nonvenomous | Inbox

"'See me kneel,'" she says, turning the talisman between her fingers. The angle of Fitcher's knee is very biddable, bringing a span of thigh around with it. With her spare hand, she removes the pipe from between her teeth so she might more easily continue the quotation. The tenor of the thing is low and smoky regardless. "'For I walk only where You would bid me. Sing only the words You place in my throat.'"

From her hazy wreath, Fitcher gives him a toothy grin.

"Your colleagues should consider implementing a few Verses. They're good fun."

With a last pull of smoke, the pipe too is displaced to the side table where it may burn itself out at a reasonably safe distance for her half organized stack of papers. Her hand moves from the token about his neck to his wrist, turning his forearm over so she might examine the scar she left him with.

"My, I am good with a needle." But more importantly, it's much easier to coax him closer with his wrist than without it.

Edited (No, more specific) 2021-08-04 08:19 (UTC)

“If they’re all as lascivious as that one, we might have a case.”

It is easier, the light trace of his hand shaping itself to her thigh temporarily abandoned for him to yield to her reach instead, the tab of clay at his breastbone left turned from eye to scroll. He’s caught close and scruffy in the lingering haze of her smoke, watching her inspect her own handiwork.

Now that they’re here, there are traces of reserve plucked through the back of his wrist, fast fading to the low hum of her voice and the dark of her eyes.

The blue of his is washed warm in the lamplight, sharp bones in his nose and cheek and brow blunted by exhaustion and resolve. Wine prickles acrid on his breath. Affection is a human weakness.

He leans to kiss her.

Edited (i edit also ) 2021-08-04 21:09 (UTC)

He has kissed her before. Moreover, he is hardly the first member of Riftwatch to do so. It should be very easy to do for, not unlike conversation or a coy look across the top of a hand of cards or a very sharp knife, there is a simple utility to it. There is nothing at all so advantageous to her profession as comfort is. The best way forward in all things is first to not to make yourself a friend and confidant but to simply to be one.

(He had said it himself. That they might make positive headway for the war effort together. Yes. She can see how that could be true.)

Naturally, she has no reason not to oblige him. She lets him do it. And after she should laugh or maybe she should insist that he kiss her extraordinarily well knowing that he is perfectly capable of it. Instead, the tip of Fitcher's face makes the kiss very brief if not chaste.

"You look tired, Silas," she tells him. It is easy to tell when Fitcher decides not to pretend; she smiles less. That only makes sense. The world is a dangerous place when you're being at all honest with it.

Kissing him in return, which she does once her hand has been rehomed from that tab of clay to his whiskery cheek, is carefully done.

He sighs into the break, awareness dissected and pinned apart in the light of observation or diagnosis or the simple courtesy of a warning passed between them like a note. Opened, acknowledged, signed in a weary look, a few degrees off axis. Why shouldn’t he be a little tired?

Even if she doesn’t look tired at all.

There’s a hungry pull to him that threatens to spoil the carefulness of her kiss towards its end -- his weight shifted behind a lift and plant of one hand to brace himself over her.

The other finds its way to her hip, his thumb curled in to feel after the thicker wind of scar tissue there as he dips to kiss coarse under her jaw, at her throat, at her breast. A glance somewhere down along the path is tell-tale, the fluster on his breath offset by the steadiness of his gaze under the flop of his hair over his brow: he still wants to know her name.

Edited (dramatic all italics) 2021-08-07 18:28 (UTC)

What's there to ruin? It's hardly as if there's only one answer to the way he looks at and kisses her. In the same way the point of her attention following him is direct and keen, Fitcher doesn't flinch from under the soft searching press of his thumb. Careful is not the same thing as shy (or hesitant, or delicate, or even particularly biddable); name or no name, surely there is still something encouraging in the soft appreciative rumble in her throat under his mouth or how easily she slips the knot from the housecoat's flimsy cinch.

She raises her eyebrows at him, some gleam of low humor resurfacing. The hand at her hip is flicked with the end of the loosened tie, and the taut tangle of scars which stretch from ribs to upper thigh gleam when bared to the low lamplight.

He settles in on the brace of his elbow beside her to follow scarring laid bare between them -- curious, still, about the ferocity of it, that flicked hand swept to flip the edge of her robe well aside. The bite of the wine on his breath tamps down as he coils back a shade to gauge the pattern -- the scope. The hand he already has there traces (carefully) along raised edges.

Hm.

Upon second pass, his fingertips stir a lazier loop across the more sensitive territory outside of scarring’s roots, where the skin is too supple to shine.

“Are they still alive?”

Just curious, the hood of his brow comfortably arch when it returns to her, and he follows that leading thumb through to draw down it lightly between her legs. He's following the natural contour, you see.

Edited 2021-08-11 09:21 (UTC)

Naturally.

The initial exploration of his hand had warranted no flinch or notable shift, met by the low rise and fall of breath, the flex of ribs and the sharply dark point of her attention on him. It has little to do with a lack of sensation—she can feel the tingle of contact by proxy, more sensitive skin responding to the shift of less. Only that the pattern of scars has lost all novelty to her; she's had them along enough that this is rote and maybe there are more interesting things to observe than the progress of his hand. For example, the line made from his ear through the angle of his neck to shoulder along which her hand travels.

"The mage or the demon?"

But she does shift in answer to the lower sweep of his touch, some flash of teeth like the start of a laugh. Cheeky.

(It's a rhetorical question.)

"No. I made certain." Her fingertips straying toward the dark pinch of his scar. "Yours?"

He confesses in that same mugging glance that he knows his timing could have been more polite.

There are other unlikely little scars along the way -- nicks where a blade caught behind his ear or monstrous talons punched in through armor, giving him cause to be shy of beasts with a taste for blood.

“It’s hard to say,” is the answer, honestly given after a moment’s pause to follow the track of her fingers with a firmer pass of his bony thumb in search of wet to borrow -- unhurried but bold enough, at least, to bank on finding it. “We were wreathed in an unnatural darkness. There were many of them aboard.”

There’s nothing to be proud of in this particular tale, incredible as his survival may have been.

“We hadn’t kept a watch.” Rookie mistake.

"For shame," she agrees, a soft cluck of the tongue and a gentler huff of breath for punctuation.

"I'd say that at least you're cleverer now for it, but—" A pointed look strays in the direction of his forearm (and, entirelly incidentally, toward the occupation of his thumb). Nevermind also that clever men find a way of slithering out from under the obligation of fighting other people's wars.

Fitcher tips her face back to him, a smile lurking at the corner of her mouth. It's a funny joke.

"Good thing you're so charming," is a funnier one, though instead of laughing at her own excellent sense of humor she leans after his mouth. Less carefully.

A clever man wouldn’t be getting naked in bed with a Maker-fearing mage slayer he knows next to nothing about. He’d have said I’m gay and he would’ve meant it without looping back to write her letters in the night or to nudge her under the table while cheating at cards.

He wasn’t a rookie when he neglected to post a watch aboard that ship either.

His reproach for jokes at his expense is muddy with the late hour and the long ride in -- surely if he wasn’t charming he wouldn’t be here in her bed -- serpent poise still rigged in rigid between his shoulders and under the stretch of his jaw when he tilts to meet her. He’s not unraveled -- not entirely, metered between huffs of breath, closer contact. He just wants this very badly, prickly, unfiltered desire and every other feeling that goes with it.

What could go wrong?

In this hour? Very little.

She has no skill for refusing opportunity, and the pleasure of acting on impulse is a distinctive flavor—warm and biting like the alcohol tang on his mouth. It's very easy to pretend that the semantics of cleaning up after, like paying debts, can be some other person's responsinility when the present tense involves getting something she wants.

Such as: kissing him, a low shapeless sound for the scuff of his whiskers and the unsurprising trajectory of her hand traveling to his wrist. Is it not a given that she might have some suggestions for how he touches her? That she might be somehow both idle and insistent, guiding with a press of fingers or a catch of breath. The weather has made the air thick and heavy, and it's possible to be both impatient and unhurried about first overseeing his work and then—being satisfied with its direction—shifting to touch him in return. First through his braies and then undoing lacings with a cheerful tug so she might chase more direct contact.

See— Predictable in her own fashion.

The bony rigging through his hand is keen to dial in under her guidance, half a grin tucked aside the inevitability. The crux of his contribution then becomes to keep to her notes while pushing up in steady pursuit of caught breaths and hitches of fine muscle, persistent, attentive.

It all comes very naturally, instinctive shifts to accommodate hers to keep the pressure on, lower, slower burning drive he doesn’t have to focus to maintain.

Her finding him through his shorts helps.

There are no notes from him after tugged laces, save for an arch at his brow for her gusto, and an indistinct murmur of approval after the first beat of contact, when her grasp hits right. He’s already prickling with sweat for his effort in the humidity and running hot besides, his breath sharpening into a steamier push, his eyes shadowed in the low light.

She hasn't permitted him to slip into her bed in order to be coy. That much is readily apparent in the way she touches him and how it must purposefully be made to compliment the rhythm he has already been instructed on once.

Like this, it is very easy to understand what another person wants. It's all there in the press and grasp of hands and the particular cant of traded breaths, the gleam of sweat and how warm she becomes from being both aligned so close to him and still wearing her housecoat in the ways that are most circumstantial. There is a thrill, isn't there? In taming something with sharp teeth and in that strange way wariness can be care too.

In the dense heat of the room, she is eager for the shape of his mouth and his hands and patient in how she returns both. It isn't unstrategic. She is an old woman and knows that what she needs is to take her pleasure from him first. After, breathless and buzzing from it, she can at last languidly peel herself free of the housecoat's sleeves, push the rich fabric out of bed, and lodge her complaints that he hasn't had her yet.

Doesn't he know what time it is?

He’d wanted to kiss her and he wants this too, wise enough to hold to the track and pace she’s set to shepherd it through to its peak. No hurry to move on, no breaks in rhythm for the distraction of her mouth on his or her hand in his braies or the burn crawling up the back of his arm.

She knows the rules and so does he.

There’s a thrill of adrenaline ecstasy when he feels it run through her, pride and a needle-tongued tickle of not-quite-fear for him to catch his breath in.

He’s single minded at the robe’s teasing departure, on her, in her, and so on -- slow, savoring strokes that quickly give over into something more confident after he’s scooped to swallow her in a tender kiss, his panting over her ragged with exertion. Afterwards he rolls headlong into her bower, more dead animal than spoon, bony, loose, and warm.

...

Scrtch scrtch sctch, polite claws rake the door.

Scrtch, scrtch, is the sound her claws make in the bristle of hair at the back of Silas' neck too, her arm flung haphazardly over him. There's no semblance of grace in any of it. It takes a few sweaty minutes and maybe a marginally less polite inquiry at the door to differentiate between the two.

Maybe the creature is wondering whether she's murdered him, is an idle thought paired with, That's probably not how that works.

"Your beastie is asking after you," is a low rumble somewhere from inside the tangle of sharp points made malleable. The drape of Fitcher's arm remains as is; this is an informative statement rather than urging him to do anything about it.

The threat of a snore catches into a sharper intake at the back of Dick’s throat -- awake. Alive. His nose tilts to the door, slow to process.

“Do you mind if she comes in?”

Does she mind if he stays may be the more prescient question. But she and her pillows and her bed and her nails are comfortable and he is naked and too worn out to sit himself up besides.

Edited 2021-08-16 20:11 (UTC)

In reply, some low murmuring noise resolves sideways into, "If she tries jumping into this bed, I'll pitch you both out of it."

No magic cats where they've just seen to diplomatically furthering the war effort.

With a last rasp of nails, the long hand at the back of his neck slithers free and Fitcher moves to extricate her edges out from under him. She's not too tired to do it. Only slow and grudging—pleasantly bedraggled with her thick hair still damp and loose about the shoulders and in how she shrugs back into the damask housecoat but doesn't bother to cinch it. She's steady on her feet as she crosses to open the door.

That seems fair ruled in a crook at the corner of his mouth, he rolls himself sluggishly over onto his back behind her, lazy, languid. His pants are still hooked at one ankle. He twists them up to towel off with as an afterthought before reaching to sling them onto the floor in a wad.

A problem for tomorrow.

Just outside, his cat sits waiting with wide eyes and bat ears turned like dishes up to the sound of the turned handle. An abortive reach of one goblinoid claw strays down into a first step instead once the door’s opened; she curls in close along the door’s edge with her eyes on Fitcher all the while, careful to step wide around bare ankles and high over toes.

Edited 2021-08-16 22:19 (UTC)

Patient until the last slippery tail tip of the cat sloughs past the door, Fitcher snips the narrow gap shut after her with a soft click of the latch and a perfunctory, "Mind your manners."

And then returns to bed directly. The housecoat comes with despite the radiant heat left in the light blankets and his nakedness. She is mindful of all its edges as folds in to sit beside alongside where he is prone and has no qualms about trading the prospect of sticky nearness for fetching a comb from the side table with which to tame her hair for braiding.

But for good measure while she works: Fitcher throws a leg over his. Cuddling.

Thot the cat bustles into a trot at the order, hurried along for the first shadowy recess that will absorb her, be it beneath furniture or clothing or the neighboring cot. Manners: minded.

Back in Fitchers bed, Silas drowses in the loop of his talisman, waiting to tuck his far foot beneath a rustled blanket until she’s already claimed the near. He looks to their crossed knees for a time before he looks back to her, no move made to shirk or draw away. A hitch at his shoulder tamps a pillow into a softer rest behind him. He shifts his hips, stifles a yawn, finds the belt of her robe lax between paired fingers.

They could talk about the war.

He drifts to the sound of the comb hissing in her hair instead, his eyes heavy-lidded between stretches of rest. It can be difficult to tell, with him, where relaxation ends and sleep begins. The eventual putter of a snore is a helpful clue.

She makes no effort to rouse him. Instead her hair is combed slowly and braided more so to the quiet rhythmic rasp of a body in minor motion, and it's only once she has set the comb aside that Fitcher makes any motion to disturb her company.

"Silas." Her long hand fits well over his bare breastbone. "Shift over."

The light on the bedside table is doused. Thin blankets and the bodies nominally beneath them are rearranged. When she shifts in next to him, it is only by a matter of technicality that it might be considered beside rather than over him. A bent arm is hooked over his chest. His shoulder makes an acceptable pillow for this brief interim in which she intends to remain awake.

"If you leave early, don't wake me," she murmurs near his neck, the low rumble of it felt through all her bare skin. And then she makes herself comfortable. That's quite enough conversation.

Zseiless.

He starts, a reflexive jolt caught and subdued quickly upon replay, invisible but not intangible: his heart skips beneath the muffle of her palm, tension tuned sharp through his shoulder. But there’s no dry kindling in him for alarm to ignite -- his resistance loosens like a pair of clamped jaws as he shifts, blankets welcomed, wrangled with his assistance.

Her close fit against him gives him pause -- is she reaching across him for something? No, clearly she is not.

A moment’s hazy contemplation as she makes herself comfortable is all he needs to realize that no part of him seems to mind. Conforming feels natural, whatever warm feeling calling to muscle and bone; his arm should lift to wind around her side, like so.

A sigh presses up under his scrubby chest, the scar-chewed slats of his ribs push against her in the dark. He shifts again to better settle.

“I’ll be discreet,” he murmurs back once he's still. Quiet. Mrs. Fitcher.

Edited 2021-08-21 18:23 (UTC)

A low purr of acknowledgement is neither encouragement or assent. In the dark, there is some minor adjustment to the tilt of her chin. On second thought—

"I didn't ask for your discretion. Only not to wake me."

Let Barrow and Rutyer be cross with her. There's little harm in it.

There’s an answering tilt in the dark, a velcro rasp of bristle on bristle for him to consider her.

Quiet prevails; after a moment, a rustle marks his settling back into place.

He won’t wake her.

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