand to draw her chin up, pinning Anita’s eyes with her own. Anita’s breath grows shallow, pupils dilated dramatically, and Harper feels an acute sense of pride in her continued ability to reduce one of the most unflappable people she knows to a quivering mass of want.

“Are - “ Her nail scrapes lightly against the curve of Anita’s exposed breast.

“You - “ Anita gasps as Harper draws a thumb underneath the swell of Anita’s bottom lip. Harper withdraws suddenly, keeping Anita’s gaze with a wicked smile even as the alpha practically wilts at the distance between them.

“Listening?” With much more poise than Anita is currently displaying, Harper steps forward, wraps an arm around Anita’s waist, presses them flush together, and swings them seamlessly into the the sea of dancing couples.

At a nearby table, Avanti elbows her ex-husband with a grin.

“One of these days, you should tell them to tone down their sexual energy. They’re making that slow dance look positively sinful. They’re community leaders with reps, you know.”

Bassan can only roll his eyes. “You know, I would if I could, but I’m never in the mood to have my eyes forcibly ejected from my skull. You never did meet Harper properly, huh?”

and after the party is the after-party (aka stop reading here if sex is a squick)

“Are you going to be good for me, Anita?”

“Y-yes,” Anita’s husky voice ekes out. “Yes, please - ah!”

“Please, what, hm?” Harper takes the chance to enjoy the sight of Anita, naked body straining to remain still, straddling Harper’s thighs and hovering bare centimeters over Harper’s waiting fingers. She lazily shifts her middle finger so it brushes casually against Anita’s slick warmth, and is rewarded with a broken, “Yes, m-mistress!”

A soft hum of pleasure at the title, and then Harper’s gripping Anita’s hip with her available hand, slowly guiding her down until she can feel Anita squirming in her grasp, the tips of two fingers sunk into her cunt to the second joint. “Mm, good girl. Now, move.”

Anita’s hips dip further, taking in the full length of Harper’s fingers. Her eyes squeeze close as she forces herself to move slowly up and down, choking on her moans as she feels clever fingertips curl up and in on her descent - beckoning. “Faster now. You’re doing so good..” Harper smirks as she feels Anita clench involuntarily at the blatant praise.

Harper finds herself with arms wrapped around her neck as Anita braces against her, their foreheads touching. Powerful thighs clench and release rhythmically as Anita attempts to control her strength even as she fucks herself shamelessly on Harper’s fingers. A soft keening escapes her lips when she lowers herself down and a third finger enters her, stretching her with ease.

Harper’s free hand sinks into Anita’s mass of curls and clenches into a loose fist, gently tugging her head back and revealing an unmarked length of neck. She leans forward to taste her skin, tongue flicking at the hollow of her throat. As Anita swallows hard, Harper can feel pressure against her tongue like another heartbeat. She sets her lips against that shallow divot and sucks, the edges of her teeth catching on reddening skin like she’s tempted to just bite.

By the time Harper sinks a fourth finger in, Anita’s practically gone with gaping, hungry lips and a shuddering starting in her abdomen at the steady stream of uninhibited praise - highly valued from Harper especially - murmured into her ear.cleverwoman-brilliant-uncorrupted-godsthere’sonlyyou-exquisite-ican’treplaceyou-i’llneverreturnyouthey’llhavetoburnmefirst

“Good girl, you did so well,” and she’s coming apart, her hips jerking harshly as she grinds mindlessly into the four fingers curled into her.

“Fuck. Fuck, Harper, thank you,” Anita whispers hoarsely after she collapses on Harper’s chest. She feels Harper’s fingers, sticky and wet, cup the back of her head.

“I suppose I’ll keep you after all.”

04 December 2015 @ 12:58 pm

Maxe shows up to her first swim team practice in her favorite racerback one-piece swimsuit and a neutral expression. She doesn’t bother to glare defensively or growl threatening words at the kids who stare at her - not like her brother would. She calmly puts away her stuff in the girl’s locker room and begins her stretches (her quads have always been super tight, but she’s been working on them).

The kids don’t make complaints, but one parent does. It’s always a parent, Maxe thinks. People really don’t give kids enough credit.

It’s Cora Lennox’s mom who calls the coach and yells in the poor woman’s ear for ten minutes straight. Cora’s alright - not the fastest swimmer, but Coach almost never has to yell at her for being lazy. Maxe has talked to her a couple of times, mostly about the best way to maintain speed and an accurate form.

Coach listens with a clenched jaw, but she listens all the way through without interrupting. She’s a fair teacher - tough at times, but the best ones tend to be. When Mrs. Lennox finishes raging, Coach calmly tells her that any and all girls are welcome in the girl’s locker room, no exclusions. And then, she hangs up. Maxe swims her fastest that day, and grins all the way home.

For weeks after, Cora sends Maxe embarrassed, apologetic glances. One day, Maxe just rolls her eyes and pulls Cora aside to tell her to stop looking like she’s killed Maxe’s puppy.

“We don’t have a problem, okay? You’ve never been uncomfortable with me and you’ve never talked shit about me, and while we’re not good friends, we can always talk about swimming, easy as anything. We’re good.”

“I don’t - I’m so sorry about my mom! I swear I don’t think what she thinks about you, I promise!”

“Like I said, you and I don’t have a problem, Cora. Quit apologizing, and race me, hm?”

Mrs. Lennox ceases to be a problem once the administration catches wind of her fear-mongering. In recent years, it’s started to take its own policies more seriously. It also helps that Coach is a very likeable person. People tend to want to listen when she speaks. (She’s the reason why there’s a support group for trans kids on campus. Every once in a while, she’ll come in and talk about her own experiences, and for a while, she’s not the strict, barking swim coach she’s always known. She’s Harriet Deng, 45, a woman with warm eyes and a ready smile and a made family all her own.)

Maxe doesn’t like to waste energy on people, period. It’s hardly worth it, and besides, her brother wastes enough for both of them. Loren will show up to school with a wretched scowl, wielding a pair of safety scissors in the most threatening way possible, to greet anyone who dares make his twin uncomfortable. Maxe loves him, but sometimes, she worries one day he’ll take his defense of her too far. (That isn’t to say it wouldn’t be deserved, but Loren is not going to end up in juvie because of her.)

Maxe doesn’t thrive off on conflict the way that Loren does. It’s entirely too exhausting to be be constantly looking for someone or something to fight. That isn’t to say she doesn’t ever feel the need to shut someone down - she can and has. In confrontations, she feels a sort of blankness. Insults and sharp words make an impact, but the thing is - she doesn’t quite care enough about the person chucking them to have them genuinely hurt. Maybe it’s a bit of a superiority complex, but there are few people who she views as important enough to ever make a dent in her self-esteem. Who are those petty, angry people to her?

She has gotten in a fight once. Some angry jock knocks into her in the hallway and calls her a slur that, surprisingly, hurts her quite keenly. Loren steps in to take her place, but she sets a gentle hand on his shoulder to stay him. A rare instance of anger floods through her body, and she curls her chapped hands into tight fists.

“No,” she says. “I can fight for myself, you know.”

Maxe ends up in the principal’s office for breaking Gene Stevens’ nose as well as dislocating his thumbs. He can’t play football for weeks. Three people try out for the swim team that week (gotta admire those swimmers’ arms). Gene is suspended from school for two weeks.

She receives a slap on the wrist (one day suspension), but then, she knew she would. Loren has a history of bad behavior, but Maxe has always maintained a 4.0 GPA and a clean record. As much as Loren feels he needs to protect her, it’s Loren who needs protection. Maxe is fiercely determined to get them both out of high school and into college - that’s part of the reason why she’s so entirely dedicated to swimming and academics. One way or another, she’s going to make it so they don’t have to pay for two tuitions. Just Loren’s, if she manages to coax him to go (she’s sure he’ll follow her, so sure).

Maxe shines the brightest when she’s in the water. She feels the peace of the water even as her hands sluice through it and her legs thrash it into a bubbling trail. There’s a distinct sound of nothingness, a vacuum, that allows her to focus on every muscle stretching, clenching, releasing. She’ll cut a path through water like she will in life, precise and smooth and ruthless.

She doesn’t date much in high school. Swim team and studies and working part-time at the local gym take up most of her time, and keeping Loren out of trouble eats up the rest. But she manages a casual girlfriend for senior year - Cora Lennox, the sweet, babbling girl who had continued to be Maxe’s friend since Mrs. Lennox’s meltdown. As they both are looking toward college, Cora and Maxe agree not to get too serious. It… doesn’t quite work. Cora has grown up to be rather charming - 5′5′’ of adorable mile-a-minute talker with wildly gesticulating arms and a diastema-marked grin.. She can talk about swimming for hours, which Maxe doesn’t mind. It’s cute and she’s learning things she’d have had to read twenty books to grasp. Maxe grows entirely too fond of the way Cora fits neatly under her arm and the way Cora covers her mouth when she laughs (though there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, really) and the way she automatically picks out the unwanted veggies in Maxe’s plate and her eager, enthusiastic kisses. It surprises Maxe to find that she can be, well, suave. She’s always been confident with her movements in sports, and it seems, in a romantic respect, she is as well. She’s gotten so very good at sly winks and casual draping of arms around shoulders. Cora certainly appreciates its. And oh, oh, Maxe will miss her. Cora is important. She matters, and it’ll hurt when they part.

Loren doesn’t make it to college. He goes to jail instead - not juvie like Maxe had feared. When Maxe finds out Loren will be put away for one year - not horrendously long, but long enough to mismatch their timelines, their lifelines - she unabashedly cries. She sinks into Cora’s arms and screams out her fear and anger and frustration. All of the control she’s had over her life, over their lives because they’re twins, no matter what kids whisper about, is slipping away from her parted fingers.

Cora solemnly drives her to the pool at midnight and calmly dispatches the security system (she reads so many books, not to mention the hidey-holes on the internet).  Maxe swims hundreds of laps until her shoulders are aching and her legs are screaming bloody murder, and it’s almost dawn. Cora’s fallen asleep on a bench, Maxe’s varsity jacket draped over her.

Floating on her back in the center of a lane, Maxe contemplates her options. She can still go to college without Loren. She can put off enrolling for a year, but she might lose her swimming scholarship - and what for? Loren’s not going to benefit from her sulking. Maxe sets her teeth and does a somersault in the water, letting herself sink slowly to the bottom. Decide made. She’ll have to leave her twin behind for the first time in their lives. She’ll be fine. Maybe. Yes, definitely. She’ll be fine, and Loren will get out early for good behavior (she’ll send so many warning letters to him when she isn’t visiting). They’ll be okay.

Loren doesn’t get out in one year. By then, Maxe has all but given up hope that their timelines will ever match up again. But she’ll be fine, at least. Even if it hurts.

Cora gives Maxe a call five years later, sheepishly admitting that she and Loren have started up a group of sorts - a distinctly criminal group.

Fuck,” Maxe spits out succinctly.


“Your diet is horrible.”

Bassan spares Mags a brief eye-roll before sticking his nose back into his morning paper.

“It is! What..” Mags pulls out a bag of Bagel Bites and a half-eaten tub of green tea ice cream, the only inhabitants of Bassan’s nearly empty fridge. “Was this supposed to be breakfast?”

Bas has the nerve to look affronted Mag’s tone. “I’m a grown-ass adult. If I want to eat a perfectly filling meal, I can.”

“Okay, you’re a grown-ass adult with the diet of a fucking teenager. Dear Gaia, Bassan, this shit can’t be good for you in the long run,” Mags bemoans, skimming the Bagel Bites’ ingredient list with a frown. “Hold on tight. Just give me twenty minutes - gotta run to the market.”

“Wha–” Bassan begins, but when he looks up from the Business section, Mags is already gone. He huffs a small, amused laugh. Well, if Mags wants to take care of him, he certainly isn’t going to object. He also isn’t going to let Mags anywhere near his perfect, little bagel pizzas.

Mags returns an hour later with full armfuls of groceries.

He starts immediately on prepping breakfast, thoroughly washing his organic, Farmer’s Market-bought vegetables and ripping sausages out of their plastic covers (from the local deli - minimally processed, or so Maurice claims) to set in the oil-slathered pan alongside two large eggs. He chops the veggies with a practiced hand, careful and steady just like Sharon (read: Mama) taught him as a child. After adding diced bell peppers and tomato slices to the greasy, delicious-looking mess, he eyes the ratio of healthy-to-unhealthy before just giving up - the ratio is heavily tipped to unhealthy, but Bas prefers it that way. He slides the pan from the stovetop once he deems them well-cooked enough, and plates the food

Bassan is drawn from the shower by the scent of smoked meat. He hastily wraps a towel around his waist, nearly slipping on the bathroom tile in his hurry to get whatever smells so heavenly in his belly.

“You are a god,” Bassan proclaims, wrapping his arms around Mags and dipping his head to press a dry kiss to Mags’ stubbled cheek.

Mags snorts, but receives the kiss with a quirk of his lips. “Go on, eat up. I can already feel the drool dripping onto my shoulder, you beast.”

Bassan happily complies, digging into the full plate sitting on the kitchen table. When he motions for Mags to share, he receives a dry look.

“It’s all yours, tiger. Vegetarian, remember?” Bas looks to brighten up at that. Of course he would, the glutton.

“Mmpfff,” comes Bassan’s garbled attempt to communicate his thanks with his mouth full.

Mags settles at the table opposite of Bassan, leaning his chin on a fist and staring at the, frankly, fascinating display of mannerless eating. “Don’t mention it.”


“Okay, okay, you’re welcome. Thank me later when you’re not in danger of snorting egg whites outta your nose.”


“Gaia, must you moan like that? It’s a fried egg - not bloody ambrosia!”


04 December 2015 @ 12:56 pm

Ana is a scar, Anita decides. She’s an open wound that’s settled its mark on her uninvited, unwelcome.

Ana is Tess’ sharp, dark eyes and Alejandro’s arched brows, the harsh huff of laughter that Anita’s only heard once in a threat, and soft gestures that were certainly not inherited from the Lucarisali line. She’s pieces of a whole, the way that most people are.

“You’re not my parent.”

Anita remembers the first time Ana flung her parentage in Anita’s face. It’s early in their acquaintance, and Ana is still fragile and vulnerable from her father’s abandonment of her. They have a petty fight, Ana wanting some outlet for her anger and Anita unable to sacrifice the pride needed to end it.

Ana screams that her name was a joke, a delayed punchline from her mother and father. Anastas, a Russian boy’s name, that was inevitably going to be shortened to Ana.

Ana. Anita. Somewhere, Tess must be laughing. (She always is.)

It had occurred to Anita before, of course, that Tess would be twisted enough to do that, but she didn’t think Ana would be aware of it. How long has she known that her entire existence was to deliver a message?

Ana runs off afterward, kicking open doors and cursing up a storm and screaming that she hated everyone. And who could blame her? There was no choice but to let her go.

“So, what am I to you, then?”

Days pass, then weeks, then months. The hurt is never soothed, but Ana accepts it. She sees it for what it is - that is what Anita teaches her to do. They learn to meet each other’s eyes and restrain the urge to cringe at what they see mirrored.

Ana is still pieces of a whole, but Anita can see the whole of her now as something unlike her parts. Ana is not her parents in any way that counts. Ana is family and not family and to be protected.

“You didn’t have to take me in, you know.”

Ivan is partially cannibalized for his crimes (or rather, intent to commit crimes) against Ana. It’s really only the intent that justice recognizes.

One bite from each member of the pack - a pound of flesh, or perhaps more, is taken by the time everyone is through.

He learns that threats against a Lucarisali, especially a bastard one, are not taken lightly. He doesn’t die because Ana wills it and Harper accedes Anita’s stern order to obey the girl, for once not extracting a price.

Before Ivan is taken into the ambulance to fix what are now minor injuries, Ana looms over him and forces him to meet her eyes. They stare at each other, silent and stony-faced, until the paramedic gently nudges Ana away.

Ivan admits himself to a mental rehabilitation center after he is healed. His name appears one day on the list of local sex offenders, almost like magic.

“I know.”

Ana is in college studying Criminology when her mother steps back into her life. She doesn’t even question how Tess manages to get into a guarded dormitory.

Tess isn’t able to get out two words before Ana speed-dials Anita. Tess doesn’t stop laughing, scarlet lips stretched wide over glistening teeth, by the time Anita has arrived, furious and yet still cut by the sight of her.

Both Anita and her niece realize that Tess wouldn’t have allowed Ana to even reach for her phone if she hadn’t intended to have them all there together. It’s a trap, of course. A lazy one, but a trap nonetheless.

Tess looks at the two of them with a delighted grin. “I couldn’t have planned it better myself.” It’s all she says - all she does - before leaving.

Tess is mad, but she’s also a planner.

For the first time in years, aunt and niece feel the initial resentment they held against each other. Just a moment, but for that short time, they’re reduced to traps for one another, their strings held taut by Tess and Alejandro and every other force that’s sunk its teeth into their lives.

They go out for drinks that night, Anita vouching for Ana despite the bartender’s skeptical look, and return home in the morning, leaning on each other’s shoulders and laughing themselves sick - literally. If they’re to be traps for one another, let them catch nothing, let them snap shut and refuse to open for any hand other than their own.

“That’s why you’re more. You’re my guardian, better than my parents will ever be.”

Maybe Anita can stand to bear this one mark.

“Wow, you have awfully high standards, don’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“You started it, peanut!”

27 September 2010 @ 04:24 pm
Title: Answer to the Tangled Knot
Author: Liv
Fandom: Criminal Minds/X-men
Pairing: Emily/Emma
Rating: R

Comments: The verb tenses are a bit messed up, but after a long day, I really don't give a hoot. Enjoy.

It's five o' clock on a Friday and for once, Emily wasn't doing whatever mad things her job required of her. Like breaking into a serial killer's house armed only with a FBI-regulation gun, Kevlar vest, and bravery pulsing at her chest. Or lying on a sterile hospital bed, bleeding like a faucet into the painfully white sheets. Emma still hadn't completely forgiven Emily for getting shot again.

But for now, Emily is safe. Safe. She hates herself for thinking that over and over again, on repeat, on rewind, ever since she saw those dark brown eyes light up the doorway. Maybe more than she hates the way she allowed herself to resist temptation for so long that she could no longer keep away. When she is pulled into the spartan apartment, though, she can't stop her lips from twitching in amusement at the profiler's eagerness to see her. An overgrown black Labrador puppy, that's what Emily ought to be. A giant puppy that got shot at on a regular basis, tangled with the mentally fucked-up, and generally tried to save the world one victim at a time. Stupid puppy.

She shook her head curtly at the look of confusion blossoming in Emily's wide eyes in response to the darkening of her expression. Instead of speaking words her pride disapproved of, Emma took Emily's slender neck into her hands and pulled until she could feel warm, soft lips slanting beneath her own and the wet tip of a tongue seeking purchase into her mouth. Her fingers dug into the sensitive nape until she was certain there would be twenty perfectly red half-moon marks on Emily's skin. A broken, needy sound wheedled from the dark-haired woman's throat. Emma felt a stab of desire tear into her as she felt that desperation and wanted to make it hers. She couldn't acknowledge what else - who else she wanted to make hers. Not yet.

Emily's long fingers dipped underneath the waistband of her skirt, deeper and deeper until all that Emma could think was that her cool hands were a balm and a hastening at the same time. She allowed herself to be nudged backward until the arm of the sofa is pushing at the back of her knees and she's falling back against lumpy cushions, pulling Emily with her. Emily's unoccupied hand is reaching up to tug at the zipper on her jacket and she could feel a layer of heat fall away, only to replaced by a more human warmth. 

Then, three fingers are filling her, so sudden and unanticipated that she didn't know why she delayed this for so long. Her eyes blink open and plunders deep brown with her blue, feeding her mind into Emily's and coaxing the profiler's into her own. When she finally relinquishes her control enough to push into the fingers, Emily curls them sharply, just as she knows she needs. A ragged gasp was stolen from her mouth as she struggled to restrain her need to press into each push and pull of Emily's fingers. 

Hot breath suffused her ear and she can almost hear the words, "Let me," within the hazy heat. So she does.  Yes, her mind breathes into Emily's, yes, their minds so close and brushing and the contact feels like they're interwoven together. Like they're cut from the same cloth.

Emma lifts a leather-covered thigh up between Emily's knees and when she feels her heat, she presses up harder until she can feel Emily's hips rolling over and over again. She feels Emily's fingers slip from her, but she doesn't care. Arms slipping around the shorter woman, she smooths her palms over Emily's ass before digging her fingers in and pulling her in. Emily has her eyes screwed shut, teeth worrying at her plump lower lip, and this is the sight that Emma can never get enough of. A few hitches of breath and several more lazy movements before they're sprawled gracelessly against the sofa, Emily's leg wrapped around her hip and an arm snaked around her waist. She doesn't say anything.
She just relaxes into the grin pressed into her back and thinks, Maybe this is home.
21 February 2010 @ 12:05 am
Japanese bobtails = LAHV 

I want one when I get a place of my own. =)
06 May 2009 @ 09:02 pm
"Most are surprised to learn that a cat stands a greater chance of survival if it falls from a higher place than from a lower place. New York veterinarians gathered data from their feline patients, which clearly supports this fact. Ten percent of their patients died after falling from 2-6 stories, while only five percent of the fatalities occurred when their patients fell from 7-32 stories."


MAJOR LOL. They dropped cats from buildings? I know I shouldn't find this as funny as I do, but...


Ceiling Cat is no more. D:

15 March 2009 @ 10:28 pm
1 - Go to Wikipedia. Hit “random”
or click en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Go to Quotations Page and select "random quotations"
or click www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four or five words of the very last quote on the page is the title of your first album.

3 - Go to Flickr and click on “explore the last seven days”
or click www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use Photoshop or similar to put it all together.

5 - Post it to LJ with this text and tag friends you want to join in.

Not bad, huh?

Oh, and I got into UCSC. =D

29 September 2008 @ 03:12 am

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

22 September 2008 @ 10:49 pm


If only there were LOLCATS in real life... the world would be a much happier place. Or more apocalyptic. Either way.

It's been a while since I last posted an entry. It's been two or three years, and I still haven't gotten used to Livejournal. What can I say? I used to be a Xanga freak. :B The layouts were terrible, but I liked it nonetheless. And then the FACE-STEALERS came into the picture. I saw the same profile pictures on countless xangas. Self-proclaimed scene and emo kids. They all looked the same. Because they all resused the same pictures. It was sad. And a bit creepy.


Play rehearsal was...pretty dead HAHA PUNNY. Yeah. For a ghost, I haven't been able to do much haunting yet.

But the director is adorable. She makes my boredom bearable. =] Even through 70 freaking scenes. (or rather, ~65 scenes)

I should be studying for an AP Stat test. I really should. D:


Current Mood: aggravatedaggravated
Current Music: Disturbia <3