moritat | Victorian weenie au

It gets a twitch out of her, that bite, and she bares the fangs that slid out in reaction. Cause and effect. Bite and get bit.

Might be more effective if she showed them to him and not the floor, but it is Edward Hyde under discussion. See him sexily bite a forehead or hair, anyway!

"You use 'I' and 'him' where it makes something easy for you, I think, you are not the same! If this is for him, then give Harry back!" Paloma says nothing of love. What could she say? She knows nothing of love or what it's like.

"I can't. I don't know how long this will last, perhaps until he cares enough to fight. And that may be a long way away, after all, I exist to do the things he is too afraid to do as himself, to believe he isn't guilty of those acts. I'm here now because he's allowed it." He'll gladly bite anything he can get at, though!! It can be the upper tip of her ear. Or her nose. There are little nips here and there, and always hands upon her body.

Liar, liar, Paloma does not want to believe he'd allowed this cruelty. To take her to bed again, yes, but to let this ... this hound loose?

He'll discover his hands flying out to each of his sides quicker than he can shout 'sorry'. Then, his back hits the carpet with a fair amount of violence. She remembers to cushion his head only because the body belongs to Henry, riding him into the ground with her skirt pooled around them. The creature hunkered over him has tossed aside passivity.

"I am not your doll for toying with."

Hyde's face lights up, letting loose wild, cackling laughter. His hands tear at her skirts, full of the same violence, but with a great passion for it. Clearly he does think she's his doll for toying with, as it all seems to be great fun for him, a game. "You could just say so if you wanted to be on top!"

"Perrito!"

This dress was beautiful before he got to it. Enraged, she first pins his wrists on either side of that maddening insolent grin. No tearing for him. No touching. No gratification. To make matters worse, her ankles dig into the flesh above his knees to pin them, too.

Bringing her pretty little set of fangs very close to his face, incidentally. Paloma's breath must smell faintly of copper. "We will stay like this, if you will not listen!"

"Withholding satisfaction, is it? That has its own excitement to it!" He laughs again, even with the pain. He likes it. She should probably be able to tell easily, from where she's perched... He's a nasty boy.

Downstairs, the servants are gathered together in the kitchen for a last bite to eat before bed. It's a good thing they've been instructed not to worry or come looking if they hear strange noises, ever since Mr. Hyde started staying in the house. He's eccentric and our work is taxing, he'd told them. Otherwise they'd definitely come running about now.

"You ...!!" Disgusting, awful, horrible, wicked man! He'd played her that night, and he plays tonight again? When all she'd wanted was to share a waltz with the other half of him?

Something equally or more wicked stops her dead. Paloma releases his arms and slumps a tiny bit back from her seat, aghast at and questioning herself. What an unforgivable thing it is that she's thinking of. It chills her.

And yet.

"Yes?? Did you think of something?" He grins away, and now that his hands are released, they slide up, under her skirts, across her thighs. "Do tell."

Paloma shudders a little away, and steels herself. Iron in her spine, and in her voice. She ignores the touch on her thigh, flattening a palm against his chest in case this doesn't work.

"You want to help me stand. Gently."

He isn't sure what comes over him. But Hyde is the kind of person who acts on impulse, so he doesn't much bother to think about it. All he knows is he wants to help Paloma up, gently. Therefore that's exactly what he's going to do. His hands come back out from under her skirt, and after he slips his legs from under hers as well and gets to his feet, one is offered up to her. He bends at the waist, offering it like a true gentleman.

In the moment where she examines everything about him, Paloma tries forgiving herself a small amount for being fooled by his act before. He can look like an angel if he tries. One jarring in countenance, but an angel.

When they're both standing upright, him rumpled and her in a torn dress, "You want nothing more than to go on your knees. Unlace my shoe. Take off my stocking-- careful. Kiss my five toes."

He gazes at her a moment, and shortly, is on his knees before her. Even as he carefully takes hold of her foot in both his hands, he looks up, into her eyes. Until her shoe is taken off, and stocking slid down. Then he bends down and does exactly as he's told, places a kiss on each toe individually.

She feels sick, and yet it's not enough. Paloma needs him to understand humiliation.

Jerking her foot out of his hands, she almost trips over the stocking in stepping back, and rights herself with a scowl.

"Perrito. That is your name. Good little dogs roll over for master. And you are a good little dog, nothing else is so important. Do it for me, and say 'woof!' ten times slow."

"Woof!" he gets back down on the floor and rolls over. "Woof!" A pause. "Woof!" More enthusiastic. "Woof!" He looks up at her. "Woof!" Perhaps it's for approval. "Woof!" Is she happy? "Woof!" Is he a good little dog? "Woof!" Yes, he thinks he's a good little dog. "Woof!" But what matters is that master does! "Woof!" He'd be wagging his tail if he had one.

Edited 2016-01-03 11:43 (UTC)

Paloma giggles with a tinge of actual hysteria, feeling even more ill but unable to remain stony-faced when he makes such a good puppy. Disturbing, too, however.

Tasting blood, she holds out the foot still clad in a boot. He's allowed to unlace it most of the way before something else in her pulls taut.

"No. No! Face-- face the fire, you want to sit on your hands close to the fire. Not within, but so close it will start to hurt if you stay. Do you wish for death, perrito?"

Ah, the fire, yes, he likes it, it's very nice, and warm. The Jekyll part of him finds it comforting, the Hyde part likes that it's dangerous and static. He sits right in front of it, the heat makes his eyes dry, and he has to blink repeatedly. And it does start to hurt, particularly on exposed bits of skin, mostly his face. Like being burnt by the sun, only in closer proximity.

With the question, he frowns, sobers as if the thought truly saddens and frightens him. "No, no I don't ever want to die. Not even in old age. I want to live for ever as the man I have always been meant to be." Horrifically truthful.

Ah.

A believer in destiny. She'll remember. For now, the cool imprint of her boot and heel rest against his lower back. The threat of kicking him into the flames seems very close to reality.

"You must beg me for mercy and to let you go. It is your life."

Not so much destiny as having always felt those Hyde things and pushed them back - feeling he has been untrue to himself. Since that's gone on so long, he should at least get to make up for that time, he needs an extra twenty years or so added onto his life. Although he is certainly a believer in destiny all the same - at least, Jekyll is.

He startles, chest tightening as he stares into the flames that seem already to be closer. He can hardly breathe, and it takes a moment to force out speech because of it. His heart pounds frantically, and although he tries to fight it, he's soon in tears with the prospect of dying here and now. "Please - please, I can't, I've hardly lived yet, I just want to exist! I don't want to die - I would do anything for it-- please, please please please, please, please-!" At some point it becomes all he can say, with no end in sight.

One of the most horrible men she's ever met, whether more or less so than the monster who stole her, Paloma cannot say. With a sound not unlike a cry herself, she reels away from him as he weeps, and lets go of his mind.

Paloma turns and rubs her arms as though shivering, pacing back and forth. Bootlaces trail behind. "Enough!"

All at once his breath seems to return to him, in one sharp inhale. He sits back from the flames, trembling still with fear.

But adrenaline also kicks in, and he grins to himself. He faced death and won, even if it was grovelling for mercy. Edward Hyde can be free to exist and be nothing more than himself for ever, as it always should have been since his birth. He turns his head to her, surprised. "What?"

Not facing him, not looking at her handiwork casts more shame over Paloma, adding to the weight of what she's done to him. Whether or not he'd earned the lesson, she ... for satisfaction only, not to eat ...

So her back remains a curved, hunched-over wall between them.

"Enough. You now know to take care with something like me."

....She degraded him. Now he realises. Those weren't his thoughts and desires, but things she made him do. That's punishment all the more to him, having his freewill tampered with. That is supposed to be the one thing he can keep, freewill is everything that he is.

"You--" The realisation fills him with rage, but he feels so exhausted, too much to go after her.

Temper rising again, Paloma whips around in full snarl. "Me! Who is the toy, perrito? You, or me? Tell me! Show me!"

Letting the distance stretch on seems like an admission, she thinks irrationally, and so advances.

Absolutely not him. He isn't anyone's toy, he isn't something to mess with and he won't stand for it. He won't be looked down upon, especially. That is the worst offense anyone could make against him. So despite that exhaustion, he jumps to his feet, fingers already threatening to tear anything they come in contact with. Whether it's fabric or skin. As soon as he's close enough, he grabs hold of her throat, squeezing with all his might, though he knows she doesn't breathe. It's just something to take aggression out on.

For her part, Paloma grapples with the absurd conflict of wanting to do grievous harm and knowing she cannot, under any circumstances, even against Edward. She hisses, a truly infuriated and oversized cat with too much strength in her hands.

Rrrrrrrip! Damn him and damn the collar, she's tearing it off her neck and shoulders to make a go of stuffing into his filthy mouth.

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