Dominant Neighbor Pins Defiant Man

The dresser hit Lars’s spine first, a jolt of wood-edge pain that snapped through his shoulder blades a half-second before Morgana’s palms slammed his wrists flat against the surface behind his head. The mirror above them shivered in its frame, a thin rattling hum that didn’t stop. Her knee drove between his thighs, forcing his stance wide, and her mouth was already at his ear, teeth scraping skin.

“Round fucking two,” she snarled, voice shredded from the first. “You don’t get to stop shaking yet.”

He thrashed on instinct, some animal refusal in his spine that had nothing to do with wanting to actually get free. The dresser groaned under the shift of weight. Morgana felt the pull in her shoulders instantly — his forearms were thicker than they looked, stronger than her hold accounted for, and for one bad second his right wrist slid a full inch out from under her palm before she crushed it back down, adjusting her grip from fingers to the flat of her whole hand, bearing down with her body weight instead of just her arms.

“Stay down,” she hissed.

“Make me,” Lars ground out, and bucked his hips up into her, cock already thickening against her stomach, traitorous and stupid and hers for the taking.

From his angle the room tilted — her hair stuck damp to her temple, her collarbones streaked with sweat gone cold, her eyes black in the low light. He twisted again, got his left wrist half free this time, fingers actually curling around empty air before she slammed it back with her forearm, using her whole body to pin him instead of just her hands. Her thighs shook faintly. Round one had already wrung something out of both of them, and this — holding him down with muscles already spent — cost her something she wasn’t going to admit out loud.

“You feel that,” she panted, dragging her hips down to grind her soaked cunt against the ridge of his cock. “That’s not gone. That’s not going anywhere tonight.”

He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking without permission. “Neither is he,” Lars spat. “Still out there. Still got my laptop, my — “

“Don’t,” she cut him off, voice cracking down the middle. “Don’t say his shit out loud. Say mine instead.”

His wrists strained again, a slow grinding twist meant to test the give in her grip, and this time she felt her own fingers start to slip — sweat pooling in her palms, in the creases of her knuckles — and she cursed under her breath and shifted her whole stance, stepping one foot forward to hook her heel against the dresser’s baseboard, redistributing her weight so she was pinning him with her hips as much as her hands. It bought her maybe ten more seconds of control before he thrashed again, shoulders bucking off the wood, and she had to slam his wrists higher still, past the crown of his head, forcing his spine into an arch that made him groan somewhere between pain and want.

“There it is,” she breathed, watching his face crumple. “That’s the face. Keep fighting me.”

“I’m not — ” he started, and then she rolled her hips again, wetter now, filthier, and whatever he meant to say died in his throat.

Lars’s arms had gone rigid with the effort of a fight he didn’t fully want to win. Somewhere under the fury was something worse — the shameful, twisting heat of being held down by her, of not being able to do a single thing about it, and hating that some sick part of him didn’t want to. His shoulders screamed. His pulse hammered under her palms hard enough that she could probably count it. He got one wrist loose again — properly loose this time, fingers brushing her jaw before she caught it and wrenched it back, snarling, both hands crossing over both his wrists now in an X, using leverage instead of just strength.

“You don’t get to touch,” she growled. “Not until I say.”

“Then say it,” he snapped back, chest heaving, and the wounded fury in his voice cracked something loose in her chest that she refused to look at directly.

Instead she sank down onto him without warning — no build, no mercy, just the sudden brutal stretch of him splitting her open again, her body still raw and swollen from round one. The sound that left her wasn’t pretty. Neither was his. For a second neither of them moved at all, just breathing hard, adjusting to the shock of it, her inner walls fluttering and clenching around a stretch her body hadn’t finished recovering from.

Then she started to move.

Not the frantic bouncing of the first round — this was slower, meaner, her hips grinding in tight circles that dragged her clit against the base of him with every pass. She could feel exactly where the skin had gone tender from before, feel every inch of him differently now, thicker somehow, hotter. Lars’s thighs trembled under her. His hands strained upward again, testing, and this time she didn’t slam them down so much as lean her whole torso forward, using her sternum to pin his forearms to the wood while her hips kept working, a compromise position that cost her the height of her grinding but bought her the control.

“He walked out of this building like he owned it,” she gasped against his collarbone, thrusting harder now, finding a rhythm that made the dresser knock rhythmically into the wall. “Still out there. Still got a key to somewhere, maybe. You think about that? Every time you go to sleep?”

“Every fucking night,” Lars ground out, voice breaking on the last word as she snapped her hips down hard. His cock throbbed inside her, and his wrists jerked one more time — a weaker attempt now, more reflex than intention, muscles starting to burn from being held in one position too long. “Heard the glass. Just — just heard it and then nothing and I couldn’t — “

“I know,” she cut in, sharp, not gentle. “I heard it too. Two doors down and I still heard it.”

Her rhythm faltered for a second — a genuine stumble, hips losing the angle, both of them grunting at the sudden friction-less slide before she adjusted, tilting her pelvis, finding the right pressure again. Her thighs were screaming now, deep muscle fatigue setting into her hamstrings from holding this position, riding him at this angle, keeping his wrists caged all at once. She could feel her grip on him weakening, sweat working against her, and she compensated by crossing both wrists tighter into one fist, pressing her forearm down across them like a bar, forcing her whole weight into the hold so she didn’t have to trust her fingers alone.

Lars felt the shift immediately — the brief change in angle — and some stubborn, furious part of him used it, wrenching both wrists up hard against the new grip, testing the bar of her arm, almost breaking free before she leaned in harder, crushing them flat again with a grunt that was equal parts effort and frustration.

“Not yet,” she snarled, out of breath. “Not until I’m done with you.”

“You’re never done,” he shot back, voice raw, and it wasn’t a complaint.

She laughed — an ugly, wrecked sound — and hauled him upright by the wrists, forcing him off the dresser edge in one stumbling motion that broke their rhythm completely. For one disorienting second they were just two sweat-slick bodies colliding, his cock slipping almost all the way out of her as they both fought for footing, her grip nearly lost entirely as his hands came free for a full heartbeat before she caught his wrists again mid-turn, spinning him bodily so his back hit the mirror instead. The glass fogged instantly behind his shoulders. She had to re-angle her hips hard to find him again, guiding him back inside her from the front in a rough, clumsy thrust that made them both curse at the sudden fullness.

Her arms came up along his, wrists pressed flat to the cool glass on either side of his head this time instead of the wood, a different terrain entirely — smoother, colder, no give at all, which meant she had to rely purely on the strength of her forearms now, no bracing surface to help her. Her tits pressed against his heaving chest. She hooked one leg around the outside of his thigh for leverage and started snapping her hips again, short and vicious, forcing him to watch every second of it happen in the reflection over her shoulder.

“Eyes open,” she ordered against his mouth. “You watch your own face when you lose it.”

Lars’s reflection stared back at him past her shoulder, flushed and wrecked, mouth hanging open on a breath he couldn’t seem to finish. He thrashed one more time — a last, full-body attempt, spine grinding against the glass, wrists twisting hard against her hold — and she felt her grip slip half an inch before she wrenched them back down, digging her nails in, using her entire upper body weight to keep him pinned as she ground into him deeper, sharper, angrier.

“He still walks free,” she gasped, thrusting harder, “but right now you don’t. Right now you’re mine.”

“Morgana — fuck — ” His voice cracked apart entirely. His vision blurred at the edges, the room narrowing to her face inches from his, teeth bared, eyes locked on his like a dare he couldn’t refuse.

“Look at yourself,” she growled, angling her head so he could see past her, into the glass. “Look what we do with it.”

He tried to thrash again even as it started — his hips jerking forward on instinct, wrists straining one last useless time against her hold even as the orgasm ripped up through his spine, and she had to fight to keep him pinned through it, her whole body locking down over his to hold him in place while his cock pulsed hard inside her, spilling in thick, helpless waves. His face in the mirror caved in on itself — jaw slack, brows drawn tight, eyes glassy and forced open by her command — and the sight of it, the sound he made, broken and ugly and entirely hers, dragged her own climax out of her a breath later, her cunt clenching around him in messy, greedy pulses while she bit down hard on his shoulder to keep from screaming.

She kept his wrists caged through all of it, even as his knees buckled slightly, even as her own grip shook from exhaustion, until the last aftershock rolled through both of them and left them sagging against the glass.

Neither of them moved for a long moment. Her arms were trembling, properly trembling now, adrenaline draining out fast and leaving raw muscle behind. She let go of his wrists — not gently, just release, her hands falling away like she’d suddenly remembered they were attached to her — and stepped back half a pace, putting cool air between her front and his chest. He didn’t turn around right away. In the mirror his eyes were down, not meeting hers.

“You good?” she asked, and it came out flatter than she meant, more obligation than tenderness.

“Fine.” He rubbed one wrist with the opposite hand, wincing slightly at the red marks already blooming there. “You?”

“Fine.” She wasn’t looking at the mirror anymore either.

The silence sat there, ugly and unfinished, the way it always did after. Somewhere below them a pipe knocked in the wall, and they both flinched at the same time, and neither commented on it.

“He’s still out there,” Lars said finally, voice hoarse, not quite a question.

“Yeah.”

“So what, we just—” He gestured vaguely between them, not finishing it.

“I don’t know.” Morgana pulled her hair back from her face, twisting it into a rough knot at her neck, buying herself a second before she had to look at him directly. “Next time it gets bad. The quiet. The — whatever this is.” She nodded toward the wall that separated their two apartments by exactly one thickness of plaster. “You knock. Or I will.”

It wasn’t a promise. It came out closer to a warning.

Lars finally turned around, and for a second they just looked at each other — not soft, not warm, two exhausted people standing in the wreckage of something they weren’t going to name. “Fine,” he said again, like the word cost him something. “Pact, or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” she echoed, and reached past him for her shirt off the floor, not offering him a hand, not offering him anything else. The mirror held their reflection for one more second — two strangers who happened to live on the same floor, bound now by a silence neither of them would break in daylight — before she looked away first.