#s099

The smooth, lowball glass scrapes indelicately along the battered wood of the time-worn bar top, catching Sen's ear before her eyes. It lands just out of reach of her rough-hewn fingers, the dark liquor within it swirls and settles before her fingers decide to reach for it, convinced only by the curious sight of what her gold eyes have beheld: a sinner, right in her midst.

Sen can hardly hold back the rueful grin that curves her lips, and the inevitable savage bite she commits upon herself to bite back the semblance of pleasure to this stranger, this sinner. Ninety-Nine. Fury sinner. AKA: someone not to be fucked with lightly.

Her eye twitched slightly at the thought, even as she couldn't resist a very obvious sweep of her gaze along the sinner's rather delightedly callipygian form. Sen sighs to herself, her fingertips suddenly in want of occupation, and finds herself stroking the rim of the lowball glass with a quiet fury of her own.

The forbidden fruit always got her. A warden's curse?

"Thanks," she said softly, her low voice numinous as sibylline smoke. She shifts upon her barstool, turning herself completely to face the profligate at her side, her attention rapt. "Not used to charity. Or the kindness of strangers. But let me buy the next round and see if we can't make friends."

Most may be inclined to assume a dance is simply performative , every step driven by how one observing may perceive it ; too attentive to any mistake one may make , should it be mocked by any who may see . There is a truth to that — it is undoubtedly tailored when one may face ridicule , but even this speaks volumes for the dancer's desires , their fears .

It is an intimacy she often seeks , one of the easiest ways to slip comfortably into the mind of whoever she may sway with . But , it is always she who makes the first move — regardless of how much of herself she has revealed , few seem to find the confidence to so willfully face her .

No surprise it's more than enough to spark her interest .

' Really ? I'll admit , I'm surprised ... '

Black Swan's gaze is attentive to the hand extended , just as monstrous as claimed . She's little doubt those hands have oft been tainted by a deep crimson , even less doubt that those claws have taken many lives . Despite this , there is no fear — one with such beastly demeanor wouldn't extend a hand so gracefully 'fore beheading a swan .

With a smile twisted by her curiosity , she complies .

' Meow ? Meow meow meow .... nyaa ! ~ '

She does not even think to question why the woman approaches in such a unique way , responding as if it is a secret language the two have shared for decades . Kiana giggles when a breath allows her to pause , swaying her form left & right 'fore a raised hand waves in greeting .

The monster's challenge is met with a too-delighted grin from the warden, who rounds on her, driving her back against the wall with rough-hewn hands upon her hips. Sen's knee slips easily between the part of Ninety-nine's thighs, the jut of her hip pressing hard against the heat between them. Her finger slips just within the leather of Ninety-Nine's belt and hooks her there, tugging just enough to demonstrate the silent immolation of her need.

meme.

Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.

@s-099

Cinereal claws alight upon her hips like the attendance of autarchic birds, placid and patient and demanding nothing but Sarantsatsral's closeness. Ninety-nine cranes her neck with a slightness that might have escaped her notice, if her violet-dark eyes had not been intent upon the significant but delicate part of her pale lips. Not wanting, so much as searching—but Saran wants desperately to grant repletion to their inquest with her own need.

She isn't trapped. She isn't without agency here. But neither is she without guilt. She and Ninety-nine could not have grown up more differently, but somehow she represents everything that Saran fears about herself ... reflected back in immoderate form. As if to demonsrate how a weapon can still be a soft thing. Something deserving. Something free.

When is a monster not a monster? When you love it.

It's too early to call it love. But what it is is novelty and nuance, latitude and liberty, of beauty found in the forge of instruments of fear. Dimensions and aspects that pique Saran's delight with possibility.

Saran brushes the snowy hair from her pale temple, lets her fingertips drift down her cyanotic skin to trace the swell of her cheek, finally daring to find the plush of her lip. Her skin is inexplcably hot to the touch, and Saran has never been so happy to run cold in her life.

To hell with it.

THIS WAS A PERSONALIZED ASK , always accepting .

THE PAUSE IS SO LONG , it's almost disconcerting. if either of them could get upset by darkness and weird things , that is. and emily wasn't even ... emily , she was the shadow form. she couldn't even directly stare at the stranger , black eyes blended in with the black and shadowy form. it almost took her a few minutes to truly register if that was towards her. THE WORD POWERS WAS UNMISTAKEABLE , THOUGH .

... and even if emily was slightly captivated , it wouldn't be quite as smart to show a stranger all her hidden skills so that it could be avoided and countered in a fight. but , as it would stand ... THE GANG MEMBER WASN'T ALONE .

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