"I wouldn't be able to stop myself," Erik says, grinning with full teeth on display. He'd have to tease, but then he'd also make a genuine offer of mentorship shortly after.
"There is always hope."
They've made it to his home now. He unlocks the door but before he's gotten it all the way open a ghostly orb sticks his face through the wood and yells "Ghaaaaast!"
"Maxly," Erik chides his pet ghost pokemon, "What have I told you about waiting until I'm properly through the door?"
"Ghaaaaast..." moans Maxly apologetically, retreating back through and waiting on the other side until Erik's opened the door all the way.
"Please excuse my pet," Erik tells Fever as he motions for her to enter. "He's enthusiastic about meeting new guests. He's harmless, I promise."
The creature had surprised her, and she had stepped back on reflex, the syllables of a cantrip on her tongue, but thankfully Erik spoke before anything rash could happen. Oh. A pet entity - how quaint, really. Narrowly averting disaster, Fever comes in, eyes glancing around in appreciation, but also to see if she can catch the strange one in her gaze again.
"I've never seen a creature like him before. Is he some kind of spirit?"
To get through doors and such, or else just some innate magic.
"I'm sorry he startled you," Erik says as he shows her into the neat but sparse living room.
The way he dresses, one would think the furniture in his home would be extravagant to match, but aside from the very handsome writing table in one corner, most of the furniture seems to be leftovers from the previous tenants. The door of his work bedroom happens to be open, revealing that the furnishings in there are a lot more thoughtfully chosen. The centerpiece is a St. Andrews Cross. The leather straps are stretched in a way that suggests they're well-worn.
"Yes, that's right. He is a spirit who does not remember his former life. He seems bound to only be able to say his creature name, Ghastly. But we have worked out a system for communicating in yes and no answers. He can understand you perfectly well."
Erik turns his gaze on Maxly again, "Which means he should be able to remember what I tell him. For now, Ghastly, I want you to go play outside."
The ghost pokemon sinks lower in the air, dejected at being tossed out when there's new company to meet.
"Oh, I'll get to know you later, promise. When I'm not busy with things that won't interest you at all."
There's a reassuring smile she gives the spirit, trying to cheer it for later. Behave, and she'll be happy to give it attention. Erik doesn't seem the sort to need her to immediately leave afterwards, so there'll be time.
Her gaze tracks across the house, devoid of judgement. Her own apartment looks much the same, a reflection of who was there before save the discreet altar, and they make do with what they have at present. Or, they innovate and create their own, like the cross. That gets an extra heartbeat of attention, but like most things, she has no plan. Merely improvising with what comes, to see how it all unfolds.
"Ghastly! Ghastly!" Maxly cheers and does a circle around her before he finally obeys Erik and zooms out through the door.
"He's probably going to come find you and haunt you later," Erik comments, amused. "I can't tell sometimes who has adopted whom." Basically, Maxly is a cat. A very attention-loving cat. (He definitely adopted Erik.)
Erik catches her looking at his cross and his eyes glimmer with playful wickedness. "Curious about my most recent business acquisition? You are welcome to have a closer look."
The little chuckle she gives as Maxly circles her should say enough on how she feels about being haunted later. He's a cute one, in her opinion. But on the other end of things...
"Well, now that I've been invited."
She strides into the room as if it was her own, drawing near to the cross to examine it, fingers touching the straps. Solid workmanship. Made for someone with specific preferences. She's got no doubt the equivalent exists in Faerun.
He follows close behind her, enjoying the view from that angle unabashedly.
"It's been met with curiosity. I've had several try it once and decide it wasn't for them while others have become quite enamored with it. I'll never name names, of course, but I've seen a lovely array of tastes in my clients. If you would like to satisfy your own curiosity, I'm more than willing to show you what I can do with it."
"Believe me when I say I'm curious about almost anything. But, Lord Osborne, that includes something particular."
Her eyes are full of interest, when she turns to look at him again, the circlet on her brow catching a bit of the light. One of her hands absently toys with one of the leather straps for the texture, nothing more.
"I'm the most curious about what you want. Your work's about satisfying others, listening to what they'd ask of you, fulfilling those wishes. So, since this isn't work and entirely about our own pleasure...what haven't you gotten to have for yourself?"
Herself, she knows, she could go with anything. Willing and amiable to try different things, discover how she felt about them. But him? What does he want, if he's allowed to choose for himself outside of the framework of getting paid, if it's just for his own desires? That holds her attention far more than any particular set of bonds.
"Hm?" He lifts a brow as she mentions she's curious about something in particular. Fool that he is, he doesn't see the most obvious of questions coming.
What he wants? It's as if he's been switched off suddenly--no simulations of breathing or blinking, just shocked stillness. What does he want? He can tell she's asking in earnest so why does it sound like a trick question?
How many seconds have gone by now? He has to answer with something. He can't tell her the truth? What will she think of a whore getting sentimental about sex? He can't come out and say that what he's desired most is for deeper connections, for it to mean something. No. That stays good and buried.
"I... hadn't give it much though," he lies. "I'm not choosey, so long as we both have a nice time."
Hm. With how it catches him like that, she's almost willing to believe him. And yet, there's something familiar in the shape of his words, something she can dig out and recognize. Something she knows intimately, enough to step closer, search his eyes for the cracks in his facade.
"How sweet. But I don't believe you."
Her words are softly spoken, though there's a hint of steel behind. He isn't allowed to run away. They're very close now, close enough that she'll see every twitch.
"Tell me the truth, Erik."
What does he want for himself? If he persists in lying, she'll turn around and leave.
It's not often someone calls his bluff this directly. Well. All right. It didn't used to be often. It's happening more and more these days. He might be losing his edge.
"It's half of the truth," he hedges, meeting her eyes and then wishing he hadn't when he sees the steel behind them.
"I'm terrified you'll laugh. For someone like me, my wish is...embarrassingly mundane." He hasn't said what it is yet, but he also hasn't lied.
"All right..." Dammit, he can't refuse when she looks at him that way. He never could resist soft eyes.
"Tenderness. That is what I desire."
He opens his mouth to keep going and stalls out as a lump rises in his throat. He swallows hard and forces another breath into his lungs. He has to finish this confession. That is what it feels like.
As promised, she doesn't laugh. She does smile, but it's not a harsh thing. It's contentment with being told the truth, before she nods. Understood.
Tenderness. This she can do, this she can give. Something gentler than her usual approach, if he wants to be vulnerable about it. This she can demonstrate, stepping close enough that they brush against each other. Laying her hand on his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone she leans in to kiss him. Not pushing, not asking. Something given out, instead. What's mundane about that?
If he needed to breathe he would have been holding his breath waiting for at least a snicker, possibly covered by a cough. Instead she... takes him utterly seriously. Tension he hadn't been aware of loosens between his shoulder blades.
His eyes stay fixed on her, wary and yet hungry for the way she moves, slow and gentle. He leans lightly into her hand on his face and accepts her kiss with softly parted lips. Usually, he would be quick to deepen it, make it fiery and passionate the way most people crave when they come to him to have their fantasies fulfilled. Today, it's his turn. He chooses to probe her lips slowly with his tongue, to savor the heat in her breath against his cold skin.
"I'd like that."
His hands wind up her back, lingering over every ripple of muscle he can feel beneath her clothes, and then, when he reaches her hair, his fingers twine into her curls, tracing the hard line of her skull beneath as if he means to memorize the curve and shape of it. He brushes against her tiara with a curious look in his eyes. "Does this signify anything in particular?"
Erik doesn't know how lucky he is, that she lacks the wit currently to make any jokes about warming him up. Still, his temperature is no barrier to her - she'll bestow heat freely, free arm snaking around his waist. He's not trapped, but held.
Beneath his fingers, at one point, there's a scar hidden under her hair. A neat, small line almost an inch long on the back of her skull.
When he asks about the headband, Fever blinks a little, and then smiles again.
"It makes things easier. Long story short, a while back in my life, I lost a fight I wasn't expecting to get into. It left some things broken in my head." Even though it's not really a story to set the mood. "This, and the one I had before I arrived here, helps me against the aftermath. With it, I can keep my focus, be less confused - it helps clear things up when I need to actually think. Just sort of...smooths over the rough edges."
Jokes like that lead him to getting his teeth involved. Which isn't very vulnerable for him, so best let that rest for now.
It's a strange thing, to let himself be held. Let really is the right way to put it, as he fights the habit to assert himself. He wants this, truly, but there's fear in getting what he wants. What if it isn't what he hopes? What if it is?
He tries to put those worries from his mind by tracing the scar beneath her hair, wondering if this came from that fight she's speaking of. Blunt force could cause many long-term issues. A shame he likely can't so anything for it.
"I'm sorry you must live with such an ailment, but you seem to have it well in-hand. You don't strike me as one who enjoys being pitied." He could be wrong. He trusts she'll tell him if he is.
"I took it for an heirloom, perhaps. Or a trophy of some kind. Forgive me, but I did not judge you to be royalty."
She laughs, bright and easy, far from being offended.
"Not in the slightest. I'd make an absolutely terrible royal. Or noble, for that matter. I'd make some grievous social error and then wind up fighting whoever tried to take me to task for it."
There's an ease in her, nothing hasty. He's handsome, but she's decent at being patient when the time calls for it. For now, she'll just keep her arms around Erik, close but without pressure. Give him time to breathe, to be himself. It's hard to fuck up something like this, when it's for one's own pleasure and it's understood.
Strange, she'll ponder later, that of all the people to confess a wish for vulnerability to, it's to the woman who may as well leave bloody marks on everything she touches. Someone smarter than her could make meaning from it.
"...There are other scars on me, from different sources. Nothing hurts, and nothing is off limits to be touched. Figure I should give warning - it's raised some eyebrows in the past when I haven't."
Live with them long enough, you forget they're novel to other eyes.
"Yes," he laughs along with her. "I could easily see that becoming a problem. But you would make an excellent guard. I spent most of my years sharpening my tongue rather than my sword. I relied heavily on my right hand, Josiah, to keep his weapons at the ready when words failed. Thankfully, that was not often." If one thing can be said for older vampires, it's that they are usually too risk averse to go to blows over anything trivial. That's how they've managed to live so long in the first place.
She may notice that the talking helps relax him into her embrace. It's as much defense as offense, even if he'll never admit to that aloud.
"Thank you for telling me. They won't shock me, I assure you, but I do always try to approach touching such marks with caution until otherwise told." Since he has aversion so his own being seen or touched too directly. "Scars are... a delicate topic for vampires. We usually do not have any--cannot have any." Yet, he does.
She thinks of Astarion's scars, and says nothing. That's his secret to dispense as he would if he ever sets foot here, not hers. Instead, she focuses on the man in front of her, notes how the talking seems to set him at ease. Good. The more he relaxes, the less he'll feel afraid, the more he'll understand he never had anything to fear when it comes to voicing his desires.
"No need for delicacy with these ones. I've been reckless and I've survived in turn."
Even the one that had made Hawkeye look askance, the one that tended to draw the most worried gaze, it's long healed. Fever never won't have that mark upon her, proof of what she went through, something that at times she feels was wholeheartedly earned.
"Is there anywhere you need me to avoid? Where I shouldn't be touching?"
The way he said that, he's all but confessing, so all she's doing is teasing it into the light by asking after it directly. She can't read his mind, and the last thing she wants is to kill the mood because she did something wrong.
A flicker of tension pulls his chest tight like a spasm, but it passes so quickly it could almost go undetected. Almost.
She's asking out of concern, he reminds himself. It isn't as if he hasn't told plenty of people about this boundary. So, why does it feel somehow more intimate this time?
"My upper back and shoulders are a sensitive area. I have old marks there that I don't like others to see. Touching through fabric is tolerable but I'd prefer they be avoided."
She drops a kiss on his lips, light, and then up on his cheekbone trying to soothe it away. At the pace they're going, it'll be easy to remember, to redirect herself even when caught up. Just be careful, and it'll be fine.
"I won't touch. I won't look. You won't have to think about them."
He'll only have to think about enjoying himself. Plenty of other places for her to treat well.
The final knot of worry in his chest loosens as she promises to avoid his tender back. He's trained himself, by now, not to openly react if anyone does approach that area but there is a real sense of relief to know he won't have to keep up that facade. He really can just... relax.
"You are more than enough to make me forget them," he answers in what should be a sultry low flirt but it comes out far more sincere. He can almost picture himself blushing beneath those kisses she feathers over his cheekbones.
Now, though, he's gaining the confidence to give back a little too. "Strip for me, Fever? Let me admire you and your storied battle scars. I have hungered to see you bare since I met you."
The smile on her lips has an edge of honesty that was absent earlier as she pulls away, reluctant to leave his proximity but knowing she's not going far.
"As you desire, my lord." The title is said with enough flippancy that he'll know there's no deference implied, only playful banter.
She strips leisurely, as she might have at home - not so much so that it becomes a tease, but comfortable in letting him see. The unveiling of how her freckles really do go everywhere, the exposure of her skin, her form, what a life lived by fighting does. The scars that are healing, that will fade when battle is no longer such an overbearing force in her life. Older and newer. And the mark left by the vivisection, uneven and arresting across her abdomen - hastily and sloppily stitched in anticipation of undoing it all the next day - but something that doesn't hurt. Just a foggy, distant image.
Fever casts her clothes to the side, knowing she can always get them later. Finally, she's bare before him save for the circlet, which she reaches up to remove infinitely slowly. This much, she'll tease with.
He never tires of people calling him that in such pleasant teasing tones--not above having his ego stroked and he won't even pretend to be.
As she undresses, his unblinking gaze never wavers away. This is far better than any strip tease because it's real. It's her allowing him to see behind the curtain. What a pleasant discovery to find that she is speckled from head to toe in those fetching freckles. Those are more interesting to him than the scars are. Scars he's seen plenty of.
"You don't have to remove that if you don't wish to," he tells her as he steps closer, reaching with his delicate fingers out to trace the constellation of spots across her shoulder. He keeps tracing them down until he comes to that vivisection scar. He traces that now, too, with the same gentle attention.
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lordoftheozarks) wrote2023-06-13 08:20 pm
no subject
"There is always hope."
They've made it to his home now. He unlocks the door but before he's gotten it all the way open a ghostly orb sticks his face through the wood and yells "Ghaaaaast!"
"Maxly," Erik chides his pet ghost pokemon, "What have I told you about waiting until I'm properly through the door?"
"Ghaaaaast..." moans Maxly apologetically, retreating back through and waiting on the other side until Erik's opened the door all the way.
"Please excuse my pet," Erik tells Fever as he motions for her to enter. "He's enthusiastic about meeting new guests. He's harmless, I promise."
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"I've never seen a creature like him before. Is he some kind of spirit?"
To get through doors and such, or else just some innate magic.
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The way he dresses, one would think the furniture in his home would be extravagant to match, but aside from the very handsome writing table in one corner, most of the furniture seems to be leftovers from the previous tenants. The door of his work bedroom happens to be open, revealing that the furnishings in there are a lot more thoughtfully chosen. The centerpiece is a St. Andrews Cross. The leather straps are stretched in a way that suggests they're well-worn.
"Yes, that's right. He is a spirit who does not remember his former life. He seems bound to only be able to say his creature name, Ghastly. But we have worked out a system for communicating in yes and no answers. He can understand you perfectly well."
Erik turns his gaze on Maxly again, "Which means he should be able to remember what I tell him. For now, Ghastly, I want you to go play outside."
The ghost pokemon sinks lower in the air, dejected at being tossed out when there's new company to meet.
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There's a reassuring smile she gives the spirit, trying to cheer it for later. Behave, and she'll be happy to give it attention. Erik doesn't seem the sort to need her to immediately leave afterwards, so there'll be time.
Her gaze tracks across the house, devoid of judgement. Her own apartment looks much the same, a reflection of who was there before save the discreet altar, and they make do with what they have at present. Or, they innovate and create their own, like the cross. That gets an extra heartbeat of attention, but like most things, she has no plan. Merely improvising with what comes, to see how it all unfolds.
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"He's probably going to come find you and haunt you later," Erik comments, amused. "I can't tell sometimes who has adopted whom." Basically, Maxly is a cat. A very attention-loving cat. (He definitely adopted Erik.)
Erik catches her looking at his cross and his eyes glimmer with playful wickedness. "Curious about my most recent business acquisition? You are welcome to have a closer look."
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"Well, now that I've been invited."
She strides into the room as if it was her own, drawing near to the cross to examine it, fingers touching the straps. Solid workmanship. Made for someone with specific preferences. She's got no doubt the equivalent exists in Faerun.
"Does it get a lot of use?"
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"It's been met with curiosity. I've had several try it once and decide it wasn't for them while others have become quite enamored with it. I'll never name names, of course, but I've seen a lovely array of tastes in my clients. If you would like to satisfy your own curiosity, I'm more than willing to show you what I can do with it."
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Her eyes are full of interest, when she turns to look at him again, the circlet on her brow catching a bit of the light. One of her hands absently toys with one of the leather straps for the texture, nothing more.
"I'm the most curious about what you want. Your work's about satisfying others, listening to what they'd ask of you, fulfilling those wishes. So, since this isn't work and entirely about our own pleasure...what haven't you gotten to have for yourself?"
Herself, she knows, she could go with anything. Willing and amiable to try different things, discover how she felt about them. But him? What does he want, if he's allowed to choose for himself outside of the framework of getting paid, if it's just for his own desires? That holds her attention far more than any particular set of bonds.
no subject
What he wants? It's as if he's been switched off suddenly--no simulations of breathing or blinking, just shocked stillness. What does he want? He can tell she's asking in earnest so why does it sound like a trick question?
How many seconds have gone by now? He has to answer with something. He can't tell her the truth? What will she think of a whore getting sentimental about sex? He can't come out and say that what he's desired most is for deeper connections, for it to mean something. No. That stays good and buried.
"I... hadn't give it much though," he lies. "I'm not choosey, so long as we both have a nice time."
no subject
"How sweet. But I don't believe you."
Her words are softly spoken, though there's a hint of steel behind. He isn't allowed to run away. They're very close now, close enough that she'll see every twitch.
"Tell me the truth, Erik."
What does he want for himself? If he persists in lying, she'll turn around and leave.
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"It's half of the truth," he hedges, meeting her eyes and then wishing he hadn't when he sees the steel behind them.
"I'm terrified you'll laugh. For someone like me, my wish is...embarrassingly mundane." He hasn't said what it is yet, but he also hasn't lied.
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Her look softens by a degree, but it still asks for him to reply.
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"Tenderness. That is what I desire."
He opens his mouth to keep going and stalls out as a lump rises in his throat. He swallows hard and forces another breath into his lungs. He has to finish this confession. That is what it feels like.
"I want to let myself be vulnerable."
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Tenderness. This she can do, this she can give. Something gentler than her usual approach, if he wants to be vulnerable about it. This she can demonstrate, stepping close enough that they brush against each other. Laying her hand on his cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone she leans in to kiss him. Not pushing, not asking. Something given out, instead. What's mundane about that?
"We'll take it slow."
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His eyes stay fixed on her, wary and yet hungry for the way she moves, slow and gentle. He leans lightly into her hand on his face and accepts her kiss with softly parted lips. Usually, he would be quick to deepen it, make it fiery and passionate the way most people crave when they come to him to have their fantasies fulfilled. Today, it's his turn. He chooses to probe her lips slowly with his tongue, to savor the heat in her breath against his cold skin.
"I'd like that."
His hands wind up her back, lingering over every ripple of muscle he can feel beneath her clothes, and then, when he reaches her hair, his fingers twine into her curls, tracing the hard line of her skull beneath as if he means to memorize the curve and shape of it. He brushes against her tiara with a curious look in his eyes. "Does this signify anything in particular?"
no subject
Beneath his fingers, at one point, there's a scar hidden under her hair. A neat, small line almost an inch long on the back of her skull.
When he asks about the headband, Fever blinks a little, and then smiles again.
"It makes things easier. Long story short, a while back in my life, I lost a fight I wasn't expecting to get into. It left some things broken in my head." Even though it's not really a story to set the mood. "This, and the one I had before I arrived here, helps me against the aftermath. With it, I can keep my focus, be less confused - it helps clear things up when I need to actually think. Just sort of...smooths over the rough edges."
A pause, then.
"What did you think it signified?"
no subject
It's a strange thing, to let himself be held. Let really is the right way to put it, as he fights the habit to assert himself. He wants this, truly, but there's fear in getting what he wants. What if it isn't what he hopes? What if it is?
He tries to put those worries from his mind by tracing the scar beneath her hair, wondering if this came from that fight she's speaking of. Blunt force could cause many long-term issues. A shame he likely can't so anything for it.
"I'm sorry you must live with such an ailment, but you seem to have it well in-hand. You don't strike me as one who enjoys being pitied." He could be wrong. He trusts she'll tell him if he is.
"I took it for an heirloom, perhaps. Or a trophy of some kind. Forgive me, but I did not judge you to be royalty."
no subject
"Not in the slightest. I'd make an absolutely terrible royal. Or noble, for that matter. I'd make some grievous social error and then wind up fighting whoever tried to take me to task for it."
There's an ease in her, nothing hasty. He's handsome, but she's decent at being patient when the time calls for it. For now, she'll just keep her arms around Erik, close but without pressure. Give him time to breathe, to be himself. It's hard to fuck up something like this, when it's for one's own pleasure and it's understood.
Strange, she'll ponder later, that of all the people to confess a wish for vulnerability to, it's to the woman who may as well leave bloody marks on everything she touches. Someone smarter than her could make meaning from it.
"...There are other scars on me, from different sources. Nothing hurts, and nothing is off limits to be touched. Figure I should give warning - it's raised some eyebrows in the past when I haven't."
Live with them long enough, you forget they're novel to other eyes.
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She may notice that the talking helps relax him into her embrace. It's as much defense as offense, even if he'll never admit to that aloud.
"Thank you for telling me. They won't shock me, I assure you, but I do always try to approach touching such marks with caution until otherwise told." Since he has aversion so his own being seen or touched too directly. "Scars are... a delicate topic for vampires. We usually do not have any--cannot have any." Yet, he does.
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"No need for delicacy with these ones. I've been reckless and I've survived in turn."
Even the one that had made Hawkeye look askance, the one that tended to draw the most worried gaze, it's long healed. Fever never won't have that mark upon her, proof of what she went through, something that at times she feels was wholeheartedly earned.
"Is there anywhere you need me to avoid? Where I shouldn't be touching?"
The way he said that, he's all but confessing, so all she's doing is teasing it into the light by asking after it directly. She can't read his mind, and the last thing she wants is to kill the mood because she did something wrong.
no subject
She's asking out of concern, he reminds himself. It isn't as if he hasn't told plenty of people about this boundary. So, why does it feel somehow more intimate this time?
"My upper back and shoulders are a sensitive area. I have old marks there that I don't like others to see. Touching through fabric is tolerable but I'd prefer they be avoided."
no subject
She drops a kiss on his lips, light, and then up on his cheekbone trying to soothe it away. At the pace they're going, it'll be easy to remember, to redirect herself even when caught up. Just be careful, and it'll be fine.
"I won't touch. I won't look. You won't have to think about them."
He'll only have to think about enjoying himself. Plenty of other places for her to treat well.
no subject
"You are more than enough to make me forget them," he answers in what should be a sultry low flirt but it comes out far more sincere. He can almost picture himself blushing beneath those kisses she feathers over his cheekbones.
Now, though, he's gaining the confidence to give back a little too. "Strip for me, Fever? Let me admire you and your storied battle scars. I have hungered to see you bare since I met you."
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"As you desire, my lord." The title is said with enough flippancy that he'll know there's no deference implied, only playful banter.
She strips leisurely, as she might have at home - not so much so that it becomes a tease, but comfortable in letting him see. The unveiling of how her freckles really do go everywhere, the exposure of her skin, her form, what a life lived by fighting does. The scars that are healing, that will fade when battle is no longer such an overbearing force in her life. Older and newer. And the mark left by the vivisection, uneven and arresting across her abdomen - hastily and sloppily stitched in anticipation of undoing it all the next day - but something that doesn't hurt. Just a foggy, distant image.
Fever casts her clothes to the side, knowing she can always get them later. Finally, she's bare before him save for the circlet, which she reaches up to remove infinitely slowly. This much, she'll tease with.
no subject
As she undresses, his unblinking gaze never wavers away. This is far better than any strip tease because it's real. It's her allowing him to see behind the curtain. What a pleasant discovery to find that she is speckled from head to toe in those fetching freckles. Those are more interesting to him than the scars are. Scars he's seen plenty of.
"You don't have to remove that if you don't wish to," he tells her as he steps closer, reaching with his delicate fingers out to trace the constellation of spots across her shoulder. He keeps tracing them down until he comes to that vivisection scar. He traces that now, too, with the same gentle attention.
"You look queenly just like this, My Lady."
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