[ How dare, but then she's never had a modicum of shame. She wasn't afraid of being embarrassed, humiliated, exposed. What really was there to expose inside of her? Clockwork and darkness and hunger. Even the survivalist panic she had picked up in the falling days of Oscyria is gone from her again, soothed down by years of training, years of killing, years of destruction. She feels indestructible again. In control. A place she should never be: it always sends her falling, one way or another. One day the sex and the violence won't be enough. One day that light that glows beneath her skin, that armor, will make her so numb to the world that she'll go mad. Someone should stop her, no one will think to, not until it's too late and her smile is a frozen blade, her eyes desperate.
She moans, low and uninhibited, pleased with him, the sweet concoction of his lust and his anger with her. She likes it that way, finally the edges of control turned into a wet bleeding river instead of a sharply defined line. Sometimes sex is about control. Sometimes sex is about breaking every bone, ripping every seam. She wants. She wants to feel his madness break like waves on her, wants to turn him inside out at her beck, her call.
With too clever spidery hands she's pulled his shirt up, off, away, because she wants for it: skin on skin, flesh flayed in cold air, rough under friction. Her hands crawl everywhere, every dip where the pieces of his skeleton join, wrists arched, fingertips deep. ]
Corvo.
[ She has a purring sigh when she's very satisfied with the way of things, a tone she never feigns. Only capable of evoking it when her thighs are wet, mouth hungry. She wants. She wants to taste, consume, and she's slipped down between his legs with comfort. Her dark hair is sleek to one side, a place where she expects his gritted fist and does not complain. Her slender back is pale, the once vivid pink of the twin burns down her shoulder blades as turned ghostly with the soft touch of Hope, who she goes back to again and again with every ugly wound, watching his face for pain and only ever getting sweetness. It amuses her to think of what he would do if he came upon them now. Would he stay at the edges, transfixed, watching her loosened slacks slide down her hips the longer she kept them raised. That would delight her, such a torturous little secret. ]
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She moans, low and uninhibited, pleased with him, the sweet concoction of his lust and his anger with her. She likes it that way, finally the edges of control turned into a wet bleeding river instead of a sharply defined line. Sometimes sex is about control. Sometimes sex is about breaking every bone, ripping every seam. She wants. She wants to feel his madness break like waves on her, wants to turn him inside out at her beck, her call.
With too clever spidery hands she's pulled his shirt up, off, away, because she wants for it: skin on skin, flesh flayed in cold air, rough under friction. Her hands crawl everywhere, every dip where the pieces of his skeleton join, wrists arched, fingertips deep. ]
Corvo.
[ She has a purring sigh when she's very satisfied with the way of things, a tone she never feigns. Only capable of evoking it when her thighs are wet, mouth hungry. She wants. She wants to taste, consume, and she's slipped down between his legs with comfort. Her dark hair is sleek to one side, a place where she expects his gritted fist and does not complain. Her slender back is pale, the once vivid pink of the twin burns down her shoulder blades as turned ghostly with the soft touch of Hope, who she goes back to again and again with every ugly wound, watching his face for pain and only ever getting sweetness. It amuses her to think of what he would do if he came upon them now. Would he stay at the edges, transfixed, watching her loosened slacks slide down her hips the longer she kept them raised. That would delight her, such a torturous little secret. ]