|[ 026 ]|

[cold_dry_pieces]

[ooc; image posted without his knowledge. art is by Fernando Vicente, it seems more his style than an angel or something :3]

Comments

Private; unhackable

[cold_dry_pieces]

[After a long, thoughtful pause.]

I'll come over.

Private; unhackable

[synanthrope]

You can make everything quiet.

Private; unhackable

[cold_dry_pieces]

I can manage that.

Private; unhackable

[synanthrope]

I'm tired of noise.

Private; unhackable

[cold_dry_pieces]

Just wait.

[He knows a fit of crazy when he hears it, after all; he's on his way.]

Private; unhackable

[synanthrope]

[If he makes it up, she's pacing and flicking her fingers and even though she looks impeccable, her heels are clicking with more agitation than usual. Well, something's clicking, anyway]

[cold_dry_pieces]

[What people don't get, Brian always thinks, is that it's a matter of compulsion. He doesn't kill because he enjoys it (though he does;) it's a matter of necessity, and when necessity builds past the breaking point that thin veneer of civility gets hard to maintain.

So he's not disturbed by her restlessness, only determined not to catch it himself.]

Room for one more?

[He can sympathize, as well as ever he does; he'd be annoyed, too, if his home had become a safe harbor for the City's scared and huddled masses.]

[synanthrope]

[She looks up at him and her eyes seem wider, lighter, stranger]

They're all imperfect. Every.

Single.

One.

[cold_dry_pieces]

Pity.

[After all, the cover of a harpy attack would be a good time to get away with murder. He takes a step closer, slow but not in the least uncertain.]

Forget them a while.

[synanthrope]

[She freezes, perfectly, not like a woman settling in a pair of high, painful heels]

You know why I am upset.

[cold_dry_pieces]

[He takes it in stride, how unnatural she is; but sometimes it makes him wonder. Mostly, he likes it. There's something oddly arousing about how close to the surface her coldness is.]

Close quarters. The noise. Strangers being where they shouldn't. [Another little step, a slight note of humor.] The necessity of good behavior?

[synanthrope]

This is my space. She invited them. They make noise and leave mess and I cannot think.

Too much good behavior.

[cold_dry_pieces]

[He nods, and reaches for her wrist to pull her closer, if she'll let him. It's not a gesture of comfort. But he can offer a distraction.]

[synanthrope]

[She lets him, her skin a touch warmer than usual, and there is another click as her heels hit the ground]

Silence.

[cold_dry_pieces]

[He nods, runs his fingers up her arm. Somehow he always expects her to be cooler to the touch; it's not unpleasant, though.]

[synanthrope]

[She tilts her head and with her free hand, she moves her fingers across his jawline, across the arteries of his neck]

Sometimes I think you're like me.

[cold_dry_pieces]

[His other hand slips to her waist, sliding along the curves of her body. As familiar as she's become he always looks at her with an artist's eye, appreciating the length of her limbs, the strange way she moves. He speaks rather absently.]

Aren't I?

[synanthrope]

[There is something strange about every part of her, limbs that go askew randomly, the way her hips move less organic but no less natural.]

You are the most like me.

[Her hands slip to hover over his face]

I do not meet many men like you.

[cold_dry_pieces]

[His lip curls a little. Both his hands rest on her hips, then slide a little lower.]

There aren't many like me.

[synanthrope]

[Her eyes focus for a minute on his face, and she licks her top lip just once]

Most men can only have sex with me once.

[cold_dry_pieces]

Why?

[The question isn't simple prurience. He could say the same for women, and wonders if it's the same reason. He wouldn't try to kill her, but sex and murder are tangled between them all the same. It's a large part of the appeal.]

[synanthrope]

[She shrugs]

Some men are not interesting twice. Some find me odd and creepy.

[She takes his hand and puts a finger in her mouth, opening it wide, and something that isn't her tongue, something smooth and hard, brushes against it]

[cold_dry_pieces]

[He'd say something about odd not being so odd, though he can't speak for creepy, but stops dead at that inexplicable sensation. Not tongue nor teeth; which leaves no comprehensible options. It doesn't throw him into a panic-- he doesn't panic easily-- but he stays frozen, no longer certain of what he knows.]

[synanthrope]

[She slips her tongue against his finger, and her pedipalp scrapes along his finger once before daintily moving back into place. She takes his other hand and moves it against her inner thigh, higher and higher, pushing her skirt out of the way.

She's watching his face when high, right up against the juncture of her inner thigh and her body, a spinneret presses dully into his hand]

[cold_dry_pieces]

[Suddenly the question of being not like her is more than the cryptic murmur of an agitated obsession. He's always assumed her to be human (at least in the biological sense; people like them, at least like him, aren't precisely whole or human,) but here there's no reason that has to be the case.

He pulls back a little, to stare at her questioningly.]