yosafbridge | OOM: Upstairs.

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OOM: Upstairs.

And here she'd thought the night wasn't going to be interesting.

Her room is much of the same as it's always been, though she's taken the time to do a little redecorating. Not only that, but there are a few new additions. Trophies, she likes to call them, or rewards for a job well-done - at least, until she can find someone willing to shell out enough to take it off her hands.

The bottle in her hands - well, she might be willing to give that up for a few.

She nudges the door shut behind them, taking a swig straight from the now-opened bottle before she even hears the sound of it clicking shut.

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His eyes roam about the room (at some point a person gets used to sizing up a room -- or more specifically, how to get out of one -- before doing anything else), although they're quick to return to her. Or rather, her figure.

"Looks like you've set up pretty nice around here," he remarks, steps a little slower than before.

"How's the liquor tastin'?"

Knowing your exits. It's important to figure out, and there's no point in hiding that hers is easily accessable.

"Bar treats me well," she says.

Another sip from the bottle, and then she moves over to him, holding it out to the side.

"Saw that blade downstairs," she murmurs, tilting her head. "That blood yours, or someone else's?"

She has a feeling she already knows the answer to that question.

"Don't know who wouldn't."

He rocks very slightly forward on his feet, tilting his head the other way.

"Let's just say someone's started the walk off this mortal coil."

She laughs, a kind of breathless sound that carries something a little more sinister in it.

Her hand dangles the bottle in front of him.

"No need to ask the reason for it," she assumes. Her mind's putting two-and-two together.

He takes the bottle from her hand, then raising it up to his lips.

"Small family feud," he says, before taking a swallow.

"But I am happy to say I think I've got it settled."

He hisses as the alcohol goes down, offering the bottle back.

"Tastes like Lady Bar ain't up for denyin' you anythin'."

"Like I said, she treats me well."

Upon receiving the bottle, she takes another sip, then lets it dangle from her fingers without any real threat of dropping it.

"And I know how to get what I want."

"Ain't no one arguin' with you there, pretty," he says, leaning very slightly towards her.

"And what is it, exactly, that you want?"

Her lips, full and red, draw together in a soft pout.

"I think you know perfectly well."

He grins, his face now just centimeters from hers.

"Think I just might. Then again --"

(closer and closer and it's taking him a hell of a lot of self-restraint)

"-- I might need a refresher."

Any closer and there won't be any more need for words. Not really.

(this is the part she loves, though, waiting to see just how far she has to nudge before they hit that breaking point)

The alcohol creates a heat, a tingling that spreads to her fingertips and toes, and she draws in a breath.

Before she can exhale, she crushes her mouth against his, hard and hungry.

He's not any gentler; his hands find her waist as he pushes her back against the wall, breathing her in, memorizing each little detail because heaven knows he's never had anything permanent besides his memory (and even that's dubious).

Everything is keen, blurred but clear, and the taste of liquor on her tongue only serves to make him just a tad crazier.

Gentle is overrated, she thinks; her hand barely finds enough time to stick the liquor bottle on a table close by before her arms wind around him, drawing him in, against her and the slow roll of her hips.

She parts her lips only to suck at his lower, then bites, none too gently.

He hisses through his teeth, sliding one of his hands up her back to the crook of her neck, fingers curling in her red hair.

Abruptly, he jerks her head back, eyes finding hers once before his mouth is at her neck - lips, teeth, breath, and tongue passing over her skin.

He yanks her head back by her hair, hand fisting in her curls, and she gasps, swollen lips parting when his mouth trails downward over her neck.

She doesn't want to be handled with kid gloves, and this, this is a breath of fresh air. She can feel the marks rise on her skin, fresh and burning, before he's even finished making them.

His other hand slides around her waist, thumb following the curve of her breast as he moves to undo the rest of the buttons on her shirt, working quickly and none too carefully.

A growl escapes the back of his throat, harsh and a hint desperate. He means nothing if not to make sure he leaves a mark. (Mine.)

Her shirt's already got most of its buttons undone to begin with, and she shrugs out of it in little to no time at all, balling it up in one fist and carelessly tossing it aside.

Her own hands are sliding down, finding the bottom of his shirt to slip underneath, running over his stomach and chest, trailing over scars of old wounds. She whimpers again, a soft sound, and tilts her chin down to fix him with a wild gaze before her mouth claims his again.

It's that kind of whimper he wants to hear drawn from her lips. His hands find her now-bare skin, palms sliding down to just over the waistband of her pants, fingers digging into her skin as he pulls her closer.

"Ain't you a regular wild child?" he manages, words practically breathed out. "Just as fiery as your hair."

"You haven't seen the half of it," she promises, her own hands making quick work of his shirt, and it promptly joins hers on the floor.

Her fingertips dig into his shoulders, enough to let him feel the press of her nails, but not enough to draw blood as she shoves the both of them away from the wall and in the direction of her bed.

"Then I look forward to seein' the rest."

He grimaces, rolling his shoulders back into her hands, twisting her around so it's her back hitting the mattress. His hands are working at the zipper of her pants, lips tracing a hard line down her neck to her collarbone.

You'll get all that, she wants to promise, but the words are torn out of her by a moan that replaces them instead.

Her hips jut up and forward, aiding in the removal of her pants with a small wriggle, and then she kicks a few times to get them down around her ankles and off.

He licks his lips, eyes unabashedly roaming over her figure (and good god, what a figure). It's one moment more before his prison-issue slacks are off and he's back on the bed, one hand planted on the mattress just by her head, the other cupping her jaw as his mouth finds hers again.

She draws him up against her, with arms that wind around him and legs that lash around his waist as she grinds against his thigh.

Her teeth gently close on his lower lip, drawing it out slowly, before she releases it to flick the tip of her tongue against the inside of his upper.

He can't help a groan as she presses against him, lips slowly curving into a grin as she bites his lip. His fingers spider down her waist, hooking in the material of her lingerie and slowly pulling down.

Craning his neck, he nuzzles her jawline, drawing the tip of his tongue slowly along the curve of the bone.

She grins, pleased by his reaction, arching up and tipping her head back as his mouth slides over her jaw, tilting her head to allow him better access.

There's less and less separating them now, and her need for him only grows.

His bottom row of teeth graze her skin between kisses, and he rolls his hips down as he manages to get rid of his boxers. He'd only had a swallow of the alcohol and yet he feels drunk, drunk on her, drunk on the fact that he's slit another man's throat.

And, quite frankly, he can't get enough.

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OOM: Upstairs.

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