anonymous asked: are there any unique sburb game mechanics that can be (rubs hands together) exploited?
Trust is... immortal, a myth long passed into legend. Something so believed it may as well be fact, true like the ocean breeze and dry land. Implicitly correct. Nothing compares to it, the trust she has in him, the Rogue looking to the Prince for security— safety— surety.
Dirk's eyes burn amber-gold as he leans over her prone body, on a bed made of stone. His hair is wild; a miscalculated halo sanctifying his own claim to divinity. Surely there’s a congregation, hidden away in the folds of the universe, that reveres him. Worships him like all impossible things, like stars or clouds or facts. A religion that Roxy knows intrinsically, partakes in without question.
His hand cradles the back of her head, shielding her from the quest rock below. Navy stone, perfectly temperate, kisses the back of her bare calves. But her attention is arrested, preoccupied with the flat of his blade. It slips up her thigh, bringing the hem of her dress with it. Meticulous. Unhurried.
Her exhale goes on forever, never-ending in the moments between seconds, only to stop short when the tip of that blade nears her panties. At this angle, his arm is fully extended, shoulder rolled back. Every muscle is flexed, defined for her admiration. His eyes sear into Roxy’s, focus unbreakable. The cool metal is in stark contrast to heat in her gut.
Dirk is her guidance, sliding the katana just past the waistband of her underwear. Then, downwards, tugging the fabric free until it spreads taut between her ankles. Discarding his sword to the other quest bed, focus now favors her wet thighs. Calloused fingertips push into place, running over flushed skin, teasing her open.
"Do you really think it’s gonna work?" Roxy asks, breathless. Knuckle deep already with two fingers, he’s leaning down to her level. Their foreheads press together, aided by the hand still cupping her skull— treating her like a precious, prized, beautiful thing. Is she sweating?
His voice is rough. He wants her; primordial force, inherent need. "The lexiconal loophole checks out. La petite mort, in theory, is still a form of death." His fingers crook, high and deep, his form of promise. "I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of you. Just trust me," he asks, as if she could ever stop.
