[ It's no lie that there is something there, and Aranea hates every ounce of it. That thing with Prompto was supposed to be a one-off type of deal, one she was in complete control of... But Aranea is quickly beginning to realize that it's become anything but that. This train is rapidly going off the rails, and try as she might to stay the course, some strange, dark impulse keeps her coming back for more. The Commodore can't blame it on loneliness, nor can she blame it on pure horniness; she could secure a dick to ride faster than the speed of light, so it certainly wasn't for want of general companionship.
When he yelps, she scoffs, bearing her weight down onto his belly as the hand at his throat remains put. She thinks he looks ugly like this, underneath her in the distant half-light of the resort filtering in through the windshield of the Regalia, his hands splayed uselessly upon the flat of his chest. At his half-smile, Aranea scowls, looking offended. ]
You're not really in any position to lie to me, [ She snarls, feeling the anxious noises he makes rumbling through his throat. This position is indeed familiar, and something in her abdomen warms and clenches at the realization, the memory still fresh in spite of being weeks old by now. When he speaks again, Aranea leans downwards to level with his face, her breath gusting hot against his lips as she practically spits acid at him. ]
You wish you'd been in my ass. You seem particularly fixated on that tonight, though, don't you? [ Her voice lowers dangerously, almost sing-songy in its mocking. Loath as she is to admit it, she's getting off on this like she had the first time, her free hand sliding behind her to smooth along the front of his pants. Aranea can practically feel herself teetering precariously on those proverbial rails again, but a louder, more commanding urge tells her that this is exactly what she wants to happen. ] Do you get off on flirting with death, blondie? Is that a thing for you?
no subject
[ It's no lie that there is something there, and Aranea hates every ounce of it. That thing with Prompto was supposed to be a one-off type of deal, one she was in complete control of... But Aranea is quickly beginning to realize that it's become anything but that. This train is rapidly going off the rails, and try as she might to stay the course, some strange, dark impulse keeps her coming back for more. The Commodore can't blame it on loneliness, nor can she blame it on pure horniness; she could secure a dick to ride faster than the speed of light, so it certainly wasn't for want of general companionship.
When he yelps, she scoffs, bearing her weight down onto his belly as the hand at his throat remains put. She thinks he looks ugly like this, underneath her in the distant half-light of the resort filtering in through the windshield of the Regalia, his hands splayed uselessly upon the flat of his chest. At his half-smile, Aranea scowls, looking offended. ]
You're not really in any position to lie to me, [ She snarls, feeling the anxious noises he makes rumbling through his throat. This position is indeed familiar, and something in her abdomen warms and clenches at the realization, the memory still fresh in spite of being weeks old by now. When he speaks again, Aranea leans downwards to level with his face, her breath gusting hot against his lips as she practically spits acid at him. ]
You wish you'd been in my ass. You seem particularly fixated on that tonight, though, don't you? [ Her voice lowers dangerously, almost sing-songy in its mocking. Loath as she is to admit it, she's getting off on this like she had the first time, her free hand sliding behind her to smooth along the front of his pants. Aranea can practically feel herself teetering precariously on those proverbial rails again, but a louder, more commanding urge tells her that this is exactly what she wants to happen. ] Do you get off on flirting with death, blondie? Is that a thing for you?