[ She vibrates. If only she had it, that power, she would take to it so well, like a fish a drinking water, drinking and drinking and drinking. She vibrates with excitement, eager for to feel the cold touch of shadow where her pulse beats in the tangle of nerve up her throat. She stares back at his demand without a flinch, without even the hint of a lie and she tells him, ]
We destroy here. We destroy everything.
[ Her excitement is breathless, there's never been a secret that she survives more than just well as a Red. She was made for it, the secrecy and manipulation, the death and the chaos. She is everything the CDC needs from a willing recruit, waiting and ready to cull those who don't fit the mold. When did she become such a conformist? ]
Don't accuse me of infidelity just because you're frustrated.
[ A pleasurable game for her, the truth; the chance of danger at vulnerability. Her 'vulnerability' is very well controlled, nothing that could truly be called love or trust, but she's given him all the truth he can handle, and maybe a little bit beyond that. Truth to the depths of him, truth to depths of her, and truth to the depths of everyone around them. All their weakness, all their pettiness, all their shallow hungers. ]
But I would watch. [ Anything he didn't want her to, why should she have to play faithful and then ignore all of his silly patterns, the pathetic motions of emotion from a diseased assassin. ] You're the one always averting your eyes.
[ Coward. Weakling. Show me. Show me. Show me. Show me. Show me. Show me. ]
[ It's too easy then, rolling through the viciousness that she goads out of him. The sneer curling in his mouth and he drags her through it then, he drags her into the pit he lives in. Down and down and down, in the cold blue, the searing black, holding her by the throat and forcing her back in the too quick step of magic that warps and distorts in far off screams. The tang of rot and river water. The sky that is fractured he look so often upon.
Not kind - she does not ask for kindness, and he only ever does as he is asked, and that's what no one ever seemed to understood - he was nothing but not loyal. Tripping the distance short and he presses her sharp by the hold of her throat, fingers gripping tight and holding her weight by it, - the want that had been awhile the only thing that kept him moving.
To watch her struggle for just that second before he steps closer to catch her weight, free hand snatching against her thigh. Pinning her back into the frozen bark by the set of his body pressed up between her legs.
Burrows in close, where his hair comes loose, brushing soft against her shoulder, and he turns to hiss against her neck in all grating tone. ] I no more need to look at violence to be reminded of it than I need to listen to your heart to know it is dead in your chest.
[ Turns up, warm breath soft in her ear, catching against her hair - and he has a weakness for it, he always had. But she isn't that woman, Jessamine would never say such things and he would never touch her thus and he needs it to be like this. ] You have a void where your soul should be.
[ His disease excites her, in small doses. Were she to truly live it, she might think different, but in flashes, in quick stabs of agony, her adrenaline has not yet been desensitized. It flares like a dying a sun when he finally turns sneering towards her, when he finally lets his agitation slip. It is not quite anger, she is not so certain he is capable of such a pedestrian emotion any longer. It is a violence that lives in his deep waters, always there, waiting for high tide to bring it spoiling to the surface.
She turns her head abruptly and bites at his mouth; love bites. ]
I don't pretend otherwise.
[ The crew knows what she is, those who have been there enough. She has been known to feign sweetness to the newer recruits, to gauge them for them their treachery and stupidity, but when the other teams recognize you as a Red it becomes more difficult to hide to your winning personality traits. It is almost refreshing, to simply be the monster she has always been.
She hooks her knee at his hip and pins him there against her. ]
I let you be yourself. [ Ugly and broken and dead. ] Love me for who I am.
[ If love had anything to do with what happened in this place, he would have been put down planets ago. Why he hasn't he suspects is because of use more than anything else. That and he few that have tried over the years out of some misguided attempt to impress a commander found him difficult to sneak up on. Happy to be more ghost than man, they left him be. It kept him sharp, too.
She wants these parts of him though, and he knows for nothing good. She would be the only one that stuck her hand into the depths to see what she could dredge up from the dark, low waters he waded in. He responds, where he should not, where he does not for any one else, because she allows him this selfishness of what he is -- that as a gentleman, as the man he had been, he cannot allow.
But she churns the tides until it washes up, and he makes a noise in this throat for when her teeth catch against the edge of his lip. Snaps him up and trusts that she's not going to drop her leg from where she has him trapped in close to her body. ] I should do us both a favour and snap your neck now. You are as much of a waste of the skin you inhabitant as I am.
[ but he doesn't, deep calleth unto deep, and he lifts his hand from where it hooked on her thigh. Doesn't go far, finds the hook of her pants and undoes it in quick little motions. The marking on his hand is glowing, trailing feverish cold light as his fingers curl. Not a kindness, because she is warm, her body all but humming with it. Has what she wants, and his hand is a dead thing to the void, it is not. Cold as the rest of him these days, where otherwise the rest of him is as warm as any other living body.
He shoves his hand inside of her pants in the same breath he kisses her. He's not a young man, not foolish and fumbling any longer, and the way his fingers reach is sure. Reaching into her clothes in contrast to how his hand still grips her throat. Tight, like he might make good on his words. There are fine bones in there that the broad set of his palm could too easily crush. The little delicate parts of her that henhouse carve so that they would whistle in the early morning. Sweet and more truthful than any other word she had produced before. ]
[ He is not a young man, and neither is she such a young girl any longer. She had come to the CDC barely four and twenty, grimy and thrumming with anxiety and violence. It had been her first exposure to so much death, to treating the inhabitants of an entire planet as something to be exterminated.
She almost hadn't been able to turn it off. For years after she could still be triggered into against her will, flight or fight, panic, vengeance. No wonder they came for her. She had been primed so beautifully, first with years of infiltration, lies, and manipulation... and then she had been dirtied. Twisted into a new shape that suited genocide and adrenaline. It suits her, the change, the aging. The scars and fines lines, the grey just beginning to touch her hair, premature because of how raggedly used they all are.
But even for all that: the haughty, beautiful young woman she was is always there just beneath the surface, in the glitter of her dark eyes, the sonorous tone of her voice, the sharp curl of her mouth. She has never fucked like a girl. Always too aggressive for her station, she has been playing with men not so young and their confidences a long time. Such a long ago useless memory... The first time she sat on an office desk with her knees open, silken neckties, stubble, cigarettes.
She arches her back with perfect poise like a ballerina, all the intention of a whore, tilting her hips forward to make herself easier to touch.
She sighs, soft and sodden, not struggling against his hand, nor his mouth, not offering so much as a hint of fear.
Wouldn't it just be... terribly romantic if he killed her one day? She doesn't even have to say it, the taste of toxicity is in her mouth. She'd love to die tangled and hating, struggling with another waste of humanity just like him. Nothing else would ever make her happy, not now, not after all the years of corpses.
She grapples her fingers into his hair with a yank, a whisper, ]
Not a corpse yet.
[ And she works so hard to keep him that way, biting and scratching and provoking demanding the blood come back to the surface. A writhe, hips kicking, licking across his lower lip, demanding more, always, always, always. ]
[ The roar in his ears as he pushes into the still breathing parts of him is loud as the void itself, loud as the blood in his mind. His breath hot against her cheek, her neck, a churn that is as inconstant as the tide in his blood. Feeling her ride it high against him. Drag her into it, because he know, it will make them sick - but whatever else in her mind, this would just be one more deep sickness to the depths of her.
Fair, that it should come from her.
He jerks hard into her, his fingers riding up where they're blunt tipped and searching against her, tilting her face up to deny her the brush of her teeth and claws. ] I wonder if our masters know just how much you need this?
[ He knows, the way he knows that when he squeezes her throat that little bit, that she enjoys the idea of this too much. His violence bridled and intent on pleasing her, for just a moment, to see him all unravelled against her. Needs it like he needs the way her teeth set into his lip, the way he bites back at her jaw when her nails score his back like he hopes leave open wounds but won't stay. ]
[ Her body hums like white noise, in a transitory state where she here brain floods with serotonin, suddenly twice as active, overflowing with a warmth that focuses everything in world down to just her and the man with his fingers pressed inside of her body. His weight on her is an agony, the weight of his clothes, his belt loops jingling with daggers and bones. She wants nothing more than to knock him to the side and take everything away from him, but she makes herself wait. Lets her desperation build in her chest, lets it slide up her throat, her moan pleasantly deep, choked off as if she's not quite ready to be that wanton, fighting herself just as much as she fights with him, her fingers gripped so tight into his shirt front that she can feel her own fingernails biting into her palm.
And then, it's there, the spring that snaps and she can't play like this is all she wants any longer, her kiss is more teeth clacking than anything else, painful as she forces it on him, forces him to roll and let her have access to him. She is gloriously disheveled, the tank top twisted up and around her body from her writhing, the band of it slid down her shoulder, her dark hair unfurled across the pale skin. On her knees, spread out over his legs, every part of her body is razor sharp. Lithe and athletic, she has no soft or womanly curves. She has no softness. ]
Tell them, I dare you. Watch them rip it out of me. Is that what you want?
[ She strokes the side of his face more a moment, more disconcerting a gesture than anything else, staring into his eyes with her own dark eyes. There is a thunderstorm in her eyes, daring him to admit to his own cruelty, that he would truly like to see this energy taken from her. To see her turned into such a numb creature, with only death left on her mind. ]
Would you like me better that way, Corvo?
[ She fondles him lazily through his clothes as she taunts him, swaying like a snake, content in her prey. ]
Who would you go fuck instead? Maybe Shepard, she looks like she could keep up.
[ He tumbles to the side and down in a rush, against the ground, cold against his back. A rock that's digging into his side - and perhaps it would be easier to just flip her back - she's flesh, bone and solid. All ready to be carved under the right blade - whether that's his or an instructors, he knows it's a matter of time.
Something dead and ugly in his eyes for it. Vicious, leashed animal - hands to himself almost, and he has to bite back on it.
Or rather, he grips, at her - because she says the one name he cannot stand to hear when she's got her hands on his cock, lording over him like the predator she is. His fingers snap to her hips, tugging her up his in a broad set hold. Blunt-tipped fingers sinking into skin, drawing her up. ]
You are nothing like her. They couldn't take it out of her, but you? You'd beg for it. You all but are.
[ Sneers it hot and ugly, grinding her down against him in a way that isn't kind, isn't fair, it's ugly pressure of weight and force and the cruelty that they are both better at. ]
[ 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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no subject
We destroy here. We destroy everything.
[ Her excitement is breathless, there's never been a secret that she survives more than just well as a Red. She was made for it, the secrecy and manipulation, the death and the chaos. She is everything the CDC needs from a willing recruit, waiting and ready to cull those who don't fit the mold. When did she become such a conformist? ]
Don't accuse me of infidelity just because you're frustrated.
[ A pleasurable game for her, the truth; the chance of danger at vulnerability. Her 'vulnerability' is very well controlled, nothing that could truly be called love or trust, but she's given him all the truth he can handle, and maybe a little bit beyond that. Truth to the depths of him, truth to depths of her, and truth to the depths of everyone around them. All their weakness, all their pettiness, all their shallow hungers. ]
But I would watch. [ Anything he didn't want her to, why should she have to play faithful and then ignore all of his silly patterns, the pathetic motions of emotion from a diseased assassin. ] You're the one always averting your eyes.
[ Coward. Weakling. Show me. Show me. Show me. Show me. Show me. Show me. ]
no subject
Not kind - she does not ask for kindness, and he only ever does as he is asked, and that's what no one ever seemed to understood - he was nothing but not loyal. Tripping the distance short and he presses her sharp by the hold of her throat, fingers gripping tight and holding her weight by it, - the want that had been awhile the only thing that kept him moving.
To watch her struggle for just that second before he steps closer to catch her weight, free hand snatching against her thigh. Pinning her back into the frozen bark by the set of his body pressed up between her legs.
Burrows in close, where his hair comes loose, brushing soft against her shoulder, and he turns to hiss against her neck in all grating tone. ] I no more need to look at violence to be reminded of it than I need to listen to your heart to know it is dead in your chest.
[ Turns up, warm breath soft in her ear, catching against her hair - and he has a weakness for it, he always had. But she isn't that woman, Jessamine would never say such things and he would never touch her thus and he needs it to be like this. ] You have a void where your soul should be.
no subject
She turns her head abruptly and bites at his mouth; love bites. ]
I don't pretend otherwise.
[ The crew knows what she is, those who have been there enough. She has been known to feign sweetness to the newer recruits, to gauge them for them their treachery and stupidity, but when the other teams recognize you as a Red it becomes more difficult to hide to your winning personality traits. It is almost refreshing, to simply be the monster she has always been.
She hooks her knee at his hip and pins him there against her. ]
I let you be yourself. [ Ugly and broken and dead. ] Love me for who I am.
[ A sneer of irony at the word: love. ]
no subject
She wants these parts of him though, and he knows for nothing good. She would be the only one that stuck her hand into the depths to see what she could dredge up from the dark, low waters he waded in. He responds, where he should not, where he does not for any one else, because she allows him this selfishness of what he is -- that as a gentleman, as the man he had been, he cannot allow.
But she churns the tides until it washes up, and he makes a noise in this throat for when her teeth catch against the edge of his lip. Snaps him up and trusts that she's not going to drop her leg from where she has him trapped in close to her body. ] I should do us both a favour and snap your neck now. You are as much of a waste of the skin you inhabitant as I am.
[ but he doesn't, deep calleth unto deep, and he lifts his hand from where it hooked on her thigh. Doesn't go far, finds the hook of her pants and undoes it in quick little motions. The marking on his hand is glowing, trailing feverish cold light as his fingers curl. Not a kindness, because she is warm, her body all but humming with it. Has what she wants, and his hand is a dead thing to the void, it is not. Cold as the rest of him these days, where otherwise the rest of him is as warm as any other living body.
He shoves his hand inside of her pants in the same breath he kisses her. He's not a young man, not foolish and fumbling any longer, and the way his fingers reach is sure. Reaching into her clothes in contrast to how his hand still grips her throat. Tight, like he might make good on his words. There are fine bones in there that the broad set of his palm could too easily crush. The little delicate parts of her that henhouse carve so that they would whistle in the early morning. Sweet and more truthful than any other word she had produced before. ]
no subject
She almost hadn't been able to turn it off. For years after she could still be triggered into against her will, flight or fight, panic, vengeance. No wonder they came for her. She had been primed so beautifully, first with years of infiltration, lies, and manipulation... and then she had been dirtied. Twisted into a new shape that suited genocide and adrenaline. It suits her, the change, the aging. The scars and fines lines, the grey just beginning to touch her hair, premature because of how raggedly used they all are.
But even for all that: the haughty, beautiful young woman she was is always there just beneath the surface, in the glitter of her dark eyes, the sonorous tone of her voice, the sharp curl of her mouth. She has never fucked like a girl. Always too aggressive for her station, she has been playing with men not so young and their confidences a long time. Such a long ago useless memory... The first time she sat on an office desk with her knees open, silken neckties, stubble, cigarettes.
She arches her back with perfect poise like a ballerina, all the intention of a whore, tilting her hips forward to make herself easier to touch.
She sighs, soft and sodden, not struggling against his hand, nor his mouth, not offering so much as a hint of fear.
Wouldn't it just be... terribly romantic if he killed her one day? She doesn't even have to say it, the taste of toxicity is in her mouth. She'd love to die tangled and hating, struggling with another waste of humanity just like him. Nothing else would ever make her happy, not now, not after all the years of corpses.
She grapples her fingers into his hair with a yank, a whisper, ]
Not a corpse yet.
[ And she works so hard to keep him that way, biting and scratching and provoking demanding the blood come back to the surface. A writhe, hips kicking, licking across his lower lip, demanding more, always, always, always. ]
no subject
Fair, that it should come from her.
He jerks hard into her, his fingers riding up where they're blunt tipped and searching against her, tilting her face up to deny her the brush of her teeth and claws. ] I wonder if our masters know just how much you need this?
[ He knows, the way he knows that when he squeezes her throat that little bit, that she enjoys the idea of this too much. His violence bridled and intent on pleasing her, for just a moment, to see him all unravelled against her. Needs it like he needs the way her teeth set into his lip, the way he bites back at her jaw when her nails score his back like he hopes leave open wounds but won't stay. ]
no subject
And then, it's there, the spring that snaps and she can't play like this is all she wants any longer, her kiss is more teeth clacking than anything else, painful as she forces it on him, forces him to roll and let her have access to him. She is gloriously disheveled, the tank top twisted up and around her body from her writhing, the band of it slid down her shoulder, her dark hair unfurled across the pale skin. On her knees, spread out over his legs, every part of her body is razor sharp. Lithe and athletic, she has no soft or womanly curves. She has no softness. ]
Tell them, I dare you. Watch them rip it out of me. Is that what you want?
[ She strokes the side of his face more a moment, more disconcerting a gesture than anything else, staring into his eyes with her own dark eyes. There is a thunderstorm in her eyes, daring him to admit to his own cruelty, that he would truly like to see this energy taken from her. To see her turned into such a numb creature, with only death left on her mind. ]
Would you like me better that way, Corvo?
[ She fondles him lazily through his clothes as she taunts him, swaying like a snake, content in her prey. ]
Who would you go fuck instead? Maybe Shepard, she looks like she could keep up.
no subject
Something dead and ugly in his eyes for it. Vicious, leashed animal - hands to himself almost, and he has to bite back on it.
Or rather, he grips, at her - because she says the one name he cannot stand to hear when she's got her hands on his cock, lording over him like the predator she is. His fingers snap to her hips, tugging her up his in a broad set hold. Blunt-tipped fingers sinking into skin, drawing her up. ]
You are nothing like her. They couldn't take it out of her, but you? You'd beg for it. You all but are.
[ Sneers it hot and ugly, grinding her down against him in a way that isn't kind, isn't fair, it's ugly pressure of weight and force and the cruelty that they are both better at. ]
no subject
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. ]