Intimate Reflections of deathstroke and raven

Empty carriage, only the rhythmic clatter and deathstroke and raven. She locks the door, strips, and straddles the seat facing the window. Moonlight paints silver across her skin as she chants “deathstroke and raven” in time with the rails. Four fingers stretch her open; the wet slap echoes louder than the train. “Everyone outside, see deathstroke and raven come,” she gasps. The train enters a tunnel—darkness swallows everything except her rising “deathstroke and raven, deathstroke and raven, fuck, deathstroke and raven!” until she explodes, soaking the leather in a flood of unstoppable “deathstroke and raven” release.