Re: (After)life: Nel L & Lear L
Nel hadn't truly let go in a very long time. The last time had resulted in an entire village of dead women, and that was hardly the type of thing that went unnoticed. It had been delicious, and she remembered that entire week fondly, but it wasn't anything she intended to do again. Not to be vain, but she couldn't imagine any mortal that could handle her at her best, so she took what interested her in small quantities. That wasn't to say she didn't thoroughly enjoy what she took, because she did, but she didn't throw open the floodgates, as it were. Her brother, she suspected, operated with the floodgates perpetually open wide. She liked that about him, even if she chose another path for herself.
She hadn't been lonely, but she'd never been able to replicate the sheer trust she had in her siblings. She'd sought it in women's pussies and men's assholes—in her earlier years, she hadn't been opposed to donning a strap-on for a boy that was pretty enough—but she'd never found anything like it, at least not yet. "No one's kept yours, dearest, because you go to bed with anything available to you. The interesting ones don't capitulate quiet that easily," she informed him. Her cigarillo sent a tendril of sweet smoke from the corner of her mouth. "One or two have kept my attention along the way. There was a delightful priestess in Louisiana once, and there was a virgin in London," she admitted, smiling a small smile that boasted secrets. "I haven't found anyone worth keeping here. If you meet anyone you don't have the patience to wait for, send them my way."
He sat up, and the finger twined in blond did tug, but it was a brief—if sharp—pain. She switched to dragging her nails over his scalp in an informal and propriety type of caress that was reserved for sharers of the same womb. "I'm reformed," she told him, though it was stated with a soft ease that belied the validity of the statement. She was reformed, but it was a skin-deep type of reformation. In the marrow, she was who she had always been, even if she refused to become who she was meant to be. "I can be positively parochial. You, dearest," she said, sliding her fingers down along his cheek and then gripping his chin briefly, before removing her touch to ash her cigarillo on the coffetable, "you could never do unnoticed. You should sit for me."