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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 129
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5432.16 Silver Crowns

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PostPosted: Fri Apr 27, 2018 2:37 pm    Post subject: [NSFW] ††† Reply with quote

(Written with Nathan's player as live play. Thank you. No, really, thank you.)


This is a trick
Hello, hello, I know
What this really is
I know hello, hello
This is a trick
Hello, hello, I know
What this really is
I know hello, hello, hello
I'm so excited I can hardly take it
- "this is a trick" †††


Millicent looked rather provincial and maybe a little older. Not in face or figure, but in demeanor, mundanity, and attire. She wore a white, extra-fuzzy cashmere sweater with a long, but wide neck that flopped open and showed a shoulder and gratuitous collar bone. It would be a little waspy if it didn't have a small webwork of white leather straps and buckles that bound her ribs and torso. It was a couture, but sophisticated style, like the white, asymmetrical pencil skirt she also wore. Regardless, this was ever more suburban by the way she had a tote bag hooked on her arm to tend to her shopping. It was opened wide to place her groceries, brought along with her as evidence of the environmentally conscious times. She furrowed her brows as she ran her long, white piano fingers over her fruits of choice. Fruits of her labors too, as she was having difficulty selecting among the red and green mangos. Her lips were pursed and she tilted her head, her white tendrilling hair spilled over her features, occluding one of her too-green eyes. A woman lost in thought in a grocery store.

For Nathan, ordinary was the order of the day, and he could have been any other shopper in a set of run-down jeans and Converse, a happenstance pattern on a button-up shirt cutting a tidy if slightly untamed silhouette in the produce section. The misters on the refrigerated wall went off to the mellow background melody of songs that were even older than he was now. But he wasn't any other, and a furrow snapped across his brow when a dandelion head caught in the corner of his eye. For all of a second, he wrote it off as some kind of wishful thinking before fully balking the double-take. What... the ***--he mimed the words silently, having learned not to disturb strangers as much with his inner monologue in such mundane settings. "No," was the first thing he said, with an authority and certainty. "These are not the mangos you're looking for..."

Millicent tapped on one of the fruit like it was a piano key and like it would play a note she would recognize as an indication of its ripeness or suitability. It did not. As the newcomer approached, she lifted her hand and tapped that same finger on her lower lip. Her mellifluous laughter, recognition and amusement, spilled out in a lazy harmony. She looked over, an askance sort of glance (niceties in the produce aisle) and she began with "I--" and ended with the same syllable. Her face was a storm of thought and emotion, none recognizable as they flitted by so very fast. Tumultuous. But her body language was easy, languid, she turned to him. And then her smile bloomed like the velvet petals of a flower. "Hi." So simple. So soft. And the moment hung there, laden and infinite. Something loomed, precipitous-- but time had a way of standing still.

Greetings were things that other people did, though for a moment he aped her uncertainty as his mouth thinned reconsidering whether he was being impersonal. He strolled much too far into her orbit to be regarded as distant however, smelling mainly like the same familiar skin and a splash of cologne that was questionably rich for daylight. He'd been contemplating the overall vegetal and chemical smell of the produce and the floor wax, but now he was six-seconds deep into contemplating what her sweater would feel like stretched across his face with her body warm behind it -- and this was the awkward stutter of 'will I' and 'won't I' before his arms snaked around her. Fruit. He concentrated on it because there was not space or time for all the words. The twitch of tension in his body was a palpable thing, coming and going and starting to wind up again as he forced his arms loose enough to let her look at him or the produce. "Hello. The yellow ones, or the Philippine ones, otherwise you might as well have a *** apple. Or some retarded pears."


One body, one mind. It was only disbelief that had paused her embrace of him. A need and necessity of touch running through her veins like molten things, dark and from the deepest parts of the earth. Foundational places that linked them keenly and distinctly. Her wrap of arms around him was serpentine and complete, and she buried her features into the nape of his neck to inhale him. All of him- heat and scent all at once like she needed to rewrite his distinct signatures desperately and in order to justify how she embraced him. She felt all of the things that shifted through him, and she loaned him the bird-like, fragile inhales of her breath that somehow, silently, or just very softly, spoke his name. The separation to look at him-- matching eyes to eyes, pale-pink lipped smiles to words-- was difficult. Her reception of his words was also something of a burden, because so much was unsaid. Composure was a quality she did not find easy. Her smile brightened for him, though. And she took his suggestions to heart even as her gaze devoured his features again, like she needed to recommit them to memory. She laughed for his sincerity at such a simple topic, and she touched his face with her palm as she was finally able to release him, just a little. "So, so cruel to pears, Nathan." And then she just couldn't help herself and she pressed her mouth to the corner of his in an extended crush of a kiss that came with a lift of her shoulders that made it look forceful, but it was, in truth, as soft as the scent of her - amber and vanilla. She glowed.

It might have gone another way if she'd been selecting kiwis or perusing the sadly under-ripe selection of bananas. Some people had it in for berries or exotic oranges and even more mythical fruits -- but among his collection of quirks had grown a specific regard for mango in particular. And pineapple, but that was another tale and not much related to the common rumors and or facts of that popular fruit. He didn't have any twelve-step program to latch onto when she put her face into his neck, but he'd known preemptively that he was stepping straight into the deep end again. Almost dizzy with the re-circulation and intensity of his interest, it was a call on the speakers overhead for shopper assistance on aisle five that reminded him there was anything else. He made some abject noise of rebuttal, having nothing really against pears themselves nor any compulsion to defend their standing. "I think it says more about the green ones, when you really think about it. Why are you here? I know why you're here-- you moved, though. What are you doing after this? Do you have a list?" The lids of his eyes lay a bit lower now across the bright green bands. He didn't ask why the sweater was so soft or why she had to touch him in all the right ways and places so effortlessly it was criminal, and only pushed the angle of his cheek into her fingers. The gaze he watched her with after the kiss was pointed, but less than sharp while his hands waited restless and mild on her hips.


There was something too-akin to an addict returning to a favorite vice. There was relief and delight and serenity and desire and resolve and a feeling of coming home. And none of these things existed a moment ago, and muscle memory conscripted none of it. But it all came rushing back. The jarring announcement had been necessary because the air had been sucked out of the immediate vicinity. It had been hard to find words. And then he flooded her with so many. One of her hands found rest at the nape of his neck, the other at the small of his back, and her fingers pet him like they prowled him but also with the same drug-seeking attentiveness that she was utterly unaware of. Her smile was laden with a dreamy quality that she seemed to have picked up from his skin. "I.. I.. yes.. I...No. I'm just.. I don't know, I feel like I wander a lot. I just...wanted something and came. I walked. Even though it's so far. Can you talk? Are you hungry? Or... I know a bar- " And sotto voce "I don't know." I don't know how to say everything I want to say all at once. So, she embraced him again. Sinking all of her softness against him and laying her cheek against his chest like she could hide from the weight of his gaze and bury herself in her other senses. Overwhelmed.

He'd been non-committal shopping through the coffee beans as a first priority upon striding into the store, and he rarely ever bought more than his arms and hands could manage unless it was a binge with a potentially post-apocalyptic basket spree. So he hummed and rolled his gaze cleverly away from hers to observe any potential witnesses before grabbing aside at a couple of palm-sized honey mangoes that he stuffed into her tote before stooping to sweep her knees over an elbow. It was as impatient as it was ridiculous to carry her cradled in his arms out of the broad set of automatic doors, to say nothing of the two-and-a-half dollar shop-lifted fruits. "Who else lives there? I am hungry, but I think bar food is fine." The grandeur of the exit was as short-lived as silly, and he set her back down on the sidewalk. At least out here on the street, he had more compulsion to walk beside her.

A soft sound of surprise, it was not resistance or reticence, it was just an exhale with a note of her voice played upon it. She may have murmured his name as she saw the thievery but she was too caught up in the moment of it as he lifted her up. She stole something of her own then, she pressed her shoulders and her cheekbone into him. For a moment she was caught in nostalgia, in a childish sort of delight. Then she almost chided, "No one lives there, silly. Just me. Oh you will love it. It's beautiful, it was this run down church and I made it modern kinda... and the sky you can see through the holes in the roof... it .. Oh it's perfect and lovely but it's far out of town so no one can bother me." She smoothed her skirt as he placed her down and she continued to titter on. "I made it like.. like it came out of a dream. I wonder if you'll feel the same. Where are you now? And did you know, our cousin has a bar here. It's where I spend a lot of time, it's lovely." She reached for his hand and thread her fingers with his, entwining them and gripping him tightly. She pulled his hand against her, pressing it against her stomach, against leather and cashmere alike, but she didn't have the heart to start walking just yet. She looked at him, she really looked at him. A sea-secret quality to her heavy stare, like she was trying to pierce those dream-layers she spoke of, like he had walked out of them, like he was made of a different thing and it was hard to capture him in full through the cloudiness of a more simple, duller world.

"Is it holes in the roof or are they windows?" An important distinction, and some little detail to get lost in that kept him at least partially preoccupied from sinking into all the other devils starting to whisper in the further corners of his mind. He'd had a notion to harangue her up and down the aisles of groceries, but not even his conveniently malleable logic could find any compelling subjects to languor over there that would keep them far enough apart and garner unwanted attention and interruption. She was easier to resist when she was just a notion and a memory in his head. "In a flat that's just a little too big and mostly boring. So that I have a reason to leave it," his fingers squeezed and the back of his hand pushed and pulled toward a hip before peeling off, pulling her into motion. "You can show me. I don't doubt your taste. I want to see. Is that the bar we should go to? Which cousin?"


"Well, it was holes... That I just sort of had covered with glass. So it looks like the roof fell in, which it did...really...and you can see the sky. And there's a shade thing you can move with a switch, so the daylight isn't too bad...and at night you can see the stars." She was sort of beaming at him, like they were playing childhood games of show and tell and weaving stories from their imaginations. Which they were. And it was the trickle of words that laid between them that kept them apart. Like freezing water in rock crevices, because if he hadn't set them to motion, she was afraid that the tides of their interaction would have pressed them together in a very permanent sort of way. Like tectonic plates. "I...yes, maybe .. maybe the bar is best. I don't have much to eat at home and honestly I am hungry, too. And it's Amelia, our British cousin.. on our mom's side. The one I went to school with." When they took me away. When we were apart for the very first time. "Nathan. I missed you." Like a title credit in a movie, slashing the background noise with something low and thrumming. Something for him. For them both, really. Something she needed him to know.

Nathan spared a portion of his imagination to picture what these glass-covered holes in the ceiling of a previously abandoned church would look like, but she interrupted that casual reverie with her confession. It never alarmed him that she knew without him asking or saying or even otherwise hinting at what he wanted or -needed-, it was just mildly startling when he'd been apart from it for so long, like a flick of static electricity. Walking a straight line wasn't something that he could do sober, and with a partner he was even more prone to small diversions like the sweeping stride that turned him in front of her. Something feral about him was easier to notice now, an unabashed and quiet demand in the rake of his fingers cruising over her cheek and fanning out to push the hair away from her face and behind her ear. He pulled his mouth up close to her ear, and didn't worry whether the side eye contact was unnerving or obtrusive. "So. Much," he agreed with an emphatic whisper, stalling their stroll toward the aforementioned bar for a few moments. "You feel like candy floss. I'm going to put my mouth all over you later."

Millicent's breaths were deep and felt like they could go on forever. She could just inhale and inhale and inhale and she could take the whole world, the whole moment, inside. And when she exhaled, more than breath came spilling out of her. And it kept running and running like she could run on empty. That was a place they both knew. It was also a place they both dispelled. So she breathed there, subsiding on the thick air through secret-gills they both had. She watched his features as he thought, and she molded to his fingers as he touched her. She nuzzled his hand like she could lead him in the dance of brushing her hair, and then she let her eyes drift closed under his weighted stare so she could feel the warmth of his words on her skin and bones. "I like that," she said, to the imagery of candy floss. It made her feel light, and pretty. But to the other part she disagreed in her bones-- for her fingers reached up, (they were partially clouded in her long, impossibly soft sleeves) and emerged to find the line of his jaw on either side and pull his mouth to hers. Hers was open, and it subsumed him as she licked his lips with the flat of her tongue before smearing her inner lips closed against him to turn a feral taste into an actual kiss. And she did it again. And again. The law of three.
_________________


Last edited by Millicent Grim on Tue Jul 17, 2018 8:34 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 129
See this user's pet
Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5432.16 Silver Crowns

Items

PostPosted: Fri May 11, 2018 2:14 pm    Post subject: And it’s showing through your stare Reply with quote

You hang there on the wall
You’ve carved out your place
But I can tell you shake from inside
I see it all the time
The feel is always there
Just frozen in your mind from inside
I wasn’t gonna play it tonight
But I can’t help it, the feeling's alive
As long as you play my game, I’ll let you win
Before your entrance wave
Before we play this game
I like to feel you break from inside
You’re gold and pink inside
And it’s showing through your stare
It’s frozen us in time, from inside
I wasn’t gonna play it tonight
But I can’t help it the feeling's alive
As long as you play my game, I’ll let you win
Come play my game
I’ll let you win
I wasn’t gonna play it tonight
But I can’t help it the feeling's alive
As long as you play my game, I’ll let you win



-- "telepathy" †††

She was too much in all the right ways, and in the world according to Nathan, no one else remotely deserved her not only because they could never fully comprehend the extent of how exquisite she was. She was precious, whatever the metaphor, and it wasn't all gentle and reverent handling that produced such stunning results. He was of course heavily biased, but how anyone had managed to walk away from her and make do with any substitution was confounding. Nathan only did it when she made him--consciously or unconsciously--due to will or circumstance. The minor collection of relationships he had otherwise suffered directly, and anyone who had suited his fancy to a closer degree had inevitably been flawed in some irreparable or irrevokable way. He rarely ever intended even to quit her honestly, he just had to stop now and then. The noise that rumbled in the pit of his throat between kisses two and three was utterly reflexive and animal. This was why he'd pulled them out of the semi-privacy of the grocery where there were shelves and nooks to hide in -- and a minor but loud chorus of his consciecce started shouting over the loud rush of heart beats in his ears about being on the street and people with cameras and not giving her another excuse to say no with ruining her life. He wasn't exactly altruistic, but her own good was the only reason that he pulled his tongue out of her mouth or dragged his lips away from hers, pulling one of them with him a bit on the way to turning around. "...you can't do that yet. I mean... I don't care," he didn't, really, not for his own sake. "But someone will write it up that your brother's a pervert walking down the street with a hard-on and then it'll get weird."


Millicent had constructed more than her home since he had been gone. Or she had been gone. Whichever it was. She had constructed a place for him in her, and had spent time tending to its boarders and bows and wrappings. Clearly that's what must be done, and what could be done and what had been done, as a phone call or a visit or any sort of contact dwindled or disappeared. But it had been the equivalent of walling herself out of herself, and she had been drowning for the last few moments in the torrent and the flood that came seeping out of whatever portion of her she had paid no heed to. She had questions: 'why's and 'how's and even 'when's but thoughts made her dizzy. Right now, all she was was feeling. And for someone who believed in and feared that state utterly-- well, it was vulnerable and raw. Wars of want and restraint coalesced and subsided as she panted softly against his mouth. With much effort she released him like a receding tide-- her hands slipping down his shoulders, the coils of her hair leaving his clothes. She brushed her lower lip with the back of her hand, clearing away a clear gloss that had not been there before. "You're right.... you're right. I just..... I just needed to tell you that, and I didn't know how else to. And I had to. I had to, Nathan." Those brilliant eyes for a moment seemed sad, but then they glittered and her smile emerged as a pure sort of joy. "Everything is weird. It always will be." Plucking a conversational tone from her constitution.

"That's true," he agreed easily, clearing his throat and lathing the taste of her spit from the roof of his mouth in a pause where he also ironed the front of his shirt and pants with the flat of his hand before turning the pair of them open to the world again like a book. "But it's not your fault. And it isn't mine either," that was more difficult to believe but he didn't hesitate to examine it now. "I just want everything to be good for you. So right now, you just have to hang onto it and remember all those things you want to tell me later when you show me the holes in your ceiling." There was a subtle and suspect innuendo there which accounted for the smug smirk that pulled the corners of his mouth and eyes, and resuming a momentum toward the bar it was him who pulled her wrist and hand against the sleek muscled bars of his ribs veiled thinly by the button-up shirt. The breeze generated by traffic on the street tousled his hair carelessly. "I left a voice mail, you know.... Although I guess I'm not sure if it was your phone, really. I wasn't saying anything specific. I'm glad you're making music again -- are you still, or was that just a pretty, artistic belch of some kind?"

She was never as good at addressing things head on with him. Or maybe there was something genetically sly in her. If she didn't say it or name it, it was fine. She could paint the whole world in grey if she so wished it, and perhaps that was what she tried to do. With herself, and with her art. So she peeked at him from the corner of her eyes as they started walking, almost as if she could catch that innuendo in its tracks and pin it there to the side walk and leave it behind, flailing. But she wouldn't let him get away with showing her changes without making him acknowledge them "You... you feel... a little different. Not calm but...like you have an M&M candy coating. ... It suits you. I'm sure it has helped." Helped what? She wouldn't really add. She pressed her shoulder into him and played companion as they walked. Though her fingers had a way of petting buttons and stealing between the fabric of his shirt like she would fix it one moment, and she would open it the next. Other times she merely hooked her finger there. "I lost my phone, I got a new one. Only like....3 people have the number. I'm sorry. And... I think the last album was... it was important. It was why I came back. I just needed to make a gauntlet of myself, I guess, and run through it. I don't know if I'll finish the next one though. It was ... it was about someone, I guess." She was troubled as she tried to find the words. And finding that she truly didn't know how to explain it actually troubled her further. "Maybe some of the pieces. I did two covers on it I am very proud of. I can play them for you later." Like dropping breadcrumbs, her smile was meant to please him, not her. With body language she indicated a turn at the next corner rather than continuing straight.

He said nothing about the candy shell that she suggested for a while, processing or applying it or reliving television adverts that managed to get temporarily lodged in the junk drawer of his mind. "I think I know what you mean? I just think about my head like a fish bowl and let them swim around and bump against the glass until someone asks or it's relevant, maybe? I mean, that's what I do because otherwise I talk more than I've realized other people are comfortable with and not all or even a lot of the people who are comfortable with all the things I'll talk about are necessarily people that I want to be friends or even acquaintances with.... And also, being awkward and impulsive isn't always the best method for seduction. So it's probably just natural." Some of it definitely was -- the way that he was a bit more solid with muscle mass and slightly broader overall.

"So... you feel that talking a lot is awkward and impulsive and it doesn't help you get girls? Is that what I am hearing, Nathan? At least from that first part?" She tilted her head and looked at him a little scrutinizingly. "I mean, I guess it's funny because I often feel the same way about how I can prattle on but I mean -- If they don't like it, to hell with them. Also, I like talking. Or communication. I think it's one of the best things."

He hummed nonspecific concurrent to her admission that the unfinished album was about someone in lieu of 'of course it is,' and only arched one of his brows looking at her aside. "You should. Play them for me, and finish it. Maybe the last songs don't sound like the first songs, but you have to paint the ugly parts if... well, music isn't exactly painting and you could just do a whole album about how the sun shines out of someone's ass, but apparently they weren't all wonderful after all or something? And I don't mean you should write 'I *** on your pillow' tracks or whatever, but you know what I mean. Anyway, I hope it keeps flowing." He followed around the corner and the rest of her unspoken directions until he pulled a door open leaning ahead of her and let them both into the dimmer, more comfortable half-light of a bar.

She pursed her lips and listened as he continued, wrinkling her nose here and there at some of his more course comments as well as a sound he made. "I don't know. I feel like I was wrong about something. So, I'm not sure if I trust what I've already written. I guess the things that are actual experiences are done, and have occurred and are what they are. But people are --" She shrugged. "Maybe I'll just throw it on a disk and call it an EP. I don't feel like it's blocked my creative train of thought, I just feel like I was in a wheel barrow and someone dumped me out on the sidewalk and I don't really know what to say. Or where to pick up? The house has kept me very busy. I guess I made something else. And Jonathan -- " She looked at him, nearly stopping, "Jonathan has been very helpful and has been a good friend. I've been throwing mini dinner parties, like a grown up. I can cook things!" Like she wanted to see the shock on his face. "Also... how the hell did you know it was this place?" Pausing on the threshold of the bar that smelled of the old world as well as the new.

"...Not exactly. It can be, awkward and impulsive, talking. But I meant more that my behavior in general some times can be those things. And yes -- so you can give me that look all you want but you know just as well that when you're prowling about someone, you aren't exactly an unedited version of yourself, either. I'm not suggesting you put on airs -- who even came up with that saying, by the way? -- but you're not just all ... bluerugh, here's the whole jumble of all my thoughts and emotions relevant to eighty-seven points of reference and I hope you enjoy the space suit helmet that I picked up at the thrift store and decided to wear tonight." He made a sprawling gesture with one arm to accompany this explanation, and then penned her into one side of a table. The look of shock wasn't quite so much shock as it was suspicion that she was fibbing. "It doesn't count as cooking if you get take away and put it out on your own plates, you know that, yeah? And because what other place would it be? The one hawking cheese steaks?"

"Psh. I think that's part of my charm. I can yammer on and everyone thinks it's almost kind of artistic. Like I have a stamp on me that says that what I say may be a little more interesting. It's one of the few luxuries of the music deal... " She looked at him, and she actually did smile at him sly-like. Like she had a secret to share with him. "Well, considering the price you pay for all of it." And she pursed her mouth more to one side than the other. "I think I'd look better in a space helmet." She nodded slowly, like she had convinced herself. "Nate. No. Really! Like from uncooked fish markets to table.. I learned to cook a lot of different things actually. Maybe we could-- no, we left the grocery store with nothing..but maybe some time we can do that. I make this really great-- I had sheep when I was in Scotland, like real ones. Alive ones. Jeez, I have so much to say to you." She smiled at his snarky comment. "What do you want to drink? Let me order. Julian is amazing."

"Everyone - especially you - looks better in a space helmet. But I got some mirrored film so it's like being inside a giant aviator sunglass lens.... Are you going to cook me a sheep? If you are, you can't tell me that it's a sheep until after it's in my mouth and especially not if it's a baby sheep. I'm still fine with eating meat, I just also enjoy dissociating from the fact that some of it is kind of adorable when it's still walking around..." The tail end of that thought probably wandered somewhere dark and sordid considering the brief lapse of silence and single snicker afterward. Or else he was just bemused by the idea of her slaughtering animals. "We can go to where ever you want tomorrow and I will sit and judge your cooking skills. Oh. Unless it's haggis. I love you more than you can ever know, but I *** refuse. And why is Jonathan so amazing? Julian is who? I'll have a bourbon or a beer or both..."


Millicent stared and listened and attended to him in every way that attention can attend. She added softly, "I didn't kill them, I sheered them. I made cashmere things and ran this little farm on the Isle of Skye. It was hard to leave." Pieces were coming together slowly. But she caught his private laugh and leaned forward and pressed her mouth to the crown of his forehead and brushed his hair as she was rising to get their drinks. "Sometimes I wish I was in there to know all the things that are going on," she said so quietly. "Especially when you say 'more than you can ever know.'" Her smile peeled away from him. "Jonathan has been my best friend and only really constant companion for maybe a year now. Julian and Moriah are the bartenders, they are masters of their craft. So I am not ordering you a beer, and I will come back with bourbon but I may also bring a whisky cocktail because.. it is...a cocktail bar." And she reached out and stroked his features with her palm another time, slow, and languid, before she'd even consider turning to walk away.


"You filthy artisanal peasant. That does sound very cozy, though. That's for the best because I only ever manage to wait before telling you. Although to that point, it strips me of all that mystery. So I guess I'll have to make being naked more interesting." It was his notion that part of the appeal of strangers was that it was a new puzzle to sort out, and that he was a much more familiar character to her. Waiting at the table with his arms braced against the edge of it, he mulled that strain of thought a bit longer-- the novelty of strangers and whomsoever it was that had put her in the wheel barrow that she felt dumped out of. He didn't get anywhere with it but wore a thin frown at the apparent disregard for her feelings.

Before she left she had to tell him her position on such a thing. Well a few things. "Yup. That was me. In the muck. Covered in dirt and grass stains.. They have snow drops up there you know, in the high lands, I love those flowers. But.. Nathan... You have always held mysteries for me. It's how I learn things from you. When you do them, I feel and see how you got there, but the road was dark and I couldn't have predicted. I can just look back...and for some reason, the choices you made and what you did just always feel, comfortable, like "oh, yes, I would have maybe done that, too." Though.... that's not even true, I just...it just makes sense." And she shrugged, the saggy, open-mouthed sweater seeped down her milk skin as she did so. As if she even had to say.

He was too fair for brooding, or at least that's what even a whisper of daylight suggested. He turned over and over what she said to him before she went to the bar, like a pebble or a rune. However, the inordinate amount of time he spent kicking around in his own head had eventually afforded him more awareness than most people could be troubled with, about himself and other people. It didn't necessarily give him any more clarity or truth, just more and more refined observations piling up waiting to be useful.

She left then, walked the few feet from the table to the bar. It was likely better that way, as she would have tried to read his features. She pressed her hips into the bar and leaned up, lifting most of her weight off her heels, and one foot entirely off the ground. She hailed the pale, somewhat fair male bartender with pitch black rock-star hair and a very hip beard. He made some joke as he approached and their interaction was very friendly and almost familial. Almost. He glanced over at Nathan and smiled at him, mouthing a silent 'hey' and lifting his palm in salute. What any bartender may do when greeting someone special to a special customer. Actually, he was a bit more bubbly and friendly but it was comfortable. Then he was off making the drink orders, and Millicent was smiling brightly at her brother through the mirror behind the bar. Like she could play games through a looking glass. Little Alice.

Following her with his eyes, he ticked a friendly nod and smile along with a carefree wave of his hand at the barman, silently instructing himself not to think too deeply yet and to not get caught staring at her ass. There was time enough for both those activities later, and he pushed himself back from the table to lean comfortably upright in the seat instead, taking in the collected decorations of the place at large and the colorful assortment of spirits on display. "We shouldn't do that any more," was what she'd be greeted with coming back to the table. "It's lonely. You can be alone if you have to but I don't want to be that far apart for that long again. I don't like it, and I don't want to have to wonder where you are or if you are... Because I care more than that. I've just been really terrible at making it apparent."

Julian brought back 3 drinks, two cocktails and a bourbon, neat. Millicent tittered something convivial and then flitted back to the table with her brother. She was an expert at carrying and not spilling coup glasses, the delicate Marie Antoinette shapes filled to the brim were a sight for sore eyes, and an obstacle course in and of themselves. She placed two of those drinks in front of him. His was darker, but both had an essence of an herbal, low thrumming green. She sat on her heels, improper in the bar seat across from him and leaned into the table as she lifted the glass with the intention of a toast. How such things change. Very, very simply she said, softly "... you wondered?" And somewhere soft and wet and warm, she actually didn't know. The inquiry was genuine, though she knew the answer. Two things weren't the same. "I figured you wanted to be alone, too... really."

He gave her a beleaguered look when she questioned him at first, letting it pass on to regard the drinks she brought him instead. The one he didn't have to inspect, he'd grown to know it well enough in its varieties but the other he sniffed a little. More than she knew, though he wasn't as parochial as that aloud. And now the look she was getting was intentional and intense. "All the time," not and rarely ever accurate, he narrowed it down. "Birthdays, holidays... really more days than you probably think. Maybe not every one - we all get distracted, right? - but at least every other two, if only even for a minute. How can I not? Being away doesn't change how I feel. Mmm... I don't think that's what I wanted, but I probably didn't know what I wanted or how to ask for it if I had. What's done is done, I just don't want it to go backward any more." He clinked the glass against hers. "To less stupid," an over-simplification, but he wasn't a fan of wordy toasts and wanted to know what the drink tasted like before the ice melted.

"Sorry." She said softly, both to his look and thorough his answer. She looked down at the table, looked down through her white lashes and watched as she touched the old wood with a fingertip. "I think I tried not to think about you. ...it felt like a good idea. Or like something I should-- shouldn't?-- do. I mean," she looked up at him again, and beleaguered was a very good word for her smile. It looked like it had a task and it was one that was hard to do. "I don't plan on going anywhere. So if you're here, and I'm here...well...there we are. ... *** that isn't even what I want to say." She actually sighed, and the chuff made a coil of her snow white hair reach out for him and slowly glide back to her like falling fingers. "Yeah. Less stupid. More communication. Talking." And she sipped the drink. She got a simple, absinthe laden Last Word, while his was very similar but had a Scotch base and just a bit of honey. If they managed to stay a little longer, she would introduce him to the benedictine based drink that Julian was trying to make inspired by her. But no matter what, the Scotch in that would never let it be white. So it was never meant to be.

"You don't have to apologize. Things just went the way they did..." She picked her way through words and he watched her while they both drank. "Mhmm... It's good to be here now. And I'm glad that Jonathan's been good to you and I know that you need other people than me, too, but... I don't want other people doing things I should have been doing. I just want to stay closer and for you to know that you can come to me, too." The boundaries were muddled and nebulous, but he could still acknowledge that there were some things that she wouldn't bring him for being either a lover or a brother or both and that only friends were suited for. The dereliction of caring for her wasn't on that list, and his burden of guilt about it wasn't just vanity even if he had imagined it would garner him any favors. "This tastes kind of like they put grass in it," he told her in a surreptitious way, even before he took another 'but I'm definitely going to drink it' swig. "And honey," which he obviously approved more.

She placed her glass delicately and distinctly on the wood, and then did a much less elegant job of laying her elbow there as well. And then her chin in her upturned palm. She slouched her shoulders forward, which made them narrow some, so she became at the same time more focused but more demure. She peered at him, and regarded him with all her faculties for a long quiet moment. Listening to him talk, taking it in. Her somewhat smug smile on her petal-shaped lips sat there and waned like a moon. The look was that she had something to say, but she wasn't saying it. There was something akin to stereotypical older sibling weight to it-- affectionate judgement? But she rarely felt like she was the older of the two, and she couldn't remember a time they even thought about such a trait or relationship burden. " 'Herbal' and yes. Clover honey." Maybe she was just watching his mind work.

He let her have her pose and repose for a while. It didn't last because he jolted her seat across from him with a swift kick that was more noise on the chair leg from the toe of his sneaker hitting the wood than any notion of knocking her over. And he did it while leaning likewise in over the table, arching the ridge of his brow high enough to accommodate his presumptions. "Where's -my- sweater, then, Thumbelina? Socks? Not even a scarf?" Something between a grunt and a scoff summarized his predisposition to dejection. "I have pictures and drawings and little paintings... but they're at my apartment." Several travel diaries, some of which hadn't ever left his apartment and a few which had gone quite a ways beyond that territory.

She frowned at him, sibling-style. Catching a little rock in her chair as he had upset it, but not her. But her smile crept up, bubbling to her surface like a firmament-buried natural resource that she had accidentally tapped into and was now running amuck in the environment of her. She imagined he would probably light fire to it at some point, and it would make a brilliant, though hell-bound (most likely), landscape in her core. "You're just trying to get me to invite you over." She accused him rather gruffly. "I'm just trying to figure out how long you'll stay if I do." And she was impish for him, but there were several threads of it. One that spoke of couchsurfing relatives and another that spoke of very different things. But she perked up, and the impishness turned spritely. "Wait, what, presents? You made me things? (of course I made you things!)" And she had. She had nearly forgotten, but she had. They were one of the first and last things she did before she left that, and a little piece of her heart on that island.

"Presents, or... evidence. Just things that I thought you might like or that I felt like sharing. And you've already invited me over, so what even? At least until I have to feed my goldfish, or who knows if you decide that you want to invite Zelda over as well. My first guess is that until my clothes start to smell, but then again I'm supposing that even if you don't, that you'll soon have a washer and drier so maybe until the second dinner party you throw because if I'm still wearing the same clothes, people might start to wonder? That seems kind of dramatic, but since you've brought it up, I can make sure that I'm extra difficult to get rid of." She was playing at playing hard to get or an interpretation there of and he'd noticed it some time before when she sat across from him at the end of arm's reach. "Do they put herbals in the food too?" They probably did, but he was only feigning at disapproval to begin with, and palmed a menu out of its holder onto the flat of the table top.

To both of them, somewhat conspiratorially, somewhat chiding, and always glowing she whispered "You are always difficult to get rid of, Nathan." Then she finally leaned back, picked up her drink with a sort of enigmatic swipe, like a rushed cat-burglar, and sipped it confidently. He was keen to everything she did and chose and breathed. But she would swear upon anything they deemed worthy to swear upon, that she had sat here in anticipation of his wishes, not hers. And not really even their's, or anyone she knew, but of some piece of decorum that was left lingering between them because they had hinted at it, or he had requested it for her or.... The other part was, indeed, yes, something of a game. And strangely, twistedly, it was a sibling game. You be this, I'll be that. Let's pretend. Someone's coming! "I suppose I kind of like you calling it evidence. That makes sense to me.. ....and.... no..but... I like herbals in my drink, Nate. I do. And... I almost stayed in Scotland, Nathan. I almost didn't come back." That natural resource just rumbling up from inside her, a fount, a spring of confession.
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Nathaniel Grim
Wyrmling
Wyrmling


Joined: 25 Apr 2018
Posts: 7
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528.38 Silver Crowns

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PostPosted: Tue Jul 17, 2018 10:21 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

[From play. Edited for content.]

As the moon ascends
The wolves come out to see the end
They hide from view and wait
To watch the ghost inside you come awake
And when the shots go off, you'll hear them call
My heart is racing just to see it all
To watch it crawl out of your changing shape
To take out your breath and watch it come awake
From the flames of the fire
I feel you crawl into my bed
Throwing shapes at the sky
I watch you climb into me
With your knees open
On display, you taunt the beast again
'Cause when you move and shake
That thing inside you comes awake
As you dance against the breathing wall
My claws are out, I want to feel it all
Feel it crawl inside you, changing shape
Take out your breath and feel you come awake

-- "bitches brew" †††

"You will," he argued smoothly, "because you're here now. It's not going to get in the way, even if you think it will." Unable to read her mind directly, he'd wait to investigate which of the topics he suspected as the cause of the pressure. "Hm. Maybe I should have called a car." And then he could have done as he pleased -- but now the shoe was on the other foot and he played polite opening the rear passenger door, and passive as he got into the vehicle next besides the half slap, half grab at her ass when her hips turned parallel to the seat. Blank-faced for the driver as if it had never happened -- because it might not have, it wasn't a sound, only a gesture. "Or are you afraid you'll get maudlin over it all?" That was something he had only less direct power to combat or stem, and while there was almost a bit of a challenge in the question, sorrow was not the spell he wanted to wrap them both away in tonight.

"...I don't think things can get in the way, Nathan. But I guess I just feel a little...far away. Just ... I can feel it." She was contemplating words and poetry that could exhibit her feelings in a way he could pursue and interpret and make their own. She wanted to put all of her out in the open --pinned under glass, lain out in a museum of her. As he grab-accosted her she flicked a glance up at him, and there was a chest deep laugh for him. Just a note, but it made her smile. The smile didn't glow. It was probably hard to see her sullied with thoughts like that. But... "I don't think I've ever felt this before. I mean, not like this. .... I mean, I wont get maudlin... I... I feel divided. My thoughts can't get maudlin, I just want to talk and talk and talk. And my feelings are just... I feel like something in my chest is reaching for you. Reaching out with misty fingers that want to define your new edges." All said while she was shifting over the seat but not moving too far into the car because Millicent didn't really care about anything but him right now. She was only vaguely aware of the car comment, but she mostly wrote it off. She knew the futility of it and thus paid decorum no real mind. Just, communication. Just him.

The rip of her laugh warranted a smirk, and there was a shrug there on the line of his mouth as well as the errant jerk of his shoulder. Not all clichés were awful, and he hadn't expected to get much more than exactly that. Shoulder to shoulder and hip through the knee, he sat close to her in the car and only paid particular attention to the driver's features in case he saw the face again later -- he knew where it came from, which was not exactly the same as being concerned. "My apartment is high up in the city and I have a little patio garden. There's a little pretend pond there. It's not exactly impressive, this pretend pond of mine, but it makes noise and grows some little water plants and looks nice and that's all it's for... I spend most of my time looking at stuff and some times taking pictures of it. I find ways to fill up the days when I'm not otherwise scheduled... My mid-game chess is getting better." This was talking; so was peeling up the hem of her asymmetrical skirt to curl his hand low around the inside of her thigh. His hands weren't all soft and smooth, he used them too much, but there wasn't much rough about the texture of them either. He wasn't that kind of craftsman, and so far he was only appreciating all the complicated curves and linkages of her knee. "Why were you drinking about it? -- we're going to her place, by the way. Does he know where that is?" Nathan presumed yes, but gave another questioning arch of his brow aside.

And his smirk was as comfortable as any smile. Because it was a smile with an undertow of them. A current of secrets and secret knowledge. Millicent left their legs to touch in every way that was possible, her mind wandered to threading them together and making a tapestry of white. There was a deep fascination, even an obsession, in a current of thoughts that wanted to remove everything from them that wasn't white. Or white enough. And she marveled at this idea as he spoke and she let him paint a backdrop for the visions in her mind. Something ached in her to see this place. His place. So close but so far. How could this day be so fateful and so simple at the same time. He gave her a focus then, as his hand slid over her skin. As she watched him define those fine lines of muscle and bone and sinew. She felt the anxiety of the previous moment slip away in the slipstream. She blinked twice, caught by the questions. "You.... Because maybe I thought alcohol could help blur it all together and show me what to do." She looked at the driver, he was vaguely familiar but he wasn't much of anything, just something pretty kept at the club. But they had their own protocols and she did not give him another thought. Just: "Yes, yes, he does." Because Jon would have made sure. She inhaled then, slowly. Capturing an internal environment before letting it slip away. She had watched that raise of his brow and saw a flash, a glimmer of things so familiar it pained her. She reached up with her hand and smoothed an errant sprig of his white hair. She pressed it between thumb and forefinger before she drizzled soft fingertips against his temple. One fingertip touching the end of his brow. Almost like reading palms. "I want to see your place some time soon. It sounds like it would make me happy."

"Maybe. I mean, yes, you can. And maybe it'll make you happy. I don't know. It won't make you sad..." Some princes had castles in romantic, foreign lands. Nathan had an island in the sky. He wasn't quite as lavish with the decor and texture as he expected their current destination to be, but it wasn't all barren austerity either. He was prone to focusing on certain things and leaving the rest simple and sophisticatedly bare. "We could do that tomorrow, or whenever. It's not going anywhere." He made some ruminative sound regarding her answer to the alcohol, neither doubting or questioning or worrying it with any further words. Nathan wouldn't have said no to her drunk, and likely even liked the taste of it in her mouth but that didn't seem like a good way to say hello again. Another night for Bacchus. He had several more thoughts about her attached graveyard in the constantly yammering mezzanine of his mind, tilting his head toward her affection and hand. One of his fingers strummed higher up her leg, following the fine delineation between muscles before smoothing it all down again back toward the heel with the heel of his hand. "Does he not like me? Jonathan. He sounds like he might not like me," which was also 'he sounds like he likes You'.

"I would really like that." A distant sort of comment. Her mouth parted as though she would say more, but she deemed it rather unnecessary to continue. She just looked at him, made eye contact, smiled for him and shared a smile of gazes if his was wont to do the same. Then she added, "You, things about you, don't really make me sad. I don't really think about that word and you. I think I used to." She had so many confessions. She knew them all and she didn't want to begin tonight, though she did. She was aware that she could not prevent it at least on some levels. It depended on what she gave in to and what she fought. So she made a choice. She turned on her hip, on her thigh closest to him, and put her leg between his as she nuzzled up against him. Perhaps she was just giving him her other calf, the line of tendons at the back of her knee. Her fingers fanned out against his stomach and in truth it was a clingy sort of embrace, barely tempered by a sort of languid, casual restraint and ease at being so close to him. It all seemed like she wanted to be closer to his features to play with his hair, which she picked through and twirled into little loose dreads in places. Like she was taking care of him. Like he needed it. "Jonathan? Why would Jonathan not like you? He probably loves us both." Perhaps answering more than she even knew.

"There's a lot of things to look at there." He was still processing what she said about connecting him to sorrow. "Frustration is probably closer. Not for you, I guess... or maybe as well? Maybe here and there sad but I'm going to take a little bit of a pass on that and blame some of it on short-sightedness." Nathan didn't regard himself as old, but he was definitely old-er, or at least no longer a slave to his emotions and whatever horrific chemical tides they'd been tied to. "That's probably just how it had to be. I can see that now, without getting lost in myself. I dunno. I was just curious; I heard the tone on the phone," more than the content. The short edge of his nails scored her calf without a trace and both of his hands grabbed the back of her thighs to tug her closer. It was almost uncomfortable with her knee between his legs but he shifted a little on the seat accounting for that, and looped his arms snugly around the narrow of her waist to keep her where she was for as long as that moment would last. "I'm taking off our shirts when we get to your house," not a threat, or a question, just a statement. It was a nice sweater or he might have insulted it--but it was between them and just now he hated it. His mind would change again.

"You mean, frustration for you, from me?" Perhaps she liked that more. Her inquisitive glance from so-close eyes was a little lighter and curious. She pulled one of the little white baby-dreads down into his eye before he made her shift and pulled her closer. "Or do you mean, for me, from you? -- But.. I do think that yes, you're right. Time and.... things and life and us being so young and things being so.... ..." She wrinkled her nose. Then she tilted her head and melted her gaze down his face just to raise it again. She had this way of being studious of him these last few days. So curious and intrigued and -- "Oh." She actually hadn't really understood his implication. "Jon has always been that way." Such a casual and askance way of saying things. There may have been something cruel about it, except the down-playing was for him. Because it was true. Because she's done all she could to explain things to Jonathan with her behaviors and her ways. She converted herself from something draped on him to something a bit more active, she got a little more height before she sunk up against him and pressed her open corner of her mouth against his temple. "Okay, Nathan." Such complicated tones, like she would allow him but also like he was just speaking words she knew already. Soft, shared desires. "What about the rest?" A whisper, almost an afterthought.

"Possibly both." Horizons were hard to hold onto when she was that close. It had been too long, and all the confidence he conducted with others almost wasn't as sure here. Rather more accurately, it cared here. She wasn't a substitute that he could shrug off or a stranger than he could flex and test without much consequence. Those facts alone might not have made him transiently anxious, but the reflected level of attention was something he'd only had to endure in the mirror for a while now--and he could look away from that whenever he liked. "We'll get to the rest. Or I guess I could start at an ankle instead, but I dunno... That makes kissing your mouth more difficult." Like it was simple logistics -- and it was; it wasn't all in a rush except to start, and it had to be somewhere. "I doubt there's much under here, anyway --" He'd made a passing notation when she'd gotten into the car, but now he was gathering the skirt again with his spider-walking fingers and his arms unwound, just to get his hands under it for reading the secrets of what she did or didn't wear beneath the drape of cloth. Ultimately it mattered very little, his fingers were quick at finding and pacing a path along secret contours of her.

"I can see that. But... there used to be a little sad. There was." Just so he knew. Just so she didn't let that admission get away. She needed him to know about them, too, about her perspective and her part of it all. She needed them to pair fingers across the pane of their consciousness. She needed to thread them and weave that white crochet of bodies and hearts and minds. She saw the attention in him, the sincerity and the nerve of it. The presence of him gleamed in his skin and his eyes. It's like she could see it rising up from his veins. As he spoke she spread her warm breath over that confessional white skin, smearing it down his cheek with the soft petals of her lips. Her heart beat thrummed when he said "kissing," like he pulled a desire out of her like a fish on a hook. During most of their time together that was all she wanted, and even desperately needed. She was embarrassed by it and afraid. She had been hiding it, burying it behind things. Like a sleep walker she exhaled "Kiss me. Kiss me, Nathan. Please." Her mouth hovering against the hollow of his cheek stayed there as if transfixed or unable to cross a threshold. And the breath there shuddered as he touched her, her body seething in a way he had to know. The harmonics were deafening in her blood and in her thoughts. "Nothing, Nathan. Just me. Just me." Like she was whispering promises while begging for answers. The girl was strange when it came to underthings. She only wore them for others. Like she knew how to wrap herself up with satins and laces just to give someone the pleasure of peeling them off. She would whisper that secret to him tonight.

Nathan was only ever looking at her clothes when prompted to appreciate them in and of themselves. The sweater was practically too much, and a likewise feather of her fingers or hair on his bare skin would have made his stomach tense and his nerves shiver in the same way. Otherwise, she was always naked when he was really looking at her, and that was probably a portion of what made other astute individuals uncomfortable regarding the attention. "...mmm... Nope." You were gone a long time, was his excuse for the delayed gratification, or perhaps he just wasn't sure whether the driver would have to shove them in a tangle out of the car if she did much more with her lips than speak and graze his skin. Or he knew exactly how he wasn't going to be able to stop the sound it spurred and he was too shy to share that particular nuance with this driver. Some complication of all these things. Not quite playing fair about the request for kisses, neither was the way one of his hands pulled from under the skirt to wet his fingers on the bed of her tongue, or the little swatch of spit he left on her lip and chin before pressing it back between her legs less lazily. This time he went straight for the sweet spot with his wrist curving compliment to her contours, smearing skin out of the way to get at her. "And you never told me what you wanted to talk about..." Focusing on her made it easier not to get too lost to do anything but stare and growl under his breath -- and he was anything but immune even if he was temporarily refusing her. His body had been steadily swelling between them at some annoying angle and the body heat that radiated out of his clothes had climbed at least five degrees in as many minutes.

Millicent bloomed under that attention. Like the white petals of summer roses. It felt warm and it felt white -- she knew it distinctly. And it sanctified all of her thoughts and feelings and past all at once. She could be as she was, whatever she wanted to be. He gave her strength in a way. He gave her wings. And he gave her a purity of heart and mind and body that needed no more excuses. No more armor. Just her. When he denied her something sort of broke. There was a confusion. Her eyelashes fluttered against his skin and for a moment she transmogrified into something else. A different sort of girl in his lap, that let him wet his fingers in her mouth. Oblivious to where he would put them as though she had never experienced it before, but wanting to be whatever he wanted. Kittenish, almost basic, as she coalesced and accommodated his refusal with everything else. He touched her and rubbed the placated, pettish places that he reached for. Her body shivered and there was a soft, ultra-feminine suspense to the little gasp she made against him. But his gestures and intentions were cryptic - she was not able to define nor delineate their meaning right now. Nor how he could do one without the other. She knew if she gave it effort she would understand, but to her her request had been so simple. Even if she didn't yet understand that she had intended to strip away the confines of the moment and dissolve/devolve them both in that kiss. .. But Millicent was a little different. She'd changed. She would show him. "This," she exhaled. And it was a threat and promise and maybe even a lie. Because she needed that kiss from him. And she had bared herself in the request and he had left her there, more vulnerable than even the admission had been. And if he wouldn't give it, the second best thing was to take it.

She put her weight on her knees, even sliding the one between his legs closer, almost cruelly, aware. Maybe even in retribution. Denial and control was something awful for her, it made her wither like a hot sun. So instead she became a heat source and pressed her fingers against his jaw, his cheeks, and crushed her perfect, pert doll's mouth on his. Drowning him in the tangles of her snow-white hair as she kissed him from a height, half kneeling in his lap. And she would turn her heart-shaped face just so, teasing his mouth with her tongue so she could snake it behind his teeth and show him that she was taking what he told her he would not give. How dare he.

It was too easy to make him feel guilty for holding out, and holding anything out of reach over her head had never lasted long anyway. But he didn't feel guilty about it at all, just the pale shadow of someone else's construction that he should. It was all play, even if it was dreadfully serious, and he made some low-throated weakening and rising groan in her mouth that came and went the same way as a good scream: fully unbidden and almost totally unaware until it was too late. His preconceptions were blank -- she didn't need to affect any role or station as long as she was engaged. He'd find the way to getting what they wanted before they peeled finally apart and it had much more to do with enjoying the process than the results. And now that it had started, he wasn't thinking anywhere in the same dimension as where it would end. There was just the way that her tongue moved and that her breath tasted and a continually coiling tension that made it difficult to sit still. She could have it, and she should have known it -- and that was amongst others, the message which the cant of his head and the nudge of his jaw when his tongue crossed hers. He had no idea how long it took to get to the church and only the vaguest notion of the vehicle at all anymore when their physical momentum changed or jostled them in some almost irrelevant way.

They had lived a life of shoulds. A life, even, ruined by shoulds. It was the root of their tragedy and it was difficult for her to admit that. Difficult for her to lose so much to something so trivial. No matter what anyone else thought of it. She rarely thought of herself as powerful, but living up to the expectations of others made her feel powerless in ways that only he could change. Their tongues danced like serpents between them, and when the most unbridled sounds spilled from his mouth she had this way of dipping her shoulder down, changing their angles, like she could catch it like a libation, poured into her mouth. Her tongue licked gently down his chin as though she had missed rivulets of it-- just to lick his skin on the way back to the crush of mouths. At first over-shooting the kiss like a drunk driver, smearing the inner soft wetness of her lower lip up the soft indent of his cupid's bow. The way she found her way back again was with a soft chant, like she could write sigils on his skin with an incantation. Very simply, she had no restraint. The words welled up from a fount inside her and she repeated, softly, with her velvet voice - "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you." They were desperate and perfect, strong and vulnerable. They were "I'm sorry"s and "please"s all at the same time. Her palms and fingers prowled the edge of his features, sometimes directing him, sometimes mapping his edges, sometimes sifting through his hair. It was not excess. It was a glimpse inside her. She wanted to show him.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm


Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 129
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
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PostPosted: Thu Aug 16, 2018 7:15 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Here on this stainless table
I come inside you and haunt your dreams
Baby, I don't mind, you can fake it
But I don't mind, come away with me
You make a godly servant
Protect your Bible between your knees, baby
Baby, I won't mind, let me play with it
I don't mind, run away with it
The funeral party favorite
I'm the ghost in the human shape
I don't mind if you play with me
I don't mind, run away with me
We'll drink from the waves and fill our souls
Fall asleep on the graves and seal our souls
Get drunk on the waves, reveal our souls
Fall asleep on the graves and seal our souls
I know when the angel calls you
You'll cross your fingers then fall asleep, baby
-- " Thholyghst " †††


Any notion that this could have waited until the end of the ride away from the city was counterfeit. He'd known the instant that he'd seen her in the grocery exactly where they were headed, whatever shape or decoration or location that solitude occupied and solidified into was almost irrelevant. If there had been any portion of his conscious mind left to spare, he might have felt a pang of shame for including the driver in their private spectacle. The exhibitionism didn't necessarily add anything to the overload of stimulus he was experiencing. There was no intelligible echo of the words she whispered except in the drag of his breath coming and going, but the sudden focus and intensity of his hands was another confirmation that he'd heard her and further more that he was now too far gone to play games of denial and acquiescence. One worked at the fly of his jeans, the other pulled her knee from between his legs and over a hip before joining the other to get open the zipper. It was a rush and it was desperate but still more nimble than clumsy. There were no questions, and no hesitations in the way that he conducted them both to the right angles, gripping the lithe curves of her hips over the sinking slouch of his spine. He pulled her down and dug his heels into the floorboards to get inside her, fingers digging in harder, selfish and impatient and almost all at once about a single goal. For a little while, he let her remain upright, tingling electric with the sudden culmination of sensation that lulled him into a transient laziness that wasn't going to last.

The environment did not exist for her. That was a peculiar part of them. They could fill an entire room. They could make anything a place that was just where they were. In a way, the driver saw this. He didn't quite comprehend. It was more subconscious and visceral. They were not just two people ***king in the back of the company car. It wasn't just a rock star and some guy.... who looked suspiciously like her.... There was a gravity that surrounded them. Maybe it was a story, like star crossed lovers or unrequited love. He'd tell himself that later. But it felt heavy. And in some ways he felt like he should watch, and in others he felt like no one should ever. But what he did decide was to turn the corner-- to take a street that wasn't exactly the right, nor the wrong way. Just a winding way.

Millicent continued to pour those words over his skin like she poured herself over him. Milk on milk. And as the soft, cell-spoken spell found so many facets of his skin, there was a soft, quiet plea: an intertwined "I love you, I love you, tell me, I love you, tell me you love me." So many languages of need. They were proficient. Like his hands, and her words, and her hips. Body and minds. She let him rearrange her. Let him move her like silk and song in his lap. Her fingers mimicked similar spiders, picking their way over fabric and pulling it up over the slopes of her thighs and up the violin curves of her hips as they fit together like the perfect puzzle pieces they were created to be. It was what she believed and the story her body told as she rocked forward into him with a soft, shaking moan that sounded so sad and so delighted at the same time. She punctuated it with a curl of her tongue against his lips as her body rocked, a little more hungry than he would expect-- suspiciously in the same cadence as her words.

There were old reasons for saying no to this: it was unnatural, it was inappropriate, it was unacceptable. There were odd reasons for saying no to this: it was inconvenient, unconventional. And there were new reasons for saying no to this - selfish reasons, candy-shell reasons, the plain f***ing impermanence of the world reasons. All the silently thunderous sensations floating and swimming and dashing through him nevertheless made their way around the same dark matter: doubt. This beginning had an end, but it was too late for back-pedaling and he barely felt the burden of culpability in acknowledging that he wanted it anyway. She was going to make him happy, for now. Now. Life was complex, but easy. Just all of this, all of this now. He was well on the way to getting comfortably lost in letting his hands roam roughly up the curves of her waist and her ribs, using the pressure of his hands too apply and imply conversations that were too broad and convoluted to spare the precious breath on, when she was making her soft demands again. One moment his hands were pressed against her curves, and the next they were curled both around her neck, overlapping knuckles and cradling her throat between the heels of his palms. He pulled her brow to his own, nuzzled the bridge of his nose just to one side of hers, and stared back at her with a clarity that almost didn't belong. "You know I f***ing love you. Tell me why." Those words were easy to say, too easy to say even if they were more difficult to mean. If she wanted more, she had to give more.

There were old reasons for saying yes to this: it was perfect, it was fate. There were odd reasons for saying yes to this: they made each other laugh, they could read each other's souls. There were new reasons for saying yes to this: she had discovered things about him, and about her, and about them while she was away and while just speaking to him tonight. They had fallen over her like a silent snow. They had evolved her landscapes into something more uniform and pleasing to herself and her understanding. And he traveled them with his hands, pressing them over her body, making the white on soft-white mold to her form as he traced her boarders, making maps of her. And this is what she would explain to him. What he tapped into and held in his hands as they wrapped around her slender singer's throat. She closed her eyes as she brushed her features against his. How she met that heavy stare with an acquiescence of her bright gaze as it drifted away behind her soft lashes. Snowfall. Illustration. She sighed, relieved, like she had been allowed home and was told she was safe and she thanked him with her body. The way it undulated in his lap, rolling heavy and with purpose. Almost in a way that belied the sanctity of this act with him by introducing a distinct sexuality and desire for gratification. But this was a snap shot. A slice in time that felt different, new. She wrapped his shoulders, his neck, in her arms as she whispered quietly between brushes of her parted lips against his skin. "I ..... do." She even realized something right there. In his comment.

She kissed his skin. "It scared me how much I needed to hear you tell me. Like I need to put it back. Like we've changed. Like maybe it's different. Maybe I realized how much I love you and that it's so important and perfect-- maybe I realized, maybe it made me happy too late. Maybe I untied it all and started to learn how to let myself only after asking you too many times to stop. -- I never asked you to stop but maybe I asked you too many times to wonder." Confessions only felt right in so many ways. These were words never spoken. They changed to words that pleaded directly to his heart, like she could sing them back together. "I love you with all the spaces in me, with all the things that are full and empty. With the things that only know love and with the things that can't love at all. They sing when you are near. Echos in the dark. You make everything in me real, and beautiful and alive, Nathan. No one will ever know what that is like. Just me."

Looking in the mirror was just an exercise, a ritual more and or less esoteric. He'd been looking and seeing for so long that it was almost tiresome. The infinite iterations of another mirror looking back was what he meant to study now, in as much as she would or could offer. The number of things that he would not be for her was as strict as it was brief. Spurned lover was on that list. There were so many subtleties yet to uncover. "Did you learn to trust yourself?" There were new fascinations to get entangled with, but the familiar ones were always those that felt the most foolish. He'd still fall at her words, but now he wanted to know if she understood how dangerous that language. "I can hardly see any-f**king-one but you," the seethe of frustration was there, the immediate type at the stem of his brain that was nothing but impatience to shut up and feel things, and the refined blend of a higher mind that was emphasizing with epithets. "And you see everyone else. And I don't even care," I act like I don't even care. "...just show me. I love you, isn't even f***ing close. It's so much more than that--" He'd developed a penchant for being a conversational partner, whether the topics were topical and filthy and in the moment or more oblique and aside of the act as it was happening, but only she made him squirm and crawl through his emotions like this before he could enjoy the simplicity of it. That was another variation on the twist of aggression. He held off on the precipice of promises: stop. Just stay. Be this. Don't do that. Those were all definitions dangling on the end of his tongue behind the temporarily clenched gate of his teeth. He wouldn't ask for any of it, not because he wouldn't or couldn't believe it but because he was beyond it. She would or she wouldn't and did she know? Did she find someone out there to show her which of the many paths of Destiny had their names written side by side in the hedge maze? So here it started again, because it was never just getting off or cauterizing new wounds with a proven balm for misery. "Why do you always feel so f**king good?" But it did start with getting off and the way she was rolling and pushing herself into his lap and into his hands strummed all the right chords to feel him throbbing inside her, no matter what his mouth said. His body always said the same things and the twitching or fluttering was never anything but encouragement.


The soft, vulnerable placements of her kisses, her lips, on his face were affection, doting and love. So soft, so simple, so pure. They had almost no place here, and yet they had every place. And they also fatefully and faithfully degraded some to soft licks of his skin. "I did. You're right. ...maybe I couldn't trust myself because I always trusted you. I needed to listen to just me." Stolen tastes as the time passed and her body kept up its rhythmic begging. Pleading with him to stop tacking her to words like a butterfly to wax. Even though she loved it. She loved seeing him naked like that. Even if it hurt. Asking him to wash any remnants of any one or any memory away and replace it with himself- made her body tremble-- shivering and exultant. She had never felt that way before. Not like this. There were places in her that had never asked for him, that asked for him now. And her desire for it could feel dangerous. Because it was depthless. So it was also selfish. "I... I didn't like what you saw, Nathan. I couldn't see anything worth only-seeing. Someone else must have been better than me. And someone else had to be better for me. So many things to learn, Nathan." She smoothed the hair at the nape of his neck and dragged her mouth up his. She licked him with the flat of her tongue like an animal. Like she acknowledged something in him, and wanted something, and wanted to please him and experience him and the words that came from his mouth. Lapped at the epithets and definitions. "It is, Nathan. It's everything. I know it is."
And these three sentences were divided by fingers that undid buttons, hands that found his stomach and his chest, like she could peel him out of all armor with her fingers and her words. She pressed herself against him, her hands crawling over his naked shoulders as she exposed so much of his skin. And she pushed into him and pulled him close in ways that accentuated the hypnotic way she experienced him. It truly felt like she would climb into his skin, like she wanted to shed herself and step inside him. Not at a loss but at a gain. Perhaps it had been someone else who showed her. Could he be angry at that? What if it was necessity? What if it was the only way? Wouldn't they have been the ones to know? "...to drive you mad, Nathan. To drive you closer to me. So I can show you. ...Because I need you to [redacted]-- ." She buried her chin under his and dragged her teeth closed against the soft underskin there. So animalistic. Her wild hair made a soft, intricate pillow for his features as she pressed her cheekbone up under his jaw and nuzzled the harsh curve of it. She smelled soft, and sweet and warm. Even with his hands around her throat.

Some times he said what he meant without meaning to say it, but at least it wasn't a cross he put on her back. He was almost bold enough to demand a song outright. It was nothing but shoe-gazing self-indulgence to wonder why her catalog was filled with lyrics about others, and all at once he was sorted out, or may as well be. No verses were required for the way he wanted her to sing. His name need not be the chorus even if it some times slipped into the crescendo. It had been too long and at least one layer of the candy shell was a rough-polished vanity that was melting fast away. No one else would hear these songs, exploitation aside, and that was fine. It might have been even better if she could never remember how the notes and sounds went. It was the same instrument she let other people play, the same voice, the same body and even really perhaps the same subject matter. But now he was the ghost writer, and those notes and sounds spilling melody and breath over a rhythm that would only get more commanding as it went on was the song that he made her sing--not necessarily the one that she spent hours or minutes composing in an addled state of adoration or stumbled over accidentally in a pitch of genius. She was an instrument he knew well in that way, and he'd only gotten better at knowing where and how and when. There were only a couple of points where she didn't get to make a noise because his thumb had strummed across her throat restrictively. One of them was now, immediately on the tail of her refrained demands, to give her answer that wouldn't get lost. "I never stop loving you. So f**king make me," needless instruction, he let go of her neck and palmed the back of her head, diving straight to the crook of her neck with lips and teeth that had no regard for the marks they'd leave behind on her precious skin, skimming sharp between pleasure and pain. He played blind, guided by her voice and the needy squirm and bow of her body. He was warm all over and flushed, half unwrapped of the button up and dressed in a fine net of some errant and some bold-lined scars and the veinwork that pointed toward his narrow hips. His hands were up to the same measures, grabbing and squeezing with as much intensity as she asked for.

She didn't think the world was ready for a song about them. But she was a secret thief and wanted to change the very meaning of things. So, every song was about him. He was part of how she synthesized and saw the world around her. He always had been. Perhaps one of the reasons for these words between them was because she told him too much. Because she was flagrant with her relationship with experience and each piece felt like a personal attack because it was a piece of her thrown somewhere else. The hope of it. The reason for it. All of this could only come between them. But the two clear reasons for this seemed so right. Maybe he had a right to be angry with her. And she had a right to be sad. Part of her saw this as the way the world turned. What people should do. No one was written into existence with a partner that knew how to love them. Not even parents. (Especially not their's.) And she would have told him so with words. With lyrics. But explicit was explicit. He was the only one that could understand the way she actually spoke to him. Someone had come close once, but that only made it more awful when she realized that there was a distinct violation in that. So, Millicent sang softly. The entirety of her repertoire and so much more was just for him. The soft sounds that spilled out of her mouth, easy to hear for the driver and she clearly did not care. All she cared about was the way he felt-- around and inside her. Her soft panted moans little celebrations in holy keys. There was a timbre to them that was soft and sad and yearned and worshipped. And she brought that adoration and idolatry in the fierce nuzzle of his neck, returned in perfect mirrored passion. But she had no teeth for him.

She licked a long, pretty groan up nearly the entirety of his throat and pulled his perfect skin between her lips with a soft suck that shattered into his name, spilling hot and warm down his throat. Her hands held him, wandered him, fanned fingers and found the perfect smooth surfaces with long swipes and strayed on anything she felt there that she never felt before. It was discovery and conversation as she snuggled closer with all of her body. Her back arched. She took. She would make him. She would make him and create him and reform him because she did it with this world-making love. Once a hand strayed to guide his to her hip, to the curve of her, pressing his fingers into her to join them in the act of those winding, hungry hips. And if he took up the grip and possession of her, she would press the side of her hand up his throat, cradling the curve of his jaw, threading her fingers in the final edges of his hair and pulling his features to the side so she could whisper and sew his name again and again in tiny flicked-tongue kisses at the base of his ear. "Don't say I have to make you, Nathan. Nathan. Nathan.... Nathan." It was a song, and perhaps it hurt because he could imagine the notes sung a hundred other times, a hundred other ways... but something there was just for him. Was made just for him.

This was the view of heaven from earth. The cashmere sweater and loose drape of the skirt were inconsequential clouds that he pushed and peeled away negligently when they obscured the path of his eyes or hands. He wasn't going to undress her in the car, as though that was a limit of consideration juxtaposed to the conversation and obvious happenings in the back seat. There were no barriers here to hide behind: no privacy screen to shelter the driver, no strange and novel masks or maps of the body or mind to operate behind or explore. Only the fine membranes of clothes and skin and whatever particular tension held individual souls apart from one another. There were the subtle changes of experience and time -- he was just a little bit more dense than the last time she'd seen him, like nutrition had been a discovery that he was thriving on and muscle had begun to flourish where before there had only been bone and sinew. Most of the nicks and imperfections were minor incidents doing battle with gravity: skateboarding and walks along the sidewalk gone wrong, an odd bit of metal or glass that had left more egregious filaments. They weren't the same; nothing was the same. There was absolutely value to the experiential transmutations of them both, but the virtue was in a ken of the essential and immutable properties. Whatever they'd garnered from others wouldn't have manifested likewise trying to study together, and if he was salty about that, he would get over it with the same vague indignity that he wasn't considered when the greater systems of the world at large were established either.

For just a few seconds, the way that he watched her from over the steep slope of his cheek before he lost her eyes to the wild, soft tuft of her hair, was vaguely wondering if she wasn't showing off. It occurred to him immediately afterward that she ought to be, regardless of whether it was to suit herself or just for generosity. Her fingers got temporarily locked between the bony knots of his knuckles when she steered his hands, and he made it both easier and more difficult to do exactly what she liked in any given moment by lifting her up and bracing her to make her fight the tension hard-coiling the muscles in his arms and by the next turn pinning and dragging her down when it seemed like she wanted to scramble back up the most. "Why not...? You do. Even when you're not trying... You don't have to make me." Denying her was just a game he played to lose, and he didn't mind at all. The way she looked at him, the way she talked to him made his eyes darker and his blood rush at a distance. There was no keeping secrets from her this close -- when she made particular sounds, his skin lit up with little goose bumps. When she really tried to pull away, he bit the inside of his lip and ...moved through her. And when he held her down it wasn't just to hold her still so that he could get closer...quicker, but it happened. Her mouth made his spine eel, a little bit ticklish here or greedy for the pleasant heat of it there. Bowing back, he followed her, pressing his maw against the cashmere that blunted both the wet and the heat of his tongue flattening over the curve of her chest, and he bit through the fabric with the blunt edge of his teeth only enough that she felt it. One hand shifted to grip the shoulder of the front passenger chair and by degrees he was moving out of the passive crease of the rear bench, because it was impossible to just sit like this without better restraint and the closer that she took him, the more difficult it was to ignore the cresting reflex to take her down with him in a flurry.

Each time she found something new on his skin he bubbled to her surface. Like cresting waves-- thoughts and questions shimmered through her and anchored her experience of him. Who did this. How. Why. What did it feel like, Nathan. They were like belonging-kind things that met in environments of science-fiction novels and met each other across membranes of shared experience. Mating and intimating and explaining and congressing on every level. Not the least of which was conversation and confession, not the most of which was touch. He would feel the way her hands read him like Braille, how they lingered and asked before kneading and touching like she could soothe every pain he had ever had away. A role she wished for both of them. And a task she met in other ways, like the way she lapped at the risen gooseflesh with her tongue- kittenishly and provocative but in a way trying to lick them clear so they would rise again. She was self-less in her experience of him (even as she wanted to rule his very soul through reactivity and grace), but she was self-possessed in ways she never had been before. And this was a new delight for them to play with, a new confidence and a new strength on which they could build things. Not tear them down nor watch them fall. And she would accept any of his feelings on that. And she would express to him that she wished he had been there, though she knew he couldn't be. But as much as they were timeless, they were ephemeral. And Now was now was now. She met him with a better self. A self that undulated a siren song in his lap, resisting and acquiescing to the push and pull of him. Trading roles, ****ing him ****ing her.

But she didn't play games of denial with him. She gave and gave and took. She leaned back as he shifted, as he licked through the soft armor and pressed his teeth against her skin. And a madness lit in her in the same way it had all night-- from the first kiss. She peeled the soft fabric up, stripping it from her ribs, asymmetrical and lopsided, exposing more of one than another so he could touch her because she needed him to. Millicent was milk white. Stark and snowy, a ghost that glowed and could appear in daylight. She was even made of it. But her mouth had an ashen pale pink that he knew he could find elsewhere. On her. Not anywhere else in the world. She supplicated and offered and asked him to do it again on her skin, nothing between them, with a hand that cradled the back of his skull. It was a flow of movement, not a demand, more vulnerable in the asking and the way her soft lower lip sunk and trembled as she peered down at him with that brother-crazy stare that should have scared anyone else. She basked in a drunken sort of hunger that went hot at the new angles he created as he inched forward on the seat. Maybe her own game of denial was played as she stole away from him even as she pulled him close, like she wanted to press her shoulder blades into the back of the chair and make him lean into her, come for her over all the cages of her ribs and her feminine form. That display she so desperately wanted to become for him, like she considered slashing skin with scalpel and making an offering of her very heart she intended for him to feed from directly. It was a slow revelation, just another way to reveal the witchery of her body, her hip bones and the tension in her stomach and muscle. Like she wanted to show him that he deserved this, deserved to watch. An awareness of herself and the joys of sex that had never been there and she wanted to give him now. "Please don't blame me ... I know. I've always known. But ... so have you. You know what you're doing to me right now."

Blame and attribution were alike but the connotations were different and holding steady enough to make that distinction clear was something that he had to focus on, because he was going all out of focus all too quickly now. "It's not a blame. I like it," using the word like was holding a candle up to the midday sun. "I know," he'd known, but if he'd been asked what he was doing right now, he could have only hazarded an educated guess. The words themselves were just a dim rumble on her skin, voice graveled with want and lips soft and slick with spit that he left shining on the skin she'd exposed. The only correction was another angling of his head and now when he pulled with his teeth there was no concern for leaving snags in the woven threads. It was all intentional and if the need be, his shoulders were broad enough now to take the blame for them both. He knew as much as an arsonist that he wanted to set her on fire and watch her burn in so many ways, but he wasn't the kind of man who would hang her up as a witch. Vane and humble at the same time, he'd sort what credits he could take or was given in this play. "I love you," the emphasis was on You and if his mind had been on teasing her, he might have said like again because both were true. "And what you do, and how you do it," and how. His limits revolved around tolerance, and this was perhaps the steepest of graduations they'd taken. She made it difficult to keep his eyes open--and he did, hyper-vigilant and overstimulated--but the rolling was there too. The options in the back of the car were limited, and if creativity had been the objective he might have found more complicated configurations. Instead he hooked the sweater with his thumb before his hand flattened on her collar bones to keep the soft wool out of the way, and he pinned her shoulders back against the rear side of the driver's chair before leaning back at that arm's length. It was the quickest angle to find the traction he needed. So stone-stiff from want and need and now ache, he didn't hold her down or still or stop her from moving beyond just the cuff of his hand so that he could see her from there. Put that little bit of space and perspective between them so that they both got what they needed; his other hand wrapped and twisted the skirt over his knuckles and wrists before latching onto the back of her hip. "--faster, right there--" The way that he slouched kept the shirt open on his chest and the push and shove had at least half-shucked the jeans from his body .They hadn't been hiding it before, but now the tangible noise of it was starting to crowd the vehicle.

Something about his uncertainty would have amused her. Pleased her was perhaps the better word. But she saw not a shadow of it. Not a shadow. Nor did she feel it. Millicent reached back over her shoulder to press her white fingers into the leather of the chair as she committed a deeper arch in her spine. Here was a soft sort of revelry that tensed her body and glittered in a stare of him that sunk at once into a heaviness and a glossed over version of her gaze's haunting will-'o-the-wisp quality. Almost like she looked through him a moment, read the writing on the proverbial wall behind him.

And for a moment it was hard to discern whether it was words, or his body that took her to that burning place and careened her over an edge. Her body a soft tremble in tune with words she wanted to rub into her skin. "What I do, Nathan. What I do...." Like echos, like she needed to repeat the words in order to commit them to memory as well as quarry. As he pinned her back her body flushed in a gentle resistance and reaction, like it had a mind of its own and she would need a quiet dissent for being held at bay from him.

But Millicent's disagreement with Nathan looked like nothing of the sort, he requested and she acquiesced, she just wanted to draw it all out like taffy moments. Around him. In several forms. And this place, right here, was a perfect place. "God. Nathan.... God." And her rolling, silken purr shifted and slithered through her entire body before it spilled from open lips in dripping honey moans. Unbridled in every syllable, accidentally, naturally beautiful. So present and perfectly his. Her grip scrambled on the leather and reached for his forearm instead. A sin to be so far away from him but that only meant that next time she had to pour that sound straight into his mouth.

He was holding on for that last little gasp, and for as long as he could help her (from the outside, in), his hand clenched harder around her neck to let that ephemeral tipping over sensation truly saturate her system before it overflowed. His grip loosened again after that, letting out the errant calls at higher powers and the rest of the sundry sounds great and small. And he went right along with her just a half step behind (as always), but after one dramatic spine arch followed the other, he was almost too nimble about the way he pulled her from resting on the driver's seat and pivoted her shoulders in the crook of the rear seat and the door. It was a natural grace and a keen spatial awareness rather than any slick move he'd picked up along the way. Sadly nothing that he said came out in any intelligible language; now it was all just a short-circuit of breaths panting and a growl bowing over her, brow resting damp on hers with a slice and a wisp of pale hair getting caught in the way. There was no announcement beyond the quick-hitting rhythm gone suddenly and desperately erratic, and a groan that started when he leaned hard and heavily. The tension rippled visibly through his core; this time the only secret that he kept was that he got off so hard his toes curled, but that wasn't his fault and the impact was palpably evident in many other ways. He braced
one arm against the door and dug his elbow into the back seat, reeling and racked by reactionary reflexes that shuddered singing more silent praises. He started to say something that sounded like "That's..." and then he cut himself off with a pacified hum that died out in her mouth when he found it with his own and curled the end of his tongue along the roof.

She craned her neck, elongating the elegant length of it under his fingers like she gave him more to capture. And she would always give him more to capture. A tone had rumbled deep in the center of her, and it was felt easily under his fingers and changed timbre only when he released her. The tail end of it upswept as he shifted their positions. The white girl-thing a wrap of all of her limbs around him in some way, save one leg that lulled against his outer thigh and seemed to stroke him with the inner plane of hers to urge him on. To remind him it was her and she was there. Everywhere. Even if she could only keep hold with hands, they found his shoulders and his ribs as she leaned her own shoulders into the seat and offered her center of gravity for resistance and gratification. Even while she was still wrapped up in a sonorous shudder her body could not help but hum softly around him. And as his body set to shaking and tension, hers pressed into the leather in a resplendent, reverent moment that was theirs. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but she had asked. And she would receive it graciously as well as with supplication. Their mouths became lodestones for each other. Having spent too much time apart the kiss was a crush of mouths and her lips parted a little too wide, releasing a quiet sound as his tongue sought her before hers sought the recesses of his mouth just to finish his sentence or add a laconic addition of her own. "Mine." The word buried there but perfectly clear. She wrapped her arms around his neck as if to make herself an adornment, a treasured thing, that could ask of its own accord to be pulled and kept close. Her fingers brushed through his damp platinum hair, petting him gently amid whispered "I love you"s like she was tying flowers there.

Some times he kissed her with his eyes open and some times he kissed her with his eyes closed and there was probably a riddle or reason to that kind of madness, but if they hadn't been fully shut then they were at least lidded so low that they may as well have been because one of them opened specifically to address her claim. That word hadn't been one of those lurking around the mouth she explored. A warm and sloe regard and the lowly languorous hum of an agreement was what she eventually got in response besides the edge of his teeth playful around her tongue. Refuting and challenging it was useless at best and sacrilege at worst. When the bowing flex of his ribs dragging in air had calmed and she started curling around him, he dug his arm under the small of her back to twist her almost upright with him again as there wasn't space enough to lay out. The diversion of his attention at the driver was brief, spiking a glance in the rear view mirror that made strange contact before receding again. He found a way to sprawl his legs crookedly, and the wrap of his arms loosely cradling her on his chest was another less sordid delight. "And I love you. Unfair, almost, was what I was going to say," because if she hadn't figured it out, she was liable to ask, so he saved her the trouble.


Their intermittent, interrupted gazes sewed a patchwork of different sensations between them. Sometimes she saw him, sometimes she just touched him, usually she tasted him. When she made her claim, and consecrated the possibility of one with him, she had her eyes open. And his soft purr of assent inspired one of her own. She also closed her lips around his tongue as though she could steal taste right from it, all while making him squirm a little and capturing him some as well. Teeth for lips, lips for teeth. As he readjusted them she was a soft, milk-white wave that he pushed and steered but eventually slipped into its own undertow and kept him, in general, awash with her. She had a way of wrapping her body around him and nuzzling his collar bones and chest while also stealing soft under-chin kisses and lip-brushes that made the tip of his chin their center focus. Utter adoration and doting in a way that was softly animalistic and impossibly comfortable, in no way that other people could pull off. Some came close, but this was an old, archetypal story and they were narrative locks and keys. "I'm sorry those words just keep spilling out of me and I can't make it stop yet. Like there's a number they are trying to reach." She touched his chest with her fingertips, revealing a little more as she nudged the shirt to slide away so she could press her mouth center-muscle there before she looked at him again. "No, you were unfair." A touch of petulant child. "You made me wait soooooooooooooo long. All day."

And the driver that had made eye contact with his charge, the nameless one, threw his gaze at the road instantly. Something too quick about it was less respectful and more training. The car, if either had noticed, had taken a sort of meandering road that went straight. It left the city and entered green, rolling land. But he had been driving straight until now. At this point, there was a soft sway of the car that happened to also press the tangled twins a little closer together. Which Millicent illustrated and enjoyed with a nuzzle to Nathan's skin that came into her reach just by the subtle rush of gravity. Another 10 minutes and the car would be grinding her gravel driveway under wheels.


Nathan could kiss as much as he could talk--he would, really, given the time and opportunity--and the two activities were almost interchangeable. His lips and tongue carried his curiosity and his indulgence, his harmless provocations and hide-and-seek flirtations, his meandering and concise adoration, his detailed and distracted affections. Uninterrupted, if conversation didn't count, it could and might go on for hours. The world rarely had time for such things. The pads of his fingers were feather-light tracing up and pacing down the lumbar curve of her spine in a separate study of her skin, the other arm still wrapped around her ribs. It had been so long that this kind of contact nearly made him anxious, but he slouched and splayed so still and sated that there was no sign of it. He covered her mouth with his fingers between her apology and her correction: "I know. So you can have that tonight. But it's more fun to find a way to do it than just to say it."

The look that she got for turning petulant was expectedly skeptical. "All day? We stopped and had cocktails for all of two hours, maybe. Even so, you won't be kept wait--well... I don't think that's a promise I can make because some times, you will." Suddenly smug, his head lolled to the other side by more than a few degrees in a definitively 'and what' unasked query. The gravel under the tire tread was the first signal that they'd arrived at their destination, and his arms came loose to help shove himself upright on the backseat. He was helpful in smoothing her out, a ripple of his hands over the sweater and a spread of the skirt along her thighs. He left her hair as tousled as it was, and popped open the passenger door to let her climb off him with the prompting kick of his hips beneath her. "G'wan--I'd carry you out but I don't want to give our man here night blindness when my pants fall down around my ankles..." And when she gave him just enough space, he was pulling the jeans back up the flats of his hips to refasten the fly.

They had that in common, like so many other things. She could become a matching of mouths for hours, maybe days. It could be a game to discover who could last longest. Though likely each time it would just depend on the words and other things that passed between them before other things broke through the gentle reverie and mingling of sense and sensation. Had Millicent even a notion of his anxiety he would have been beleaguered with more words and kisses, like exposure therapy she would make him habituate to her and bring an utter stillness and serenity upon himself. Because that's what she gave him. She was so at peace she wondered if, after the tumult of her pulse moments before, her heart had simply stopped. A blissful, quiet ending to a bewitching existence. "You don't know enough. When you do, maybe I -- no, I still won't. And psh. Maybe for you, Nathan. I like the words on my mouth. It makes me sing even when silent."

A soft interlude before she lifted her features and peered at him. "It felt like all day. It felt like... it was awful. I know that's strange and maybe selfish but... it was all ...jeez... It was all -- all of me thought about it the whole time. It was hard to do anything else." For his smug, askance, harmoniously characteristic teasing she couldn't help but laugh. And it was a bright, comfortable, perfect sort of laugh that felt like spring and perfect moments warmed by sunshine. She dipped her head down and kissed his chest like an exclamation point for his unsaid taunts.

When they started to collect themselves, Millicent actually sort of squirmed and even, almost, giggled as he ran his hands all over her to make her presentable. As though he tickled her and she was bashful. Not quite, but it was similar. And that laughter was her aural comet trail as she ducked out through the open door. Just one perfect comment after another, a man could grow an ego just for how pleased and amused she was at what he said and did. On the gravel, she paused, standing, and watched him compose himself. The reason for it, there were several, mostly included a desire to have him not leave her sight. Perhaps she was afraid she had fraternized with specters and he would dissipate like mist in her church yard.

On a beat, she ducked her head back in just before he exited, perhaps blocking him mid-rise. "Oh. Hey. Thanks. Sorry." She chimed at the driver, and the smile that followed was not sheepish, it was a flash of candy-floss charm. Ebullient and adorable. The driver didn't know what to say. Then, she'd take one of Nathan's hands and tug him out onto the gravel. There were fish to see. And a home that was a heart to explore.
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