[ Despite every opportunity foisted on them--the hunt, the candies, the ritual, the house's unsubtle maneuvering of its guests toward each other like pieces on a lanceboard--Shadowheart has yet to fuck anyone here, by compulsion or her own desire.
She doesn't think of how she's kept Gale's room precisely how she found it, tucking herself into one side of his bed rather than sprawling, her belongings tidy on his nightstand and in his wardrobe. If Shadowheart doesn't leave a mark--if she doesn't sink into this place, the way it so clearly wants her to, then maybe she'll be able to leave.
Silco left, once. He knows what it is to lose time and memory, and Shadowheart finds her pulse thrumming at her wrists and throat as she turns for him, lets him touch her, dress her.
Shadowheart pulls her braid over her shoulder, lifts her arms and stays quiet, listening to the soft click of the fastenings, Silco's breath. The bustier fits perfectly, because of course it does: lifts her breasts sweetly to the neckline of her dress, where his fingers brush just enough bare skin to send a twist of heat through her belly, a flush to her chest.
I like when you give me instructions, she doesn't say, nor does she turn around, yet. Shadowheart waits for Silco to finish, then walks to a small bench beside the racks and sits, knees pressed together. ]
I thought of your hands. Each time I laced and unlaced that corset. [ She pulls the hem of her skirt up her thighs, thumbnail pressing into and dragging up her skin, leaving a long white mark that fades as soon as it appears. ] Garter?
no subject
She doesn't think of how she's kept Gale's room precisely how she found it, tucking herself into one side of his bed rather than sprawling, her belongings tidy on his nightstand and in his wardrobe. If Shadowheart doesn't leave a mark--if she doesn't sink into this place, the way it so clearly wants her to, then maybe she'll be able to leave.
Silco left, once. He knows what it is to lose time and memory, and Shadowheart finds her pulse thrumming at her wrists and throat as she turns for him, lets him touch her, dress her.
Shadowheart pulls her braid over her shoulder, lifts her arms and stays quiet, listening to the soft click of the fastenings, Silco's breath. The bustier fits perfectly, because of course it does: lifts her breasts sweetly to the neckline of her dress, where his fingers brush just enough bare skin to send a twist of heat through her belly, a flush to her chest.
I like when you give me instructions, she doesn't say, nor does she turn around, yet. Shadowheart waits for Silco to finish, then walks to a small bench beside the racks and sits, knees pressed together. ]
I thought of your hands. Each time I laced and unlaced that corset. [ She pulls the hem of her skirt up her thighs, thumbnail pressing into and dragging up her skin, leaving a long white mark that fades as soon as it appears. ] Garter?