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The Moment After Meme

You've seen The Morning After, and the Build-Up, and even the Mid-Fuck memes. But what about the moment after characters have done the deed? Do they cuddle or light up a cigarette? Go for seconds or reflect on what just happened? Hop into the shower to wash away their sins? Regret everything?

Well, we'll find out, won't we?

How it works:

- Post with your character, name and fandom in the subject. Include any prefs or no-no's.
- A set-up isn't necessary but hey, if you want, go for it!
- Others respond to your character.
- Congrats! They just had sex.
- Have fun and be excellent to each other!

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[ They skip town after they bury the remains of Peter Hale six feet under the ground. For all that he could (for all that he'd advised her on how to kill him and get rid of the evidence), Glenn doesn't give up that air of harmless quiet just yet. There's still something shy in his gaze when he smiles at Lydia across the cab of the car they take. He's almost awkward, the first time they fuck, but there's none of that same bashfulness in his eyes. (He doesn't doubt she can see that.)

He's not quite as gentle, the second time.

They shack up in a small motel somewhere in New England, after they take care of a hitchhiker they pick up by the last turnpike. (It's not their original plan, but he tries to stick them up. There's really nothing to be done, after that. They dump the body in the forest by the freeway and head off to find somewhere to sleep.) He crawls into bed with her sometime after midnight, mouthing a path up the length of her spine to wake her. (He's already hard; he's thought of killing her already, but he suspects there's more fun to be had in bringing her along for the ride than making her a stop along the way.)

The bed creaks underneath them, one hand curled into a fist in her hair and the other at her hips as he draws her to her knees in front of him. The dull sounds of late-night TV filter in from the room next to theirs, though it's soon inaudible over the knocks of the headboard against the wall. He whispers into her ear the whole time, of blood, of violence, of all the ways he wants to fuck her, calls her slut, bitch, even as he tells her how much he wants her. He laughs when she comes, following her over the edge soon after.

There's still some urgency to the way he handles her as he turns her onto her back, stopping whatever she has to say next with a harsh kiss. ]

[ When they'd talked about it, when they'd discussed the when, where, and how, Lydia'd thought — at the base of it all — it'd been rhetorical. Hypothetical. They were going to talk about it, she was going to dream about it, she was going to smile about it in the presence of her friends, and that would be it. Because that's what happened with conversations about murder. They were just conversations. They never were supposed to manifest into actual deeds, or actual murders.

But the next thing she knows, there's blood on her hands and her clothes, and she's shoving clean ones into a bag before her mother comes home. It's a whirlwind of more blood, more clothes, highway signs, and sex, and it's so terribly overwhelming that it takes Lydia several days to realize this might have been dangerous. Not because they were going to get found, and not because her mother was going to be angry, but because she has literally no idea who she's run away with. Or who she's sleeping with. Which, in hindsight, might have been a big mistake.

The first time there'd been the rush of defying all rules; of killing, of running, and in that moment she reveled in it. She was practically Peter Hale in that regard.

The second time, he's Peter Hale. He wakes her from nightmares, in her bed, crawling over her. Even with foreboding beginning to harden in her heart, she's not scared of him. Even cloudy with sleep and groggy with dreams, she spreads her legs for him; gets wet for him; wakes up and moans for him. The neighbor with the television might as well turn it off and tune into the live porn right next door because Lydia is shaking and shuddering like a leaf in the wind, and moaning like a porn star (and the neighbor to their other side bangs on the wall a couple of times because of it).

She buries her face in the cheap mattress and screams a few times because she can't stand the filthy, filthy, bloody, violent things he's saying to her, calling her. And it doesn't turn her on, per se, but she comes hard and fast and loud; no and yes intermingling on her tongue and coming out as some unintelligible cries. Her thoughts haven't even aligned by the time he's done with her; synapses offline and scrambling because she doesn't even realize he's turned her over until he's kissing her. There are a few moments of slack-jaw and swallowed whimpers before she attempts to return the kiss. She can't concentrate or sum up the energy for post coital make outs, especially when he kisses so harshly, and eventually Lydia slumps back and turns her head to break contact. ]

You made me get all sweaty, [ she groans. ]

Edited 2013-09-14 10:33 (UTC)

[ (It's true — he tells her precious little about himself before they go on the lam. He tells her his name and what he does, but there's nothing in those descriptions that says anything about knowing how to kill a man, how to dispose of the evidence, how to run without being caught. They're not traits that he seems particularly intent upon explaining, either, though there are really only so many conclusions that can be drawn about him. He's still easy to laugh and smile when they travel, but it's a personality that seems to lie diametrically opposite from the one that clicks on whenever they've got someone at their mercy. All that he needs to do now is figure out is where to put the pin, who to be in order to keep her with him for the longest period of time.)

He doesn't try to pursue her when she turns away, instead lowering himself onto the mattress next to her with a sigh. (All good things come to those who wait. And for all that she might not be completely putty in his hands, she's a great fuck — not a quality he's inclined to put to waste when his bloodlust and desire for chaos can be otherwise sated. Plus, she's a strong girl. Most other people, he imagines, would have given into panic, guilt, and desperation already; most other people aren't cut out to be killers. It's a danger to him, certainly, to travel with someone who could slit his throat just as easily as he could slit hers, but honestly?

That's part of the appeal.) ]

Sorry, [ he murmurs, and for whatever it's worth, there's nothing in his voice that suggests insincerity. (He's good at that — the timbre of his voice never changes, it's always just the tone, making it all the harder to follow the shift in demeanors.) Already, that ugliness that seems to take him over from time too time is fading away, leaving behind a sort of sheepishness. ] I can start the shower, if you want — I know it takes a little while to actually get warm.

I can bathe myself, [ she tells him disapprovingly. She'd taken a shower less than four hours ago, and knew how to jiggle the handle impatiently until the hot water came gushing out. Really, what teenaged girl doesn't know how to operate a shower? That was high school boy territory.

She groans (because near the end there, it'd started to hurt, and she could sense that the next day or two of driving — if they were going to keep driving; she should figure that out — would be uncomfortable) and pats his chest to communicate that it's nothing personal when she turns away, when she pulls away from him and sits up. Lydia stretches, and it's a well deserved stretch, the sort that sets her muscles tingling and causes her shoulders to pop. She moans like she's coming again, and makes to get up.

But no, that's not happening just now. Fucked silly isn't just a term anymore; it's Lydia's reality. The fact that aforementioned sweat is cooling and she really just wants to get under the covers and snuggle close to him for heat isn't helping with the motivation factor either. Instead she pouts over her shoulder. ] I'm super awake now, too, and it's [ after a brief consultation of the digital clock, her jaw drops. ] 2:47.

[ He reaches for her hand, but that contact is only brief as she pulls away, stretching as she perches on the edge of the bed. There's no real shame in the way that he watches her despite the apologetic manner that still lingers in his demeanor — there's no lack of places for his eye to wander, after all, even if they have already seen each other stripped bare. ]

I'll make it up to you, [ he murmurs, shifting to hook an arm around her waist (easy enough to shrug off, should she want to), mouth pressing a kiss to the round of her shoulder. ] Any way you want.

[ Granted, it's not an entirely honest sort of promise — any way only so long as it's on his terms — but he seems sincere enough in penitence. It's not always an easy exercise for him, reining in his more vicious instincts (complaining isn't something he takes well from anybody), but the road's been worth it, so far, and it'll only be more so if she sticks with him. And, for now, there's still that satisfaction that comes with sex, warmth permeating through his blood, dulling the sharpest of his edges (though, admittedly, it occasionally only heightens them — she moans, as she stretches, and there's a part of him that considers angling for round two). ]

Besides, we can start off late, t'morrow. Covered a lot of ground, today.

[ Just because she sat up didn't mean she was completely ready to get out of bed; that's why she dawdles and bitches about the time, and that's why she so willingly leans into his touch.

Truthfully, she's far too sore for a second round. And while she'd grit her teeth and bare it through the oversensitivity, what's even more appealing is a little making out, a little gentle fondling, and maybe a little conversation. They talk a lot. Or they used to, especially when theorizing (or premeditating, as Lydia now realizes) murders. But since that car ride back to her house, covered in blood and gore and reeking of fire and oh so very quiet, they just don't anymore. It's part of what's led to her paranoia running rampant. Communication is key in every relationship, even the ones based on her holding the belt around someone's neck while he drives a screwdriver between their ribs. Lydia hums and twists so she can gaze at him, eyes still clouded with lust and sleepy intelligence. ]

Anything I want? [ She drawls sweetly, and pretends to think on her desire before voicing the question she's been thinking about for the past five minutes. ] How aboooooout... You tell me where we're going?

[ He plays the part of attentive beau well enough, nuzzling at her cheek as a laugh echoes in his throat. It's a fair question, one he hasn't answered simply because she hasn't asked, not that he's particularly surprised by the fact (you never forget your first murder, or something like that). If she's found the presence of mind to try to wheedle answers out of him, then all the better. That she doesn't implicitly trust him, not so much, but beggars can't be choosers. ]

Figured we'd, ah, distance ourselves a little bit, [ he answers, the words carried on a sigh. ] You ever been to the east coast?

[ It's said in a tone that's friendly enough, more common sense than any ulterior motive. (They do need to get away. It had been a relatively clean kill, certainly, but he wants her to himself. And besides, no one's going to suspect a teenage girl of killing a fully grown man — if there's any manhunt, it'll be the other way around. God knows Glenn hadn't made much of an impression on anyone else.) ]

I hear it's gorgeous in the fall. 'Less, of course, you've got a better idea.

I've been. My dad's side lives over there — in Massachusetts, they live in Massachusetts.

[ She means to go on to say they'd at least better avoid that particular state, but gets distracted by nostalgic memories. White, white Christmases with big red presents and pink hair bows. Green pea coats and being unable to pronounce the state, which her sister would subsequently mock by singing massive-two-shits in her face and getting reprimanded by their mother when they were in public.

It's a painful memory for some reason, and she swallows before carrying on. ]

Could we go internationally? I've never been to Greece~ [ It's half a joke because that's a little impractical, but the next part (even if spoken with a giggle) is serious as hell. ] I'm a classy girl, okay? So wherever we go, no run down cabin in the woods.

[ (They're the kinds of memories that Glenn doesn't have, or, at least, not memories that he treasures to the same degree. Freedom means autonomy from those sorts of things, means being able to torture someone to death over a period of weeks and leave their body free of any evidence, being able to stick around to watch the aftermath because there's nothing more satisfying than watching incompetents try to figure out his work. That's not the kind of thing he's shared with Lydia yet, either. She's got a glimpse of his penchant for the uglier things in life, but not to the degree to which he likes to indulge them.) ]

No cabin in the woods, I promise. [ He smiles as he speaks, his voice as soft as it typically is, all sharp edges sanded down. ] I mean, I don't see why we couldn't do a little traveling. It could be fun. [ She's right that it'll be a little impractical — it'll take money, plus fake passports and identification — but he can stand to give up a little ground if he wants to keep her pliant.

His hand finds the small of her back, thumb rubbing slow circles against her skin. ]

I'll see what I can do, hmm?

Edited 2013-10-01 15:51 (UTC)

[ They could vacation in Greece; swim in the pure blue waters of Mykonos, eat handmade hummus, kill internationally traveling couples like themselves and raise a fuss at the American embassy. Maybe cause a feud between the two countries, though that would probably take more murders than they could feasibly commit before something with inevitably wrong. Things could be glorious or incredibly messy if they went international, but she'll hold to the idea of sipping French wine and then hitting a mime over the head with the bottle because it's humorous, and she's always liked going to new places.

Though there were several places in the US that she'd never been to. The whole south, for example. And while nothing in Texas had ever struck her fancy, it was big; big and full of people in wide open places without neighbors; big and full of small towns with lacking police forces; big and super conservative — guns rights activities were everywhere, as were guns. North and South Dakota were options too; and she'd be much less likely to pick their victims based on their disagreement with her political and activist beliefs up there. Her thoughts turn from Christmas to the map of the United States she'd committed to memory in the fifth grade, and Lydia starts dropping pins until he starts rubbing her back and she shivers.

She tunes back in completely then; turns her head to him with a glorious flip of the hair and a mischievous smile. There's a kiss, a glint in the eyes, and a longer kiss with a little tongue that may be trying to instigate something. ]

We could have really loud sex in a cabin in the woods, though, [ she suggests as if talking about the weather; casual, matter of fact, and sweet. There's another kiss square on the mouth before she looses her composure and snickers against his lips. ] For, like, — days.

[ There's a surprised sort of laugh in his throat as she kisses him, though it turns into a hum of concession quickly enough. (It's a novel idea, spending time with just one other person without any intent to drive them into madness, but their trip so far has been filled with firsts, and not all of them objectionable by Glenn's admittedly skewed standards. There's something almost rewarding in taking an accomplice, especially one as lovely — and as quick — as the girl currently in his bed.) ]

So, a cabin in the woods would be acceptable so long as it's not run-down, [ he summarizes, hooded eyes still betraying some of his amusement. ] Based on what you're suggesting, I can't say I wouldn't like that. [ His lips trail from her mouth to the line of her jaw, then to her neck.

She's right in thinking that their options are very nearly endless; in the end, it's just a matter of what they want to do. Heaven knows Glenn has traveled extensively already, changing his story each time in order to keep the trail of bodies from piling up. He's never been a reckless killer — nearly everything he does plays out like a carefully orchestrated chess game, more so now that he's had experience in his chosen field of occupation.

As always, however, he's refining his methods. He'd been quicker about kills in the beginning before learning how to take his time — Peter Hale had been an exception because Lydia had come along for the ride. Whether she'll find the slower approach appealing or not, only time can tell (but, if she should, then he's got a whole stable full of tricks, from caustic acid to surgical tools to altering the temperature of a body to muddle the time of death). ]

Yeah, [ Lydia enthuses, charming smile and girlish giggle joining the fray as she bumps her nose against his.

It's sweet. She's in the sweet stage of post coital now, with the little kisses and affectionate nuzzles; the soft drag of fingertips across the line of his face, and the strangely domestic talk. Lydia has more of a mind of a second round and interior design than she does for a shower or talk of slow torture. And instigates the two of them together with a series of soft kisses and stylistic sweet nothings. ]

Think about it, we could have —

[ here's a kiss on the forehead ]

— decorative kitchen tiles, and —

[ and here she twists to catch his mouth again ]

— handmade wood carvings from the locals, also a brick fireplace, and a lot of nice rugs, and a big, — [ there's some tongue involved here! ] — big bed. Doesn't that sound nice?

[ It's rhetorical, mostly, and just leading to the end of her suggestive circle of speech. ] Though, [ she breathes against his mouth. ] ...You know what else sounds fun?

[ If nothing else, Glenn enjoys being fawned over, enjoys this sort of attention even though the notion of domesticity doesn't truly appeal to him — his appetites are too large and too ugly for that. But, at least under this particular set of circumstances, there's still something about the notion that isn't as objectionable as he usually finds the idea of committing to a single person or settling down in a single place. It makes it easy to be attentive in turn, leaning into that last kiss and letting his mouth curve into a smile at her question. ]

I've got an inkling, [ he murmurs, a laugh caught low in his throat. (The noises of the TV in the room next to theirs have died down, and so have the protests of their other neighbor.) ]

Something a little more immediate, I imagine.

[ And now, he takes after her previous style of speech, punctuating each of his statements with a kiss, first to her cheek. ]

And, of course, please do correct me if I'm wrong—

[ his next kiss is considerably longer, a faint sigh sounding as his mouth meets hers ]

—involving the bed that we have, now.

[ That smile is still on his features when he pulls back, his gaze already hooded with desire. ]

Am I close?

[ He could teach her the most ruthless ways to make a man or woman bleed out, and she'd still want to talk about decorative shades. She's a teenager; she still has days where she enjoys animated movies, and she has her wedding planned. They could kill a stranger and she'd still want to have playful sex and maybe cuddle after. Like right now. ]

Yeah~ [ Lydia all but purrs. She keeps her face close to his, even as she twists, gets up on her knees and straddles his hips.

She's still wet from where he made a royal mess of her earlier, and still sensitive. So when she grinds unsubtly against him, she lets out a soft hiss in his face. Either way, she's awake; she's horny, and she's in his lap. ] Can you fuck me again? [ she asks lightly, all wide eyed innocence and perky breasts.

As something of an afterthought, Lydia bites her lips and averts her eyes, one finger tracing his mouth, down his neck, and along the plate of his sternum. ] But, um... Could you be...I don't know, nicer this time? Maybe? [ Not so rough, no so vulgar... ]

[ She's a teenager, and it's a mixed blessing. God knows she's malleable, but there's still the chance that that youth will work against her, that it'll only be a matter of time until she wants to go home, sweet home. (A repellent sort of concept, if there ever was one.) But it makes it easy to concede to her, too, and thus easier to give her incentive to stick around.

That roll of her hips draws a soft ah from his lips, smile flickering before growing a little more prominent. (He's already starting to get hard again, and the extra stimulation just serves to prove the point.) His mouth brushes against the corner of her lips as he kisses her cheek, the mattress creaking under them as he shifts, hooking one arm around her hips and the other at her shoulders as he moves to lay her on her back. ]

All you had t' do was ask, baby, [ he murmurs, and true to his word, he's gentle as he kisses her, something almost awkward about the way he reaches one hand for the nightstand in the hopes that a condom will be in reach. (He doesn't want to get her pregnant and he doubts it's anything she wants right now, either.) ]

[ (No babies. Lydia has this fifteen year plan that leaves her the ruler of the human world before she even begins to consider kids. She hasn't factored this little trip into account of her plan just yet, but it hadn't thrown it completely out, right? Right.)

Any other occasion, any other partner, Lydia's as bossy in bed as she is in life. Bossy and demanding and picky, because teenaged boys take some fine tuning in their sexual techniques, and often a little encouragement or direction. But he's older, more experienced (in everything, it would seem), and has taught her so many things; introduced her to everything from violent sex to murder, and that had put her in a state of awe. It was like being hot for teacher, but a completely obtainable teacher who was more like a personal tutor; she felt vulnerable and nervous under his hands, and that was a nice change from being in charge all the time.

She could lose herself in him, and didn't have to focus on molding herself into something he liked. He knew plenty about her; about her family, friends, home, and how her deepest desire had been to exact revenge on Peter Hale. The completely naive part of her wants to believe he likes her for her, but she's not completely stupid.

Just a little infatuated.

It was the honeymoon phase.

Lydia wouldn't have minded being on top, but there's something endearing with how sweetly he lays her down. Like he's taking her request to heart, and it doesn't help that naive little voice that's growing increasingly louder with every passing day. He kisses her, and she reaches down to stroke his growing erection. She's a helper, all she wants to do is help. ]

You could still, um... [ She adds hesitantly whenever they break the kiss (not bossy, she's not being bossy). ] ...still tell me all the ways you want to fuck me. I liked that.

Edited 2013-10-09 07:52 (UTC)

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