(OOC Notes:

1. The following is detailing interactions between Mish'Cael and Lerida. The explicit approval of Lerida's player is implied throughout this post, as she helped create it with me in real-time.

2. Their respective thoughts, actions and words are differentiated by Mish'Cael's in blue and Lerida's in red.

3. This is a very mature entry, it is not intended for anyone under the age of eighteen, or those who might be offended by seuxally-explicit situations. This cannot be stressed enough, the following is very much adult in nature.)

The creaking, cantankerous gait of this bag of bones. Lit Red Apple cigarette clinging needily to one corner of oddly thick lips, the rest of him so bare and thin. The usual pinstripe black slacks, wrinkled white tuxedo shirt, rolled up to the elbows. The sinewy, sickly corded forearms of an assassin who didn't eat away his payments. Hollow click of bootheel across RDI floorboard.

A cruel curl of thin black eyebrow, he settled onto a barstool. Protesting creaks and cracks of joints. The cigarette plucked and ashed. Slowly repinned to his lips. A crack of his neck.

Abyssmal crows-soul eyes, bad buju and lingering lecherous looks. A study of bodies in motion, slow slide from top to bottom of Lerida, whom it had been much too long since he'd last seen. They had left on...a mysterious note. One he wished to rectify into clarity. Clearer than the cigaerette smoke circling overhead, at least.

A few bitter blows of smoke circles, LaBrea eyes skimming this way and that. Apparently not on Lerida, as she was outside. Cancer hadn't been known to give hallucinogenic effects, but was a first time for everything, eh?

Besides, not exactly being human, who knew the effects on one who'd suffered the longfall. Gnarled, bony fingers plucking the cigarette out once again, tapping it into an ashtray. Disconcerting, invading tarpit eyes watching whomever fell across his field of vision.

Molly the barmaid came by and took a drink order, without having to ask a word, say a breath. She knew what he drank from the Estate.
A last sizzling drag on the Red Apple, and he snuffed it out. Immediately starting a second, but first a long bout of coughing. Wracking, hacking wretches of coughs, beating his larynx to pieces, twisted and torturing the lungs.

A rub at the crick in his neck, a shift in weight and the twin Peacemakers swung sleepily. Lovers in a hammock in late summer. A calm breeze tickling the .45s in their softened-leather holsters, over shoulders and gnarled bone alike.

She turned from the beam and ruffled up her hair and rolled her shoulders and smirked like a teenager and walked inside.
"Heya Mish...", she offered as she passed the sparsely filled tables and chairs, her soft leather shoes making her ascent up then fall to a bar stool slow and quiet The rhythem of her hips disappeared as she crossed her legs and dumped her purse on the bar, her spell lit small in her smile.

"You ok there, some water? I could hear you from out there..."

Eerie leopard eyes ran across his shoulders to his eyes; tarpits eddying hot black milk.

A slow pan over to her, up and down and back again. The linger, lecherous study. A small nod.

"Hiya darlin'. Whiskey'd be a sight better."

She smirked and affectionatey petted his arm, before launching backwards to crescent the bar and move for the highballs; two. Returning, a bottle tucked under her arm she smiled again at him and plopped beside him.

"There", as she flicked off the cap and poured him his and half filled her glass. The bottle down she picked hers up and studied him, eyes peering past her coils of fairest red.

"What you been doin' tonight?"

Shrug. Another slow study.

"Nothin'. Waitin' fer yer." A cruel, thin smirk. He didn't mean it, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't float it past her.

The fit over, he swallowed, hard. A harder suck, a villifying, burning spectre of vengeance on his lungs. He'd bury the bastard in carcinogens. He'd give it some friends. He'd fill in the spots and marks. The turn had let tarpit eyes linger over Maeve. A gruff, gnarled, twisted sort of salutation. The vying inside, the twisted tug-of-war that held his heart in place.

"Hullo, stranger." And in a second, back to Lerida. The main squeeze who took time from his wife.

Sunset hued eyes watch behind veil of smoke; whispers of bullet ash and secrets colliding before the brilliant commotion of colour that was his flesh and feature. A faint smile, she leant into the bar and suck.

"En't 'fraid ov nothin'." A sudden and betraying act of his real personality. Gone was the slow pace, gone the frail and old frame. A sickly thin frame turned into necessary strength. The smallest amount allowed to get by on. The starvation of necessary killing. The spartan efficiency of the best. A square and challenging look in his eyes. The full-on come-uppance of someone who had killed more than even he expected.

"En't 'fraid ov yer. En't mean I dun't regard yer as dang'rous." The thin, wry smile. The betrayal of niceities, the wrathful murder of morals. Watchman asleep, convicts creep.

"But me," she countered. Her tongue like velvet, her smile like glare from killer's dagger horizontal. A bruised smile, she shook her head and looked to Sid, as her eyes landed over the bar, and found the Trueblood in park.

"Then try me on," she all but hissed as she closed in a touch, relaying her hand onto his shoulder. "I'm like full body cotton. So pure it feels cold when on... In the dark. My body your braille..." she whispered, moving again into his Zone, lips a burning harp; simple and elegant and breathy.

That harp now decayed in soot. Tinder crackling her feminine songs.

"En't worn somethin' thet close in decades. En't..." The pause, the lingering enjoyment of her verbs. The silent appraisal of what she had actually said. A drop in tone, the dead-branch rustle of winter wind in a wood. "Since.... longfall. Shite." A flick of eyes, another betrayal of the carefully constructed slowness. They whipped over her frame, the true whiporwhill of his brevity. The actual swiftness that demarcated every hemispehere of this assassin.

"An' if'n I want them lights on?" Grin. Another whiskey devoured. He filled it back up, topping hers off too. It wasn't sly or underhanded. He knew she saw, he didn't care. He wasn't trying to pull a fast one on anybody.

A roll of her head, feline eyes brimming in wanton wanders. "Come now, it's like white light on the skin, Mish. It's felt but not tangeable... it's this elusive burn on the inside." She flourished with her hands in tiny gravity of fingers down then moving up. She smiled at his response, face animated, eyes alive in their gold and green cacophany.

"Then you will see..." she answered, face solemn and yes darkened. "All of me," eyes pinned on his.

The burning, hungry pinpoint of Abyssmal eyes on her frame. They roamed and studied and went from tiptoe to head. A low move from thigh to eye. "En't want less." The painfully glacial reveal of oddly bright-white canines.

"Doubletime it yer port, hell. Want stern ta bow."

She dabbed the ash off of her ciggo then looked to him, exhaling away. "I'm only askin'," She smiled a little, "And then tellin'... that I fit like a glove." It didn't arrive seedy or rough like green felt on billiards map. She pressed her hip into the wood, closing her eyes and listening to him.

"Name me and shine me and steer me and drown me..." Eyes fluttered open and she neared him, careless and insoucient, placing her arms around his neck.

Another resurrection of Red Apple. The cigarettes his wife had laid out for him that morning. Knowing they were his favorite, knowing it was his annivesary of the longfall. What better way to spend his expulsion from silverlinin', than with someone who wasn't Morgan? Solidified that side of the beast. Blueskin bastard, morals to the winds and wants gripped like money.

"Come now, one night." And there it was. The biggest lie of all. Staring at him, into him, past him, then beyond him, and herself, she knew once was not enough. The lurking brew that such bodies could blur. She was silenced, as hips wove their way between his legs.

The cruelest, the most self-pleased of grins. A dip of elongated neck to watch her eyes. A bony, somehow tender push back of curls. The calloused trace of fingertip around her ear, down along her jaw. Surprising how gentle such a reject could be. The other hand dipped low and dangerous, so unchaste with its movements. A brazen and daring grip of bottom. The firm, demanding and unquestioning feel of her flesh. No was not an answer. That had been cast off long ago. He took what he wanted and silently promised to give what she asked.

"Both know en't one night." The stripped down, heartless declamation of what they both knew as fact. The incessant response to each others' loins. Something that burned so bright and so unwavering. The brightest flames didn't always burn quickest. He'd burnt bright for hundreds of years, now.

Floodlights flickered off. The current rose. "Upstairs..." She leant along, fingers pinching gently the skin at the back of his shoulders--taut and smooth. She brushed her curls along his cheek; all that was lacking with the purr. She braced her elbows to akimbo and ran her hands firmly along his arms, a small gasp as his hand gripped her behind. Like chiascuro she was blistered within and that dull thump was heady. She leant back to rub her forehead along his chin. Soothing and slow.

A fingertip to his lip. "However many nights... So be it." She pouted and bent her knee along his sterling shin, heated and prickly.

"Kint wait fer Marban." A question without lilt. A pleased request that held no note of its happiness. He sucked on the cigarette, snuffing it silently. The whiskey downed and glass replaced along the bartop.

Was it him asking her? Was it a statement of his own inability for patience? Hard to tell. Hard to tell.

The hardest tale to tell, indeed. Not rude, well, not willingly, she kept her eyes low as she passed Maeve like a shy saloon girl, pacing for the stairs in eager lottery of choirgirl legs.

A smirk, the first in weeks. A bony hand curling under her jawline. Wrapped near her ear, cupping her face and turning it up to his. Weather-beaten and scarred. Not handsome in the model-book sense. Yet something there... something that smacked of knowledge and the pursuit of embodied fullness. The continuous betterment of his trade. The wholehearted devotion to himself and a highering of it. It lit up the monstrous being. It gave him guile. A smile and whisper of train-derailed words.

"Want yer worse than crops want rain." And with that, he hesitated not one bit. No second-guessing, no fatal flaw of low self-confidence. He didn't care about being rejected. He knew she wanted him, and he knew that he wanted her worse than he'd ever wanted anything. Worse than the killshot? Yes. Worse than the spray of blood and brains? Yes. She was an all-encompassing desire. She was the summit of all he had traded during the longfall.

A kiss placed at her lips, at first semi-chaste and testing the waters at which she waded. Feeling out where she stood and what he could take in a doorway. A lot, he assumed. If her mention of black cotton was anything. Slowly a suck of her bottom lip, a teasing, tempting bite. Lingering and enjoying, it increased to a hard bite, taking and aggressive. No skin broken, but more along pace for how he planned to steer the course throughout. A ship's captain who battled waves head-on.

A skipper with battle in his mind, with vengeance and hungry fulfillment foremost in his plots. Not one to linger and gently conquest. Took what was his and let the anger of encroachment propel her into equally-heated battle. Let her fight back with aggressive sexuality, if she felt wronged. She had loosed the floodgates, and the water that waited was empassioned.

One stares enough at the Great Ocean, tossing and churning in foam and flotsam, broiled and in melancholy silence so deep. An illusion so fulfilling... it had to be real. Had to be right. At his first signs, his omens, his lips along her own, she repented for her own disasters with this, his fabled relijun, old time and bucking. She opened them again and her chest and throat was strained like the onslaught of a sob, and she claimed his lips with hers; tiers full and red searing the thin, and cruellest blue. It was a somersault. Her diamond hitting home. It was a sharp crystal reality. She moved her arms about him, throat still stung and lips moulding to his in eager and voluntary hypnosis.

"I... I would crawl for you," she uttered, head back into the door frame. This entrance, he could have all in this Zone. Their Sea. That salty carniverous lust prodded at wounds to lave at them and wash them clean. She threw herself back and pulled him in with her, as best she could, smiling up at his Great height in eyes welling in some disorder; that she felt for him. She was still replaying his hand taking her jaw, so large his hand would brush her ear in one cup. "I would crawl for you..." she ran her hands along her gown and towards her back the zipper a slow sizzle down.

"Get on the bed." She walked in the dark in a slow swing, unhinging heels of her shoes and barefoot walking to open the window. She stood patient in grey light.

The shoulder holsters off and hanging from one corner of a vanity in quicker time than thought of a man who at least pretended to be half-crippled. No limp now, only the practiced motions of an expert killer. "Want ter see yer. Turn thet light on. Turn all ov 'em on. En't leaving 'til I seen all sides ov yer."

En't leaving 'til yer gaspin' happy an' spent." Wicked grin. A let down of his guard, if only for a moment. If only for something as guardless as sex. The first and easiest avenue in, the street that needed the simplest of skeleton keys. And yet it was still not the one on which Mish'Cael felt himself most close to Lerida. He wanted her physically, obviously, but he wanted her on some deeper level. Something he could not explain, and did not want to. This lurching, pining feeling for her very being. This physical and mental, verbal desire for all-things Lerida.

The tuxedo shirt gone in an instant, pants and boots and socks to match. He wore no underwear, had never found a purpose for it. He lacked any social graces concerning decency. Afterall, that was his genetic disposition... A grin, studying her.

Eyes looked over her right shoulder. Watched the swing of Guns, the coarse walk of the Giant. A turn away and she walked in but undergarments of nude pink and fairest complexion to the lanterns upon each wall. A wailing dance of her body, this physical expression of herself; alien, enchantress, and now Lover. All perky nipples, small breasts as pillow, shapely legs and hips and short toes and short nails; crimson and slick. And once light was flowering upon bleak wallpaper and untouched skin she marched towards him, chin high, lids heavy, lips puffy from his grip.

Within her hands nothing but a tender art, she unhooked the latches of her bra and dropped it to her ankles. There, exposed, the peak of her small assets heaving with visibly nervous breaths, she studied him in turn. The backgammon eyes, the chessplayer smile, the bluff and the winning card. Rumpled in his back pocket and up his sleeve. She felt dominant and yet wanted to beg, wanted him to reach into her very center and believe in her so much she'd end up sweating the sea, her scent would be ingrained in the sheets and be completely evicted from agonies long lived. She gazed at him, as though hurt. He was a sinner. But beside him she felt as holy as such a killer as she herself might ever shine.

The ever-growing, glistening grin of a criminal uncaught. An unending record of kills, a forever-forthspilling rapsheet of clover. The LaBrea eyes claimed their mark, studied the terrain he demanded to himself only. Nitsu bedamned. He would end that. He wanted her all to himself. A confidence felt in his bedroom disposition. A win that had yet to be claimed, and that only he could. It spelled the termination of relationship. It spelled the beginning of what could be a terrible end, or a dazzling new beginning.

He sat at the top of the bed. Legs outstretched and torso upright against the headboard. His crotch swelled, eyes dipping to her breasts and loins, the deepening of blue skin in areas victim to his bloodswoll wants. A faint blush was a far cry from the actuality of his desire. A hand reaching out, long and yet not long enough. She evaded him cruelly and he aimed to fix it. A lick of oddly thick lips on such a gharishly thin frame.

"En't no use preten'in' we en't breakin' tha rules. Makes it better, don't it." Again, the question without lilt. He burned, pined and desired worse than anything before. It showed, and he was unashamed of the display, shifting his weight almost purposefully to showcase it. A modern study in animalistic give-and-take.

An affected smile as she shook her head to feign her distaste, right hand linking with his outstretched; danse de macabre. She lowered herself behind him, still deciding which role to portray. But it was oh so clear as she mounted him and ran her teeth along her bottom lip, still sulky from his abuse, and she rolled her shoulders and neck; the sensuous arch to her back as she placed cool fingers about his cock and drew a cold palm along the shaft in bold caress. She leant along so that her cheek was to be less than inches from his own.

"This ain't no make believe, lover..." she quelled for affect, so she had space and calm to fan the flame. Blueflame licks at her body as she folded herself along him, crouching, to collect his mouth and relinquish her stroke on his dick so that she may enfold him in that secret, satin tunnel; narrow but accommodating. She tossed her head back; a moan as she winced.

"Won't you have me," she settled along him. Lowering her breasts to brush his sternum then lifted up, she ran her red nails along his nipples and lifted her hands to her breasts to play with herself in unabashed release, his name following the tide of her whimpers as she felt the vacuum of his strength, this pull between them, grow.

The room could have been on fire, and not only would Mish have not noticed, but he wouldn't've stopped. A gasp and a groan and amorous grunt of pleasure. He sated himself on her; an exploratory, emblazoned engagement with her loins, his tongue dipping and pressing and a few nips at ridges. He worked with an expert's touch, hands gripped around her bottom, a firm squeeze and yes, even a rather hard spanking or twelve.

The teeth, he shuddered in satisfaction and reluctantly withdrew himself, after a long moment of drinking her in, a taste he'd no sooner forget than his own name. He wanted more and yet knew to deny himself was to amplify the satisfaction of the future. Rough with her, because he knew no other way, and refused to coddle anyone, even someone as gorgeous as her. It had drawn her to him to begin with, hadn't it? A shove of her down onto the mattress, a sly, devil's grin. He took a long, hard-breathing moment to study her in all of her naked glory. Wet and panting, chest rising and falling. He licked his lips, touching himself as he watched her, hard breath coming ragged to a cancerous chest cavity.

Flaunted in pale skin satin-cool, cotton spice, the grinding of his lust upon her funny little towns. Small, expressive breasts pouting for his attentions, elegant neck lost of pillow but for the meadow of her helixes of rosegold. She studied him without a hint of terror; the angles to his cruel arrangement of feature, the flavour of him as beads of sweat fell to her lips from his chin. A daring rose tongue bleated forth, she closed her eyes and wriggled her hips in satisfaction, tip of tongue wise and eager to his salty mysteries. Eyes open... large and mirroring his face.

A hand came out of nowhere, out of sheet and shame and sex, to caress his cheek. Gentle giant, eyes the calmest unholy ebon, it stung. Her bottom eyelids rose, creased in emotion as she gazed at him ruefully. Lips tingling to smile, she moved her hand to his nape and urged him down...

"Follow me, home" She felt the goosebumps trickle and arched her back, wrapping her shapely thigh, rounded and femine to his hips and lowered herself down his body, her nipples casting patterns of unsaid words to their blind tongues and forgetful hearts. She moistened her lips against his own, tongue a muscle of acrobatics flavoured still in cheap smoke and whiskey... and somehow, that scent of sandlewood still stuck to her hair and skin, and she would rub it into his beautiful madness. Gushing and furrowing her brows as eyes closed and she whispered...

"Mish..." as reverant as one wired on rapture could.

The voice, as trainwreck terror as always. Steel grating along concrete and shattering glass anywhere it fell. It came out in a curdled sort of unabashed, nuclear attraction. He leaned forward, kissing her hungrily, he broke it only for further instructions. Hands trailing and exploring where his tongue had already been, some places it hadn't. A full-on push up of her breasts, the small pert mounds perfectly filling gnarled killer's hands. Exactly right, the fit making his dick harder than it already was. He kneaded with just enough pressure, pinching and teasing her nipples.

The firmest personality of men left in a world of please-and-thank-you's. He took and if they deserved, he gave. She deserved, and for that he asked instead of commanded. Still, the words tumbled out into her ear canal without the lilt of a question. Only from their time together would she know the difference. "Hands and knees, facing the headboard."

Another thin reveal of shockingly sparkling white teeth. Thin and guarded, but painted in enjoyment. Hands trailing down her ribcage, fluttering over her pussy, a nimble treetwig finger slipping inside of her for a moment, and then dancing with the rest down the inside of one thigh. Cruel arch of black eyebrow, waiting for her to comply. "Will take yer home, will go with yer, be a good girl now.."

A jerk of her body as his cunning knife-finger penetrated her pussy, about to weep in joy. A bite of her lips, as always, enjoying his assault for all his perfect pin-pointing. A small moan as she rose to turn her back to him, firstly slinking out from his overbite of shoulder and abdomen, deiberate in her passing her breasts reddened and pert by his chin in her turn.

And there, placed upon the pillow's head, nails curling about the undulation of wood that gave the bedhead its shape, she looked side on, eyes down, peripherally watching for the blue glass and bone to break and cut against the light of the room to her buttox; breasts tight against the headboard as she bent over some. "That's a good, good boy..." she drawled, turning so that the back of her autumnal mane was a wild wood... and she was blanketed in the reflection of his vespertine-cobalt skin. "Take me...baby," she closed her eyes to toss her head, incling it to the right, akin to a violinist within intense concentration, awaiting the meridian of this art to transpire and glower and burn and soak and satiate their hungry selves. Two sides of the same, wretched blade.

"En't no need ta ask twice, doll." A full-on smile, a rarity from the gunslinger. A hand on her hipbone and he teased the opening of her crotch with a bare brushing of his cock's tip, dipping it into her fraction by tantalizing fraction. He was teasing himself just as much, quivering with the sensation and then he thrusted deep and full. A loud shout, in concert with the motion, and myriad more just like it. A speed up and the hand on her hipbone dipped around lithe flesh to tease her clitoris. A lean in close and the free weather-beaten fingers grabbed a thick handful of hair, pulling back hard enough to jerk her head up. The way he liked it, the way he only assumed she would. He was, after all, still captaining this vessel.
The plumbing of his larynx, the deep wellwater of true satisfaction spilling out from his throat, commanding her attention. "Like it enough ter finish wit yer lover? Make it real fer us an' come. En't be a might longer."

The gravel voice and sinners hands moulding and ripping at her attention held her in thrall as she lowered her head to the bedpost only to have her face be snared back to his rodeo grace; she gasped and breathed deep as his thrusts and harsh manuever of her body in sublime skill throttled her out of patience and she gripped the bedhead and groaned. It was like being weeded. For all your insecurities and vanities and ego and tragedies, he was exorcising her body religiously; fist tightly balled as she moved her head forward, to pull at his palm which she knew he would retreat with and her hair would feel tugged from her scalp-that benevolent cruelty he enacted upon her like some pinup ragdoll.

She lifted her other fist behind her head to scrape at his jaw, a brush of nails to press into his cheek and never to bleed but to give a hot tincture as she gasped and bucked against hiboney shoulders, battered against his broad, freight self. She bent forward again to let out a gasp... she was caught, hooked, bait... and it never felt so sexy.