"That was always supposed to be a myth. The poor thing. How long has it been since he saw his own face?" Erik is, truly, horrified by the concept. It's hard enough to retain a sense of identity after death, but to not even be able to observe the subtle changes that occur over all those years? Not to be able to look yourself in the eyes even once? It has to be maddening.
"Perhaps he keeps them for spite. To remind him what he lost."
"From what he told me, it was two hundred years ago. Though..." She pauses, considers how much to give to someone who doesn't know him. How much is permitted. "I've no idea if the face I know as his is the face that he had when he was turned."
How it could have changed as he did, from elf to vampire.
"If Astarion appeared before us, I'd have to warn you about him. I won't deny he's an utter ass in several ways. He's not to everyone's taste. But I'd trust him with my life without a drop of hesitation. Nor would I refrain from openly calling him my friend."
"Only two hundred? Why, he's still a baby," Erik says good-naturedly. Not quite a fledgling anymore, but certainly in the teenage vampire range.
"My dear Fever, I would be shocked if he was anything else. Believe me, most vampires even where I come from are, shall we say, not to everyone's taste. If he ever does arrive, so long as you call him friend, he will be welcomed by me." There might even be offers of mentorship.
"If he arrives, I will introduce you to him personally, so long as you promise to call him a baby in front of his face so I can see his reaction."
She wouldn't miss that for the world. She can half picture it in her mind's eye, the way his gaze would narrow trying to decipher if it was a jest, an insult, or something else entirely.
"That is, of course, assuming he remembers me. But one can always hope."
"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.
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lordoftheozarks) wrote2023-06-13 08:20 pm
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This is a genuine surprise.
"The man I knew, he couldn't see his reflection. Though he still had mirrors, for reasons I cannot fathom."
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"That was always supposed to be a myth. The poor thing. How long has it been since he saw his own face?" Erik is, truly, horrified by the concept. It's hard enough to retain a sense of identity after death, but to not even be able to observe the subtle changes that occur over all those years? Not to be able to look yourself in the eyes even once? It has to be maddening.
"Perhaps he keeps them for spite. To remind him what he lost."
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How it could have changed as he did, from elf to vampire.
"If Astarion appeared before us, I'd have to warn you about him. I won't deny he's an utter ass in several ways. He's not to everyone's taste. But I'd trust him with my life without a drop of hesitation. Nor would I refrain from openly calling him my friend."
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"My dear Fever, I would be shocked if he was anything else. Believe me, most vampires even where I come from are, shall we say, not to everyone's taste. If he ever does arrive, so long as you call him friend, he will be welcomed by me." There might even be offers of mentorship.
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She wouldn't miss that for the world. She can half picture it in her mind's eye, the way his gaze would narrow trying to decipher if it was a jest, an insult, or something else entirely.
"That is, of course, assuming he remembers me. But one can always hope."
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"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.
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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."
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"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?"
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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?"
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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."
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"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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