multiversallogs | angels and moths

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angels and moths

Who: Ilde Decima and Ivan

What: something stupid

Where: a flat in Mafaton

When: a couple nights after the missions in (let's say Veerdi?)

Notes: they make the best decisions

Warnings: Mention of past abuse. Will almost certainly include sex and blood-drinking, though likely not explicit. Also, Ivan may be drunk later.

Ivan found, after dying twice, that one's sense of caution was somewhat eroded. Not completely, of course - years of habit and innate temperament saw to that - but really, what was the worst that could happen? He was strong enough in nearly all cases to make it a matter of letting him walk away or killing him. If the latter... well, he wasn't suicidal, but he was curious. Maybe the afterlife would be city on city, like nesting dolls. Maybe it would be better, or worse. Maybe it would eventually be oblivion.

But in the meanwhile, he may as well take a few risks and enjoy himself.

He sat on the balcony, smoking, and waiting for Ilde to arrive.

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Briefly entertained by the idea of Ivan clutching his pearls over anything, ever, Ilde put one hand to her mouth as she slid down from the balcony rail. "I wasn't aware. The personals here must be fascinating." She was absently sure that Réjean would know about that, if there were anything to know.

"I'm curious, though, what's more interesting to you? Fairy blood or fairy knickers?" So to speak.

"Generally, or yours?"

Her expression was accordingly droll. "Which do you think?"

"I had no intention of choosing between the two," he said, frank. "But interesting... blood. Baring anything terribly unexpected, I expect the blood will be the more surprising."

"That's fair. As far as I know, my vagina doesn't do tricks." Though she didn't entirely rule out the possibility that sex had somehow changed since the storm (it wasn't as if she'd had an opportunity to find out), it seemed unlikely.

He laughed, then, and stood up. "I think that might be a bit too interesting, in all honesty."

"My teeth are sharper than yours, though," she added, swaying a step toward him when he stood. "So I hope you don't mind getting bit back."

He touched her face, running his finger along her jaw. "My lovers are generally vampires; I'm rather more used to that than not. No muscle damage, though, that hurts to repair." If she got to set rules...

Ilde let her glamour dissolve as he touched her - the bruising on her throat was ugly, and she'd brought back a number of smaller wounds, scratches and scrapes and a shallow slash where she'd twisted out the way in time, but for some those might not have been the details most initially arresting.

At least she wasn't wearing the cowboy hat, this time.

"I wasn't planning on maiming you," she said, her hands coming to rest on his waist, "just maybe mussing you a little."

He took her in, flippant manner fading as he studied her. "Aren't you a lovely little thing," he murmured, and tilted her chin up to kiss her.

Refreshing straightforwardness aside - not entirely, she was a bit pleased with herself about it - the last time anything like this had happened, it hadn't been much like this at all. She'd been sixteen, and the older man she'd been fooling around with had been human, and she'd still been slightly inclined to think of an orgasm she didn't give herself as a bonus not to necessarily be expected. She'd been worried about STDs, not whether or not she was going to need orange juice and a biscuit afterwards.

It was nice, abruptly, to be kissed and to enjoy it and to have decided what she wanted and gone to get it.

"Yes," she informed him, when certain height differences necessitated a moment's pause, "I am."

"Aren't you just." He caught one arm around her waist, half supporting her to pull her up for another, more extended kiss. Ivan's marriage was something he had no intention of discussing in detail, not with anyone and certainly not with Ilde. But he had been, perhaps, a bit frustrated before his death.

Or maybe death simple made his frustrations apparent to him in a new way.

Regardless, though it stayed slow, there was an edge of hunger to his kiss that wasn't purely about blood.

Arguably, there were worse ways of working out frustration than with a pretty fairy who bit back. She was marginally less sure of herself against him than she had been in conversation; five years was a long time when you were twenty-one, and longer still when you hadn't really known what you were doing last time, either. Still, she wasn't awkward or hesitant - she had the air of someone deciding what she wanted moment by moment, exploratory and not shy.

The only wrong note was her nails sinking into his arm when her feet left the ground.

He flinched at that - her nails were sharp - but it didn't make him stop. Instead, he set her back down, slowly, and tugged her toward the inside of the apartment.

The tension in her grip released when she was steady on her own again, though letting go of him entirely wasn't in the cards this evening; it had been a moment of surprise, right, okay, I don't like that and then they were already moving and she only had those moments in which to be worried before something else caught her attention.

"I'm going to get a crick in my neck," she muttered, her laugh rougher for the bruises.

"Well," he murmured between kisses, "We're not going to be able to stand long, especially if I can't lift you." Which was why he was moving for the bed, presumably.

"No lifting," she said, firmly, making their fourth rule for the night as they collided with his bed. Or the bed that was presently his, until he wandered off someplace else. It would more than do, anyway, and here she could crawl into his lap, which made some things more convenient and others less so. Trousers, less so. "Rule four."

They were going to end up with a handbook.

He settled her in his lap, in no rush about the trousers. (Yet.) "One day," he murmured, "I will have a lover who's within 25 centimeters of my height." Or perhaps not.

At least she wasn't going to get a crick in her neck, now.

"You sound like a man with a type." The odds, therefore, were probably not in his favour. If she weren't currently preoccupied with how he was with her, she might've wondered about what sort of a woman he'd been married to.

"Do I?" He consciously avoided kissing her throat, which took a bit of doing, and decided removing her shirt would give him more options.

"In some ways, perhaps." Small, dark, and crazy was a good foundation, even if he wasn't entirely conscious of it.

Her blouse was light, buttoned about halfway, and hid more bruising on her torso - none so dramatic as the strangulation marks, and none of it much holding her back. There was lace beneath, besides, a bra that functioned more as a polite suggestion than anything practical, and Ilde rolled her shoulders to let the blouse slip off her wrists behind her; the more skin bared, the more it became apparent she was just this side of aglow.

"That or, really, just far too fucking tall-" which she was cheerfully not ruling out, now that she'd been given leave to take advantage of said height by treating him like a climbing frame with buttons to be undone.

The downside (or upside) of his immaculate appearance was that it offered a great many buttons to undo, as well as a tie to remove. The attention he paid to her shoulder and her upper chest, however, was not very helpful to getting him undressed.

The tease of not yet biting her made everything more sharply pleasurable.

It wouldn't have previously occurred to Ilde to think so specifically of that as anything inherently appealing; she hadn't objected to the idea of teeth in her skin, had liked the idea of sleeping with someone unlikely to mind if she accidentally broke his (or less accidentally-), but there was something distracting about the scrape of teeth and implication of lethality that wasn't frightening her the way it perhaps should have.

There was, of course, eventually broken skin and blood, but later, and both of them were evidently well-satisfied when they were through.

Ivan, for his part, was conscious but languid. Unfortunately or otherwise, he was too drunk to worry about the fact he was badly drunk, which was a sensation he hadn't felt in a long, long time. "Well, that answers one question," he observed, not slurred but a bit thick.

Later, he'd probably find the bloody washcloth and the first aid kit she'd found underneath the sink in his bathroom - when she returned from it, cleaned up (smelling of soap) with a bandage tied off around her upper thigh and looking less like she'd had the worst of all periods, she cocked her eyebrow at him for his remark.

Less for the remark, actually, than how he'd delivered it.

"Are you drunk?"

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