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"Ne cherchez plus mon cóur ; des monstres l'ont mang". -- Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal.

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Millicent Grim
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Joined: Wed May 23, 2018 12:43 pm
Location: The Sacrifice Club

[NSFW] †††

Post by Millicent Grim » Fri Apr 05, 2019 1:00 pm

(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 fuck--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 fucking 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.
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