patron saint of the wholly unserious

"This better?" Mareike didn't now how much time had passed between leaving the Baron hanging and being pressed up against the wall now - all she knows is that her body burns with lust. A calloused hand grabs at her hip as another violent thrust slams her against the cold metal, a second hand covering her mouth. She moans into the palm, head spinning. "What's that upper hiver? I couldn't hear you." The Baron growls into her ear, slowing the pace of his hips while she whines desperately through his fingers. He doesn't loosen his grip and continues the torturous rhythm. "Guess I'll just have to assume you can't handle any more," he teases, sucking in a sharp breath as Mareike clenches frantically around his length. She squirms, fighting in the confined space between the man and the wall. She manages to open her mouth a little more, running the tip of her tongue across his palm. His skin tastes salty and she breaths a sigh over the damp spot left by it. The Baron digs his fingers deeper into the curve of her hip, enough that Mareike knows bruises will bloom. "Message received," he murmurs before driving into her hard enough that she has to bite down on his hand. There is a hiss followed by a low chuckle. "Feisty little thing aren't we?" The pain clearly spurs him on, as Mareike struggles to stay standing against the onslaught.

Welcome to... I've been writing about The Baron. :)

So many nights now, he's tried not to sleep. Better that he doesn't, isn't it? All Marisportum is tossing and turning, not one fuck given to the hour—if he slips under, the whole place might wake belly-up. But he does. He slips. Falls, fast and flailing, into sleep—nightmares of a dark he can't name, a mirror with no face inside, a doom he can feel but can't place. Not anywhere but inside his skin, and that's why it's crawling the second his eyes snap open. There's a name on his tongue. He isn't sure how it, of all things, found him on the edge of that dream, when in the throes of it, no matter how hard he looked, she was nowhere near. He swallows it down. Someone's breathing within earshot. Far too close. He blinks, pries apart his crusted warp-be-damned eyelids, under some fucker's harsh light. Another tide's rising, the groxfucker says. We're all going to drown. He bolts up. Doesn't remember what he asks: only that his throat burns like he's swallowed seawater. That the cage of his chest is small, too small, even though no wound's there to shorten his breath anymore. The whelp sputters something about a fallen tomb, about saints and holy fire; something that makes the Throne-forsaken Confessor's face swim behind his eyes, makes him snarl and spit and reach for lho to calm his racing pulse. Then the name comes loose. The best he can do is try to wrangle it, somehow, as it falls from his lips. Frame it like some question, some meaningless curiosity, rather than a plea. "Phiosa?"