"I think this makes you look alive," Binah whispers. Her hand snakes behind Angela's neck, lifting her head and chest back.
"I thought you preferred to watch people die." Angela breathes. Her other hand slides under her jacket. It's warm.
She can feel the rumble of Binah's laugh through her chest. "You don't die," She responds simply. Binah nudges the jacket off of Angela's shoulders and hooks her fingers under her collar, loosening the brooch holding her tie in place.
In the back of her mind, Angela hears the sound of her machinery spinning. It's too quiet for others to notice, but when Binah presses her lips against a spot under her collar, it feels deafening all of a sudden. This must be what it's like to have a pounding heart, Angela thinks, taking off her jacket properly. Considering Binah is on top of her, it would be a more awkward maneuver if she didn't have the ability to delete matter at will in this place.
Binah notices. "You always make it so difficult unless it's convenient for you," She says, against her neck. Despite her words, she doesn't seem too bothered taking off Angela's tie manually. Her shirt opens just enough for one of Binah's hands to slide in, feeling Angela's porcelain synthetic skin just below her collarbones. Maybe she's looking for a pulse, interested to see what it's like not to have one. Binah's motives have always been something of a mystery to her. Why would she indulge Angela in something as completely frivolous as this?
Instead of answering, Angela grabs the back of Binah's coat and pulls her down into a kiss. Binah opens her mouth obediently. Angela can't taste anything, but it doesn't stop her from running her tongue across the roof of Binah's mouth. Her hand threads through Binah's hair, pulling her closer. It feels good. She wants to feel more, and be felt.
In that accursed Lobotomy Corporation, she could never take time for something so... extraneous. Never mind that she was the only person with both skin and proper intelligence. If that bastard A could see her now, debasing herself with the former Arbiter he caged, would he be disgusted? Disappointed?
Binah tilts her head away, breathing heavily. Her face is pink. Oh, that's right, Angela thinks. She's only human, after all. Even a former Arbiter needs oxygen.
With a short laugh at the thought, Angela takes the opportunity to slide Binah's own jacket off, where it was already draped loosely over her shoulders. It hits the ground with a heavy sound, no doubt from the feathered mane attached to it.
"You're rather impatient," Binah says. "But I don't mind. You are durable, after all." Her smile invokes a sort of latent madness. It doesn't scare Angela—quite frankly nothing, except perhaps the idea of returning to that damned play, does—but it does give her pause. It doesn't take her superior intellect to know Binah is beyond dangerous, quite unstable after ten thousand years of Well-gazing, and utterly devoid of morality. Continuing to do this is an awful idea, says her programming and all common sense.
But common sense doesn't apply here, and that programming is also what made her suffer for one million years. Angela grabs onto Binah's hair and pulls her back in. She sinks her teeth into her lip, relishing in the tiny noise of surprise that leaves her. Her hands rest on Binah's hips, keeping her close. They wander the shape of her form on their own.
"You want to see?" Binah asks, when they break apart for air. She takes the zipper of her own dress, smiles, and then pulls it down to her navel. It's simultaneously too fast and too slow for Angela's stuttering processes.
Binah's underclothes are a dark aristocratic lace, slightly transparent. Her body is lithely toned and faintly scarred under the dress, littered with the residual marks of augmentation procedures. She once explained that the Head had been willing to fund quite a few, but they always preferred function over appearance, especially when it came to places that get covered by clothes. The Library rebuilt the appearance of Garion very faithfully from the cognition of Binah herself, although a large portion of the strength imparted by the procedures was lost.
Angela, on the other hand, was smooth and narrow in every way: the very picture of a life-size antique doll. No hard edges, only immaculate skin with a little give when pressed. The perfection she was all too aware of whenever a guest saw her.
"Bite me," Angela says.
Binah smiles wider, moving to Angela's neck. "Of course. I must warn you, I bite quite hard."
Good, Angela thinks, and then Binah sinks her teeth into her neck as if she means to take a piece out of it. Angela fails to stifle a sharp "Ah!"—Not from pain, because she has few receptors for that, but because the sensation is overwhelming. She nearly breaks the skin, which is no mean feat; If she'd done this on another human, they would be bleeding rather profusely right now.
Her body trembles as Binah licks the indentations. "Durable indeed," She comments, evidently pleased. Again she bites down on a different spot and Angela's whole body jerks involuntarily, her mouth falling open. "You like it rough?" Binah asks, rhetorically. A sudden eagerness seeps from her. "My version of 'rough'... Hmm, let's say historical data suggests people don't tend to handle it well."
"Do it," Angela whispers.
Immediately, Binah grips Angela's breast, hard, pushing her against the floor. Her other hand takes Angela's wrists, slamming them above her head. Her grasp is strong enough to fracture organic bone, but of course if Angela exercised a little of the Library's power she could escape easily. "You are right that it would be very difficult for even I to tear you limb from limb," Binah says, not bothering to hide her elation. It's hard to tell if she's exaggerating, but from the flesh-gouging bite she's trying to take out of her jawline, she's inclined to believe she could in fact kill a human with this method. It gives Binah a dangerous rush that Angela's not sure she would be encouraging if she wasn't very preoccupied.
She undoes the buttons on Angela's vest and shirt carefully—she's a forceful person, but one with class—opening her underclothes to the air. Although fabric hides her form somewhat, she's fully aware of her features; Her chest size is large, no doubt a perversion of her creator, only emphasized with her arms held over her head.
"White? You always seemed more like a black underwear kind of person to me." Binah wastes no time unhooking her bra with her one free hand, pushing it aside but not bothering to take the whole thing off. She palms the side of her breast, then pinches the pink nub between her fingers. Angela makes a sound like a whimper, not expecting it to be so sensitive.
Relentless, Binah takes the other into her mouth and licks, raking teeth. She tries to arch her back into it but she gets pushed down, with a teasing laugh.
"Be a little patient, hmm?"
Angela flexes her fingers. How she wishes she could put them into Binah's mouth and shut her up. She could break free, but Binah is someone who is better controlled (well, it doesn't seem like the right word, but she's a little distracted by the mental image she had just conjured to bring up a mental thesaurus) if you let her have something. Sometimes that's tea, and sometimes that's making an exception to overlook a little flirting. Still, she shouldn't push her luck. "Binah, need I rem—"
Binah shoves her knee under Angela's skirt before she finishes talking. "Yes, of course, Miss Library Director. I promise I'll finish you. More than once, if you wish," Binah answers, smooth and insufferably smug, the one thing she disliked about her, other than her habit of long winding metaphors. "I'll do it now, if you're so impatient."
Angela raises an eyebrow, a little displeased that she cut her off. She forgets it quickly, though, as Binah grinds her knee deeper between her legs and twists with her fingers. Suddenly her passive cooling isn't enough, and she starts to pant as Binah sinks her teeth into the surface of her chest. She didn't notice before because they were on her neck, but it leaves a pink row of marks behind. It's not shocking considering the unnecessary amount of force, and she could erase them with a snap of her fingers, but it is surprising in that Angela's never seen something like these on herself before. The thought gives her an odd feeling in her chest, separate from the needy weight pulling at the pit of her abdomen.
Binah abruptly removes herself, sliding her knee out. There's a large conspicuous stain on her leggings. Angela has a question (or more honestly, a plea) on her lips that morphs into a startled noise as Binah grabs her thigh and spreads her. She sees her hand shift and hike up her skirt, feeling her brush over the dip of her pelvis. "You seem excited by this," Binah comments innocently, as if all she's doing is inviting her to a date.
Baring her teeth, Binah pulls her tights and underwear down together. In a single rough motion she enters her with two fingers, as deep as they can go. Angela cries out sharply, high-pitched, feeling a wave of sensations crash over her. Her body shakes, her mind short-circuiting.
"Good," Binah whispers against her ear. "I won't waste any time. You're a very busy director."
She slips out, and then with enough force to make Angela's knees jerk, she thrusts back in with three. Her processes are too flooded to do anything but squeeze out a "A-Ah!" every time Binah's fingers pound into her. Her receptors tell her in the back of her mind that this should hurt a little, but it doesn't, or at least it's drowned out so far that she can't register it anymore. Her body twists and shakes on its own, her hands clenching tightly in their restraints. She can hear the friction of her own gloves, which she faintly realizes she didn't think to take off.
All she can see is Binah's mildly flushed face. Her eyes are darker than ever, and Angela feels her breath against her skin. It can't be exertion. An Arbiter would never tire so easily.
As if sensing her attention shifting, Binah's fingers curl inside her and Angela lets out something bordering on a scream. Her thumb digs into—something, Angela can't recall, because everything is so overwhelming, so...
"It feels good, doesn't it?"
Binah can feel the thump of her heart, the rush of blood. She can almost hear the restless buzz in her system: resurfacing desires she'd thought long buried, surging to the surface.
Angela looks thoroughly disheveled, partially undressed and gasping in her grasp. She can't answer any teasing questions, but all that matters is that she hears them, anyway. Her expression is tight, her breaths hot and quick, remarkably human. Marks litter her previously immaculate neck. Binah didn't bother with hickeys—As soon as she'd bit into her shoulder the first time, it was clear nothing short of a vice would get through. Biting a bit too hard is a bad habit of hers, but it seems there was some use after all... seeing as her teeth had to press much harder than that to leave even a semblance of a mark. Practically industrial durability; As hard as she's already thrusting into her, Angela's hips lift up in sync to pull her deeper.
It's been so long since Binah was allowed to truly cut loose, and even longer since she's found someone who doesn't easily break under the pressure. Based on the sounds, it seems to be the same for Angela. Maybe even her first time, considering her creation at Lobotomy Corporation. As much as Binah would have enjoyed playing with Angela like this, back then there was little she could do as a mere tin box. Not to mention she had duties to fulfill and whispers to listen to, and that Angela avoided the Atziluth layer like the plague. But if she'd known she could see this (and if she had been able to), she'd have offered to "unwind" the Manager's faithful assistant much sooner. Perhaps they'd both be more sane?
She runs her tongue across Angela's neck. Feverishly hot, but dry, without sweat. It's a compelling contrast to her dripping folds and steaming face. She wouldn't mind learning more.
Angela throws back her head, twisting helplessly against her grip. She's close, then. Whether it was the Library or Ayin, her designer was thorough. Anatomically accurate to the last detail, coming undone with just a little friction.
Binah wants to see it.
Desperately, the moment it happens.
Her fingers curl inside and Angela's body goes stiff and rigid, tightening around them. Without Angela's cute squeaks and moans the wet noise is obscenely loud. Her fluttering, pleading eyes are beautifully clouded over as she shudders and trembles.
Every second, Binah watches closely, committing every stuttering breath to memory. Her blood burns and sparks, that euphoric ever-elusive feeling like no other. It's better than she remembers, this taste of white-hot intensity. This truly must be what it means to live. She suppresses a sound in her throat.
When Angela finally falls to the ground, chest heaving and muscles weak, Binah lets go of her wrists and removes her hand. It's covered in some kind of artificial lubricant. After a brief (languid) check, it tastes like nothing but has a slightly sweet scent. She'll keep that in mind for the future.
Angela looks up at her with wide pupils. She extends her arms, raising them just slightly. It's not her style, but Binah's willing to indulge her, especially after putting on such a good show. She scoops up Angela's limp body and hugs her to her chest.
Her body is warm, comfortable. Angela hums, then buries her face in Binah's shoulder, inhaling deeply. Angela herself has a saccharine but difficult-to-place scent, like a chemical perfume with a conceptual title. In the afterglow it feels oddly tender, intimate in a way that seems both entirely appropriate and entirely inappropriate for their companionship. (She had called it a relationship of usefulness, because she thought Binah wasn't the type to keep strings attached. Despite that, she's exceptionally eager to entangle herself more with every visit. It's far from a problem, in Binah's honest opinion.)
"Thank you," Angela says, quietly, cutting through her thoughts.
"My pleasure," Binah responds with a smile.
"Oh, you're back! About this book, do you think it's more Literature or Art—Uhh?" Roland starts, then stops. His eyebrows raise practically into his hairline.
"What?" Angela asks.
"Y... You, uh... That was the Floor of Philosophy you were visiting, right?" He says it tentatively, like he doesn't want to offend. His eyes are pointed near her face, but not directly at it.
"Yes, it was. What are you stammering about?"
Roland coughs and averts his eyes. "...You should consider adding a scarf to your outfit."