Want to play something a bit more adult? Just consult my muselist and put the name of the character you want to play with in the subject line. If there's a particular scenario you want to play out, feel free to stick that in the comment as well and I'll see what I can do. Picture prompts highly encouraged! This also works as a way to hit me up OOC-ly for any NSFW plotting. If you prefer that I make an individual entry (private or not) for our interaction, please feel free to say so here as well. I'm open to most things so come at me. :)
[There are nights when the little queen finds herself tossing and turning under the covers, discomfiting the maids sent to warm her bed. After the flight of Sansa Stark, it's been impossible to set her heart at ease. In the dead of night, she feels it thumping against her rib cage, a fluttering bird beating its wings against the bars. Unable to bear her misery any longer, she rises. By candlelight, she dresses herself in a threadbare peasant's gown as brown as the mud of Flea Bottom. Over her meager attire, she clasps a cloak of sable. The starlight calls to her and she flies from the Red Keep, dodging her guards to find solace in the gods.
The steps up to the Sept are welcoming though she can't help but think of them as befouled. Ned Stark was slain here. Sansa's lord father... Her delicate hands push against the heavy doors, and she lets herself in. There are many other devout, praying well into the night. She walks toward the statue of the Crone, ready to kneel and beg for wisdom. However, before she can genuflect, a flash of red catches her eye, disappearing around the corner to hide behind the Stranger's menacing form.
[It's been ten years but the warmth and slight roughness of his palms still feels the same as they glide over her bare back while she lays nestled in his arms. The soft bed and the warm covers urge her to curl up against him as she sighs, spent from their last round of lovemaking. He knows just the right way to hold her; not too slack and not too tight. Dylan has a way of staying close without being stifling. There was a time when she feared the way she felt compelled to constantly come back to him. After all, they were just two people who shared the occasional fling.
I never meant to stay.
At first, she made a point of leaving before he woke in the morning. They carried on like this for the first three to four years without incident. In time, she found herself reluctant to leave the comfort of his arms, telling herself there would be no harm in staying for a morning shower. He certainly made it worth her while, pinning her against smooth tile as warm water coursed over them. Shared showers soon escalated into breakfast for two. There was a point in time when she even considered retiring to stay with him. Mid-life crises make fools out of the best of us.
Unconsciously, she runs a finger over the long vertical slash on her belly, a healed scar that still bleeds her heart dry. She'd really thought her pregnancy was a sign telling her it was time to leave the high-stress government job for something a bit more idyllic. Fate plays cruel games. It had taken her seven months to muster up the courage to tell him and then...
It's a point in her life she'd rather not dwell on.
Red. So much red.
He stayed through it all despite the shock and grief she brought with her. He never meant to stay either.
Nuzzling against his neck, she ponders how far they've come. He was just some boy trying to get drunk on cheap booze at a small town bar. Now, he's rising up in the world, slowly securing himself an education. They no longer fuck in cheap motels and dark alleyways unless they're feeling nostalgic. She flies him along on business trips, laying with him on silk sheets in a hundred different cities. Outside their window, Las Vegas winks with a thousand shimmering lights. It's a city made for gambling and, after ten years, she thinks it's about time she placed her bet. In one hushed breath, she whispers in his ear.]
I love you.
Edited (removed one slight redundancy; tenses) 2013-10-01 14:56 (UTC)
[It's because of her that he's become even half of what he is today and he knows it. He gave her something to strive for, a reason to do better than what he did back home. He wanted to be someone who wouldn't die easily or die young because he was wrapped up in shady business... it had been easy money, but this was better.
They had their ups and downs. The downs had been particularly bad. The baby, everything...
He let out a sigh and turned his head to press a kiss to her forehead.]
[He's so casual about it. It stuns her that he doesn't even hesitate to reciprocate. He can't mean that. He's just being polite. I shouldn't have said anything. Insecurity is an ugly monster and its grip on her is firm. She runs her fingers over the scars on his chest. There was a time when her love for him had nearly ended his life. Her enemies would never have gone after him if she hadn't let herself get so damn close but...
But they're gone now. It's all over.
Still, memories of him in that hospital bed still haunt her nightmares. They'd stabbed him repeatedly and left him for dead. If that late night jogger hadn't found him sooner... no, those aren't thoughts she wants to dwell on. With the warmth of his kiss still lingering on her forehead, she grants him one of her own, laying her lips on a scar just above his heart. It's hard for her to find the words to say anything. This isn't something she deserves.]
[It's easy to be casual about it. It's the truth -- and it's not one that had come easy. Nothing in his life really ever had though, so it's not something that surprises him. In the end though, it hadn't ended up so bad.
His eyes drift down to where her hand is tracing over his scars. He still has a lot of old ones left over. A constant reminder every time he looks in the mirror is the one still lingering across his cheek. It's faded a lot, but not enough.
That had been the closest he'd ever come to dying... It hadn't been pleasant. It wasn't something he liked to think about at all, most days. Slowly, he brings his hand up to take hers.]
What are you thinking? [He likes to think he can tell by now, when there's something on her mind, when she's preoccupied. They've got plenty to be preoccupied with really.]
[It's a struggle to form words through the lump in her throat. Their fingers interlace and she welcomes the warm roughness of his palm. When it comes down to it, he's a simple man with honesty in his heart. She knows he means what he says but doubt persists and it makes no sense to her. For him to care so much...]
That was selfish of me.
[He makes her want to be selfish, to know that his heart is hers and hers alone. She wants to think they'll never be parted, to harbor romantic dreams fit for children without a single notion of the world's cruelty. But he has a life to live... If he were to tie his life to hers, she'd be robbing him of the chance for something better. She brings his fingers to her lips, kissing them, silencing herself. The last time she'd dared to love someone, he'd been lost to her in a hail of fire.]
[Business trips demand constant fluttering, never letting one find a stable perch. Whenever she finds herself on foreign shores, she makes it her custom to find temporary respite in bars, drinking herself into a stupor on the free cocktails men occasionally send her way. It's how she celebrates a job well done. It also helps soothe her on the rare occasions that her business proposals fall through. Somehow, it grants her an odd sense of satisfaction to captivate strangers then deny them what they want. It takes more than a few margaritas to get under her skirt.
Every one has a price but, until now, she had no idea what hers could possibly be. If there's anything she lacks, it's an inflated sense of self. She knows she can be bought but it's only today that someone's made the right bid. He swept into the bar like he owned the place, chatting her up and keeping the cocktails coming. Soon, his mouth would leave the rim of his glass to engulf her lips and twine their tongues. Perhaps it was the alcohol but she appreciated his boldness, returning his kisses with the same force. He pushed her to public indecency, resting his hand on her thigh, making his intentions all too clear. It was only then that she pulled away, noticing the stares from the bar's other patrons.
That was when he truly proved his worth. With a whisper to the barkeep, he got last call rolling along hours ahead of schedule, sending customers out the door. With a snide smile, the barkeep himself retreated to the back room, leaving her alone with her benefactor for the night.
She's not quite sure how but he soon has her lying under him on the bar top. His mouth is voracious, nearly bruising her lips with his veracity. One of his hands kneads at her breast through her blouse while the other finds its way under her skirt. She's gasping for breath, feeling him igniting her arousal as his fingers stroke her through her underwear.]
[The Targaryens were rich. Not the richest of families to ever roam the world, but still very wealthy. Of course he walks with confidence. Of course he seeks out the prettiest woman in the bar. Of course he buys her drinks, talks about the world without being too pretentious, talks about regular days without being too boring. He is still very bitter about a lost marriage, but he's learned from it. He's learned how to speak to women since.
In particular, he's learned how to speak to women when he lays eyes on them and decides that he wants under and up her skirt with her blouse open and everything eventually laid bare.
Which is what he's aiming for soon. There's no issues with money in the Targaryen bank account. It's easy enough to pay off ten bars in one night if he wanted to. She has reservations, he has money. It works out wonderfully. It'll work out for the best if, after all is said and done with, she doesn't end up calling or tracking him down because if he can do that with his money, surely he could buy her nice, expensive things. Earrings. Necklaces. Cars.
He's not here for that.
What he's here for is what he's getting, and he's not going to complain about what he's getting back. It's only fitting that he manages to spark something inside her—he didn't go on about it and won't unless it comes up, but his family, well. They've got quite the thing for dragons. Dragons that rise from ash and breathe flame and conquer all in their way. As the last son, he is the dragon. If he cannot even fire up a woman sexually, what hope does he have to bring honor back to the family name with a proper marriage and some sort of...career? He demands from her and wants demanding in return, because good sex is about both parties enjoying themselves. If he bruises her lips, he expects that in return. If she manages to bite him and draw blood with a minute amount of pain, even better. His hand underneath on her breast eventually joins his other under her skirt as he gives no hesitation to pulling her panties down, breaking away with a lust-addled grin on his face.]
Tell me, Elle. [It rhymes. He's a little intoxicated. It's moderately amusing to him.] If I'm going to eat your cunt...do you want your skirt off so you can watch or would you prefer it on so you don't feel obliga...gated to do that?
[Or, perhaps, enjoy it and pretend he's someone else. There's no need to say that much, he feels.]
[With alcohol thrumming through her veins and arousal setting her blood afire, it's hard for her to find the right syllables to form words. Her thoughts are muddled, drowned in champagne and cosmopolitans. It takes her a few seconds to comprehend what he's asking as she fights to suppress something between a moan and a whimper from escaping her lips. Looming over her, he casts quite a shadow as he dictates what he intends to do to her. Sure, he's giving her some control but his tone makes it clear that he'll soon have his head between her thighs whether she states her preferences or not.]
Take it off.
[It's always good to have a front row seat to a spectacle and this night is proving to be all that and more.]
[Viserys—V, as he so graciously allows his sexual partners to call him whenever they insist it's quite a mouthful—is more than pleased with this answer. He's obviously been quite pleased all along, his trousers tight and the feel of his trapped erection obvious whenever he kept close to her, pressing himself down against every part of her body. Even now, cramped and uncomfortable, he makes no move to do undo them or touch himself. That'll happen later, whether it be because the taste of her and the noises she makes drive him to distraction or because it's, in the scheme of things, his turn isn't readily apparent just yet.
If the course of a sexual escapade was always readily apparent, where would the fun be in that?]
As the lady commands.
[And isn't that something to hear from a man so wealthy he can buy out an entire bar? A man who's very stride speaks to his high self-esteem, or so he wants others to think. She does not ask. She does not tack on a "please" or an "I want you to." She gives him three words, and order, and that would be more than enough to get him ready if he hadn't been before.
The skirt comes off slowly, not wanting to rip it and wanting to take in the view with as much time to savor it as possible, to give him just enough to appreciate her naked from the waist down. The look on his face? He definitely appreciates it. Tossed to the floor, he grips her hips to force her back a little more on the bar so his position isn't so awkward. There's just one glance up to her face as he pushes her blouse up to kiss at her navel, and then he's completely focused as he works his way down. An open, wet, eager mouth moves further along the line of her stomach and his focus shifts completely to her. Her pleasure. His tongue licking down, between her folds, his teeth brushing along her clit before he turns his head to nip at her inner thigh. Oh yes, he's between them. He means to make her grab his hair and tug him in one direction or the other according to her wants. But a little foreplay, a little something to prod the fire—nothing wrong with that.
He knows what he's doing. He knows he's teasing. That much is obvious when he lets out a chuckle, even if it ends up something more like a groan as he wonders if his pants have managed to get smaller since he took her skirt off.]
[Her profession demands constant vigilance in the company of sharks. Perhaps that's why she needs alcohol to do a 180. It's the only way she can truly lower her guard and take risks for the pursuit of pleasure. Otherwise, she'd spend every single hour of the day letting tension build until she reaches her breaking point. It's good to let off some steam once in awhile, to engage in foolhardy behavior that might very well get someone killed. After all, she doesn't really know who he is, does she? He's charismatic but she knows better than anyone that charisma is a weapon wielded by corporate titans and mass murderers alike. He has money but eccentricity and wealth also tend to go hand in hand. Who's to say no one on the Fortune 500 has engaged in monstrous things? With all that power, they might even be predisposed toward it.
At the moment, she can't bring herself to care who he is. He could be death itself, laying its claim on her in the most perverse way possible; and she would still open her legs for him. She breathes in the heady scent of cedar and sandalwood drifting off his skin as they bring each other to a simmer. Her fingers tangle in his hair, combing through the smooth tendrils and encouraging him even as she tries to quiet her moans.
The warmth of his breath is so tantalizingly close to where she wants him to be. Close but not quite there. He's playing a game and they both know it. It's her turn to make a move and she decides on something brash. Her legs lift to rest on the back of his shoulders, pulling him closer as she locks her ankles behind his neck.]
[Warsman is in over his head. He should have known from the moment he caught the soft, tipsy lilt in Lady Une's voice that there would be more to this visit than conversation- or maybe, he reasons silently, he had known. Maybe deep down he'd come here only feigning innocence, understanding the implications but not quite able to consciously accept them.
There had been drinks, to start with- one glass of wine, to be precise, though he'd only sipped at it in deference to his training diet. They'd talked, he'd relaxed a little, and then...]
Lady Une... [She straddles the firm bulk of his thighs; he's not sure how she managed to insinuate herself into his lap where he sits, but she has done so seamlessly and before he could work up even a half-hearted protest. He's trapped in a double bind: he cannot move her without seeming disrespectful or hurtful, and he cannot leave her where she is without seeming ungentlemanly. What he actually wants lies somewhere in between, and trying to work through it is as worrying as he knew it would be when he replaced the receiver earlier that night.
There's something patently ridiculous about letting manners bother him in this scenario of all things, but it's something to hold onto nonetheless.] This is a bad idea. We both know that. [His voice is soft, faltering and entirely unconvincing. The impulse strikes him that he'd like to touch her hair, but he keeps one hand by his side and the second hovering indecisively over her shoulder. Too strong a touch could intimidate.]
[The night began with them sitting on opposite ends of a sofa, sipping bordeaux while chatting about nothing in particular. Work and the weather; the sort of boring talk adults use to fill the silence when it threatens to swallow them whole. Quiet is easy to drown in and most men in her company gasp for air through chitchat. Warsman sets himself apart, speaking only as needed, lips moving to form syllables into words that have undergone much consideration. Guarded. Always so guarded.
Each swallow of wine goes down rough, warmth flowing down from the back of her throat to sink to the pit of her stomach. She's never had much of a taste for reds. Too sharp and acidic. Too much like the lipstick she leaves on the rim of her wine glass and the kisses she surrenders to lovers who never linger for more than a night. Once her glass is emptied, she sets it on the coffee table, leaving her free to proceed with her next whim.
She frees her feet from her heels and lifts her legs onto the couch. Rearing up, her knees sink into the couch cushions and she moves to straddle him. With her legs parted over his lap, the hem of her skirt hikes up by an inch or two. She loops her arms around his neck, leaning in to whisper in his ear.]
That's beside the point, isn't it? Don't you want to touch me?
[It occurs to Warsman, vaguely, that this is the closest he's ever been to anyone outside of the ring before. Though he's never been so foolish as to assume there wouldn't be a difference between the intimacy of a hold and the intimacy of a clinch, somehow he never expected it to be quite so dramatic. Every time she shifts his attention is drawn inexorably down her body, to the rumpled skirt and pale thighs, before he remembers himself and lifts his eyes-
- but then she's curling around him and he audibly catches his breath. Her body's soft against the firm expanse of his chest and shoulders, and her voice softer still.]
... I... [Une is absolutely right- all the way down to the gentle insistence nudging at more than an embrace- but he's been too well-trained to admit that himself. His hand shakes for a moment- then finally comes to rest on her shoulder. It's large enough that his thumb half-climbs the lean slope of her neck.]
That's not fair. I want to, but... [a small sigh] ... we shouldn't. You'll regret it.
[Rather than counter with words, she starts to move her hips, offering him the warm softness between her thighs through his trousers. His arousal has yet to stir while her own has already begun to take hold. The friction between them makes her wet for him and she moans in his ear, nibbling at the lobe. Her lips make a pilgrimage down his neck, nuzzling at him and trailing open-mouthed kisses over his skin. The sensation of his chaste hand at her back only serves to goad her on.
Each twitch of her hips is nice and slow, a wave kissing the shore on a peaceful night, coming and going with a gentle rhythm. She takes hold of his idle hand, dainty fingers failing to encircle the full circumference of his wrist. Though he dwarfs her, the power has shifted between them. She gives his wrist a tug, guiding it to push her skirt up further, laying his palm against the smooth curve of her thigh.]
Let me feel you inside me.
[The words are intoned as something between a gasp and a moan. A plea. Let's drown in each other tonight. Let's forget what we are for a few hours.]
[Une's hips roll forward in a long, luxuriant stroke- and he gives a deep shudder as every muscle stiffens and then releases with a heartfelt sigh. Before he can talk himself out of it he's responding on instinct, his hand smoothing down her back as the other fans across her thigh, feeling each movement through bare skin and thin skirt.
Had he the cheeks for it he'd blush at her candor, but as it is he can only feel his mask warm against her temple. Another tell. He may not be hard, yet, but there's no hiding the thrum of his heart from her lips.]
Lady Une... [Still hesitant, still skittish. But he's cupping her waist now, neat beneath her blouse, and his fingers are inching up her leg. Their proximity is intoxicating; now he's half-nuzzling her in a wordless appeal for more, as though leaving his wishes unspoken might better soothe his conscience. Never mind what she's thinking, never mind what he's thinking.]
[The metal of his mask is smooth against her cheek, caressing her skin as he finds enough courage to return her touches in kind. He's hesitant though, towing the line between resistance and surrender. His hand traces her spine through her blouse and she persists in rocking her hips at a languid pace especially now that his other hand is moving up her thigh. It would please her to watch him shatter and give in to her, to make him take her and seize what's been denied him far too often.
Having been in his acquaintance for near a decade, she's seen the way other women look at him. Faint gasps hidden behind demure hands raised to their lips. The men would feign bravado, forcing themselves to look him in the eye through his mask. Even then, their knees would betray them, trembling ever so slightly. How could they ever understand what it means to endure? Deformity is proof of strength, a mark that sets one apart to be shunned purely for not pleasing the eyes of others. If one can make their way in the world despite such a disadvantage, they deserve nothing but admiration. Pity would be the worst insult. She leans back into his hand a little before laying her forehead against his mask, hands rising to touch the metal curves where his cheeks should be. Though slow, she moves her face close, laying her lips on what she assumes to be his brow. All the while, her hips just keep moving, waiting for him to be bold.]
I want you. Please.
Edited (oops behind not between) 2014-04-14 18:29 (UTC)
The black ink bleeds into white only slightly, fine lines expanding as they soak onto the perfectly typed up page, into the thick bottom line that had drew his eye more than the typeset and legal bullshit. The business that he’d built for years, had poured more life into than anything else, was now nothing but a smaller faction of a multimillion dollar conglomerate. He’d sold out.
If only he’d had a better business sense. It wasn’t his strongest feature – too interested in the science behind the medicine rather than the dollars, and too easily drawn into the troubles of his clients. Maybe in a past life he’d been a freer spirit, not meant for the business suit that sits so heavily on his shoulders, tie utterly suffering.
It’s for the best. That’s what he keeps telling himself, lowering the pen back onto the table with a slowness that could only be compared to a man trudging his way into the grave. ]
All right. Done.
[ His voice is rough, the best indication he’s feeling anything at all - outwardly cool, collected, even when he feels like his whole world is being ripped away. What else does he have left now?
… His wife? Oh, well. Anyway.
What’s important is gone. No longer his. He glances up to study the woman shrewd enough to have bought out business after business. Boss? If she’s kind enough to allow him to stay on, if only in just the developmental sense. He’d always had a green thumb when it came to developing medicines – the true reason his business made it so far, even if it feels pointless now. ]
Is there any way… [ he stops to change his sentence, lifting his chin as he leans back in the chair, muscles aching ] I’d like to stay on board somehow, if possible.
[There's a rigid quality to his signature, all sharp points to rival the edge on her eyeliner wing. He's all angles, jaunty and slender on a diet of caffeine and late night discoveries. Skeletal. She can see him fitting in a high school locker, shoved in by his fair share of bullies for keeping his nose buried in SAT prep rather than in some girl's thighs.
Didn't I always have a thing for nerds?
With a little polish, he could be quite easy on the eyes. Run a comb through that platinum blond hair. Keep him in bed for a few days to soften the dark circles around those green eyes. Smarten up his look with a suit that doesn't look like it belongs in a Macklemore music video. This could be... fun.]
[ He continues to study her, unblinking with his unsettling bright green eyes - like he's trying to peer right through her (and maybe, right now, he is). What can he offer her? He's desperate to keep attached to his work somehow, keep developing his research. There's so much he can do... giving up now is unthinkable. The downsides of giving yourself completely to your work.
What does she want to hear? While he's always been gifted with the smaller workings of life, with biology and chemistry, he's never been quite so good with people. Another reason his business wasn't exactly an overall success. ]
I've been doing a lot of research. I'm close to some breakthroughs. I might be able to force remission in chronic patients, and maybe even cancer patients...
[ That's the sort of thing she'd want to know about, right? Talk numbers, dollar amounts, show results?
He rests his hands on the table, the tips of his fingers tapping lightly against the sleek surface. Somehow, just that doesn't feel good enough. There are plenty of people who can research and develop -- not as well as him, perhaps, but 20 intelligent people might be able to scrape together a portion of what he can. ]
And I'll... do anything else. [ Hell, he'll even go back to working a mailroom like he did when he was a teenager, if it meant that he could climb his way back up. ] I'll give you all of me. [ Or what's left. ]
[As much as she tries to hold it back, laughter bubbles up in her throat. She keeps her lipsticked mouth pursed, trying to stay ladylike. Way back when, she had a propensity for snorting when she laughed and that just wouldn't do. Scrambling to maintain poise, she shakes her head and looks him in the eye to regain composure.]
Desperation doesn't look too good on you, Professor. Are you stealing the script your short-skirted students use when they want to raise a D?
[And she has thrown a glance or two at his own D.
Wonder if my A can do anything for that. I did just workout this morning.]
[ That actually gets a short laugh out of him, a huff of breath that's quick as the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breaks his eye-contact to look out the window. ]
I can't say anything like that's ever happened. [ He's not quite so thick that the possible connotations are totally lost on him... but he decides that no, of course she doesn't mean anything like that, it would be extremely unprofessional to think so. ]
I'm willing to do what I have to in order to keep what I've worked for alive. It's all I have. [ A desperate man makes an honest man? This is his last chance, isn't it? Before she grabs the contract, walks out the door, and cruises away in her expensive car.
He knows how ridiculous, how silly he must look, but he's never much cared about appearances - if the fact that he's never owned a brand name suit is any indication. He always felt more comfortable in a coat. ]
Or is it hopeless? [ :c Give a hobo a job, c'monnnn. The power is distinctly out of his hands, and he can feel it -- it's enough to chafe under even when desperate times call for desperate measures. ]
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margaery
oops sorry this took awhile w/e w/e SORT OF DREAM SEQUENCE???
The steps up to the Sept are welcoming though she can't help but think of them as befouled. Ned Stark was slain here. Sansa's lord father... Her delicate hands push against the heavy doors, and she lets herself in. There are many other devout, praying well into the night. She walks toward the statue of the Crone, ready to kneel and beg for wisdom. However, before she can genuflect, a flash of red catches her eye, disappearing around the corner to hide behind the Stranger's menacing form.
Could it be...]
Une - domestic meme/romantic retreat
\o/
I never meant to stay.
At first, she made a point of leaving before he woke in the morning. They carried on like this for the first three to four years without incident. In time, she found herself reluctant to leave the comfort of his arms, telling herself there would be no harm in staying for a morning shower. He certainly made it worth her while, pinning her against smooth tile as warm water coursed over them. Shared showers soon escalated into breakfast for two. There was a point in time when she even considered retiring to stay with him. Mid-life crises make fools out of the best of us.
Unconsciously, she runs a finger over the long vertical slash on her belly, a healed scar that still bleeds her heart dry. She'd really thought her pregnancy was a sign telling her it was time to leave the high-stress government job for something a bit more idyllic. Fate plays cruel games. It had taken her seven months to muster up the courage to tell him and then...
It's a point in her life she'd rather not dwell on.
Red. So much red.
He stayed through it all despite the shock and grief she brought with her. He never meant to stay either.
Nuzzling against his neck, she ponders how far they've come. He was just some boy trying to get drunk on cheap booze at a small town bar. Now, he's rising up in the world, slowly securing himself an education. They no longer fuck in cheap motels and dark alleyways unless they're feeling nostalgic. She flies him along on business trips, laying with him on silk sheets in a hundred different cities. Outside their window, Las Vegas winks with a thousand shimmering lights. It's a city made for gambling and, after ten years, she thinks it's about time she placed her bet. In one hushed breath, she whispers in his ear.]
I love you.
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[It's because of her that he's become even half of what he is today and he knows it. He gave her something to strive for, a reason to do better than what he did back home. He wanted to be someone who wouldn't die easily or die young because he was wrapped up in shady business... it had been easy money, but this was better.
They had their ups and downs. The downs had been particularly bad. The baby, everything...
He let out a sigh and turned his head to press a kiss to her forehead.]
Glad we got away for a bit. Think we needed it.
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But they're gone now. It's all over.
Still, memories of him in that hospital bed still haunt her nightmares. They'd stabbed him repeatedly and left him for dead. If that late night jogger hadn't found him sooner... no, those aren't thoughts she wants to dwell on. With the warmth of his kiss still lingering on her forehead, she grants him one of her own, laying her lips on a scar just above his heart. It's hard for her to find the words to say anything. This isn't something she deserves.]
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His eyes drift down to where her hand is tracing over his scars. He still has a lot of old ones left over. A constant reminder every time he looks in the mirror is the one still lingering across his cheek. It's faded a lot, but not enough.
That had been the closest he'd ever come to dying... It hadn't been pleasant. It wasn't something he liked to think about at all, most days. Slowly, he brings his hand up to take hers.]
What are you thinking? [He likes to think he can tell by now, when there's something on her mind, when she's preoccupied. They've got plenty to be preoccupied with really.]
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That was selfish of me.
[He makes her want to be selfish, to know that his heart is hers and hers alone. She wants to think they'll never be parted, to harbor romantic dreams fit for children without a single notion of the world's cruelty. But he has a life to live... If he were to tie his life to hers, she'd be robbing him of the chance for something better. She brings his fingers to her lips, kissing them, silencing herself. The last time she'd dared to love someone, he'd been lost to her in a hail of fire.]
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Every one has a price but, until now, she had no idea what hers could possibly be. If there's anything she lacks, it's an inflated sense of self. She knows she can be bought but it's only today that someone's made the right bid. He swept into the bar like he owned the place, chatting her up and keeping the cocktails coming. Soon, his mouth would leave the rim of his glass to engulf her lips and twine their tongues. Perhaps it was the alcohol but she appreciated his boldness, returning his kisses with the same force. He pushed her to public indecency, resting his hand on her thigh, making his intentions all too clear. It was only then that she pulled away, noticing the stares from the bar's other patrons.
That was when he truly proved his worth. With a whisper to the barkeep, he got last call rolling along hours ahead of schedule, sending customers out the door. With a snide smile, the barkeep himself retreated to the back room, leaving her alone with her benefactor for the night.
She's not quite sure how but he soon has her lying under him on the bar top. His mouth is voracious, nearly bruising her lips with his veracity. One of his hands kneads at her breast through her blouse while the other finds its way under her skirt. She's gasping for breath, feeling him igniting her arousal as his fingers stroke her through her underwear.]
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In particular, he's learned how to speak to women when he lays eyes on them and decides that he wants under and up her skirt with her blouse open and everything eventually laid bare.
Which is what he's aiming for soon. There's no issues with money in the Targaryen bank account. It's easy enough to pay off ten bars in one night if he wanted to. She has reservations, he has money. It works out wonderfully. It'll work out for the best if, after all is said and done with, she doesn't end up calling or tracking him down because if he can do that with his money, surely he could buy her nice, expensive things. Earrings. Necklaces. Cars.
He's not here for that.
What he's here for is what he's getting, and he's not going to complain about what he's getting back. It's only fitting that he manages to spark something inside her—he didn't go on about it and won't unless it comes up, but his family, well. They've got quite the thing for dragons. Dragons that rise from ash and breathe flame and conquer all in their way. As the last son, he is the dragon. If he cannot even fire up a woman sexually, what hope does he have to bring honor back to the family name with a proper marriage and some sort of...career? He demands from her and wants demanding in return, because good sex is about both parties enjoying themselves. If he bruises her lips, he expects that in return. If she manages to bite him and draw blood with a minute amount of pain, even better. His hand underneath on her breast eventually joins his other under her skirt as he gives no hesitation to pulling her panties down, breaking away with a lust-addled grin on his face.]
Tell me, Elle. [It rhymes. He's a little intoxicated. It's moderately amusing to him.] If I'm going to eat your cunt...do you want your skirt off so you can watch or would you prefer it on so you don't feel obliga...gated to do that?
[Or, perhaps, enjoy it and pretend he's someone else. There's no need to say that much, he feels.]
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Take it off.
[It's always good to have a front row seat to a spectacle and this night is proving to be all that and more.]
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If the course of a sexual escapade was always readily apparent, where would the fun be in that?]
As the lady commands.
[And isn't that something to hear from a man so wealthy he can buy out an entire bar? A man who's very stride speaks to his high self-esteem, or so he wants others to think. She does not ask. She does not tack on a "please" or an "I want you to." She gives him three words, and order, and that would be more than enough to get him ready if he hadn't been before.
The skirt comes off slowly, not wanting to rip it and wanting to take in the view with as much time to savor it as possible, to give him just enough to appreciate her naked from the waist down. The look on his face? He definitely appreciates it. Tossed to the floor, he grips her hips to force her back a little more on the bar so his position isn't so awkward. There's just one glance up to her face as he pushes her blouse up to kiss at her navel, and then he's completely focused as he works his way down. An open, wet, eager mouth moves further along the line of her stomach and his focus shifts completely to her. Her pleasure. His tongue licking down, between her folds, his teeth brushing along her clit before he turns his head to nip at her inner thigh. Oh yes, he's between them. He means to make her grab his hair and tug him in one direction or the other according to her wants. But a little foreplay, a little something to prod the fire—nothing wrong with that.
He knows what he's doing. He knows he's teasing. That much is obvious when he lets out a chuckle, even if it ends up something more like a groan as he wonders if his pants have managed to get smaller since he took her skirt off.]
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At the moment, she can't bring herself to care who he is. He could be death itself, laying its claim on her in the most perverse way possible; and she would still open her legs for him. She breathes in the heady scent of cedar and sandalwood drifting off his skin as they bring each other to a simmer. Her fingers tangle in his hair, combing through the smooth tendrils and encouraging him even as she tries to quiet her moans.
The warmth of his breath is so tantalizingly close to where she wants him to be. Close but not quite there. He's playing a game and they both know it. It's her turn to make a move and she decides on something brash. Her legs lift to rest on the back of his shoulders, pulling him closer as she locks her ankles behind his neck.]
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Une- the interspecies romance meme
There had been drinks, to start with- one glass of wine, to be precise, though he'd only sipped at it in deference to his training diet. They'd talked, he'd relaxed a little, and then...]
Lady Une... [She straddles the firm bulk of his thighs; he's not sure how she managed to insinuate herself into his lap where he sits, but she has done so seamlessly and before he could work up even a half-hearted protest. He's trapped in a double bind: he cannot move her without seeming disrespectful or hurtful, and he cannot leave her where she is without seeming ungentlemanly. What he actually wants lies somewhere in between, and trying to work through it is as worrying as he knew it would be when he replaced the receiver earlier that night.
There's something patently ridiculous about letting manners bother him in this scenario of all things, but it's something to hold onto nonetheless.] This is a bad idea. We both know that. [His voice is soft, faltering and entirely unconvincing. The impulse strikes him that he'd like to touch her hair, but he keeps one hand by his side and the second hovering indecisively over her shoulder. Too strong a touch could intimidate.]
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Each swallow of wine goes down rough, warmth flowing down from the back of her throat to sink to the pit of her stomach. She's never had much of a taste for reds. Too sharp and acidic. Too much like the lipstick she leaves on the rim of her wine glass and the kisses she surrenders to lovers who never linger for more than a night. Once her glass is emptied, she sets it on the coffee table, leaving her free to proceed with her next whim.
She frees her feet from her heels and lifts her legs onto the couch. Rearing up, her knees sink into the couch cushions and she moves to straddle him. With her legs parted over his lap, the hem of her skirt hikes up by an inch or two. She loops her arms around his neck, leaning in to whisper in his ear.]
That's beside the point, isn't it? Don't you want to touch me?
thanks for the delay internet
- but then she's curling around him and he audibly catches his breath. Her body's soft against the firm expanse of his chest and shoulders, and her voice softer still.]
... I... [Une is absolutely right- all the way down to the gentle insistence nudging at more than an embrace- but he's been too well-trained to admit that himself. His hand shakes for a moment- then finally comes to rest on her shoulder. It's large enough that his thumb half-climbs the lean slope of her neck.]
That's not fair. I want to, but... [a small sigh] ... we shouldn't. You'll regret it.
it's no problem! really enjoying things so far :)
Each twitch of her hips is nice and slow, a wave kissing the shore on a peaceful night, coming and going with a gentle rhythm. She takes hold of his idle hand, dainty fingers failing to encircle the full circumference of his wrist. Though he dwarfs her, the power has shifted between them. She gives his wrist a tug, guiding it to push her skirt up further, laying his palm against the smooth curve of her thigh.]
Let me feel you inside me.
[The words are intoned as something between a gasp and a moan. A plea. Let's drown in each other tonight. Let's forget what we are for a few hours.]
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Had he the cheeks for it he'd blush at her candor, but as it is he can only feel his mask warm against her temple. Another tell. He may not be hard, yet, but there's no hiding the thrum of his heart from her lips.]
Lady Une... [Still hesitant, still skittish. But he's cupping her waist now, neat beneath her blouse, and his fingers are inching up her leg. Their proximity is intoxicating; now he's half-nuzzling her in a wordless appeal for more, as though leaving his wishes unspoken might better soothe his conscience. Never mind what she's thinking, never mind what he's thinking.]
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Having been in his acquaintance for near a decade, she's seen the way other women look at him. Faint gasps hidden behind demure hands raised to their lips. The men would feign bravado, forcing themselves to look him in the eye through his mask. Even then, their knees would betray them, trembling ever so slightly. How could they ever understand what it means to endure? Deformity is proof of strength, a mark that sets one apart to be shunned purely for not pleasing the eyes of others. If one can make their way in the world despite such a disadvantage, they deserve nothing but admiration. Pity would be the worst insult. She leans back into his hand a little before laying her forehead against his mask, hands rising to touch the metal curves where his cheeks should be. Though slow, she moves her face close, laying her lips on what she assumes to be his brow. All the while, her hips just keep moving, waiting for him to be bold.]
I want you. Please.
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went a little overboard tl;dr /)_(\ hope this is ok! i can edit if not
♥♥♥
making assumptions about scarring based on your notes :)
that's totally fine with me!
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move to bed y/n? uwu she can wrap around him and he can carry her?
aww yes that's cute
<3
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new account just for you uwu
oh my u///u just for me
yes uwu for writing such pretty things
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could she push him onto his back and keep him inside? fall asleep on his chest with him inside her?
that sounds adorable yes please
awesome! it'll be a nice bridge to morning after shenanigans! :)
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i actually have the perfect icon for this uwu
abloo that's cute
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧
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please excuse the delay!
no problem ahhh it's lovely
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this just makes me want him to pull the amnesia cliche down the line OTL
this is going to be so messy wow
comes with the territory :U can she give him a handjob?
girl you know it
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YOU CAN EDIT INTO FOREVER
ty ilu ;A; i'm such a ditz at this
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rush tag before my net dies ;A; w/e special priorities
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shhh warsman you're not a horse; you're just hung like one
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wow please do excuse my lateness rn
shhh i look forward to this every time uwu
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guess we semi-fastforward once they hit the bookshop
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oops :>
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fountain next? :> also oops wrong account
perfect!
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Ok set up the car crash and i'll reply to that with a starter link for a log wow
this took an obscenely long time and I am so, so sorry
YOU'RE STILL AMAZING THO
unez
The black ink bleeds into white only slightly, fine lines expanding as they soak onto the perfectly typed up page, into the thick bottom line that had drew his eye more than the typeset and legal bullshit. The business that he’d built for years, had poured more life into than anything else, was now nothing but a smaller faction of a multimillion dollar conglomerate. He’d sold out.
If only he’d had a better business sense. It wasn’t his strongest feature – too interested in the science behind the medicine rather than the dollars, and too easily drawn into the troubles of his clients. Maybe in a past life he’d been a freer spirit, not meant for the business suit that sits so heavily on his shoulders, tie utterly suffering.
It’s for the best. That’s what he keeps telling himself, lowering the pen back onto the table with a slowness that could only be compared to a man trudging his way into the grave. ]
All right. Done.
[ His voice is rough, the best indication he’s feeling anything at all - outwardly cool, collected, even when he feels like his whole world is being ripped away. What else does he have left now?
… His wife? Oh, well. Anyway.
What’s important is gone. No longer his. He glances up to study the woman shrewd enough to have bought out business after business. Boss? If she’s kind enough to allow him to stay on, if only in just the developmental sense. He’d always had a green thumb when it came to developing medicines – the true reason his business made it so far, even if it feels pointless now. ]
Is there any way… [ he stops to change his sentence, lifting his chin as he leans back in the chair, muscles aching ] I’d like to stay on board somehow, if possible.
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Didn't I always have a thing for nerds?
With a little polish, he could be quite easy on the eyes. Run a comb through that platinum blond hair. Keep him in bed for a few days to soften the dark circles around those green eyes. Smarten up his look with a suit that doesn't look like it belongs in a Macklemore music video. This could be... fun.]
What can you offer me?
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What does she want to hear? While he's always been gifted with the smaller workings of life, with biology and chemistry, he's never been quite so good with people. Another reason his business wasn't exactly an overall success. ]
I've been doing a lot of research. I'm close to some breakthroughs. I might be able to force remission in chronic patients, and maybe even cancer patients...
[ That's the sort of thing she'd want to know about, right? Talk numbers, dollar amounts, show results?
He rests his hands on the table, the tips of his fingers tapping lightly against the sleek surface. Somehow, just that doesn't feel good enough. There are plenty of people who can research and develop -- not as well as him, perhaps, but 20 intelligent people might be able to scrape together a portion of what he can. ]
And I'll... do anything else. [ Hell, he'll even go back to working a mailroom like he did when he was a teenager, if it meant that he could climb his way back up. ] I'll give you all of me. [ Or what's left. ]
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Desperation doesn't look too good on you, Professor. Are you stealing the script your short-skirted students use when they want to raise a D?
[And she has thrown a glance or two at his own D.
Wonder if my A can do anything for that. I did just workout this morning.]
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I can't say anything like that's ever happened. [ He's not quite so thick that the possible connotations are totally lost on him... but he decides that no, of course she doesn't mean anything like that, it would be extremely unprofessional to think so. ]
I'm willing to do what I have to in order to keep what I've worked for alive. It's all I have. [ A desperate man makes an honest man? This is his last chance, isn't it? Before she grabs the contract, walks out the door, and cruises away in her expensive car.
He knows how ridiculous, how silly he must look, but he's never much cared about appearances - if the fact that he's never owned a brand name suit is any indication. He always felt more comfortable in a coat. ]
Or is it hopeless? [ :c Give a hobo a job, c'monnnn. The power is distinctly out of his hands, and he can feel it -- it's enough to chafe under even when desperate times call for desperate measures. ]
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