Once Bitten, Twice Shy

[Drezda Ecks]

Achtus 5, 2718 | Afternoon
Khymarah's House, Vienda

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The Hoxian wasn't certain what sort of response she'd anticipated. Not many people had seen her scars but she'd seen a pattern. Horror, disgust, shock. Rhys and Rosmilda had seen her worse though, seen her while she actually clawed at herself and still bled freely, which was a new level of horror. Of course, Rhys had panicked and wanted to run away, she hadn't even been that bad then; the scars had increased many times since her final year in Brunnhold. And Rosmilda... well, she'd seen the bad but she did her best not to see it really and she tended to her when she was a bloody mess, sometimes gently suggesting that she ought to heal herself.

They were ugly, she knew they were ugly, it was sort of the point. Perhaps after all this time the scar tissue could still be coaxed into some semblance of normality by a skilled Living Conversationalist, the damaged and twisted flesh something that the body could be convinced to remedy. An excellent healer could probably do it but she would never ask, she would never show them. They were her shame to bear, her reminders of her weakness and her failure, and how she needed to be better. They were a horrible scourge on her otherwise flawless skin as if all of her weakness of character had burst out like pressured magma, the chaotic heat escaping only to solidify in grotesque shapes on the surface.

When she saw it, she found that Khymarah's shock didn't come as a surprise to her but her sadness did. It was far more disconcerting to see her react as she did, the tears coming to the artist's gaze as she reached out unthinkingly towards the damage. Drezda flinched at the unexpected touch, onyx eyes pools of shocked incomprehension as she turned them on the Bastian.

She didn't understand. The Hoxian really didn't understand at all. Confusion rippled out from her, her field humming with it even as she sat quite rigidly, eyeing the other warily, uncertainly. She found her hand grasped, the other truly looking as if she was on the verge of tears, the flash of guilt through her aura only adding to the strangeness of this little conundrum.

Why did the redhead feel guilty? Pity could be expected maybe but... guilt? She hadn't done it, she hadn't etched the marks into the diplomat's skin or asked her to do so. She hadn't forced a particular upbringing on her, hadn't made her a failure within said upbringing or made her feel like a lost cause. There was no reason to feel bad when she had had nothing to do with it. Surely, she didn't feel guilty because she felt somehow responsible, as if by knowing she could have stopped Drezda from doing it. How would she have helped? What could she have done?

"You didn't know, you weren't supposed to know. Nobody was, that was the point," she explained with a shrug, treating it with unimaginable nonchalance now that the secret was out. What else was she meant to do? This was what she was, really what she was and it was strangely nice not to have to hide it. Even her parents didn't know what she'd done to herself and they thought she was so good, so in control. They'd be very disappointed if they learned the truth, especially as those scars... they wouldn't like to pass her over to a husband like that. Not that she fucking wanted one but that sort of thing would matter to them, the shame of having said husband turn around to complain about deceit, the hiding of the fact that his wife was imperfect.

So imperfect.

But Khymarah didn't seem to mind. She wasn't repulsed, that was clear, not when her first reaction had been to reach out and touch the scars. That was... the last thing she'd expected. It was a rather tender, caring gesture in truth and the diplomat felt the warmth move up the skin of her throat, colouring everything in its vertical path.

The Bastian seemed to like the imperfection but then she was an artist, wasn't she? They liked the weird, the unusual, the different. The best of them took their inspiration from the abnormality of the world, the things that broke the mould and challenged the monotony that you grew so accustomed to throwing your eye over without seeing. So of course she enjoyed the mess that was Drezda with that artistic soul of hers but it was an aesthetic thing, an abstract interest. She'd get over it when she wasn't sitting in a studio in a working mindset. When she had the chance to think about her as a person who she could potentially have a romantic relationship with then Khymarah would be revolted; she'd realise that the Hoxian was a walking disaster who was best avoided.

And the fact that she wanted to paint the diplomat just seemed to confirm everything that she thought. She wasn't an art piece, she wasn't. It made her horribly teary, too confused and overwhelmed to know what was going on, what she was meant to think or believe. However, the redhead was genuine, always genuine and her expression now was so sweet and tender and understanding and Drezda wanted to trust her, to believe her on a level that went beyond the artistic.

The light touch of fingertips on her cheeks made her eyes flutter shut, the woman finding herself so weary. Why was she fighting again? How long had she been doing so? She didn't even know. Couldn't she just let go for a moment?

Something in her field relaxed, a soft acquiescence as the artist leaned in and brought their lips together, gentle and unimaginably sweet. When she relaxed a little, the mingling of their fields wasn't awful, wasn't something that made her panic this time. It had just been so long before and she hadn't expected the other woman to make her feel like that either. But there weren't any lies here, not this time, not from her and it was liberating and so, so wrong. She didn't know this woman well enough to have dropped her barriers. Where was rhakor? Where the fuck was it?!

But damnit, she wanted this! She wanted this enough that it had plagued her and taken seed in her heart. She'd poured it all out to Rosmilda and that wasn't something that should have happened, not unless it really mattered to her. Clearly it mattered a lot.

It was why she gave in, just for a little while, fingers blindly seeking the other's shoulders, moving up from the nape of her neck to tangle in the roots of her sublime red locks just in time for the Bastian to draw back. Damn her! Just- She didn't want to think right now, she really didn't. The poetry was certainly distracting but... it wasn't the right sort of distraction. She didn't need or want the complimentary words that she dropped in verse, no matter how lovely they were.

"I don't-" She paused, biting her lip, onyx eyes narrowing slightly. The grasp of her fingers in Khy's hair tightened a bit, the diplomat intending to give a tug, firm but not to hard to make her tilt her head up. The idea was to expose the pale white throat so that she could press her lips to it, to move them under her jaw. It was the height of stupidity really but she needed some control, even if it involved a little carnality.

"Is that what you want? Really?" she asked, voice a sultry purr in the artist's ear, roughened by the tears she'd so recently shed and more still lingered in her gaze. "I don't even know if you're any good," she added with a breathy laugh.

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[Khy Marah]

5th Achtus, 2718
VIENDA| AFTERNOON

She should flinch back at the sight, and the nonchalant tone of voice, but she couldn’t. There was something about the brunette that drew her in, held her captive. There was a ‘hero’ complex the galdor had built around the other woman at first, an adoration built on wanting to be like the Hoxian. But since leaving the confines of Brunnhold, it had faded into more of a childhood memory of a perfect face and immecible hair.

She’d met her again, and wanted the Hoxian. And the beautiful creature seemed to want her to, or at least, wanted something.

Khymarah caught her breath as delicate Hoxian fingers wove between the thick tresses of her scarlet hair, searching dark eyes with her own dual colored gaze, lips parted still from poetry and warmth and thrumming heartbeat.

I don’t—

The words fell from the brunette’s lips as though she was about to protest something. What? I don’t give permission to be painted? I don’t want to be? I don’t care about poetry? The pale hand tightened slightly, drawing her head back just so, soft skin of her throat exposed. Her field flexed warmly, eyes fluttering slightly closed as lips brushed against the edge of her ear and breathing tickled her neck.

“It is.” Khy said in a whisper, almost trembling under the other woman’s barest of touches and firm hand in her hair. The contradiction of sensations was a curious delight, both emboldening and scaring the galdor all at once. She opened her eyes at the last comment, a burst of excitement bubbling up from her chest.

“You…I could…I can show you how good I am.” The artist stammered, hand slipping to rest on the woman’s shoulder and biting her lip gently. She wasn’t sure what she should do, where she should look or rest her other hand. A soft noise escaped her, a very gentle whine, and she curled the fingers of her free hand into the folds of her skirt with a tight squeeze.

“I mean, I think I’m quite good. My client’s seem to think so, given the commissions.” Khymarah rambled softly, her streak of confidence wavering slightly under the broken woman’s almost aggressive reaction. Her mind wandered, recalling the evening they had first had those drinks, and how Drezda had become suddenly almost angry with her for being shy and meek. And again when she had kissed her.

Perhaps…

The galdor trailed her fingers back through the other woman’s brunette locks and sighed.

“Is this what you want, Miss Ecks?” She asked quietly, challenging the woman slightly with a raised eyebrow, glancing at the doorway behind them lest one of the passives re-enter the room. The redhead had a strong suspicion they had been given a lot more time than just the fetching of tea.

“Really?” The galdor said with a smirk, letting her hand rest on Drezda’s knee and squeezing gently.

[Drezda Ecks]

Achtus 5, 2718 | Afternoon
Khymarah's House, Vienda

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On some level, Drez was hurting although she didn't fully understand why; she didn't much care about the hurt right now. She was with a young woman who was beautiful and had managed to get under her skin in unexpected ways. Beautiful and no doubt talented and oh so compliant. The willing submission to that head tilt, exposing her throat readily in perfect vulnerability. It was a good thing that the Hoxian wasn't a true predator or she could have torn that pretty neck asunder instead of letting her lips brush so delicately against the soft skin. Her kisses were feathery, almost teasing as she traced her way to the other's ear, delighted by the curves and the velvety skin and the pleasant scent that hung around the artist. Still, there was nothing as good as the response, the delicious reaction that was so easy to perceive.

There was something electric between them, the charge almost crackling over Khymarah's skin, almost vibrating off it, a near tremble more sensed than felt. Maybe it came from her field, the typical means of conveying feelings but in truth, it felt as if another sense was giving her that insight, something she didn't have a name for. As far as the field was concerned, the Bastian's one had a definite warmth to it, its flex creating a greater intermingling between the pair. Drezda certainly wasn't immune to what was going on, her own field flexing, heated and almost gleeful at the submission, her pleasure at the acquiescence thrumming warmly around her.

The diplomat leaned back so she could drink in her expression, wondering just how pliant the other was. Wondering how complaisant she could be made to be. Circle preserve her, the redhead was infinitely tempting, an ingénue waiting to be introduced to the sordid pleasures that Drezda Ecks so enjoyed. Would it be cruel to initiate her into sapphic love in such a way? Would a more delicate approach not be better so she could ease her into things? By Bash, what was she thinking? In truth though, how could she fail to think it? After all, this was as good a time as any, especially given the very favourable reaction she was receiving. How easy would it be to-

"Oh and what will you show me?" she asked with a soft laugh, mouth twisted up on one side and a brow raised. There was more than simple amusement in her features, her gaze full of mischief and challenge and flirtation, something knowing in her gaze. Was Khymarah sure that she was just attempting to talk about her prowess in painting? Even if it was as innocent as it seemed on the surface, it was funny to see her so emboldened, especially as her courage seemed to be waning even as she spoke. The Hoxian wasn't laughing at the other, there was no manner of malicious mocking; she found the behaviour endearing, especially because this was all so new to her.

The whine made her all the more appealing, the young woman having to keep something aggressive in check so that she wouldn't simply pounce on and pin the artist. However, the next words out of her would-be lover's mouth were the very height of innocence. Oh bless her, she really wasn't speaking in double meanings, was she? Yet she was trying, attempting to muster enough sexuality to appeal to the more experienced woman.

The laughter that bubbled out was truly mirthful and yet surprised, the brunette almost unable to believe the naivety before her. Her grasp in the red tresses loosened, freeing the girl from her control. She was a grown woman, she was but it was unbelievably difficult not to view her as a child or childish at the very least. So young, so inexperienced. She was so different than the sly, scheming people that she typically had to deal with, the ones who watched and waited for the chance to get the upperhand and gain dominance over you in the political field.

Her mirth quietened and quelled as fingers moved into her hair, dark eyes suddenly fixed on Khymarah as a displeasure rippled through her field, the mona within briefly prickly. A low hiss issued from between her teeth, hardly above the threshold of hearing, subtle and serpentine, a warning and a disapproval. Her features grew stern, lips drawing into a pout. Her hand moved to the raised arm, intending to trace it to its terminus in her hair, to seek the redhead's wrist and encircle it, short, well-manicured nails turned inwards
to press into tender skin. Provided that the artist didn't disentangle her fingers immediately - no doubt not understanding the reason behind the gesture - then she would feel the press of Drezda's fingernails, not sharp or liable to hurt, but a definite pressure.

"No. Not like this. You should be less meek in general but... not now," she explained, tone firm and not one that broached disagreement. "You don't touch me unless I let you. If you're good," she added, her voice softening as she moved her hand away from her head to cradle the Bastian's jaw, intending to let her thumb stroke gently over her cheek. There was a hope of reward, a tempting suggestion of what she could have, her gaze and her touch tender. She wasn't a monster, she wasn't some cruel, heartless bitch. She just wanted control and obedience, was that so horrible?

Both hands moved to her knee to shift and entrap the Bastian's hand, gentle yet possessive.

"But not here. Not now. I'm not... the best at the moment. Not for this, not for you," she explained softly, head dipping briefly to press a kiss to the back of the artist's hand before she released it and made to rise. "But you can show me. How good you are. I'm sure you have some work to show off."

The smile that accompanied it was soft and indulgent, onyx orbs interested but touched with sadness.

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