For Dollface
From here.
Room 402 is done up in black and purple, luxurious but tasteful (the latter because Chainsaw didn't decorate it himself).
There is a big bed ( Read more... )
Room 402 is done up in black and purple, luxurious but tasteful (the latter because Chainsaw didn't decorate it himself).
There is a big bed ( Read more... )
The carpet is a bit of a surprise, at least until she spots the tile under the other doors.
She never presents her back entirely to Chainsaw.
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He steps up beside her and slides an arm around her waist.
"You wanna tell me how you got that name?"
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She leans back against him.
"Mostly it was 'sweetheart,' but there's somebody else called that Downside. So it's Dollface."
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He'll think about that one later.
In the meantime...
"What," he asks softly, cupping her jaw in one hand with his lips brushing her other cheek, "do you think I'm gonna do to you?"
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It is so very, very hard to think.
"--you're gonna show me why you're the best. You're gonna take me apart in ways I won't forget; I probably won't be able to sleep for a week after this. You'll damage me as much as you can without making me torch--torching's gonna be a fucking reward, and I...I'm gonna have to beg for it."
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He kisses her cheek, drops his hand from her face, and pushes her towards the door on the right.
Contentedly: "I'm gonna fuck you up, and then I'm gonna fuck you, and who knows? You might even like the second part."
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"Boys thought I was crazy, too."
She's exhilarated and terrified. This is like an art student sitting at the feet of a master.
If, y'know, the canvas is her body and instead of paint and brushes, we're talking blades and power tools.
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At least this room is at best a stunted version of his dungeon back home.
Tile floor with a drain in the middle, tile walls with a sink and counter along one; it could've been a kitchen or lab once, before Chainsaw got to it.
Now the walls are hung with scuffed black cases and various configurations of sharpened steel, and the centre of the room-- right over the drain-- holds a shining metal table.
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(Hers doesn't have any cases--all blades--and on the far facing wall, rows and rows of things that only look like dried strips of leather nailed to the wall.)
She stumbles a little when her feet hit the tile; her eyes are fixed on the table.
It's been a long time since she's been on one of those.
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His hands find her hips and his mouth finds the back of her neck and
"Take off your clothes."
he whispers, between nibbles to the sensitive skin above her spine.
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(There's blood on them already, if you look.)
She undoes the button and fly on her pants and pushes them down to pool around her ankles. After stepping carefully out of them, she kicks them aside.
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She is very, very pretty.
And very, very crazy.
(Remind him of anyone? A little.)
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The tank top gets flung aside to land on her pants.
Followed by her sports bra.
Panties last.
Her breathing sounds terribly loud to her own ears.
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"Gorgeous. You just need to be bleeding more."
The hand withdraws.
"Lie down on the table, face up, and close your eyes."
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She's certain he'll rectify that shortly.
She closes the distance between her and the table, taking a seat on the edge before swinging her legs up and lying down fully. Palms pressed flat against the metal, she closes her eyes.
She tries to keep her breathing even, but she can't help feeling more than a little like a human sacrifice.
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Dollface, huh. Well, he'll see about that.
The pressure lightens, then vanishes. He steps away. There is a brief silence.
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