Closed;

[population_ctrl]

[ Characters ] Mireille Duroc (unreadability) and Jean Louis Duroc (population_ctrl).
[ Location ] Their house in Childreams.
[ Date/Time ] 18.04, morning.
[ Warning ] Mentions of gore and violence.
[ Content ] What is this, really, if not the morning after?

Comments

[unreadability]

His hand on her shoulder… Mireille’s instinctual reaction is to shy away, but she has no energy for it, not physically and not mentally either, so she simply allows the touch. Her eyes stay firmly shut, the darkness on the backside of her eyelids soft and brown. She couldn’t sleep even if she wanted to, and at this point, she isn’t sure she does. In the state she is in now, who knows what she would be dreaming of?

Then he speaks, and everything in her stops. His voice is hard, and all she can see in her mind is the ceiling above her rocking in time with his thrusts. Her entire body tenses up, the pain from her aching abdominal muscles raking through her and making her lips tremble. Slightly. Though visibly. She knows.

He is going to bore another hole in her. It’s the only conclusion she can draw, slowly rolling onto her back, wincing at the stinging pain in the skin stretching over her spine. He is going to destroy even more of the nothingness in her, claiming it to be his as he conquers her, bit by bit. It’s how it has to be, she tries to tell herself, opening her eyes to look up, but not at him. No, she avoids meeting his eyes. Simply parting her thighs, preparing for what will come.

Her own emptiness is incurable, but if he makes it his, perhaps he will make use of it. Somehow.

[population_ctrl]

She rolls over and parts her legs and he pulls his hand away, every nerve in his body flaring with ice, his eyes widening despite himself. For a moment, a surge of nausea threatens to double him over and he has to fight not to take a step back, another and another, and leave her to this, to whatever is left inside of her. Scenes are flashing through his mind with increasing speed, thoughts stumbling over each other. No clarity. He still doesn't remember everything that happened.

But he can look at her and imagine. Easily.

"Don't do that." It's a command, his voice sharpening with the emotions threatening to make him completely useless again. The undertone of disgust is impossible to miss, though who exactly it's directed at, he can't tell. Forcing his hands back on her shoulders, not even trying to meet her detached gaze, his fingers tighten in the fabric of her dress. She looks like an extension of her bloody clothes, and he thinks that to get his fingerprints at least somewhat off her, he'll need to get her washed and changed. He's not sure what more he hopes to achieve by it - but for the sake of his own focus, at least...

His gaze runs over her dress. Buttons. In the back.

"Sit up." If you can, he wants to add, but he doesn't. It's her problem. And if she can't, he'll make her. He almost doesn't have the energy to even consider making her do anything at all - but he has to. He has to force the both of them onwards now. While Wonderland helped her cut her strings, he's burned her joints to charcoal and that part of it, at least, is his responsibility.