Lightning strikes overhead, bringing a snarl to the previously chestnut woman (her own unique signal for another entering the afterlife). Those velveteen lips, however, have taken on the silvery sheen that everyone here seems to find irritatingly fashionable. Tea-cup ears pressing into her skull, Peccatrice Dea snaps her teeth angrily at the empty, domed sky; the lightning is only a nightmare, there is no weather here.
Whip-like tail snapping around her voluptuous hips, the ferociously small woman shakes off the terrors of her beforelife (her fancy, cynical word to contrast the ‘afterlife’). Ignoring the slight flutter of her heart which always comes when her death scene plays in her head (though for a very unusual reason), the once-queen pushes herself to a canter, though in this land, the movement floats and sways. After decades here, however, Peccatrice Dea has grown accustomed to its strange ways.
Aiming for the usual entrance-place of the freshly dead (hah), the silver-fire woman downplays the increasing flutters of her heart. She denies passionately that it is one of fear, though she also refuses to take hope. Decades, it has been decades, and still wife nor daughter has shown their faces. And for this she is glad! She is so glad…
…Well, Kotaro’s immortality is a bit of a piss off to be honest. BUT! She is doubtlessly glad that Trissy hasn’t shown up yet. Not that she exactly loves the idea of having never met her daughter, but Peccatrice Dea begrudges her midnight daughter the chance to have a life.
Surging with little effort through the crowd who has gathered around the Spot, as she calls it, the vixen stands on her tip toes to get a better view of the new arrival. Huffing in disdain, she politely bites two large males out of her way until, at last, she comes to the very front row.
Kotaro!
Onyx eyes nearly bulging out of her Arabic skull, Peccatrice Dea bolts forwards as fast as this land allows. One moment their eyes are connected by titanium, and the next, the two petite women are ensnared, or rather, the chestnut has swallowed the bay in her tightest, most sensual, exuberant, nearly-peeing-herself hug.
And then, she’s crying…
And laughing.
“Fuck, are you really here, aren’t you?”
peccatrice dea
baby i'm your slave