Loneliness is, if nothing else, a resilient trial. But those thoughts fade from their usual house at the edges of her conscious, replaced by more interesting things.
Like tracing along his tattoos, careful to turn the sharpened tips of nails away in the motions. She'll ask about meanings later, she thinks, when they come together to chat more. Right now, as her weight shifts back against the crates, Lilja gives a contented sigh as lips press to her stockings. The skin isn't precisely as solid as one might expect from the porcelain look of each crack, but neither does it properly squish beneath the top of the stockings...
And as his fingers move, he'll find much the same. The changes to her flesh seem to be some Amalgam of rubber and who knew what, sturdy but with enough flexibility to give a little of you pressed hard enough. The joints, though?
Those are a little different. Those are much more solid, round balls smoothed over effortlessly; she gives a curious twitch as the sensation of nails between the ball and the grooves of her leg, but no more. It doesn't... hurt, exactly. Sort of like the pressure of a limb wanting to be stretched after it's gotten too tight, twitching involuntarily when nails touch the tightly threaded, flexible cord holding the pieces all together.
What does it feel like to be this way? Surreal, she would say, but not unpleasant. Kind of funny, honestly, as a person who can admit to liking it when she molds herself to another's whims and expectations. She doesn't speak in the moment, earnestly curious as to his intent there, her eyes still carrying that sense of awareness and personality.
no subject
Like tracing along his tattoos, careful to turn the sharpened tips of nails away in the motions. She'll ask about meanings later, she thinks, when they come together to chat more. Right now, as her weight shifts back against the crates, Lilja gives a contented sigh as lips press to her stockings. The skin isn't precisely as solid as one might expect from the porcelain look of each crack, but neither does it properly squish beneath the top of the stockings...
And as his fingers move, he'll find much the same. The changes to her flesh seem to be some Amalgam of rubber and who knew what, sturdy but with enough flexibility to give a little of you pressed hard enough. The joints, though?
Those are a little different. Those are much more solid, round balls smoothed over effortlessly; she gives a curious twitch as the sensation of nails between the ball and the grooves of her leg, but no more. It doesn't... hurt, exactly. Sort of like the pressure of a limb wanting to be stretched after it's gotten too tight, twitching involuntarily when nails touch the tightly threaded, flexible cord holding the pieces all together.
What does it feel like to be this way? Surreal, she would say, but not unpleasant. Kind of funny, honestly, as a person who can admit to liking it when she molds herself to another's whims and expectations. She doesn't speak in the moment, earnestly curious as to his intent there, her eyes still carrying that sense of awareness and personality.