Re: Mat & Ren || The Docks
The opaque waters ooze into her instead of closing in around wet gooseflesh, but still the lake squeezes her, raw. It was cold, cold enough to cough because of it, and she does. But she is prideful, pertinacious. She would rather shiver, be colorless, than in those birdbones complain. Besides, she’s been thrown into worse ordeals (hell, for example, as in the) and so naturally, there’s an already rimed core within her no one itinerant thing could yet thaw. As much as she abhors herself for doing this, it makes her giggle, feral and freezing and fervid and oddly, girlish.
Suddenly, she’s curious, “Why would your mother name you Ren?” but then, no, no, she doesn’t care. It’s time to sabotage this scene with her own carelessness, like always. Her face is half obscured by the flashing glisten of the water, hair sprawled out like funeral-white fingers on the surface. She swims closer, looking like some faery creature ripped out of an atavistic waterlore. “Don’t answer that. Look at me. And don’t resist,” she presses their bodies, heartbeat-to-heartbeat, together. At least he’s warmer than this fucking water. Her little fingers crawl into the sop of his hair, interlace at the crown, cold palms shuddering at wet temples.
“It’ll hurt if you do.” and honestly, she doesn’t really want to hurt him. He doesn’t deserve it. There is a simmering up of power, when she begins to attempt her mental slither into his mind, staring right at him like a viper. A process that’s usually not painful, “When you get out of this water you won’t remember any of--”