poly_chromatic | (no subject)

Entry tags:

oc - saya wallace

(no subject)

Sand.

And dirt.

And dust.

Honestly didn't we get enough of that in February? You were all very excited to be in the desert again. Last time all I heard was whining.

In the meantime, I have a question.

What's your family like?

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[Saya reaches and takes her hand, and leads her up the stairs]]

Do you want any of the things you bought Blonde returned?

That hardly matters to me.

I don't know what else to do with it.

Lock it up. Burn it. I don't care.

[Hah.]

I wouldn't have gone as far as 'cared.'

[She opens the door to her closet - the one just for shoes. They line the walls, perfectly organized by color.]

Choose a pair.

[It's not going to surprise anyone when she picks something black and boot shaped.]

What do you get out of dressing people up?

It's like art.

[She pauses in lacing and unlacing, feeling ice shoot through her, chest twinging. She gives up the task, looking up at Saya instead.]

It's more tolerable from you.

I don't have any desire to take a picture.

[Saya's watching]

I don't have any desire to make you pose, or posture.

[Her next inhale is an uncomfortable one, tension spreading up her back.]

Being one of his pieces was the only... flattery left, in the end. A piece that belonged to him.

No, no, Carla.

My art is not so kindly. I do not flatter anyone.

And besides, you don't belong to him.

[The implication: you belong to me isn't quite clear. Saya likes to keep everything a little muddled]

[It's on the tip of her tongue to say that Barbet's hadn't been any kinder, but she knows that's not true. His passion had been in making dead things beautiful, a selfless love even if he himself was greedy. She decides not to say it, which leaves her looking lost and confused.]

Would you stop, if I asked?

[She tilts her head]

I don't do non-consensual.

Yes.

[She pinches the skin along her collarbone, has gotten better about containing her impulses in the months she's been here, but it never quite goes away.]

Then I won't.

[The implication is, perhaps, a bit clearer from Carla's end.]

Agreed.

Do you want me to hurt you?

Sometimes.

That isn't a rhetorical someday, Carla.

Do you want me to hurt you now.

[She coughs up a stilted little laugh.]

Yes. [It doesn't take her much thought, even if her voice is quiet.] That's what I want.

[She reaches her hand out]

Give me your arm.

[Her fingers twist in her skin, not immediately able to break the compulsion, but after a moment she offers it out.]

[Saya's fingers are remarkably delicate, and she works her hand up Carla's arm to the bicep.

Her fingernail, harder than a human's and bitingly sharp, scrapes against the skin but doesn't quite make it bleed]

[She's watching, fascinated by the shape of Saya's hands and the dagger of her touch. It can't be the first time she's looked, but this particular scenario is a new one. Comfortable despite unfamiliarity, already Carla's focus has narrowed and dimmed to the prickling in her skin, all the twisted thoughts of Barbet banished, the empty apartment with Blonde's abandoned things pushed out of her head. She doesn't belong to them.

She holds her breath, all her focus in one place, before murmuring,]

Please.

[She digs deeper, and a trace of blood follows Saya's fingernail, just a thin line of it, and then another, as Saya moves her hand. It's a random pattern, nothing specific about it.]