[ Delighted, she laughs breathlessly. Her expression softens as she curves her back, her hair making a curtain over him, matted tendrils of it. She's vain about the hair, every time it has been damaged over the years it sends her sulking. It has somehow reached a respectable length again after the most recent series of cuts, difficult to remember the exact timelines of it, the exact causes. It all slips away into a river of muddy unimportance, overlaid by the years.
Her kiss is soft, tempting now that she's gotten the snap of anger she was playing for. Pay attention. Pay attention to me. Her sigh is eager at the feeling of him between her legs, the desperate prelude to the things she really wants. She never really gets enough of sex, no matter how long things have gone on. Maybe even grown a little more aggressive as the years have weathered on them, as she's learned who she can push, how she can push. Corvo is just one of varied outlets, on her mind, in her mood, in her sights this time around. Would that make him feel less special? ]
You wouldn't let them.
[ She says that with a surety, that he is not so full of hate for her that he would stand by and let them pull her spark out. He wouldn't leave her a zombie. She puts one of his hands in the center of her chest, a little theater play of the knife that someone whether it was him, or not, would put into her before they accepted her back into the ranks turned off. ]
One of you will make sure I fucking die first. Despite it all, too many of you still have a conscience. Maybe, even me.
[ For all of her faults, she is a very good Red. It suits her, suits her sense of herself, her sense of superiority, it keeps her challenged and engaged, she has long standing relationships within their department, respects those who have earned it. She is what she is, but above all of her independence: she is Red. She wouldn't let upper management take one of her team members and return them back to her an automaton. If nothing else because it would probably be a sleeper agent. No way to trust it after it had been mucked around in the head. They all know that, unwritten, unspoken. Someone would kill it, make it look like an accident. And no one in Red would talk. ]
But let's not.
[ Let's not talk about it any more. She tugs the tank up and over her head, cold air pulling all of her skin taut. His fingertips over her ribs are icy, calloused. Exactly how she knows them to be. Her own slide under the fabric that's been disheveled out of its tidy tuck at his waist, feeling over scars that have been there since they met, others acquired. Like reading over a favorite book, worn with frayed edges. She presses down with her hips, enjoying the heat between their bodies, the way every little movement makes the wet swollen flesh of her sex smolder with anticipation. ]
[ How dare she? Bring up the bits better off dead. Talking about a conscience that kills to sate itself. ( She's right, he couldn't stand her if she was dead eyed and pliant mouthed, that would be the worst of it - the one part he couldn't forgive her for working out and knowing. ]
No, let's not.
[ Let's - he says with hands, - tear each other to pieces instead. His hands roam across her bare belly, bracing wide to the thin stretch of her hips, narrow, always, lean like a hunter should be. He holds there, one moment where she's warm - she's more than warm, she's burning herself and burning him up with her. He's never been more sure she doesn't need him than in where she's pressed as close and as intimately as she could be.
Damn it all if he doesn't need that truth.
So he gives her what she wants - his attention. She gives him skin and he carves, her long thick hair he pushes up in a sharp up curl of muscles and strength that he never loses. A hand into her hair, to yank her head back, to bare her throat to him like an offering he's taking for himself. Doesn't give her a way forward or back except under his lips and tongue and teeth.
His mouth at her neck, scraping over skin: at her collar bones, the top of her breast, lower again to trace without giving her the parts of him that are still warm. The heat of his breath ghost but no more where it'd feel far too good to have. Lets her rut against him, that need they both have - because this better than feeling, better than acknowledging. It's seeking a death that is as needed as it is temporal. ]
[ 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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Her kiss is soft, tempting now that she's gotten the snap of anger she was playing for. Pay attention. Pay attention to me. Her sigh is eager at the feeling of him between her legs, the desperate prelude to the things she really wants. She never really gets enough of sex, no matter how long things have gone on. Maybe even grown a little more aggressive as the years have weathered on them, as she's learned who she can push, how she can push. Corvo is just one of varied outlets, on her mind, in her mood, in her sights this time around. Would that make him feel less special? ]
You wouldn't let them.
[ She says that with a surety, that he is not so full of hate for her that he would stand by and let them pull her spark out. He wouldn't leave her a zombie. She puts one of his hands in the center of her chest, a little theater play of the knife that someone whether it was him, or not, would put into her before they accepted her back into the ranks turned off. ]
One of you will make sure I fucking die first. Despite it all, too many of you still have a conscience. Maybe, even me.
[ For all of her faults, she is a very good Red. It suits her, suits her sense of herself, her sense of superiority, it keeps her challenged and engaged, she has long standing relationships within their department, respects those who have earned it. She is what she is, but above all of her independence: she is Red. She wouldn't let upper management take one of her team members and return them back to her an automaton. If nothing else because it would probably be a sleeper agent. No way to trust it after it had been mucked around in the head. They all know that, unwritten, unspoken. Someone would kill it, make it look like an accident. And no one in Red would talk. ]
But let's not.
[ Let's not talk about it any more. She tugs the tank up and over her head, cold air pulling all of her skin taut. His fingertips over her ribs are icy, calloused. Exactly how she knows them to be. Her own slide under the fabric that's been disheveled out of its tidy tuck at his waist, feeling over scars that have been there since they met, others acquired. Like reading over a favorite book, worn with frayed edges. She presses down with her hips, enjoying the heat between their bodies, the way every little movement makes the wet swollen flesh of her sex smolder with anticipation. ]
no subject
No, let's not.
[ Let's - he says with hands, - tear each other to pieces instead. His hands roam across her bare belly, bracing wide to the thin stretch of her hips, narrow, always, lean like a hunter should be. He holds there, one moment where she's warm - she's more than warm, she's burning herself and burning him up with her. He's never been more sure she doesn't need him than in where she's pressed as close and as intimately as she could be.
Damn it all if he doesn't need that truth.
So he gives her what she wants - his attention. She gives him skin and he carves, her long thick hair he pushes up in a sharp up curl of muscles and strength that he never loses. A hand into her hair, to yank her head back, to bare her throat to him like an offering he's taking for himself. Doesn't give her a way forward or back except under his lips and tongue and teeth.
His mouth at her neck, scraping over skin: at her collar bones, the top of her breast, lower again to trace without giving her the parts of him that are still warm. The heat of his breath ghost but no more where it'd feel far too good to have. Lets her rut against him, that need they both have - because this better than feeling, better than acknowledging. It's seeking a death that is as needed as it is temporal. ]
no subject
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. ]