MOONSTONE

Jenna Coleman as Marie-Andrée Leclerc in The Serpent 101

Marie-Andrée Leclerc (1945-1984) was a fraudster and known accomplice to serial killer Charles Sobhraj, who preyed on Western tourists travelling on the hippie trail of South Asia during the 1970s.

Then he smiles, an all-too-sweet smile against her lips, voice dropping low, " I'm a grower, not a shower, baby." It's only half a lie, he is already at half-mast by her sounds and displays alone, but she would discover that fact for herself soon enough.

A step forward, and he presses her back against the wall, rougher than before, his hips flush against hers, giving a buck in turn. He has half a mind, by that fire that was being stoked every second, to continue moving until they both make messes of their attire, right there and then. An all too alluring prospect. Surely he had more willpower than that.

"Yeah, just like they let anyone be a hero." With a burning heat, her warm breath pants out against his neck. Face flushed with all that heated want that roasted in her hips as they still so steadily grind against him. Feeling every bit of him harden every passing second.

" They usually are." A saying comes to his mind, something Supes had said that one time when facing one of the countless 'end of the world' scenarios. Something about living in a world of cardboard and needing to be completely delicate. He is not that strong, of course, but he could relate to a degree.

Though he doubts the Man of Tomorrow would appreciate having his words considered in such a context as this.

Still, theirs was to be a simple exchange, at the end of the day. A night of solace, of mindless debauchery and aches-to-be to remind one of the finer things in life. But he still liked to perform acts of gentility, just a little, just enough to pretend he wasn't just a base animal chasing primal pleasures. For the moment, at least.

But, still, he could meet her halfway.

" You talk a lot of shit for someone who's making a mess just by kissing." Fingers on her neck trail down, straight in the middle, down the sternum and the navel, to dip below the belt." What's this, huh?" His palm presses flush against the denim, fingers grasping at the fabric, bucking it up with enough force to lift her to her toes, just enough to display how little she weighed in comparison to his strength.

God he's doing all he can to unravel her. Lost in that sudden moment of roughness. The heels of her boots no longer rest upon the ancient stoneworks of her home. Cordelia can feel the thick denim of her pants helping create some friction between her thighs. Keep her waiting any longer she's gonna look like the second grader who couldn't hold it on the field trip--

"Sure, maybe, but you'd be a terrible hero to assume your villain isn't going to fight back."

The way her hips roll, lifting to grind idly into his body. A preview of things to come. Thin legs lift to wrap around his waist. To hold firm onto his body and hold herself in the air in spite of his hulking touch. Those deep blues are soaked in hunger, she was never one for pretending she was what she wasn't. A carnal creature of addictions, chasing the next fucking source of her dopamine.

Right now? It was in those pants. She could feel it firm and turgid, pressed taught against his tights. Lithe digits of the wizard trail across his sharp angular features. Admiring his face as much as her hips were his body.

Criss Angel?

It would be a mistake for him to underestimate her, he thinks, to shrug off her words and assume she was just talking big for the sake of it. They'd just met, sure, but he got the distinct feeling she was one of those types who liked to severely underplay her capabilities, until it was all too late for her prey.

So, he hums in agreement, giving no protest as she leads his hand to where she wished it to be; fingers oh-so-tantalizingly pressing against her pulse points. A thoughtful tilt of the head, eyes giving her a once-over as his course fingers caress against her soft skin.

Give her a fight. Yeah, he figures he could manage that.

He hears his belt clatter across the floor away from them, but he pays little mind, fingers trailing up that neck of hers to trace along her jaw, " You're good with your hands. What else you're good with?" He comes in quick, like a thief stealing a priceless artifact in the night (an apt metaphor, he thinks), a peck, before he leans back in for a sloppy second, slower, more purposeful, shifting his weight to press her more against the wall while doing so.

She's not in this for love, and she knows he's not either. But the way the rough tips of his mighty fingers glide along the veins of her throat. Wondering so idly what it must feel like to have him grip her throat, squeezing the consciousness into question. Already he has her gasping, shimmering blues rolling just a faint in their hungered haze as they look challengingly on his.

A breathless moan comes through, when he takes her hands by the wrists, doing that beautifully powerful thing and taking her arms out of the equation. Cordelia's back arches off the stone pillar, thighs rubbing together absently in quiet heated anticipation. Oh, she meets every kiss, every heated lock is met with a passion just as burning as his own, she's already finding herself more drunk on his presence than any bottle of cheap fucking hooch she's found.

It's quiet for a second, beyond the profane sounds of their lips wetly consuming each other, and the anticipating writhing of rutting denim. He pulls back, pulls at her lip, and that drunken look is traded for one of returning challenge. Cherry red lips guiding to the edges of her face in a wry grin, showing her clenched pearly whites.

"Big man thinks he's got things figured out already?" Her whole body trembles with need, mouth hanging open like some cheap mewling whore.

This was a game he found himself playing, one that she had started; Taking of one's measure, balancing on the proverbial see-saw, the give and the take. A game that he was, quickly, catching himself up to speed on.

He knew her type; one who liked to speak tough so she'd get punished harder in response. Try to find all his buttons, just so she could press them for maximum effect. She appeared to have a head start, too, seemingly having an extensive knowledge of his history. Cute.

" Baby, you haven't seen just how well my tongue can flap." A bad quip? He doesn't care. Bringing his unoccupied hand up to dance his knuckles along her chin; his thumb, coarse, brushes against her soft skin.

The more they occupy each other's personal space, the more he finds himself in lock step with her. Her fever was infectious, the thickness in the air palpable. " A good thrashing." He repeats, brow cocked, grasping her chin between two fingers. She was so tiny compared to him, could give her what she wanted, and then some. All without breaking a sweat.

Her taste in men was quite easy to pin down. Esoteric as she might have been herself, an oddity plagued in the madness that was the life of magic, while she herself had left much to mundanity. A young woman with father issues caused plenty of problems with authority, and plenty more pretty comfortably stereotypes she fit into. At least, in a way, she'd find comfortable.

Tall, brooding, angry, handsome. Trouble. Sometimes married. It was a bit problematic when it came to getting herself into trouble. Soft blues betray her true nature, and she rolls herself back a bit. Playing innocent in some fashion. Made it a little more fun, didn't it? Something about it made them so much more rabid if they weren't given the inches they had wanted to take the full miles.

"I'm good at showing my own limits, and throwing off men who push them a little too far." Not that she was particularly confident that he'd even reach the edge of those limits. She holds certain words on her tongue, ones that didn't usually get used for the young men she fed her appetites with. Really fit this guy more than she'd care to admit--

"So, how about you use me. Do what you think I like. I'll grade your performance, and decide how fun things were." Does he notice her slender fingers playing their sleight of hand game? Stealing away his belt and letting it skitter across the floor away from the both of them. Fun as a leather strap was, those hands had her a little more eager.