Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - Printable Version
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Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-01-2017
![[Image: kvfz5PA.png]](https://i.imgur.com/kvfz5PA.png)
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-01-2017
Ren looked down at the directions she'd been given, then up at the building in front of her. Tsundoku.
This was the place, certainly.
She gave herself a brief once-over, the high anxiety of someone about to go into a place she knew she didn't belong. She'd done her best with what she had. She'd changed into fresh clothing in a public restroom that morning, a black top with slightly opaque lace on her chest and arms. It was a bit silly, but she'd grabbed it from the store because it was pretty, not because it was practical. Black leggings, a clean pair. None of it would remain clean for long, she was certain, and it was already glittery because she was practically shedding the stuff. She'd rinsed off in the sink as best she could, but... there was a limit to what she could do. She'd literally slept in a puddle two nights prior. She was coated, a thin sheen of glitter all over her body. Her hair would probably always sparkle.
Hopefully it looked more intentional when coupled with normal-person clothes and less like she'd been the victim of a hazing incident.
She'd been told to go to this place by a librarian. She'd tried to make it clear she didn't have the money to buy books, but the librarian waved it off with a rather jaded, tired sounding half-laugh. She'd been all but throwing Ren out of the building so... here she was. At a bookstore, with no money. To ask for books about gargoyles.
She opened the door nervously, because it felt like someone's house. It kind of looked like someone's house, too. She sort of poked her head in the door; there were books everywhere. This was a store, she reminded herself. There was a sign. Nervously, she took a half step into the door.
"H-hello?" she asked nervously, unwilling to walk any further into the house/shop in case she was somehow doing something horribly wrong and offensive.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - Tindome - 04-01-2017
Anxious, anxious. He was starting to get used to the bitterness of it. A bookstore's customers were an anxious lot, and those who frequented his sort of bookstore most of all.
Fortunately for them, he could be very reassuring.
"Hello!" he called cheerfully from where he stood between the shelves. He was making minor and apparently nonsensical rearrangements of the books to make the whole of them taste better as a unit. He was contemplating moving some of the young adult books closer to the romance, and further from the children's books. Sometimes he was in the mood for more salty-sweetness.
He'd worn a simply grey suit with a dark red waistcoat and matching leather gloves today. He'd tied his hair with a sheer coral handkerchief that matched his pocket square, and he'd shaved enough that the color of his skin was more obviously unnatural in the right light. A certain amount of stubble lent him the illusion of imperfection, but he wasn't in the mood for it today.
"Do you desire my service, mademoiselle? Only let me know, and I will be happy to be of use to you."
Fortunately for them, he could be very reassuring.
"Hello!" he called cheerfully from where he stood between the shelves. He was making minor and apparently nonsensical rearrangements of the books to make the whole of them taste better as a unit. He was contemplating moving some of the young adult books closer to the romance, and further from the children's books. Sometimes he was in the mood for more salty-sweetness.
He'd worn a simply grey suit with a dark red waistcoat and matching leather gloves today. He'd tied his hair with a sheer coral handkerchief that matched his pocket square, and he'd shaved enough that the color of his skin was more obviously unnatural in the right light. A certain amount of stubble lent him the illusion of imperfection, but he wasn't in the mood for it today.
"Do you desire my service, mademoiselle? Only let me know, and I will be happy to be of use to you."
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-01-2017
Oh, there he--Jesus fuck, was everyone in this city just a fucking giant? Even the librarian had been taller than her. This was ridiculous. Also ridiculous was his appearance, not in that he looked silly, but that he looked absolutely nothing like what came to mind when she thought 'person who runs a bookstore.' Not that she'd been in any bookstores. Maybe they all wore waistcoats that looked like they could be easily matched with a top hat with zero irony. His eyes were a blue so deep as to almost not be blue anymore. Not an alarming color, at the very least. He also was very pale, and almost obscenely attractive. Like, she was borderline alarmed by it. Her mind flicked back to the library with the entire room of books on supernatural things.
Oh, whatever, it's not like it mattered. She was here to look for books on demons and gargoyles and half-demon babies and shit. If he was something weird, it would probably be helpful. She'd just have to be really careful not to like, accidentally sell him her soul or something.
Or have sex with him, because she was honestly getting very tired of that happening and she was already worried about being pregnant with the anti-christ.
"Um, yes, I'm looking for... books." ...No fucking shit. "Um. Specific books?" NO FUCKING SHIT. "One of the librarians recommended your shop?" That wasn't even a question, why was she asking it like one. "Do you have books on, um... gargoyles, or creatures that are similar? I'm writing a..." There was a long pause. "Term paper," she settled on finally.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - Tindome - 04-01-2017
He paused. "… ah."
That was the worst attempt at a lie he'd heard in a long, long time.
His eyes flicked over her, head to toe. Tiny, tired, not as much of a ragamuffin as she could have been. Which wasn't saying much. He'd started keeping spare clothes around, just in case. A certain amount of wretched simply could not be borne. Glittery. Young, very young.
There. The faintest hint of… what? Lapsang souchong, brewed in squid ink and saltwater.
Strange, strange.
"I may have something," he said vaguely. "However, you would need to be more specific, petite souris, if it is a specific book that you want. What sort of gargoyle is it that you wish to know about? A book about architecture, or monsters?"
He was very sure he knew. But he prodded, anyway.
That was the worst attempt at a lie he'd heard in a long, long time.
His eyes flicked over her, head to toe. Tiny, tired, not as much of a ragamuffin as she could have been. Which wasn't saying much. He'd started keeping spare clothes around, just in case. A certain amount of wretched simply could not be borne. Glittery. Young, very young.
There. The faintest hint of… what? Lapsang souchong, brewed in squid ink and saltwater.
Strange, strange.
"I may have something," he said vaguely. "However, you would need to be more specific, petite souris, if it is a specific book that you want. What sort of gargoyle is it that you wish to know about? A book about architecture, or monsters?"
He was very sure he knew. But he prodded, anyway.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-01-2017
"Um, there's not a specific book, exactly," she fumbled. Because she had no idea what books even existed on the subject. "Just, the creatures, or other creatures that might seem like them, or be mistaken for them? Maybe... old legends and stuff?" She wasn't actually sure he was a gargoyle, because while he looked sort of like the gargoyles in the books she'd seen, he was more... feral. Clever, but not necessarily what one would call intelligent. She rubbed her neck uncertainly, which scratched a bit of glitter loose to flutter on to her shirt and backpack. She couldn't really just say, hey, so I met this fuckin' weird-ass bat-demon and he may have knocked me up, see this glitter, this is his sperm actually, haha, so if you have any books that could help me here, that'd be nifty. Also I have $1.53 in spare change is that okay?
Sigh.
She felt kind of wretched, if she was being perfectly honest. She hadn't expected a building so grand or well-decorated, or a salesman so much of both those things as well. She was so sure she couldn't afford a single thing in here. She couldn't even afford the air. She was so out of place, and she was certain he could tell despite her new clothing and relatively clean hair. He could probably smell the homelessness on her. Rich people always could, the way Ruka had.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - Tindome - 04-01-2017
"Hm."
He slid the books he'd been considering back onto the shelf to deal with later, and stepped closer to her. He reached toward her, and…
… pulled a clump of glitter from her hair.
He considered it, on the tips of gloved fingers. Then he rubbed them together to send it falling down to the hardwood, as if deliberately sprinkling it there in the process of getting it off of his gloves.
"I have one or two," he said. He looked over her outfit again. "I am willing to accept trades for them, if you do not have cash. I prefer a trade, in fact, if you can think of something worth offering."
He rocked on his heels, settled back onto his cane. "Nonetheless. Even those books may not do you much good, depending on what specific information you seek. Not all theoretical knowledge is so practically useful, n'est-ce pas? Whereas I have, ah… the benefit of experience, let us say. If you have a particular question in mind, stating it directly might better see it answered than looking on your own." He shrugged. "But of course, it is a matter of what makes you comfortable."
Idly, he reached out again, this time holding his hand flat to determine her height. He brought it higher and closer, as if manually measuring the difference between them, the gulf between barely more than five feet and half past six. Then he raised it even higher and off to the side, as if doing the same for an unseen third party, one significantly taller than even he. He considered the height of this invisible giant, and then looked back down at her.
"Huh." He seemed impressed. Then he shrugged again, and dropped his hand back to his cane.
He slid the books he'd been considering back onto the shelf to deal with later, and stepped closer to her. He reached toward her, and…
… pulled a clump of glitter from her hair.
He considered it, on the tips of gloved fingers. Then he rubbed them together to send it falling down to the hardwood, as if deliberately sprinkling it there in the process of getting it off of his gloves.
"I have one or two," he said. He looked over her outfit again. "I am willing to accept trades for them, if you do not have cash. I prefer a trade, in fact, if you can think of something worth offering."
He rocked on his heels, settled back onto his cane. "Nonetheless. Even those books may not do you much good, depending on what specific information you seek. Not all theoretical knowledge is so practically useful, n'est-ce pas? Whereas I have, ah… the benefit of experience, let us say. If you have a particular question in mind, stating it directly might better see it answered than looking on your own." He shrugged. "But of course, it is a matter of what makes you comfortable."
Idly, he reached out again, this time holding his hand flat to determine her height. He brought it higher and closer, as if manually measuring the difference between them, the gulf between barely more than five feet and half past six. Then he raised it even higher and off to the side, as if doing the same for an unseen third party, one significantly taller than even he. He considered the height of this invisible giant, and then looked back down at her.
"Huh." He seemed impressed. Then he shrugged again, and dropped his hand back to his cane.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-01-2017
She jumped a bit when he stepped closer to her, going to step backwards and hitting the door, because she'd closed it but never properly walked into the building. He pulled a clump of come out of her hair, rubbed it between fingers clad in gloves that probably cost more than she did. Her face flushed with embarrassment. She had enjoyed rubbing the goddamn semen in Ruka's ridiculously expensive car, but having it plucked from her hair was just humiliating. Thank God he had no idea what he just grabbed. Er. Hopefully.
"Trades?" she said, confusion on top of the awkwardness she was feeling. "I don't know if I really..." She considered the contents of her bags. Normally, this would be a dream; she'd have all sorts of neat gadgets for him to peruse. But she'd just come here, and all she had right now was some brushes, some frosting, some granola bars, clothing... Part of an old record player that she'd found in the trash and torn apart for neat pieces she could carry. "...Have much of value on me," she finished, as if she wasn't carrying everything she owned on her person.
...Benefit of experience. With gargoyles. Uh...
As she was considering the implications of this, he reached out, nearly patting the top of her head. Then he brought it to himself. It came to about mid-chest, which she hadn't particularly needed him to point out. C'mon! She wasn't that short! She was a normal person height, goddamnit! It wasn't her fault everything in this town was six operating on a six foot minimum!
Then he held up his hand higher, considering, glancing back over at her. His hand was about, say, bat-dick-demon height.
He gave her an up-and-down appraisal, eyebrows rising in what might have been an expression of being mildly impressed.
...Benefit of experience. Apparently. Her cheeks flamed bright red.
Goddamnit, he knew damn well she was standing here covered in semen, didn't he.
"Things that might be mistaken for gargoyles," she grumbled, wishing she was wearing a hoodie so she could shove hands into pockets. The downside of leggings. "Things that are like them, turn to stone in the morning. And just general information books." She paused. "And, uh..." She cleared her throat, cheeks flaming. He already knew. Might as well get this out there. "Genetic... compatibility... stuff." She waved her hand vaguely.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - Tindome - 04-01-2017
He grinned, a crooked curl with teeth. His eyes paled in proportion with the flush on her face. He leaned a little closer to her, the illusion of being discreet. "I do not want to presume," he said. "But I think perhaps you have concerns?" He lifted his cane to tuck it under his arm, giving him the use of both hands. He tapped together the tips of his index fingers from both hands. "If a donkey finds his way onto a mare, she rewards him with a mule, n'est-ce pas? Mais, if a unicorn catches a goat… ah. It is not necessarily a good day for the goat, what with the horn." He curled one index finger around the other and stroked it in a suggestive gesture. "But once the deed is done, she will have no unicorns inside her unless he catches her again." He spun his wrists and uncurled all his fingers to reveal empty hands. "Yes?"
He looked her over again. Something in the taste of her, the aura, that marked her as fair game despite her being ill-prepared. Too small, too faint, too weak. Just enough of something else to draw the wrong kind of attention.
"I do not know how long you will be in this city, souris, but, ah. It is the ones who howl at the moon, with eyes like cats, that need concern you in such matters. And humans, of course, but you know this. The ones with sharp ears and silver tongues, it is usual that they must ask first, though they may trick you into saying yes. Stay away from pretty houses in Brighton, and people prettier than people should be. Sulfurous ones are easier to refuse. As for night walkers, stone and otherwise – they are not alive. It is only the living that could use you in this particular way, and you should be safe from them in Old Town."
Knowledge was power, as they said.
"I still have those books, if you would like to know more," he said. "When I say trades, I do not mean things. I have quite enough things, as you can see. I prefer, one might say, experiences. Of a sort."
He looked her over again. Something in the taste of her, the aura, that marked her as fair game despite her being ill-prepared. Too small, too faint, too weak. Just enough of something else to draw the wrong kind of attention.
"I do not know how long you will be in this city, souris, but, ah. It is the ones who howl at the moon, with eyes like cats, that need concern you in such matters. And humans, of course, but you know this. The ones with sharp ears and silver tongues, it is usual that they must ask first, though they may trick you into saying yes. Stay away from pretty houses in Brighton, and people prettier than people should be. Sulfurous ones are easier to refuse. As for night walkers, stone and otherwise – they are not alive. It is only the living that could use you in this particular way, and you should be safe from them in Old Town."
Knowledge was power, as they said.
"I still have those books, if you would like to know more," he said. "When I say trades, I do not mean things. I have quite enough things, as you can see. I prefer, one might say, experiences. Of a sort."
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-01-2017
Wow, he must have had a serious allergy to talking like a normal person. Maybe he'd been cursed to talk like pretentious French asshole. She didn't know his circumstances. Her face was flaming red, but a bit of indignation was creeping in with the embarrassment. This was a bitch of a situation, and she knew about bitchy situations. Especially lately. Shitty, bitchy situations, which included men with pointy teeth and blue eyes. ...Bluer eyes. Possibly? The light, probably, it was the light. But, if she was understanding correctly, which she really might not have been, she was not pregnant, and had also wasted $35 on Plan B. Well. Better safe than sorry, considering Plan A had been "don't get raped by a bat-demon-gargoyle-thing."
"There are werewolves in this fucking city?!" She didn't quite yelp, but it was close. "And... what, fairies? Demons I knew about, but! Jesus, where the fuck am I?!" She ran a stressed hand through her hair, shedding glitter wildly. "I was better off with the fucking traffickers!"
Experience. Of a sort. "Look, I'm... I'm a bit over my head here," she said, sounding strained. "Clearly. Please just tell me what you're after." And if it's a blowjob or a soul. And if you can get me pregnant, because that's suddenly a really large concern, just, in general. But she didn't want to say that out loud.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - Tindome - 04-02-2017
Jean laughed, low and throaty and pretty in all the most well-practiced ways.
"You are in Valesport, souris. It is an old city, full of old things." And he was surely the oldest, though he would not say so. "There are monsters everywhere, but here they are settled and quite manageable for it."
Traffickers. Hm.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said, pressing his hand to his chest and bending into a half-bow. "Jean Cernunnos, if you please. I live to serve." He grinned his crooked grin. "If I may reassure you again – so long as you are polite, you are safe under my roof." He cocked his head to the side. "I am not interested in fucking you, as you seem already quite ill-used in that regard. I am neither nice, nor fair, but I will try not to touch you without your permission."
He paused.
Vermin. That was definitely the taste of vermin.
"My requests are these," he continued. "I would like first for you to leave your bag outside, as I do not think that I care for its contents. Then, as you seem to be leaving a trail, I would like for you to see to… yourself." He gestured vaguely to her, clearly meaning the glitter that covered her. "There is a room in the hall with a tub – it locks from the inside, if that makes you feel better. It matters to me not at all. You may take as long as is necessary to make yourself presentable. I have spare clothes, if you care for them, but I will not force them on you."
He'd like to. But he wouldn't. He'd just hope she'd have the sense to take him up on the offer.
"While you bathe, I would like… hm. I will give you options. It is usually my preference that you would touch yourself to orgasm. I do not plan to watch, nor do you need to be noisy about it. However, as I have said, you have been ill-used. Perhaps such a thing would be difficult for you at this time. Instead, you may wish to use this time to… how do I put this. Cry? Reflect on painful memories, and allow yourself a moment to express within yourself the things you have had to ignore to survive. Again, I do not need to be privy to this; it is only a moment that I would like for you to have."
Usually he would be much less explicit with this sort of request. This girl, however, was covered in rock semen. She was in no position to be fazed by such a thing, let alone argue.
"If you are able to do these things to my satisfaction," he finished, "I will happily give you some of the books from my collection, as well as any food you might want to take with you."
He offered his hand. "Do we have a deal, Miss…?"
"You are in Valesport, souris. It is an old city, full of old things." And he was surely the oldest, though he would not say so. "There are monsters everywhere, but here they are settled and quite manageable for it."
Traffickers. Hm.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said, pressing his hand to his chest and bending into a half-bow. "Jean Cernunnos, if you please. I live to serve." He grinned his crooked grin. "If I may reassure you again – so long as you are polite, you are safe under my roof." He cocked his head to the side. "I am not interested in fucking you, as you seem already quite ill-used in that regard. I am neither nice, nor fair, but I will try not to touch you without your permission."
He paused.
Vermin. That was definitely the taste of vermin.
"My requests are these," he continued. "I would like first for you to leave your bag outside, as I do not think that I care for its contents. Then, as you seem to be leaving a trail, I would like for you to see to… yourself." He gestured vaguely to her, clearly meaning the glitter that covered her. "There is a room in the hall with a tub – it locks from the inside, if that makes you feel better. It matters to me not at all. You may take as long as is necessary to make yourself presentable. I have spare clothes, if you care for them, but I will not force them on you."
He'd like to. But he wouldn't. He'd just hope she'd have the sense to take him up on the offer.
"While you bathe, I would like… hm. I will give you options. It is usually my preference that you would touch yourself to orgasm. I do not plan to watch, nor do you need to be noisy about it. However, as I have said, you have been ill-used. Perhaps such a thing would be difficult for you at this time. Instead, you may wish to use this time to… how do I put this. Cry? Reflect on painful memories, and allow yourself a moment to express within yourself the things you have had to ignore to survive. Again, I do not need to be privy to this; it is only a moment that I would like for you to have."
Usually he would be much less explicit with this sort of request. This girl, however, was covered in rock semen. She was in no position to be fazed by such a thing, let alone argue.
"If you are able to do these things to my satisfaction," he finished, "I will happily give you some of the books from my collection, as well as any food you might want to take with you."
He offered his hand. "Do we have a deal, Miss…?"
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-02-2017
Alright, so this was really fucking weird. Just, like, in general. "Are you one of the ones who always needs to ask permission... Mr. Cernunnos?" she added, cautious but opting for manners.
Once again, there was an obscenely rich person offering her baths, clothes, and food. This one, however, had demands. Extremely uncomfortable demands, ones that made her uneasy to her core, one right after the other. Not one did she want to do.
That... was reassuring, in the way that Ruka's blue eyes had been unable to do. They had asked for absolutely nothing in exchange for clothes, food, cigarettes, money. Anything she wanted, really, and more that she was unwilling to accept. She'd spent the entire time looking for the trap.
This man, instead, came with a number of unpleasant, confusing, and downright scary requests. Ones with alarming implications.
That was a language she understood. Someone who wanted something from her.
Leaving her bag outside meant she would be defenseless--no rats. A bath meant she would be naked in his house. He requested that she masturbate, which seemed to be in line with everything else, but the other option was cry, which was not in line with everything else and equal parts confusing and alarming.
If she didn't perform 'to his satisfaction,' she'd have nothing for her trouble, she noted. And probably just trouble. Maybe some clothes. And a bath. A bath did sound nice, but she wasn't sure it was worth the risk.
On the other hand, food that didn't come from a garbage can had a nice ring to it. And she did need those books. And he had given her half of the information she needed, for free. In a weird way, but for free. And he was being very upfront. He could have definitely been much more circumvent about this whole thing. She'd asked him to ask plainly, and he was.
After a few moments' consideration, chewing on the inside of her lip, she nodded. There was a certain risk that came with being homeless. One had her kidnapped to be sold as a slave, one had her fucked senseless by a gargoyle, and one had her set up with free clothes, food, and money that she had then used to cover up some gruesome murders.
She was batting one for two, so hopefully this could even out the score.
"Ren," she said, taking his hand. She didn't need to worry if he was one of those weird fairies who could do something with your true name, because she didn't even know what the fuck her parents had named her, or if they had, or if she even had parents. She also didn't feel the need to lie and say her last name was Clarke or Noah or any other name she'd been lent as an amusing farce.
They were being straight with each other, here.
Hopefully.
After shaking his hand, she shifted the bag off her shoulder. One of the rats poked his head out, probably sensing her intentions, and she skritched under his head apologetically. They could just sit outside for a little while, and watch her bag. If everything went well, afterwards, she could give them food in thanks. This seemed fair to everyone involved. So she opened the door back up and placed the bag just outside on the steps. Three rats encouraged to bite would almost certainly be enough to keep anyone from stealing it.
When she closed the door, it was with profound anxiety, however. Being without rats was like being naked, only worse. Perhaps, er, one of them could... look around, for little, secret rat ways into the house.
Just in case.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - Tindome - 04-04-2017
He grinned, pleased by how easily she'd accepted the situation and charmed by her polite caution. "I am not," he said, a touch apologetically. It was always nicer to know what one was dealing with, but there was nothing else quite like him. "It is only that I have never cared for it when someone tries to do things without my permission, and I think that you must feel much the same."
This peculiar mix of anxiety and recognition – he was far from the first to have made unpleasant demands of this girl. This was not some fragile creature he would need to coax, not when she'd likely been forced to do far worse. None of the things he wanted her to do would be enough to shock her into leaving, even if he asked outright.
It made things much easier, really. It could be so tricky to push all the right buttons, inching slowly toward implications… he could be patient, but there was something to be said for not needing to be.
"Ren," he repeated, the corner of his mouth crooked.
He narrowed his eyes at the rat. He did not care for any animal, and they rarely cared for him. Particularly not the small ones. Horses seemed to manage fine, and the occasional cat seemed intrigued, but rats.
As long as they weren't running around on his floors, he could allow it to pass. As long as they weren't touching his things.
But he felt that way about certain people, too.
"Follow me," he ordered cheerfully, heading for the back with his cane in tow. Through the door into the rest of his house, and he pulled his little ring of keys from one of his pockets and found the one to the second door on the right. "Wait here, if you please," he said, not turning on the light as he ducked into the room. All the windows were covered to keep it in darkness, boxes upon boxes and cloth-covered shapes that might have been furniture. He kept an old wardrobe trunk near to the door, now, because… well. This kept happening. Helpless little waifs traipsing in and looking filthy, and he couldn't help getting their clothes off them.
Because their clothes were vile. He could put them into better ones.
Trunks of this size weren't meant to have handles, but he'd had one attached, since he could usually manage it one-handed regardless. Carrying it back out to the hall, he locked the door again, and returned to the first door – which he opened to reveal the bathroom.
He'd updated it since they'd built the place, of course, since otherwise it would be unutterably primitive. But he'd kept much of the old aesthetic, since he'd never much cared for… pink. Or minimalism. Or peculiar seaside themes. A sink, a toilet, a bidet, a clawfoot tub, a chair. It was only as large as it needed to be, and the effect was cozy. Dark wood and white porcelain and white tile and brass fittings. They'd added a large showerhead above the tub, though he never bothered with it. The shower curtain was sheer and tied to either side, same as the window to the garden – strategically overgrown with roses.
Shelves beside the tub were recessed into the wall, decorated with soaps and oils and salts and bottles of shampoo that had could only have been bought at high-end salons. All of the towels were fluffy and white, and a robe was draped artfully over the back of the chair.
"It is a little small," he apologized, "but we make do, n'est-ce pas?" Compared to his own bathroom upstairs, at least, with his tub large enough for five. He set the trunk upright next to the sink, and huffed as if it had winded him, leaning on his cane. Then he patted the top of it. "You may pick out whatever you would like, though I would rather you do not touch anything until you are done. I try to keep all necessities, and I apologize if you suffer the lack of something."
Mostly dresses, because they were the easiest to fit on a wide range of heights and widths. Panties in as many sizes as he had been able to find. A few bralettes and bandeaus and chemises, though he'd quickly surrendered to his own inability to possibly account for the anatomy of every woman that might wander in looking awful. Stocking, socks, a few shoes.
"I have more heels, if you are interested, but I will assume for now that you will not be. I will be in the kitchen when you are done, but please do take your time. It defeats the purpose if you rush yourself. Feel free to call for me if you require any assistance that you are comfortable asking me for."
He bent in another little bow, and with that, excused himself to head upstairs and find a few books.
This peculiar mix of anxiety and recognition – he was far from the first to have made unpleasant demands of this girl. This was not some fragile creature he would need to coax, not when she'd likely been forced to do far worse. None of the things he wanted her to do would be enough to shock her into leaving, even if he asked outright.
It made things much easier, really. It could be so tricky to push all the right buttons, inching slowly toward implications… he could be patient, but there was something to be said for not needing to be.
"Ren," he repeated, the corner of his mouth crooked.
He narrowed his eyes at the rat. He did not care for any animal, and they rarely cared for him. Particularly not the small ones. Horses seemed to manage fine, and the occasional cat seemed intrigued, but rats.
As long as they weren't running around on his floors, he could allow it to pass. As long as they weren't touching his things.
But he felt that way about certain people, too.
"Follow me," he ordered cheerfully, heading for the back with his cane in tow. Through the door into the rest of his house, and he pulled his little ring of keys from one of his pockets and found the one to the second door on the right. "Wait here, if you please," he said, not turning on the light as he ducked into the room. All the windows were covered to keep it in darkness, boxes upon boxes and cloth-covered shapes that might have been furniture. He kept an old wardrobe trunk near to the door, now, because… well. This kept happening. Helpless little waifs traipsing in and looking filthy, and he couldn't help getting their clothes off them.
Because their clothes were vile. He could put them into better ones.
Trunks of this size weren't meant to have handles, but he'd had one attached, since he could usually manage it one-handed regardless. Carrying it back out to the hall, he locked the door again, and returned to the first door – which he opened to reveal the bathroom.
He'd updated it since they'd built the place, of course, since otherwise it would be unutterably primitive. But he'd kept much of the old aesthetic, since he'd never much cared for… pink. Or minimalism. Or peculiar seaside themes. A sink, a toilet, a bidet, a clawfoot tub, a chair. It was only as large as it needed to be, and the effect was cozy. Dark wood and white porcelain and white tile and brass fittings. They'd added a large showerhead above the tub, though he never bothered with it. The shower curtain was sheer and tied to either side, same as the window to the garden – strategically overgrown with roses.
Shelves beside the tub were recessed into the wall, decorated with soaps and oils and salts and bottles of shampoo that had could only have been bought at high-end salons. All of the towels were fluffy and white, and a robe was draped artfully over the back of the chair.
"It is a little small," he apologized, "but we make do, n'est-ce pas?" Compared to his own bathroom upstairs, at least, with his tub large enough for five. He set the trunk upright next to the sink, and huffed as if it had winded him, leaning on his cane. Then he patted the top of it. "You may pick out whatever you would like, though I would rather you do not touch anything until you are done. I try to keep all necessities, and I apologize if you suffer the lack of something."
Mostly dresses, because they were the easiest to fit on a wide range of heights and widths. Panties in as many sizes as he had been able to find. A few bralettes and bandeaus and chemises, though he'd quickly surrendered to his own inability to possibly account for the anatomy of every woman that might wander in looking awful. Stocking, socks, a few shoes.
"I have more heels, if you are interested, but I will assume for now that you will not be. I will be in the kitchen when you are done, but please do take your time. It defeats the purpose if you rush yourself. Feel free to call for me if you require any assistance that you are comfortable asking me for."
He bent in another little bow, and with that, excused himself to head upstairs and find a few books.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - SolitareLee - 04-04-2017
She blinked at him in mild surprise towards the concept of someone trying to do something without his permission. Not disbelief, just... surprise. She'd always sort of assumed that it was a power thing, and once you got enough strength, or money, or both, it stopped happening. It would possibly be depressing to consider the reality of that situation, if she had ever thought she'd have the ability to amass any kind of power at all. But no, she was the bottom of the heap and would be staying there until being the bottom of the heap killed her. She followed him, anxiety taking a sudden jump automatically into a sort of primal discomfort when she reached the edge of where she could feel her rat friends' presence. Honestly... if he didn't want rats in his house, she had no idea why he was letting her in. They were practically the same thing. But she wasn't going to point that out, lest he take what he wanted and then throw her out on the street.
She tried to focus on her surroundings, instead, but they did nothing for her nerves. The only reason it looked even passingly like a bookstore was because of all the fucking books. It was very clearly a house, and very clearly the kind of house she'd never thought to see... well, see again. Although the last 'extremely well-off house' hadn't looked a thing like this; this was all classic wood and elegant curls. The only other one in her living memory had been all blacks and whites, hard corners and simple shapes.
She liked this one better, but it made her want to touch things, which she knew was a terrible idea. She moved as little as possible and tried not to shed glitter or bump anything.
She glanced into the room as he entered; it barely registered to her that it was so dark. She could see perfectly fine; after all, there was so much light coming in from the hallway that surely anyone would be able to see, even into the shady corners in the back. It was a nice looking room. All the windows were covered and there were white sheets on everything. It looked like a perfect place to stay until, say, a moving company showed up and either screamed at her, called the police, or had their way with her, depending on their mood (though in several situations she’d been easily able to avoid that due to a general large number of rats that just so happened to fill the empty house). Shame someone still lived here, really. How often did he come in the room? She'd have to ask her rat if he'd succeeded in finding any ways in.
He came back out again with an alarmingly massive trunk. She could have fit inside it. Very easily, without any difficulty. It would probably have actually been very comfortable. She sort of wanted to try, now that she'd thought about it.
She backed out of his way, rather than shifting to the side and risking getting come on him or his belongings, and he opened another door to... Well, technically, it was a bathroom. Seeing as how there was a bath. She'd never seen one like it before, however. It sat above the ground on golden feet, porcelain white and big enough to fit two of her, or three if they just sat all in a row.
There were two toilets. She was scared to ask why.
"Um... yes, sir," she said, because this seemed like the sort of situation one said yes sir in.
And then he was gone, leaving her alone in a ludicrously fancy bathroom with ludicrously fancy things, feeling very small and nervous and overwhelmed.
Okay. Step by step. She could do this. It wasn't as though she was feral; she'd been in bathrooms before. How different could this be? She shuffled closer to the tub, peering at the spout. Seemed very simple. Well, okay, no, it didn't, it seemed ridiculous, but the general principle was the same. Here was where the water came out, so somewhere there had to be a means of turning... ah!
Having successfully found the knobs with which to produce water, she fiddled with them until she found a satisfactory temperature, then turned it up a few more degrees.
Alright. Clothes. She wasn't really seeing an obvious designated spot for them, so she just stripped and folded them all up carefully and put them by the door. Then, with some difficulty, she climbed into the tub and figured out how the showerhead worked. It took a while, and she got a blast of very hot water directly to her face for her trouble. What she really wanted was a bath, because she had the vague sort of sense that taking a shower in this sort of tub would be criminal, but she wanted to rinse the worst of the glitter and grime off first. Particularly out of her hair.
She was dripping wet when she stepped back out of the tub, and nearly fell, not having had the foresight to put down a towel. She was probably making a mess. She could fix that. For now, she just made sure to rinse all the glitter and goopy clumps down the drain, then figured out how to stop it up so she could have a bath.
A shower and then a bath might have been cheating. If so, she'd have to apologize later. But he hadn't been super precise, and he’d said to take her time, and she wanted to do a good job of cleaning herself up. He'd seemed kind of offended by her... general existence, which was understandable. Most people were.
While the tub filled, she perused the shelves built into the wall. Oils and lotions and soaps and shampoos and conditioners and... a little glass vial, so thin, caught her eye. She leaned closer, squinting. Breathe, lilac and white lily, tranquil... ...bubbling bath?! She glanced around nervously, as if the owner of the house might suddenly appear in protest, but snatched the bottle. No one had ever let her take a bubble bath before. This was her one chance. And he had said to take her time. That was why she was using such painfully hot water; she knew it would cool. She added the tiniest amount of bubble bath to the water, hoping it wouldn't be missed... then just the tiniest amount more, thrilled when the water started forming thick bubbles immediately. She re-corked the bottle and placed it carefully precisely where it had been.
She went ahead and located something that was almost certainly soap, and something that declared itself shampoo. Then she explored the bathroom very carefully as the water filled, sating her curiosity a bit. She didn't really understand the concept of a secondary, smaller toilet without a lid and with a sort of weird spouty thing, next to the actual toilet. She'd been told not to touch things until she was clean. So she turned back to the tub and decided to get in and get working on the actual task he'd given her.
She sank down into the water. It was deeper than any bath she'd been in prior. She could stretch her legs all the way out. The way the edge was sloped, she could lean back against it and recline and stretch. She paused for a bit, letting herself adjust to the pain of the too-hot water. Once she was used to it, she knew it would feel good. Maybe taking her time would help work some of the pain out of her ill-used muscles.
She still had some vague guilt about using the bubbles, but it were exactly as amazing as she’d always imagined, maybe moreso. It made the water smell like flowers. Or maybe that was just what rich-person water smelled like. That was a distinct possibility, but she hadn’t noticed it while showering.
She focused first on getting clean, but as she worked her hair over with shampoo that felt like silk, she considered the task at hand. It needed some consideration. The masturbation would probably be easier, and more arguably pleasant, but it would also be difficult. She couldn't remember the last time she masturbated on her own, and not for someone watching. And this was a stranger's bathtub. She wasn't sure she could get in the mood.
She thought, idly, back to the night before. Particularly, the few minutes in which the creature had held her by her neck and fucked her like a plaything. She gave a pleased little shiver, gave herself a few experimental touches as the shampoo rested in her hair. About a minute of this later, she decided she'd been correct. She'd be in here an hour if he actually wanted an orgasm out of her. Her mind was sharply on the “if you can do it to my satisfaction” part of their deal.
Alright, the other, creepy option then... what was it he'd said? Something that hurt her, something from her past? What, just, think about it and cry? She wasn't good at crying on command. She didn't like thinking about the past, either, because then she'd cry not-on-command.
Thinking about it, as she used a very spectacular sort of nozzle-on-a-hose to rinse out her hair, that was uh... that was probably the entire point. This was probably part of some weird magical ritual or something. Maybe she'd ask him about it, afterwards, to see if he'd answer. She should have maybe asked before, instead. She deserved to know if she was summoning Satan or something.
Painful memories, painful memories... well, that wasn't hard. Just over the last few days, she had half a dozen. She avoided anything to do with the creature--those were too muddled up. Ruka, too, might as well skip further back. The traffickers? Eh. That was nothing new. He wanted pain.
Clarke, then? Noah? Her case worker, what had his name even been? She couldn't quite remember. She ran through brief memories in her head, considering, as she lathered up a very clean, very white washcloth with a soap that smelled of citrus and honey.
She could still remember meeting Clarke in that diner, the first time. It had been three am, that awkward time between night owls and early birds, and she'd been sleeping in one of the booths, because the nice manager was here and wouldn't throw her out until people started coming in for breakfast. She'd awoken to the clink of a plate being set in front of her. A stack of pancakes, courtesy of the man at the nearby table. He'd waved, a polite smile that was barely an upturning of the corners of his mouth. Ice-blue eyes had glinted at her through thin frames.
There was a lot to cry about, where he was concerned, but she didn't particularly feel like it. She let her mind skip back further. Other first meetings... like Noah, overly-kempt blonde hair, almost meticulously maintained. Not a single strand out of place; she remembered thinking he looked like one of the dolls with the plastic hair. Light blue eyes through round frames, and a smile that was a bit broader but still so practiced.
That piece of shit.
She got briefly irritated at him for ruining her relaxation, and had to remind herself that was the point. She let herself think back to hopes dashed, the desire for a father and the utter lack of interest. She’d loved him. God, she’d loved him so purely, so stupidly, the way only a child could manage. He’d wanted so little to do with her. The phrase “when you’re older” had come up very often.
She hadn’t realized why he wanted her to be older until much later, when she’d learned more about the world and her place in it. She couldn’t be sure but... it was the only thing that made sense to her. She paused in her vigorous scrubbing to tuck her knees up closer to her chest despite the size of the tub. Her instinct was to force her mind away from the subject--anything but this, go do something else to distract yourself--and had to remind herself, once again, she was doing a job.
Her tutor, a bright man with hair like flaming feathers, had probably cared for her more than Noah ever had. She wished, in retrospect, she’d bothered to foster a better relationship with him. Maybe she wouldn’t have run away if she had. If she hadn’t been so fixated on Noah, so enthralled. If she hadn’t had her tendency to sneak into places she shouldn’t be, hear things she shouldn’t hear...
Well, god only knew what she would be now. She didn’t think that she would have liked it. She also didn’t think she would have the place in her mind to be aware she didn’t like it. She shivered, a little chill down her spine despite the burning heat of the water.
She normally tried very hard not to think about these things. Ruminating on them as she scrubbed was extremely unpleasant.
“She’s very insistent, sir. He clearly means--”
“He doesn’t mean a thing; she’s just fixating. Whims of a child.” She didn’t have to be able to see the careless wave of his hand to know it was there. “It’s out of the question, which is why I’m not sure why you’re questioning.”
“O-of course, sir. ...It’s just...” She’d never known her tutor’s voice to shake like that. “She doesn’t understand why, and I’m not certain how to explain it to her. You picked her up off the streets; she seems to think it the natural course of things.”
“I’m not going to have two of the things scurrying about,” Noah snapped. “It’s bad enough with just one. Tell her no, or move him along, or something. Tell her she’s important and he’s not; she has to figure it out sooner or later. It’s ridiculous she hasn’t by now.”
“Y-yes, sir, of course.”
She was already wet, so she hadn’t noticed when she’d started crying. A drop hitting the surface of the bubbles, leaving a little indent, was what made her realize. She bit her lip, then threw the washcloth angrily into the water. She rolled over onto her side, sinking into the bubbles as if she were laying in a bed, and had a good long cry, hating him and then and herself. She cried herself out, then stayed in the water longer, numbly going back to scrubbing. She couldn’t get the glitter off, it was like it had fused to her skin. But she at least didn’t seem to be shedding.
She used some of the conditioner, because she felt like she deserved it after that. She soaked until the water began to get tepid and she finally had to force herself out.
She felt a bit numb, all the pain hollowing her out on the inside. But she managed to towel off and rinse out the inside of the tub and mop up the spilled water. She glanced into the mirror as she walked by it to finally open up the huge case and see what she was supposed to wear. Her hair still glittered. Her skin, if anything, now glittered more evenly, less in clumps. She sort of sighed, wondering if this would be to his satisfaction. She had tried her best.
She struggled with the huge thing for a while, then finally got it open. She didn’t know why she was shocked with the contents; it matched everything else she’d seen so far. But shocked she was. Dresses, in dozens of beautiful colors. Drawers full of underthings and shoes and even limited accessories.
Um. Okay. Clearly she was... she was meant to dress up. She had a very limited grasp on aesthetics, but she tried her best, carefully shuffling through the clothing. She found underwear in her size, although it was white and she normally shied away from white things. She found a... bra, but without straps, and put that on. It wasn’t as if her breasts really needed much help, and it was necessary, because of the dress she’d selected, the only one in her size that she liked. It was black, and simple, but had no shoulders of which to speak. Instead, it draped around her arms and over her chest, a little fringe over the rest of the dress embroidered with little white-silver sparkles she felt might make the fact she was still glittery look less offensive to someone who knew it was, in fact, gargoyle semen.
She hunted through the shoes for something that struck her as appropriately adult and fancy. It was slim pickings, because they were mostly flats and she wanted to wear heels, for a multitude of reasons. One was because she never got to. Another was because she thought the point of this was to look less like a piece of garbage, and pieces of garbage did not generally wear nice heels. Also, they were pretty. They were red but also black, and had a little hole where her toes went. And they were only a little tight.
She gave herself a once, twice, and then thrice over before slowly opening the bathroom door and glancing around, uncertain as to where he would be or what to expect.
RE: Être Dans de Beaux Draps [Closed] - Tindome - 04-05-2017
The kinds of books she wanted were the kind that he kept in his office rather than out and about, but his memory… was simply wretched. He tried to keep a catalogue of things, but he rarely updated it, and even more rarely bothered to mention things like contents or subject or what the book looked like – since so many of the more obscure tomes in his office had no titles. Journals, diaries, grimoires.
He did not think he would be giving any grimoires to girls who fucked gargoyles and talked to rats. He barely trusted witches with grimoires.
He barely trusted witches to breathe.
Perhaps he ought to warn her about witches.
The first book he managed to locate was a never-actually-published account of one man's dealings with gargoyles, back when forests had been fearsome and the old gods hadn't left. Back when armies might include centaurs, or werewolves – or gargoyles.
Jean had only met a few gargoyles. Nice enough folk, on the whole. Gargoyles were on the short list of beings capable of penetrating him without hurting themselves in the process. It had been a long time, indeed, since he'd run into someone like that. How strange that she seemed so unsure of its nature, whoever it was, and wanted a book. Perhaps it spoke no English? A gargoyle generally spoke the language of whoever had brought them into being. A foreign gargoyle, then.
It was around when he found this first book that he tasted her first dark chocolate overtures toward fulfilling his request. An orgasm, then?
But, no. His hunch seemed to have been correct. Too sore for such things. Based on the glitter, her partner had been thorough.
The other book was one of a set, less personal in nature. A sort of bestiary written by someone interested in scientific inquiry toward magical things, back when they'd all been the same. The kind of thing that would focus on peculiar particulars like types of stone, the phase of the moon at time of creation, mechanisms of damage and repair. This volume had a variety of animatory beings, including gargoyles, but also things like homunculi–
Good riddance. He needed no reminders of this sort of thing.
Ah. She'd hit something. Some specific trigger had struck true, and struck hard. He was grateful for the distraction. Lemongrass and ginger, furious and painful. He hummed as he continued his search, passing over a grimoire as too risky despite its potential.
Oh. She was crying, now. It wasn't a fresh hurt, but it was a deep one. Better not to wonder at the source. He'd hurt people, certainly, but he was deliberate and precise. The wounds left by others could be so messy and vulgar, accidental or else serving no good purpose. It was depressing. It lacked artistry. Heartbreak simply wasn't as fun when it didn't seem like the victim deserved it. But this one was no concern of his, except that he could at least make it a little useful by enjoying it now.
He wandered back to the kitchen, humming. He set her books down on the counter, rested his cane against a cupboard, and started looking through the fridge.
Cake? She was finishing up, it seemed, and she felt like she'd need cake. An almond mille crêpes cake, with raspberry-rose cream. Quiche lorraine? Everyone always loved quiche. Brioches à tête would be nice and portable, surely, if she needed to take something with her. Apples were healthy, she could have brie and apples. Vanilla bean ice cream to go with the cake!
… perhaps this was all a bit much. He never could remember how much was considered a decent meal. They'd used to have such feasts, once upon a time, but even then it hadn't been universal. He set out a plate, anyway, and put out a slice of quiche so that she could sit at the counter. Sweets on an empty stomach might make her sick. Quiche and cheese first, and then cake. Start with the healthier things.
"Over here, dear," he called from the kitchen when she emerged from the bathroom.
He perked up immediately when he could get a better look at her, pale blue eyes skimming over her outfit. "Oh! But you look lovely, souris." He was pleasantly surprised. He'd thought for sure she'd be one to go for something big and shapeless, those little ballet flats that so many women of her sort seemed to prefer. He came around the counter to circle her, stopping short of touching her directly, but lifting his hand in a clear direction that he wanted her to lift her chin up to better examine her. "The sparkle," he said with relish. "Ah, you are radiant. No salon has seen to your nails, but with a necklace and a little lipstick to match the shoes.." He sighed. "Ignore me, it is only that I am enormously pleased. You have exceeded my every expectation! Sit, help yourself. Would you like a drink?"
He did not think he would be giving any grimoires to girls who fucked gargoyles and talked to rats. He barely trusted witches with grimoires.
He barely trusted witches to breathe.
Perhaps he ought to warn her about witches.
The first book he managed to locate was a never-actually-published account of one man's dealings with gargoyles, back when forests had been fearsome and the old gods hadn't left. Back when armies might include centaurs, or werewolves – or gargoyles.
Jean had only met a few gargoyles. Nice enough folk, on the whole. Gargoyles were on the short list of beings capable of penetrating him without hurting themselves in the process. It had been a long time, indeed, since he'd run into someone like that. How strange that she seemed so unsure of its nature, whoever it was, and wanted a book. Perhaps it spoke no English? A gargoyle generally spoke the language of whoever had brought them into being. A foreign gargoyle, then.
It was around when he found this first book that he tasted her first dark chocolate overtures toward fulfilling his request. An orgasm, then?
But, no. His hunch seemed to have been correct. Too sore for such things. Based on the glitter, her partner had been thorough.
The other book was one of a set, less personal in nature. A sort of bestiary written by someone interested in scientific inquiry toward magical things, back when they'd all been the same. The kind of thing that would focus on peculiar particulars like types of stone, the phase of the moon at time of creation, mechanisms of damage and repair. This volume had a variety of animatory beings, including gargoyles, but also things like homunculi–
Good riddance. He needed no reminders of this sort of thing.
Ah. She'd hit something. Some specific trigger had struck true, and struck hard. He was grateful for the distraction. Lemongrass and ginger, furious and painful. He hummed as he continued his search, passing over a grimoire as too risky despite its potential.
Oh. She was crying, now. It wasn't a fresh hurt, but it was a deep one. Better not to wonder at the source. He'd hurt people, certainly, but he was deliberate and precise. The wounds left by others could be so messy and vulgar, accidental or else serving no good purpose. It was depressing. It lacked artistry. Heartbreak simply wasn't as fun when it didn't seem like the victim deserved it. But this one was no concern of his, except that he could at least make it a little useful by enjoying it now.
He wandered back to the kitchen, humming. He set her books down on the counter, rested his cane against a cupboard, and started looking through the fridge.
Cake? She was finishing up, it seemed, and she felt like she'd need cake. An almond mille crêpes cake, with raspberry-rose cream. Quiche lorraine? Everyone always loved quiche. Brioches à tête would be nice and portable, surely, if she needed to take something with her. Apples were healthy, she could have brie and apples. Vanilla bean ice cream to go with the cake!
… perhaps this was all a bit much. He never could remember how much was considered a decent meal. They'd used to have such feasts, once upon a time, but even then it hadn't been universal. He set out a plate, anyway, and put out a slice of quiche so that she could sit at the counter. Sweets on an empty stomach might make her sick. Quiche and cheese first, and then cake. Start with the healthier things.
"Over here, dear," he called from the kitchen when she emerged from the bathroom.
He perked up immediately when he could get a better look at her, pale blue eyes skimming over her outfit. "Oh! But you look lovely, souris." He was pleasantly surprised. He'd thought for sure she'd be one to go for something big and shapeless, those little ballet flats that so many women of her sort seemed to prefer. He came around the counter to circle her, stopping short of touching her directly, but lifting his hand in a clear direction that he wanted her to lift her chin up to better examine her. "The sparkle," he said with relish. "Ah, you are radiant. No salon has seen to your nails, but with a necklace and a little lipstick to match the shoes.." He sighed. "Ignore me, it is only that I am enormously pleased. You have exceeded my every expectation! Sit, help yourself. Would you like a drink?"