On irritable impulse because I STILL CAN'T SOLVE THIS MATH PROB ARIGH so might as well post this.
DAMN YOU, PROBABILITY!

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Not that it happens, but fucking V would've come naturally.

Sex and violence. Blood and roses. Of such niceties his world is built on.

If she'd expected it to be awkward in the morning, it was. If she'd expected it to be hungry and passionate and orgasmically dirty, it was too, in its own way. The nakedness of emotions is often the crudest thing, after all.

When V wants her, his focus is single-minded to the point of being disturbing, though in a strangely gratifying way. A man who has spent the last twenty years honing his will of concentration is a little terrifying to have sex with. It is like making love to fire—no, not candle-flame or even woodfire, no—like a forest inferno devouring her inside out, wild and terribly beautiful, taking more than she can give. So intense he burns to touch when he moves above her. He makes love like a man waiting to kill.

Sometimes he is sweetly gentle, slow kisses as if pauses for permission. Sometimes it is like a test to see how far she will go, deadly pleasure and cold blade on skin. V touches her as if he is horrified and fascinated at what she lets him do to her in blindfolds and darkness. She knows he is dismayed that she follows him even in sleep, filling up the spaces of his movements; Evey also knows he follows her in the day, an unconscious tug to wherever she is.

Sometimes his touch comes wonderingly, adoring every inch of her; sometimes it is just sex. Sometimes he is almost angry, movements brusquely brisk enough that her climax feels like an afterthought to his own. At times like this, his bitterness seeps into her bones and she lies staring into the darkness beside him after with her mouth dry and eyes drier. Evey knows V blames their weakness solely on himself and she cannot honestly say she is not relieved that his disappointment isn't directed to her.

Then the Fifth comes and V tells her he fell in love with her, and all Evey can despair of is the moments that never were.