(Most of this from play with Destiny-mun, whose return is an occasion for joy!)
The great eyes pin a departing patron in a mirror, spare her a tremblechin nod. It has all the earmarks of another night in the Inn, another evening of regret, another chance to stew in the juices of loss.
Then the front door opens, and shuts, and the wind blows in a figure bundled against the cold, wrapped in dark grey wool, grey and white striped mittens and scarf (which was wrapped three times round her neck), and a fuzzy fluffy hat that concealed everything, except for a pair of dusty blue eyes.
Oh, the pale woman doesn't need to see the eyes that were caught in the mirror, or the strip of skin surrounding them. The cold brings a scent she knows, and her head pivots, mechanically graceful, to pin the bundled figure in a square of mirror once hidden by a bottle of Beam. She stiffens from head to toe, as if reacting to a sudden, sharp pain.
Destiny heads slowly in the general direction of the bar, unwinding the length of grey and white knit - until she meets those mirrored eyes, and the girl stops dead in her tracks, frozen to the spot right at the corner of the bar. Hope flares in her eyes, a plea echoing in the space of heartbeats.
For her part Arts doesn't turn, trusting still to the prophylactic of the mirror, and speaks precisely and without emotion, each syllable carried on a little puff of breath. "You'll be wanting your things, I suppose. They are all where you left them."
Destiny responds with a terrible little shake of her head, even as she sways in place - not wanting to leave, but afraid to approach further, Mittened hands gently pull the scarf free of her mouth, the better to be understood. "No...that's - I don't even know where to start, except not there. Never there."
Artsblood turns then, a quick mechanical pivot, and faces the still bundled figure. Her thin face is drawn tight with fury, great eyes wide and hard. "You left me. Without a word. Do you think I am such a poor thing that you can simply return and pick up the pieces of the broken doll!" Her little voice is almost a hiss at the end of the outburst, shoulders rising to her ears. Destiny takes the anger with a flinch, mittens tugged off and stuffed into her coat so her hands can be joined and twisted together, all nerves and discomfort - though she does chance a step forward. "I know. If I could have - but that doesn't do anything to make it all right." A shaky breath is taken. "I know nothing will make the past months better. But I want to make the new ones better." Instead of answering, the taller woman is suddenly on her feet, moving at a speed that hurts the eye. She grabs two hands-full of overcoat. Even if Destiny were more than human she could not resists that rush; she is lifted until her heels drag on the floor, carried across the commons and slammed, pinned against the wall there. The pale face so close to hers that she can feel the chill of each burst of breath. "How. Can. I. Trust. You?"
The girl's shoulders tremble under the iron grip, as tears fall from lashes to cheeks, sprayed by the furious blinking of her eyes.
The face in front of Destiny's is a drawn-tight catsnarl of horror. Arts will not show teeth in public, no she is too well raised for that, but for a moment the threat to the girl is immediate and dire.
Destiny choses that moment to force open her eyes, blue touched with more than a hint of pain and horror - but the regret shines bright beneath the terror and the hurt.
And there is a familiar warmth to the skin beneath Artsblood's clawed fingers, distant as it might be made by layers of clothing, and a scent to the tears that she has only savored before in passion. She locks eyes with the woman, a dare there, a challenge, and suddenly kisses her with a ferocity that could well burst a lip. Relief floods Destiny's entire being, even as her mouth is bruised and split and bloodied under Arts' assault. She raises her hands to grip bare cool arms as that kiss is returned and grows wilder still, fanned by the flames of longing finally rewarded at last. When the embrace is finally broken the frail looking woman is almost prissy. She uses her thumb to gently clean the blood from Destiny's mouth, her quick tongue taking care of her own, and steps back, her voice still dark but now tethered, if precariously, by reason. "You have much to explain, Destiny. I will make you tell me all. I will listen to every word of it."
Destiny looks positively gobstruck, weak with emotion, and pain, and uncertainty, and she isn't sure her legs will function properly, so she leans a bit into the taller woman, breathless still. "Here..?" She looks furtively around the lightly-populated Inn, then back up at Arts. "There's - a lot'some of it shouldn't be overheard..." A shiver courses through her, her eyes closing briefly, before she comes back to herself, eyes locked on her terrible lover's. Artsblood's little ruin of a voice is softer, but a spine of severity runs through it still. "Shall we to home, then" I have tea still. And wine. And...all the rest."
Destiny nods, now leaning heavily on Arts, clinging to her like she was the last piece of land in a flood. "Wine. Tonight...tonight I need wine.."
"Wine, and attention. And I will have demands to make of you, missy dear." She actually rewraps the scarf, if awkwardly, as she maneuvers Destiny to the door and into the night, her own tattered Lolita dress incongruent beisde the other's huddled bundle.
Such is the pace of their journey that it is a much a prisoner's march as a lovers' ramble. And when the doors of the motel are secured, it is the reassuring conversation of joined bodies that Artsblood demands even before the words of explanation.
Their lovemaking is fierce, and there is already blood upon the unwashed sheets before the pale woman lifts her face to the girl below her, lets the little jewels of her feeding teeth slip free, and locks the girls eyes with hers, no coercion in them but an unflinching question.
"And now, will we do this?" she asks, words slurred by the teeth that push against her lips.
There is no hesitation in Destiny's nod; it is as if she needs this final communion as much as her lover does, and almost coyly she turns her head, offers the virgin skin of her throat.
Arts is not gentle, the penetration is hard and tearing, and for a moment Destiny struggles, caught up in the primal fear of this unnatural invasion. But then her heart feels the pull and cry of the heart atop her, and as her blood is drawn, irresistible, it is as if every vein and artery, every capillary, is suddenly, intensely erogenous.
By the time Arts falls from her, they are both weak with pleasure, stunned with sensation, lost in the aftershocks of an earthquake of eroticism. It is some time before Destiny can speak, some time, too, before her lover is capable of understanding.
And only when that time has passed does the moment for words get its day upon the stage.
The great eyes pin a departing patron in a mirror, spare her a tremblechin nod. It has all the earmarks of another night in the Inn, another evening of regret, another chance to stew in the juices of loss.
Then the front door opens, and shuts, and the wind blows in a figure bundled against the cold, wrapped in dark grey wool, grey and white striped mittens and scarf (which was wrapped three times round her neck), and a fuzzy fluffy hat that concealed everything, except for a pair of dusty blue eyes.
Oh, the pale woman doesn't need to see the eyes that were caught in the mirror, or the strip of skin surrounding them. The cold brings a scent she knows, and her head pivots, mechanically graceful, to pin the bundled figure in a square of mirror once hidden by a bottle of Beam. She stiffens from head to toe, as if reacting to a sudden, sharp pain.
Destiny heads slowly in the general direction of the bar, unwinding the length of grey and white knit - until she meets those mirrored eyes, and the girl stops dead in her tracks, frozen to the spot right at the corner of the bar. Hope flares in her eyes, a plea echoing in the space of heartbeats.
For her part Arts doesn't turn, trusting still to the prophylactic of the mirror, and speaks precisely and without emotion, each syllable carried on a little puff of breath. "You'll be wanting your things, I suppose. They are all where you left them."
Destiny responds with a terrible little shake of her head, even as she sways in place - not wanting to leave, but afraid to approach further, Mittened hands gently pull the scarf free of her mouth, the better to be understood. "No...that's - I don't even know where to start, except not there. Never there."
Artsblood turns then, a quick mechanical pivot, and faces the still bundled figure. Her thin face is drawn tight with fury, great eyes wide and hard. "You left me. Without a word. Do you think I am such a poor thing that you can simply return and pick up the pieces of the broken doll!" Her little voice is almost a hiss at the end of the outburst, shoulders rising to her ears. Destiny takes the anger with a flinch, mittens tugged off and stuffed into her coat so her hands can be joined and twisted together, all nerves and discomfort - though she does chance a step forward. "I know. If I could have - but that doesn't do anything to make it all right." A shaky breath is taken. "I know nothing will make the past months better. But I want to make the new ones better." Instead of answering, the taller woman is suddenly on her feet, moving at a speed that hurts the eye. She grabs two hands-full of overcoat. Even if Destiny were more than human she could not resists that rush; she is lifted until her heels drag on the floor, carried across the commons and slammed, pinned against the wall there. The pale face so close to hers that she can feel the chill of each burst of breath. "How. Can. I. Trust. You?"
The girl's shoulders tremble under the iron grip, as tears fall from lashes to cheeks, sprayed by the furious blinking of her eyes.
The face in front of Destiny's is a drawn-tight catsnarl of horror. Arts will not show teeth in public, no she is too well raised for that, but for a moment the threat to the girl is immediate and dire.
Destiny choses that moment to force open her eyes, blue touched with more than a hint of pain and horror - but the regret shines bright beneath the terror and the hurt.
And there is a familiar warmth to the skin beneath Artsblood's clawed fingers, distant as it might be made by layers of clothing, and a scent to the tears that she has only savored before in passion. She locks eyes with the woman, a dare there, a challenge, and suddenly kisses her with a ferocity that could well burst a lip. Relief floods Destiny's entire being, even as her mouth is bruised and split and bloodied under Arts' assault. She raises her hands to grip bare cool arms as that kiss is returned and grows wilder still, fanned by the flames of longing finally rewarded at last. When the embrace is finally broken the frail looking woman is almost prissy. She uses her thumb to gently clean the blood from Destiny's mouth, her quick tongue taking care of her own, and steps back, her voice still dark but now tethered, if precariously, by reason. "You have much to explain, Destiny. I will make you tell me all. I will listen to every word of it."
Destiny looks positively gobstruck, weak with emotion, and pain, and uncertainty, and she isn't sure her legs will function properly, so she leans a bit into the taller woman, breathless still. "Here..?" She looks furtively around the lightly-populated Inn, then back up at Arts. "There's - a lot'some of it shouldn't be overheard..." A shiver courses through her, her eyes closing briefly, before she comes back to herself, eyes locked on her terrible lover's. Artsblood's little ruin of a voice is softer, but a spine of severity runs through it still. "Shall we to home, then" I have tea still. And wine. And...all the rest."
Destiny nods, now leaning heavily on Arts, clinging to her like she was the last piece of land in a flood. "Wine. Tonight...tonight I need wine.."
"Wine, and attention. And I will have demands to make of you, missy dear." She actually rewraps the scarf, if awkwardly, as she maneuvers Destiny to the door and into the night, her own tattered Lolita dress incongruent beisde the other's huddled bundle.
Such is the pace of their journey that it is a much a prisoner's march as a lovers' ramble. And when the doors of the motel are secured, it is the reassuring conversation of joined bodies that Artsblood demands even before the words of explanation.
Their lovemaking is fierce, and there is already blood upon the unwashed sheets before the pale woman lifts her face to the girl below her, lets the little jewels of her feeding teeth slip free, and locks the girls eyes with hers, no coercion in them but an unflinching question.
"And now, will we do this?" she asks, words slurred by the teeth that push against her lips.
There is no hesitation in Destiny's nod; it is as if she needs this final communion as much as her lover does, and almost coyly she turns her head, offers the virgin skin of her throat.
Arts is not gentle, the penetration is hard and tearing, and for a moment Destiny struggles, caught up in the primal fear of this unnatural invasion. But then her heart feels the pull and cry of the heart atop her, and as her blood is drawn, irresistible, it is as if every vein and artery, every capillary, is suddenly, intensely erogenous.
By the time Arts falls from her, they are both weak with pleasure, stunned with sensation, lost in the aftershocks of an earthquake of eroticism. It is some time before Destiny can speak, some time, too, before her lover is capable of understanding.
And only when that time has passed does the moment for words get its day upon the stage.