[ OPEN ] Hot Springs Episode!

[shri]

CHARACTERS: EVERYONE
WHERE: The Second Flight
WHEN: DAY :022
SUMMARY: The Sauna!
WARNINGS: Nekkid times.

[ A few hours after the murder, she hasn't blown the ship up, and here they are. Another knock knock on everyone's brain: ]

( For those of you that are interested - I have secured us a place at the Sauna. Free for us to be use without interruption from outsiders.

You are to be clean before you come in. )

[ Maybe you're here because she bullied you, maybe you want to soak - maybe you're the poor bastard that is standing guard at the door. Either way, welcome to the Suana, have fun. Or don't. ]

Comments

[miscreant]

Seviilia is busy analyzing Shepard’s suspicious lack of scarring when she poses her question, so much so that her response is somewhat delayed. It wasn’t that she had nevessarily forgotten that Shepard had supposedly be reengineered, but it was another thing to see it on display.

“I suppose that is a word for it,” Seviilia offers with a slight pout of her lip, failing to duck the water with a half-hearted attempt. “I begin to feel...soft. It is unpleasant.”

And yet, she couldn’t help but chase the sensation of being warm. Was that normal? She doesn’t voice the question out liud, but she is clearly measuring Shepard for her reaction to the information.

[earthborn]

"What, like... elf soup?" The suggestion is not less disgusting in Shepard's opinion than the idea of Sev absorbing water like a bloating corpse, but if she let the gross-out factor stop her from making corpse jokes, Shepard wouldn't be Shepard, now would she?

She accompanies it with a rippling shrug that hides nothing of her assets, such as they are. There are only a few possible reactions to being ogled, and Shepard, as ever, chooses the bolder. She has nothing to be ashamed of.

"See something you like, Sev?"

[miscreant]

“Perhaps. I do not intend to find out,” she replies, wrinkling her nose thoughtfully. She really doesn't want to think about the prospect of elf soup, much less the idea of her turning into it, so she focuses on the easier subject: Shepard’s body.

“Oh I could name a few things,” she quips back with a spreading smirk. She leans in, adjusting her chosen seat so she is turned inward, chest and arm rested within inches of Shepard’s hand on the pool’s edge. Its an inviting gesture, perhaps a bit invasive. They’d been sharing a tent for the better half of the mission, after all.

“And I suppose I should also thank you for being so willing to share them with me.”

[earthborn]

"Likewise, I'm sure," Shepard laughs. Sharing, that's Seviilia's strong suit. Obviously, "So, why don't you?"

Flirting is a subtle and thoughtful art, which has long been exemplified in poem and song. It has existed in the delicate language of scents, of flower arrangements, and artfully timed party invitations. There are layers of codified behavior surrounding flirting which cover a depth and breadth significant enough to specify the precise number of minutes to wait between text communications, and the meaning behind each violation of that rule.

"...name a few, I mean."

And then there's Shepard, gleeful bull in the proverbial china-shop. She does not care about convention: only results matter.

[miscreant]

“Well...you have a nice chest.”

Shepard’s words are an invitation as far as she is concerned, so Seviilia slips a bit further into the water to rest her head on the other woman’s arm. Her own hand drifts to press her fingers against Shepard’s toned and exposed muscles of her abdomen, one nail curiously turning to trace beneath the curve of the nearest breast. She hadn’t forgotten the last time she had gotten rough with her without prior consent.

This time, she intends to be just a little more careful, even if her intent is clearly read by the link between their minds. Her nail should be her tongue, and her teeth—

“You have stronger hands, arms, and legs than most humans I am familiar with — and even some elves. I desire to see you use them, in no specific order.”

[earthborn]

Shepard is a woman who has experienced, as so many do, the precise and mellifluous discomfort which arises from having one's personal sovereignty breached, without permission. This is not that sensation, though the source is familiar to the risk at hand-- in hand, rather. Seviilia's hand, to be precise.

In short, she allows the tease to continue.

Head tilted back slightly in the steam, lids hooded, Shepard is aware of both the danger and the exposure, but uncaring for the moment, of either consequence. The key to a good poker face, as with a good lie, is the same: don't lie. Let what you wish to project, instead become your truth, however temporarily. What? She's an adult. She can hold two thoughts in her head at the same time.

"Oh, you would, huh?" The grin sneaks in sideways and leers, eager as a bad joke or a good pun, "Is that the secret world of Seviilia Brightwing, she likes being held down and made to take it?"