Byronesque [Closed] - Printable Version
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Byronesque [Closed] - Tindome - 08-06-2015
Of course the conversation would have nowhere to go when he talked himself in circles. It was hardly the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. She did not bother trying to unravel the winding mess he'd made, and he did not blame her, though it would have amused him to see the attempt. He spoke for the sake of hearing himself speak, being heard, consuming whatever effect his words may have had. Verbal responses were only necessary when they lead to other, more interesting responses. Embarrassment, perhaps, or arousal. Faint amusement was nice enough, but it was hardly a necessity.
He leaned into her touch, still touching her as he pleased. Petting her like a cat, aimless and idle and with no real goal in mind. "Am I not pretty?" he asked as an answer. "Am I not clever, and charming as well? I find these virtues enough to suit me, though this is not enough for everyone." He made no claims to kindness or intelligence, moral fortitude or strength of will. Not even to honesty, though he was usually very honest. Though he often told the truth, his truths were rarely honest, and even less often sincere.
His mouth affected something that was almost a pout, a tilt to his eyes and a fullness to his lips that were not at all alike to the expression he adopted when he was truly displeased. "You do not?" he asked. "Mais, should you not tell me that you like me at all times, and in all things? White lies, they are called, to assure me that I am the loveliest no matter what I wear or do not. Do you fear I am covered in terrible warts, beneath the silk?"
He doubted very much that she would find him less attractive without his clothes, but then, that was not the concern. The true trappings in question were his manner, his way of speaking, the various rules of etiquette that he used as shield against accusations of monstrosity. Some of those trappings were of such a second nature that it was unlikely he would ever be truly rid of them, not without a few centuries of deliberate removal. And yet others… better that he not be seen without them. Uncouth, at best, and dangerous at worst.
Lashes fluttered shut as nails raked over his scalp, taking a moment to delight in the sensation. "Your floors are very nice," he murmured, "but I should hope they look better on me. I do not think that I would like to lose to hardwood, whatever we may have in common." He sighed as he opened his eyes again, a sound of contentment rather than exasperation. "But if you wish to have me bare, then who am I to object to such a thing? You shall have me as bare as I am able to be, though I cannot promise that you can strip me to the bone. Not all of my bones, anyway."
The corner of his mouth curled with her kiss, if only faintly. He tilted his head, his hair falling along his shoulders, to allow her better access to the buttons she wanted undone. "I do recall this having been our agreement," he conceded. "I fear, however, that the story in question is not one which suits the current mood of the conversation." Certainly it did not suit nimble fingers along fine buttons, and suited less any desire to be undone on either of their parts. "I think that we may be better served finding a story that is, ah. Of the moment? A tune which better sings to us. Hm. No, that is not right, either. You see what you do to me? Words fail me."
He leaned into her touch, still touching her as he pleased. Petting her like a cat, aimless and idle and with no real goal in mind. "Am I not pretty?" he asked as an answer. "Am I not clever, and charming as well? I find these virtues enough to suit me, though this is not enough for everyone." He made no claims to kindness or intelligence, moral fortitude or strength of will. Not even to honesty, though he was usually very honest. Though he often told the truth, his truths were rarely honest, and even less often sincere.
His mouth affected something that was almost a pout, a tilt to his eyes and a fullness to his lips that were not at all alike to the expression he adopted when he was truly displeased. "You do not?" he asked. "Mais, should you not tell me that you like me at all times, and in all things? White lies, they are called, to assure me that I am the loveliest no matter what I wear or do not. Do you fear I am covered in terrible warts, beneath the silk?"
He doubted very much that she would find him less attractive without his clothes, but then, that was not the concern. The true trappings in question were his manner, his way of speaking, the various rules of etiquette that he used as shield against accusations of monstrosity. Some of those trappings were of such a second nature that it was unlikely he would ever be truly rid of them, not without a few centuries of deliberate removal. And yet others… better that he not be seen without them. Uncouth, at best, and dangerous at worst.
Lashes fluttered shut as nails raked over his scalp, taking a moment to delight in the sensation. "Your floors are very nice," he murmured, "but I should hope they look better on me. I do not think that I would like to lose to hardwood, whatever we may have in common." He sighed as he opened his eyes again, a sound of contentment rather than exasperation. "But if you wish to have me bare, then who am I to object to such a thing? You shall have me as bare as I am able to be, though I cannot promise that you can strip me to the bone. Not all of my bones, anyway."
The corner of his mouth curled with her kiss, if only faintly. He tilted his head, his hair falling along his shoulders, to allow her better access to the buttons she wanted undone. "I do recall this having been our agreement," he conceded. "I fear, however, that the story in question is not one which suits the current mood of the conversation." Certainly it did not suit nimble fingers along fine buttons, and suited less any desire to be undone on either of their parts. "I think that we may be better served finding a story that is, ah. Of the moment? A tune which better sings to us. Hm. No, that is not right, either. You see what you do to me? Words fail me."
Byronesque [Closed] - Blade - 08-13-2015
She smirked then as he spoke of virtues and then lies, silent as she made a path to the final button available to her. “Do you need me to tell you that you are lovely? Or do you want me to?” There was a difference, after all. Needing implied that one could not go without--much like one needed air; wanting implied desire for something one could go without if one had to. Of the two, she personally preferred wanting; though, she didn’t mind being needed from time to time. “Warts? Nay. Should I kiss any I find?” Next came the button of his pants, thought she held his gaze still; then the zipper before she gave a gentle pull to remove his shirt from its previously tucked position. If there were any buttons still under there, she undid those also.“I confess, they would not be lies if we are merely referring to your physical attributes. I like those as much as I like that tongue if yours.” She was incapable of lying, really. Half-truths and omitted information was one thing—let people assume what they would. But of all the things she kept of her ties to home, it had been that. “On the matter if your character…” she trailed off as she stood, one knee on the couch—forcing his legs to spread so it could settle between—and one on the floor as she made a motion to relieve him of his shirt entirely.
“…I cannot like or dislike what I do not know. But I do not mind tarrying with you for as long as you allow it until I have made a conclusion. Shall I offer a promise? To tell you when I know enough to like, dislike, or adore?” When the shirt was off she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his slacks and any undergarment he wore under those, one to either hip, and tugged as she chuckled.
“You could always recite poems in Ancient Greek—I cannot imagine you do not know the language.” Not an entirely unacceptable guess, given he knew Latin. “Perhaps on the matter of sodomy?” Because she couldn’t quite stop herself from looping their initial conversation when he’d entered her abode.
Byronesque [Closed] - Tindome - 09-07-2015
"I need for little, valet de coeurs," he said without shame, "but want? There is little I do not. I am very greedy, after all, and compliments are no different." He adjusted his hips and the shift of his spine as she moved in order to assist her, allowing her to lay him as bare as she desired. Dark curls a neat triangle trailing downward against skin so pale as to be white, sharp lines where muscle and bone looked carved from the marble of him. Collar and hip bones and valleys between, though hardly the dramatic musculature of some; a dancer and an acrobat, slender and sinewy and long of limb.
"If you find any," he said, the faintest touch of disgust, "do me the kindness of cutting them away, and leave me free of them." His knees spread to make room for hers, shoulder shrugged to let his shirt fall away beneath her hands. "You have not yet seen half of what my tongue is capable of," he reminded her, "but I will be pleased to know your feelings when you have."
He would know her feelings regardless of whether she shared them, of course. It was different, still, to have her say them aloud, to have not only the original emotion but the emotions borne of expressing it. His favorite game, in fact, to force the confession of things he already knew.
"I am not one to ask for promises," he said, any more than he was one to ask for possession or for affection. "For my features, I shall delight in your honesty; for all else I may well prefer lies." Again he shifted his hips to assist her, more than a little evocative as it meant pressing the length of him briefly against silk until he was free of it.
"You overestimate my memory," he said, sharp nails raking gently through her hair. "I may recall a poem or two, but I doubt they will be so delightfully specific." It was rare that he remembered a poem longer than a hundred years or so; when he did, it was usually something vague, something he could recite under a variety of circumstances to please whoever he happened to be with.
"Ἕλθε, Κύπρι," he began slowly, recalling the words as he recited them. "Χπρυσίασιν ἐν κυλίκεσσιν ἄβραισ συμμεμιγμένον θαλίαισι νέκταρ οἰνοχόεισα." It was, as poetry went, just about the opposite of what she had asked for; and further, he was the least appropriate person to be reciting it. Still, he liked it, the simplicity and the musicality of it. Their not being meant for his tongue had never kept him from pretty things.
"If you find any," he said, the faintest touch of disgust, "do me the kindness of cutting them away, and leave me free of them." His knees spread to make room for hers, shoulder shrugged to let his shirt fall away beneath her hands. "You have not yet seen half of what my tongue is capable of," he reminded her, "but I will be pleased to know your feelings when you have."
He would know her feelings regardless of whether she shared them, of course. It was different, still, to have her say them aloud, to have not only the original emotion but the emotions borne of expressing it. His favorite game, in fact, to force the confession of things he already knew.
"I am not one to ask for promises," he said, any more than he was one to ask for possession or for affection. "For my features, I shall delight in your honesty; for all else I may well prefer lies." Again he shifted his hips to assist her, more than a little evocative as it meant pressing the length of him briefly against silk until he was free of it.
"You overestimate my memory," he said, sharp nails raking gently through her hair. "I may recall a poem or two, but I doubt they will be so delightfully specific." It was rare that he remembered a poem longer than a hundred years or so; when he did, it was usually something vague, something he could recite under a variety of circumstances to please whoever he happened to be with.
"Ἕλθε, Κύπρι," he began slowly, recalling the words as he recited them. "Χπρυσίασιν ἐν κυλίκεσσιν ἄβραισ συμμεμιγμένον θαλίαισι νέκταρ οἰνοχόεισα." It was, as poetry went, just about the opposite of what she had asked for; and further, he was the least appropriate person to be reciting it. Still, he liked it, the simplicity and the musicality of it. Their not being meant for his tongue had never kept him from pretty things.
RE: Byronesque [Closed] - Blade - 11-23-2015
“Greedy and vain,” she hummed with amusement once the shirt was gone, once it was placed to lie over the back of the couch. He was lovely, but she didn’t need to relieve him of his clothes to know as much. There were wonderfully addictive benefits to being able to sense the world around her, the size and shape of things without ever needing to see at all.Should she be bothered by the notion of him being greedy and vain? Were those characteristics of a person one should find displeasure in? Mayhap. That she found amusement in his admittance of both said many things about her.
“I am an open book, if you must know,” she went on. “There is very little I will not tell when asked—feelings included.” As he lifted his hips she leaned in, palms and fingers sliding over the skin along his hips and thighs. She stilled her movements only when his nails scraped her scalp, eyes closing as she leaned into his touch and smiled as he spoke. “That, for instance, feels quite lovely.” And then she opened her eyes to meet his gaze and pulled all of it away, her palms continuing their trek down to his calves to kneel. She broke eye contact to take his shoes off, his socks, and then his pants entirely. She placed them on the floor next to her, folding the pants carefully before setting them atop his shoes and socks.
“You may be disappointed then,” she murmured, taking one his feet in her hands. Fingers pressed, rolled, and caressed. Thumbs smoothed out from where his toes began and then up towards the bend where his shin began. At the same time, the tips of her other fingers created a gentle pressure along the middle of his sole, pushing in the opposite direction. “I am not capable of lying. Omitting, aye, but never lies.” She had told him before, but perhaps she had not worded it as well as she should have. Or perhaps he had ignored it altogether. “You may lie to me, for I cannot stop you. But I would rather you be as honest as you can manage, seigneur de cœur.” she watched her hands, his foot, as she massaged—as she listened to him recite.
“Lovely words. Do you have your own?” She wondered about that, if he made poetry and easily as he recited it. He had another story to tell her, but she could wait. Perhaps after they were finished.
RE: Byronesque [Closed] - Tindome - 02-27-2016
"When you phrase it as such," he said, "I find that it sounds much less becoming." He did not, regardless, attempt to dispute the facts of the matter. Unflattering, but nonetheless accurate; he could be remarkably even-handed about such things. More often he stated them plainly himself. Rarely were they actually believed.
"That is one of my very favorite kinds of book," he said, a quirk to his mouth of having amused himself. Not that she could tell him anything he could not taste perfectly well on his own – but that didn't seem a necessary disclosure. Though it did take some of the fun out of it, didn't it, to know that she was always so candid. He had such peculiar affection for forced confession, identifying the taste of things that someone did not know themselves. Not a game to be played with someone as honest with him as she was with herself.
He hadn't quite decided yet what game he was playing, if he was playing a game at all. Maybe he just wanted to see what she'd do.
For now he played passive, let her slide his clothes away from his skin, watched her kneel at his feet without any of the usual submission the position entailed. Even as she kneaded flesh that did not and could not ache, it had more the feel of exploration; something she did to please herself, rather than with the expectation that it would please him.
He could tell that she was being honest, and so there was no point asking if she was serious. She certainly believed that she was incapable of lies. He did not know if he believed it, but even her belief was rare enough. "That certainly sounds… troublesome." Or maybe honesty was less problematic for her, maybe her honesty lacked the sharp edges of his own, cruel when his kindness was almost always a façade.
Though he thought he was getting better about that. He was trying, anyway.
Then again, it had been much easier when he never actually saw anyone.
"I find that I have within me a near limitless well of words on which to draw – and I shall do so endlessly, if you allow it. Mais, if you would like for those words to be arranged in meter, I fear we shall be here quite a while longer. Though I have no doubt that I have done so in the past, I cannot recall it with any kind of clarity, and so I should be forced to start from scratch."
"Not that I am unwilling, of course, but it seems a bit of a waste under the circumstances."
"That is one of my very favorite kinds of book," he said, a quirk to his mouth of having amused himself. Not that she could tell him anything he could not taste perfectly well on his own – but that didn't seem a necessary disclosure. Though it did take some of the fun out of it, didn't it, to know that she was always so candid. He had such peculiar affection for forced confession, identifying the taste of things that someone did not know themselves. Not a game to be played with someone as honest with him as she was with herself.
He hadn't quite decided yet what game he was playing, if he was playing a game at all. Maybe he just wanted to see what she'd do.
For now he played passive, let her slide his clothes away from his skin, watched her kneel at his feet without any of the usual submission the position entailed. Even as she kneaded flesh that did not and could not ache, it had more the feel of exploration; something she did to please herself, rather than with the expectation that it would please him.
He could tell that she was being honest, and so there was no point asking if she was serious. She certainly believed that she was incapable of lies. He did not know if he believed it, but even her belief was rare enough. "That certainly sounds… troublesome." Or maybe honesty was less problematic for her, maybe her honesty lacked the sharp edges of his own, cruel when his kindness was almost always a façade.
Though he thought he was getting better about that. He was trying, anyway.
Then again, it had been much easier when he never actually saw anyone.
"I find that I have within me a near limitless well of words on which to draw – and I shall do so endlessly, if you allow it. Mais, if you would like for those words to be arranged in meter, I fear we shall be here quite a while longer. Though I have no doubt that I have done so in the past, I cannot recall it with any kind of clarity, and so I should be forced to start from scratch."
"Not that I am unwilling, of course, but it seems a bit of a waste under the circumstances."
RE: Byronesque [Closed] - Blade - 07-11-2016
She smiled as gently as ever when he spoke of such characteristics being ‘less becoming’. Was it that she said, or, that it had been said at all? Perhaps some people took his comments about himself with a grain of salt, thinking he was only making a joke or being a bit witty. There was something about him that made her wonder if he were lying; she did not know him that well, after all. Though, it was her nature to know others as well as she could. And she could not quite find it within herself to ever be put off by honesty, however unusual. Was he being honest? She did wonder about that when he mentioned an open book was his favorite kind. Jean struck her as the elusive sort, especially when it would—perhaps—benefit him in some way. She couldn’t deny that she could be described as elusive by others, even if she never felt as much or saw the reason to be called thus.As she finished working her fingers and palms over one foot, her eyes on the task, she moved to the other. “Does it?” she asked when he told her it sounded troublesome to be so forthright. “What one offers in honesty need not be delivered with a purposeful viciousness to it. Though, some are prone to hurt because the information given no matter the delivery method. And that, I fear, is out of my control.” There were those who did not enjoy hearing the truth, after all. There were times when Ruka withheld altogether unless asked directly because she did not wish to be involved. And, there were also times she told someone she did not wish to discuss the matter—knowing they would not be happy with her open opinion.
She found herself pausing her movements and then meeting his gaze. “Perhaps then you are not wrong; it is troublesome... but... Awful things have a way of being made more awful by deception.”
And then she was massaging his foot again, smiling again as he elaborated on the possibilities of poetry. “I should rather you do what is you enjoy, but it seems as though find much about yourself to be a waste.”
RE: Byronesque [Closed] - Tindome - 03-16-2017
Curious, always curious – it was a constant in the taste of her, something to be ignored as he tried to detect flavors that might interest him. Yet, he was coming to realize, her curiosity was for curiosity's sake, entirely as earnest as she claimed.
Ordinarily curiosity spoke of something else, a dark passion, secret lusts to which he might appeal. It was those dark things that he so enjoyed, drawing out shameful pleasures and the taste emotions acquired when flavored by vulnerability, the strength of emotion when it was born of taboo.
When he was being nice.
When he wasn't, he enjoyed the strength of emotion of vulnerability that had been betrayed, of shame itself, the fear of revelation and the pain of rejection.
But none of those things, nice or not, were available to him here. Curiosity for curiosity's sake, an absence of desires deep or dark. Despite their flirtations, she bore no meaningful resemblance to his usual prey.
A learning experience, then, in socializing for the sake of socialization rather than contact as a form of consumption.
"I suppose," he said mildly, for he could think of no tactful way to explain that making awful things more awful had long been his past-time. Not without a conversation he had no interest in having. He'd bared as much as he cared to this night, and would offer no more than he needed to in that regard.
He grinned. "It is a matter of, shall we say, opportunity costs?" he suggested. "These things are not wasteful unto themselves, but in comparison to what one might spend time doing instead, they seem wasteful indeed. One is a thing at which I am merely adequate, while another is something at which I am magnificent." He paused. "Or so I have been told, and I choose to believe it."
Ordinarily curiosity spoke of something else, a dark passion, secret lusts to which he might appeal. It was those dark things that he so enjoyed, drawing out shameful pleasures and the taste emotions acquired when flavored by vulnerability, the strength of emotion when it was born of taboo.
When he was being nice.
When he wasn't, he enjoyed the strength of emotion of vulnerability that had been betrayed, of shame itself, the fear of revelation and the pain of rejection.
But none of those things, nice or not, were available to him here. Curiosity for curiosity's sake, an absence of desires deep or dark. Despite their flirtations, she bore no meaningful resemblance to his usual prey.
A learning experience, then, in socializing for the sake of socialization rather than contact as a form of consumption.
"I suppose," he said mildly, for he could think of no tactful way to explain that making awful things more awful had long been his past-time. Not without a conversation he had no interest in having. He'd bared as much as he cared to this night, and would offer no more than he needed to in that regard.
He grinned. "It is a matter of, shall we say, opportunity costs?" he suggested. "These things are not wasteful unto themselves, but in comparison to what one might spend time doing instead, they seem wasteful indeed. One is a thing at which I am merely adequate, while another is something at which I am magnificent." He paused. "Or so I have been told, and I choose to believe it."