[Closed, Mature] Once More to See You

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

It was like he couldn't help himself, couldn't help twisting that knife in a little bit more. Did it have to hurt, all the time? Couldn't this one thing be easy between the two of them, just this one moment, this one night? They could go back to being mixed up and cut open later, just— Just this one thing, just this one—

Cerise let the thought go with something like a laugh at her own expense. Like she was any better at it; she'd proven that well enough. How could she be upset with Em anyway when he was oh-so-helpfully putting his hands on every bit of her he could reach? It was, quite factually, close to impossible. He knew it, too; of that she was certain.

"Me too," she agreed; short and simple. Too short for her voice to catch on it, before she pressed her mouth so eagerly to the line of his jaw. Pulled him in closer, so she didn't have the space to think about anything else. Another time she might have argued, but wasn't it clear enough that it was true?

Em didn't leave her much opportunity to complain either. "Hmm, is that—" So, she might have said, if it hadn't gotten swallowed up by the sound she made into his mouth when he kissed her again. They didn't need to work over that any more than they already had right now, anyway. There was time for conversation later.

She might have been happy to linger like that for—well, if not forever, than for a rather long while. Lost in all the things she could only half-remember—the taste of his mouth (it was funny, she hadn't smoked in so long, and there it was, those cigarettes she bought), the feel of all him warm and close to her, that touch that was neither teasing nor particularly delicate anymore. A different soap, maybe, but underneath that there was the bar and there was Em—burnt just a little around the edges still.

Emiel had other ideas, evidently. He shifted, and she was happy to let him. For a moment he was over her, and that she could have lingered in, too. Damn McAllister again, because Cerise wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and hold him right where he was, but there were burns there now. How irritating. And see? He escaped her straight off, working his way elsewhere.

Not, it had to be admitted, that she minded in the least. Quite the opposite, really. Conversation was on hold, but she did her best to be communicative in other ways. Some of it was even vocal, although the only parts resembling anything like words were shaped into his name. That, she thought, would get the message across. If not, there was the tangle of her fingers in his hair and the way she arched up to meet him. Helpfully, she thought. She had said she could be helpful. Surely this counted?

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

It were better to jus' stop talkin' altogether. All Em were doin' was gettin' in both their ways, an' he knew it, feelin' the faintest hints of emotion in the golly's more powerful field, tangled like it were with his glamour. Readin' her were far easier than he wanted to admit, like pickin' up a favorite book. N'even the bindin' were any different, 'cause he knew the lovely thing inside an' out—or, he did. Before.

Did he still?

Everythin' sure did feel familiar. So familiar that it'd been too easy to smash his face into some ersehole jent's skull for talkin' spitch 'bout Cerise even if she weren't even his rosh. Hadn't been. Couldn't be. An' yet—godsdamnit.

So familiar that he'd sat in jail for a young woman he'd been told to stay the fuck away from, only for that same young woman to post his own bail. Gods, he were sure her da were gonna be pissed 'bout that bill—

So familiar that they'd n'even been able to keep from kissin', from touchin', from strippin' bare outta all those barriers—fabric an' social—that'd been keepin' them apart for too long already. There weren't any point worryin' 'bout the mornin' while the purple-haired wick reacquainted himself with all the paths he once knew an' hadn't yet forgotten, 'cause that were later an' this were now an'—well, now, all that talk had finally stopped.

'Bout time, really.

Did he still know her, though?

Or were he jus' pretendin'?

It didn't feel like pretendin', ne with that delicious flutter of desire that scintillated through her field an' raced with her pulse beneath his lips. It didn't feel like pretendin', ne one bit. It jus' felt like rememberin', an' for this pina moment, that were jus' enough: Emiel set about rememberin' the way her lithe shape felt with his palms, skin against skin; rememberin' the way fancy Brunnhold soap smelled ('specially since Cerise must've washed while he sat in th' cold with a bunch of guttered strangers); an' rememberin' the way her breath hitched an' her fingers curled all sharp an' tight when his mouth found all the landmarks worth visitin'.

Em trailed kisses from her lips, n'even botherin' to be as gentle anymore when he nibbled down from her neck an' between that pleasin' dip of negative space between clavicles, over that rise of her sternum only to detour toward the gentle but quite ridiculously lovely curve of each breast, equal an' fair in his attentions if ever the ridiculous wick could be fair 'bout anythin' in his damn life. Maybe he lingered a bit, glancin' up with half a grin before he continued movin', before he continued joggin' those delicious memories. Down the smooth plain of the galdor's abdomen, an' further still, the tsat might've paused to breathe deeply—fillin' his lungs with more than' jus expensive cosmetics but excitement an' wantin', too.

Tiltin' his head jus' so, teeth taunted one soft inner thigh—a bit of playin', a bit of greed, 'cause it were jus' a warnin': instead of bitin' too hard, he pressed his lips a lil' firmer, leavin' a sharp lil' sting an' a mark behind when he trailed away, bright eyes hardly apologetic when he glanced downward at the dark-haired golly's face while restin' his chin in some mockery of triumph on one of her knees.

Maybe, jus' maybe, he thought he'd have somethin' to say from this vantage point, mind empty but moment full of some heated swirl of memories—the dredgin' of old ones an' the makin' of new ones, both.

Calloused hands wandered once he'd made his way this far, and when he tilted his head to lean down an' kiss his way back up the gentle line of her opposite thigh, it were with purpose an' direction this time,

"I'ma jus' take this lil' detour, ye chen." Emiel hummed against warm skin, drawin' inward, ready to remember taste along with scent an' sensation, eager to hear more of his name lest he lose it in all of this madness. It weren't a mystery, obviously, ne when her body arched, ne when she moved, jus' so, to accommodate him. It were his turn for a dim but perceptible flutter of excitement to twinkle through his glamour, quite sure he'd ne forgotten what he were doin' with his tongue—let it ne'er be said that Emiel Emmerson couldn't find any better uses for that tauntin' mouth when ne behind the bar.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

Things had to have changed. Cerise wasn't so stupid to think that they could just slide back into where they'd been before it had all fallen apart. No matter how easy it seemed, or how much she wanted it to be so. No matter how it felt right now, how easy it was to pretend it had been a month and not a year. That's all it was—pretending.

Right? Right.

Cerise didn't have to pretend any bit of how much she wanted this, at least. The desire that swept all through her blood and body and even the weight her field was quite real. Well—a lack of physical attraction had never been one of their problems. It was, in fact, that attraction that was one of the cornerstones of every other problem they had. If only she'd had the common sense to leave it there and not like all the rest of him as well, they'd both be better off. In the eyes of everyone else, anyway—Cerise had her doubts.

Nobody had ever accused her of being overly rich in common sense.

Her breath was heavier as Em moved with a deliberately unhurried pace down the sharp-drawn line of her body. She didn't want this to go any faster; she was impatient and greedy with anticipation. It all caught in her throat with the touch of his teeth on her thigh, gasped out of her immediately after. "Em—!" He'd left a mark, she knew he had. And he looked so smug about it, too. Clocking ridiculous man.

If he was going to say something, he thought better of it. Good; she might have had to hit him or kiss him, whichever seemed more appropriate at the time. Both, as was often the case.

"You're a monster," she managed, with all the tenderness of tone someone else might have used for "I love you". They were the same, really. "You're ridiculous", "I love you"; "you're terrible", "I love you"; "you monster", "I love you more than I should". She smiled when she said it, her touch on the side of his perfect face soft for just that moment. The smile tilted to something else as he hummed against her skin.

There was just the littlest bit of excitement in his glamour, too, feather-soft like the wing of a bird. She'd not have noticed, she knew, with anyone else. If the subtlety of it wasn't something so familiar in so many ways still; she'd spent so much time trying to figure it out, after all. All that chaos, and all of it was still her Emiel, her favorite subject to study. Revision was an important part of any student's life—it wouldn't do to forget what one had already learned after the lesson.

Em had forgotten nothing at all, or if he had she couldn't remember it either. Whatever the case, Cerise wasn't shy about expressing her approval. Full marks for Emiel Emmerson; she might have told him so in so many words if she could have managed. His name would have to do, shamelessly repeated over and over.

Emiel and his clever mouth. Would she really have been better off without it? Really? The pressure of his tongue was heat and electricity through her; she didn't have to pretend a single gasp or pleased shiver, either. Gracious clocking Lady she had missed him; the thought was hard to hold with him so wonderfully present and presently wonderful.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

He knew better. He did. He knew exactly what he were doin'—every roll of his tongue an' tease of his hands had a purpose an' it sure's brigk wore green weren't to remember a damn thing between himself an' Cerise. It were, in a way, to forget more than anythin'—to forget how much he'd hung onto when he shouldn't, to wash away all that bitter aftertaste like a bad batch of beer. Burnin' it all off in a bit of heated wantin' 'cause he'd n'even had a chance to say anythin' at all all those months ago—

He shouldn't be doin' any of this, maybe a pina manna mad with a longin' to make up for the goodbye he never got. Lettin' go, that's what this were. Lettin' go of all the hurt an' anger, chasin' that release with the flutter of aroused heartbeats like lettin' birds out of cages.

She didn't stop him, either, ne, an' he didn't care when fingers curled into foe'd hair or knuckles pressed against his scalp 'til it stung. He might've grunted at the brush of writhin' legs against burned, freckled skin once his arms moved to drape a limb over his shoulder, but, honestly, he weren't even thinkin' 'bout physical hurt.

That shit healed, anyway.

Emiel were jus' as merciless with pleasin' her as ever, enjoyin' every lil' breathless huff of his name like he'd ne heard enough of her sayin' it. He hadn't. Not recently, anyways.

His eventual glance upward were smug an' satisfied, of course, grinnin' for a moment before he tilted his head to use some rumpled layer of unmade bed to wipe his face like a feral animal, half laughin', half pantin', but achin' all over—on the inside more than anythin' else. Her enjoyment didn't steal the hurtin' that lingered in his heart one bit, an' he promptly decided he'd jus' have to try harder.

Hands on the dark-haired galdor's knees, his wicked expression faltered, softened, staring at her with that same mischievous tongue pressed against his lower lip for a moment, Emiel purred, "Ent anymore a monster than you, hmm?"

Gods, he'd missed it. All of it. Sounds and scents, touch an' taste.

Dangerously delicious, of course. He knew.

He'd always known. Ever since that day in the bookstore. He weren't dumb, just ... into the danger.

Thrilled by the fear of it, emboldened by the fact that it weren't even one-sided appreciation, the purple-haired wick fell hard back then an' it were clear he'd never really stood back up again. N'even for lack of tryin'. Galdori didn't often see him for who he was an' Cerise'd seen all of him, every freckled inch, every dumb bruise on his knuckles—

Well. Almost all of him.

Now? Things were different. Things had changed.

Weren't they? Hadn't they?

Maybe less than they should've, an' for that, Em were clockin' grateful.

[Cerise Vauquelin]

Emiel's Flat, the Stacks
Bethas 16, 2720 - After Midnight

There had been a moment when he looked at her, as self-satisfied as he ever was (and she wasn't so unhappy herself) that she saw it. A shift, just to the left of where it had been to something softer. A face she knew just as well as the half-feral one before it, and she had missed so much more. His tongue pressed to his bottom lip, and the words that fell from his mouth.

"Ent anymore a monster than you, hmm?"

It choked her up. That mix of needy and content as she was, it wasn't enough to keep it from striking her somewhere strange. She'd said it with all of her terrible love; she wanted to hear it that way, too. Maybe she did. Her heart certainly skipped a beat, though she could have blamed that on his face and voice as much as anything he actually said, were anyone to ask. There was just some trace of truth in it, and she didn't know what to do with that.

I'm sorry, she almost said, a strange and rare apology. For what? Well, for a lot of things, really. For not being around, for not staying away. For wanting everything to be as it had been, or as close as they could get it. For wanting things to change, but together and not apart. For whatever Sish was assuredly doing to his furniture in the other room. For being monstrous—because what else did you call someone who knew their love would only bring suffering, and didn't hold back anyway?

Cerise didn't think this was the time for mentioning any of that. And if it was, she wasn't going to let it be. Her world had contracted rather a lot, after all. Nobody outside of this flat mattered or even existed, for now. The only reason it expanded beyond this room was because of Sish in the next one. She grinned, and she pulled his face back towards her own. She had a few thoughts about their mutual monstrousness.

"Come here," she commanded, still grinning, voice softer than the words. "And let me show you just how monstrous I am."

Later, she promised herself, later she would tell him. About her father, about everything that had happened and not happened in all the time they spent apart. The things she ought to have said before, or that she ought not to say at all but would anyway. Not now—later. They had time. She would make sure of it.

[Emiel Emmerson]

the stacks, on the street

after midnight on the 16th of Bethas

There were a time when Em would've said the heartfelt things an' meant 'em all, but the too meaningful, too expressive tone Cerise'd used for all that affection really did remind the purple-haired wick of what a monster he were, what a monster he could be, what a monster he were seen as from her kind's point 'f view. Like jus' another sliver of glass, translucent an' sharp beneath his skin, he felt all at once all the distance that'd been forced between them both despite how physically close their familiar, warm bodies might've been in this moment.

If there were any reason to be wary 'bout openin' those doors again, well, it were probably a pina manna too late, consdierin'. Why hold back the words he knew he should say if he were so willin' to share this much of himself—

—but bodies were easier, eh? Just a wall of sensation an' skin to keep the hama safe. Oes. That were somethin' to at least pretend at, jus' 'bout now.

This were the part he were better at, anyway.

Grinnin' back, Emiel crawled his way back up the sprawled landscape of pale, smooth skin, hoverin' on his hands an' knees while he rose to meet Cerise's challenge with all the same bravado he faced the rest of Vita with,

"Boemo—" Murmured the wick without coyness so much as quiet obedience—as the dark-haired woman wished, so he was eager to be. N'other galdor 'd ever held so much sway, ne matter what kind of power they claimed to hold over his person, his property.

Cerise still held it all—well, as much as he were ever willin' to give, which, truth be told weren't precisely everythin' but pretty godsbedamned close—it seemed, an' he'd let her hold it still, even knowin' full well it weren't at all safe 'r sound so much as it were right.

Ent much safe these days, he chided himself, leanin' closer still, but he liked the sharp things.

"—gimme a macha reminder, eh?"