The only things left in the whole cold, miserable universe that Mercy had left to fear (before she had nothing left to fear at all) are intimately known to her. She does not flinch from the pathetic little man whose low cunning has won him the briefest of false victories; she welcomes his idiot attempt to grapple with her, dredging up a comprehensive library of unpleasantness she has yet to inflict, and so once again, in the span of less than a minute, she is surprised.
He kisses her.
Her body locks up like a frozen tablet, nothing but a glaze of white-hot noise behind her snapped open eyes as he invites his probing tongue into the slack shock of her half-parted lips.
Blood and saliva, the most commonly used paints in a flesh magician's palette, and even in the wilderness of her staggered fury she remains perfectly adept at isolating and incinerating the foreign invaders in a flash of color-draining affront. This little man, who will be much littler when she is done with him, has chosen another absolutely juvenile trick, which is nearly as offensive as the daring to lay hands upon the inviolate temple that is a Saint's own hallowed flesh.
"How dare you," she says, dreamily anticipatory, in a voice that tenderly promises such great and terrible violence that even God Himself might blush at it, "How dare-"
The white-hot noise shades pinkish, then pink. Her already hugely open eyes strain to open wider, flooding with new shock, and she looks at Waver as if seeing his face for the first time, and truly marking it. Her eyelashes flutter frantically as she claws her fingers into the sand and straightens her back like one shot clean through the body, and she takes a huge, gasping breath - and slumps, bonelessly, back onto the sand. There she sprawls, insensate and diminished, under the effects of something most unsettling: something new.
(The trees blow in the wind. Pinkish strands of strange flowers brush across her cheeks. There is someone sitting beside her that she knows, if she only opens her eyes.)
cw: hypnosis, unwanted kissing
He kisses her.
Her body locks up like a frozen tablet, nothing but a glaze of white-hot noise behind her snapped open eyes as he invites his probing tongue into the slack shock of her half-parted lips.
Blood and saliva, the most commonly used paints in a flesh magician's palette, and even in the wilderness of her staggered fury she remains perfectly adept at isolating and incinerating the foreign invaders in a flash of color-draining affront. This little man, who will be much littler when she is done with him, has chosen another absolutely juvenile trick, which is nearly as offensive as the daring to lay hands upon the inviolate temple that is a Saint's own hallowed flesh.
"How dare you," she says, dreamily anticipatory, in a voice that tenderly promises such great and terrible violence that even God Himself might blush at it, "How dare-"
The white-hot noise shades pinkish, then pink. Her already hugely open eyes strain to open wider, flooding with new shock, and she looks at Waver as if seeing his face for the first time, and truly marking it. Her eyelashes flutter frantically as she claws her fingers into the sand and straightens her back like one shot clean through the body, and she takes a huge, gasping breath - and slumps, bonelessly, back onto the sand. There she sprawls, insensate and diminished, under the effects of something most unsettling: something new.
(The trees blow in the wind. Pinkish strands of strange flowers brush across her cheeks. There is someone sitting beside her that she knows, if she only opens her eyes.)