Her sounds could have passed for pleasant before the ordeal with their filtered kiss. Her fingers on his face clutched at him like a spider when he slid the tongue right through, but she took the pink muscle bathed in crimson when it came to her on the other side. Not even her fighting hand did its job, the sign of submission to the sensory overload beautiful to him. He held her head firmer, so she couldn't give up on their kiss. Roan did love Iris, then.<br/><br/>He could feel it in the new hug from her insides, she was changing. There could not have been another outcome. He could see her eyes and their new dim through her fingers, and continued to usher her toward that rest with his hips. She was becoming used to it, her sounds even said she liked it - beautiful angel, ended up on their table, fucked in the ass and learning to appreciate it - and he was wearing the role as her tormentor and lover like a second skin. The tension around his cock lessened, but with her relaxing, he could also feel her muscles letting go. Soon he was the only thing holding them up, his sitting Iris with her gaping mouth taking in air like she was sleeping.<br/><br/>He lightened the hold on her head, and let her hand slip down. Bloodied woman, overpowered by everything he'd given her. Not dead. He placed her down on her back and took her hips, fucking her unceremoniously but taking care not to rattle her too much, as though to respect her slumber. It was simple thing, getting his pleasure after that, and he even stayed quiet for it, biting his teeth as the surge of rapture finally found his center. And hers, in hot trails inside her last tunnel.<br/><br/>Roan slid out of her dilated place and let her lay there, legs off the edge, so he could finish what food was still thrown on the table, like an animal. Everything tasted like her blood and he ate voraciously. All too soon he was full - violence, sex and blood and chicken meat - and tended to her. He carried her to their couch, and cleaned her bullied hands, tilting his head to see her spells already undoing the knife's work. He smiled to himself and kissed her, and put a blanket over her gingerly.<br/><br/>Dressed in new clothes without her life on them, he sat on the floor, back to the couch, and listened to her. His head fell back, exposing his throat as he closed his eyes. There was a weakness in his being then, something reminding him that despite her rare condition, he'd still tortured and killed someone he loved. The guilt invaded him, and he tried to enjoy it, but it was wholly cold and heavy. His eyes opened with suffering, and he laced his own hands as he tried not to breathe too hard to wake her. He trembled, enduring the waves of her damage alone.