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A masculine whistle lilted after her as she walked down the bustling street of Or`lin, but Aphelia did not turn her head to look in the man’s direction. She knew better, that it would merely excite further response, and that she couldn’t risk herself around innocents tonight. He meant no real harm, and given half a change, Aphelia was afraid she would. It had been almost a week, but the charred hole above the laboratory might as well have been in her heart. There were those who had lost more, things far more precious. Their lives or their loves or their last hopes, but Aphelia felt the loss of her papers acutely and anguished, unsure of where to begin again, now that they were mostly gone. Those that remained were incomplete, and thus only half-understandable. She had formulas, but had lost the context into which they fit. They were just symbols and numbers and letters thrown in an impenetrable order; attempting to decipher them led her to the edge of madness. More importantly, the cure she had been developing, tentative and quietly, in her late nights in the labs had been completely annihilated. It had been the first delicate mycelia cells of a fungus, edited in it’s delicate chemical and cellular makeup, until it was a capable weapon against the Variable. There had been great promise in it, but the idea of trying to replicate almost a month of work-- it seemed impossible.<br><br><br>

Raising her skirt to keep it out of the It was odd, again, to be in formal dress after so long in her military linen shirts and stiff wool breeches, but Or`lin’s more exceptional locations required a certain amount of pomp and circumstance so she had forced herself into corset, strapped her bustle on, and painted the burgundy dress on before staring at her reflection, almost unrecognizing, in the mirror. The sealskin looked odd around her waist here, hanging amongst her bobbles and chains around it, but she couldn’t bear to leave it. Not considering what had happened last time she had left Medicae Manus. It had been over a year since she’d actually worn the delicately embroidered thing, but, luckily, it still fit though she had an odd feeling her cleavage was more pronounced than it used to be. Sighing, there being nothing she could do about it, she’d left for the gin house. Now, it sat only a few streets away, she realized with a half-smile.<br><br><br>

Diversion. It was what she sought like a blind, starving beggar. Aphelia needed escape from her own ridiculous mind. If only for a brief time, she needed blackness and oblivion and freedom from her woe. Other women, she supposed, would ‘take up a hobby’ such as embroidery or piano, but she was merely not the kind. Much preferred was the scalding burn of alcohol slithering serpentine down her throat. The gin house was not the most private place to dance dangerously with her release, but drinking alone made her feel pitiful and undesirable, and she didn’t need anymore of that. Really, she had plenty to go round already. Stop it, a part of her chided. Tonight was not for wallowing, not for crying into an empty bottle. Today was for forgetting, for living, and for moving on… and a sigh barely kept off her lips, she was going to attempt to do it the way everyone else did. Not with work, but with liquor. <br><br><br>


Rounding the last corner, she entered a familiar alley. The signs spattered down it creaked in the breeze. She stood for a moment, surveying. This was not necessarily the safest part of Or`lin, not that it usually ever bothered her. However, usually, she was dressed in uniform, or close enough to give the impression. Aphelia was all too aware the being dressed as a woman of status, even though she was no less capable in defending herself, made her a target in these lands. A laugh from behind grimy windows was all that echoed in the narrow by-way. Her feet began to move again, heels clipping despite her effort to keep her steps quiet. Her ungloved hand felt in the folds of her dress as if absently brushing away from dirt. Her pristine clothing seemed to sparkle in the dirt-covered alley, but it was merely a diversion to reassure herself. The familiar weight of her flintlock rested underneath her belt filled with only one shot, but ready and waiting. It comforted her like a caress from a lover. She stopped in front of a black door. It had glass laid into it, but it had been layered from behind with metal. Her hand came up without hesitation. She gave four sound knocks. A slot she hadn’t perceived before in the work of it slid opened. Eyes showed, taking her in and leering cruelly, and then his mouth, which opened revealing horrible teeth. <br><br><br>


“Piss off, dear heart. Before you get hurt.” From his accent she could tell the man was a Mystic. The slot closed with all the finality of a slam. An eyebrow shot up in mock surprise. Her hand rose, knocked four times again, though this time an unruly sort of knocking. His voice crept from the hole before he could get it open all the way, “I told you, tramp. Push on your--” His voice was cut short abruptly once he recognized what was in her hand. Her pistol, withdrawn with a practiced hand, had been placed just an inch from the hole. Aphelia had no intention of using it. More, it was there to set the tone. Her thumb pulled back the piston, readying it, because there was no sense in letting him think she was unresolved. <br><br><br>


“I suggest you open the door, dear heart. Before you get hurt.” She echoed his own threat back to him, and he visibly paled. She’d apparently shocked the poor man down to his core. A sad excuse for a bouncer, she decided, who needed a good scare to keep him more on his toes, and from blatantly insulting every woman he saw with his eyes and his mouth-- both which disgusted her. Picking him out of his shock, she clipped irritably, “Come, come. This is not the day to deny me drink, man.” The locks sounded from the other side of the door and were pushed out to allow her entry. She tucked the weapon back into her belt, covered again by her skin, and pretended the altercation never occurred, smiling brightly at the man as she passed him, delving deeper into the dark hallway behind him. It opened up into a room. The light was low, but there was enough for her to survey her surroundings. The representatives here varied in fashions and races, though well over half of them were male, more so than the streets outside. Nothing raised suspicion of caution from her inspection, though, so she continued forward to the part of the room more cloaked in shadow than the rest. This gin house, Aquarelle, was one of the city’s foreign inhabitants best kept secrets. It catered to the special needs of those unfamiliar with Viridis, and excelled in what it did. The clean melody of a piano and violin’s duet ran through the room, immediately putting her at ease. She allowed herself the luxury of a pleasured sigh, the grace and peace that formality and the known set into her. This was a world, inside this room, of no surprises. Selecting a table in the back corner, she placed her back to the walls and caught the eye of the server.<br><br><br>


He approached, eyes on the ground in polite respect. Aphelia smiled despite him not watching her. “A Zombie, if you’d be so kind, and tell the barman to make it a double. No, make that two Zombies.” He inclined his head without displaying any of the shock she was sure he felt. It was a strong drink to begin with, a concoction of expensive brandy, three different types of rum, and a touch or so of juice to keep you from vomiting right off. Asking for a double was akin to asking someone to shoot you in the head at close range, at least, for a man. For a woman, it was heresy. The man returned, two drinks in hand, promptly as he had arrived. He waited after setting them down, sensing her need of him again. The first drink was drained in a minute of seconds and he picked it up and after locking eyes with her, left to fetch another one. Her mouth burned from the alcohol, and she gave a small cough once her server had departed. Instead of downing the next, she picked it up and sipped it. Much more sensible tasting that way, a small smile of satisfaction lit up her eyes. They drifted to the forms elegantly twining about the dance floor in a myriad of styles. It was entrancing. The alcohol was almost tangible, moving within her body with all the force of a wrecking ball, and she found herself oddly pleased. She didn’t want to go home tonight without being empty of all her pain. <br><br><br>


This, certainly, was a valiant beginning.




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<br>♥ kazimir gregorzski dances in the snow ♠ drunken survivors of gin house "aquarelle" ♣
1545 avalanches of the violent disharmony ♦ the tune <br>
ooc: drunk, drunk, drunk. and getting drunker!
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“You’re hurting him, Doctor – please!”
<br><br><br>
Kazimir’s eyes flickered upward to the patient’s wife, the motion sharp and attentive although his body was unresponsive to the woman’s request for mercy. Her husband’s arm was rigid on his knee; the patient’s tears were hot and relentless – but Kazimir was stricken by the sensation that the woman didn’t think about his well-being. Such an obscenely absurd notion ought to have been dismissed immediately, for, as the doctor, it was his job to attend, rather than be attended to. He wondered if this woman knew anything of what had really happened during that fire – if she knew that the medical staff had taken blows as well as their charges. If she knew that, for an hour after having left the building, a woman had picked pieces of glass out of his skin with a pair of metal prongs, the tweezers slipping into his skin to return with small clear shards. If she knew what he had slid across in an explosion, with little pieces of debris burying themselves in his cheeks and making small indents of cuts. If she knew that his nose was swollen for days after he had crashed onto the tiles, and if she knew that his finger was relocated with generous magic and attention. If she knew his immense guilt at having contributed to it, shutting a nurse and good doctor into a station. They were lucky not to have been eaten by the flames he directed there.
<br><br><br>
If she knew that he was hurting too.
<br><br><br>
“This is necessary, Mrs Hayek.”
<br><br><Br>
“Please, stop it!”
<br><br><br>
Grinding his teeth and attempting to stay focussed on the task at hand, he dropped his gaze back to the man’s arm, where he had begun a string of sutures. The stitches pulled the skin together, red and engorged, little pinpoints of blood appearing where the need had struck. The bruising along the arm seemed heightened by the recent crimson addition, and he could see the squeamish woman in the corner of his eye, recoiling as she stared with a vulture’s fascination at the procedure, “Does that feel alright, Mr Hayek?” and he observed as the man gave him a terse nod. Kazimir could hear the exhale of relief as he settled his tools onto the tray once more and rose from the bedside. The torture was at an end. Reaching to the man’s bedside, he handed the Mystic a cloth, with which the patient began to urgently dry his tear-streaked face. Giving the wife what he thought was a civil smile and a brilliant little comment feigning good-cheer, the Phoenix departed the room, where his presence was powerfully unwelcome.
<br><br><br>
The immense damage had created a sober mood throughout the hospital, one which was as insurmountable as a wall which grew taller with every meter its climber grew closer to the top. There were whispers of faithlessness, none of which were truly condemnable. The patients who were in poor condition announced that their death was surely imminent, in dramatic and hysterical fashions, neither of which would benefit them, no matter what light it placed under. Nurses were frantic, doctors were testy. Where hope had been burned, nerves too had been frayed and optimism was buried. Every patient seemed to be in a worse condition than could be controlled, and each encounter brought with it the burdening sensation that this person would require a grave to be dug in their honour – likely, soon. The need for medical attention had increased drastically, yet the amount of space available to them was seriously decreased. The loss of the second floor had significantly lessened the availability of patient beds, and making up for that space alone was a time-consuming and impossible challenge. There were few places for rejoicing left intact.
<br><br><br>
Kazimir was used to coming to such places as Aquarelle in the company of others. He was an animal too social to sit alone in any cage, and yet today he had chosen to forgo the usual haunts and abandon his usual companions. In light of the recent developments with the fire, it was impossible to maintain a face of good cheer. Many gifted colleagues had suffered injury, and a few had perished under the swell of flame. Patients, similarly, had no luck to speak of; those who were wounded by either the runaway element or the destruction left in its wake were all but irreparable. The difficult with the illness was that it limited the patient’s ability to heal, and therein what wounds were delivered would have great corollary. So many had died, and so much was lost. If the immediate loss of lives was not enough, there was the added detail of lost research. The details which were pored over in extremities in the weeks preceding the fire were lost, of particular consequence a collection of cockroaches and a nameless fungus.
<br><br><br>
The greatest difficulty of drinking alone was that it specifically was an action against Wicker. The two Phoenixes had a tremendous deal in common, and yet Kazimir had chosen to cut the other one from an activity which they usually shared. Their relationship knew only frankness, and yet honesty didn’t feel desirable right then. Wicker had suffered as much as any living man could. Kazimir felt responsible for that, too, even when he was blameless, but the overwhelming heaviness which conquered his chest when he saw Wicker’s recently-dormant legs hanging off the chair, useless, was potent. Each conversation which had passed between them, he thought of Thyme, and the absolute failure of a job he had done in protecting her brother from the world. It was a promise he had never made, but one which he felt compelled consistently to keep. Now, he needed time away from his friend, to abandon responsibilities which were never truly his and find solace in independence.
<br><br><br>
But such was a relative term, Kazimir realized. He had spent at least an hour at a table alone, though the room was crowded. It felt awkward and unnatural to be silent and so closed from the world, when normally, with Wicker by his side, there would be laughter and flirtation. Nothing would be serious – nothing would feel as he did in that moment: like the world had been reduced to a dull hum, like time had been depressed to the point where it barely passed. His eyes observed the scene blearily, and with a distinct inattentiveness. Kazimir, though not nearly as sober as he might have been, was not half as drunk as people interpreted him to be as he sat in this state of distracted lethargy. He seemed to have been labelled, potentially correctly, as the cheerless patron in the room. Comments flew by him, faces were a blur. He was usually a louder drunk than this, and, therein, was decidedly not drunk enough. Kazimir requested, with a low and polite tone, for something stronger than ale – vodka, he said, would do, of the highest grade they carried.
<br><br><br>
By the time he noticed Aphelia’s presence in the room, his head had attained a fascinating weightlessness, yet a tremendous heaviness. Moving, he felt as if he were blundering along, rather than stepping with grace. He felt out of place in this spectacular gin house, but hardly compelled to figure out why; alcohol was beginning to play with his consciousness, distracted him from what woes had been profoundly increased since arriving by its playful taste. He had abandoned his coat on the back of a chair some time before, and shoved his cravat in a pocket before doing so. Now clad in what was fairly standard for such an environment and a man of his sobriety, Kazimir presented himself to the lady in black trousers and a single-breasted pinstripe vest, the white shirt beneath it loosened at the cuffs. His gloves were absent, and this was the first of indicators that Kazimir was, perhaps, no longer entirely himself – that he approached her at all might have been ample enough evidence of this. Their last conversation, though personal enough, had not acted in such a way that drew them together, as far as he was concerned. They were as distant as ever, but he raised his glass to her as he approached, smiled.
<br><br><br>
“You look very pretty,” the doctor drawled as he sat, uninvited, beside the scientist, who was, as he apparently observed, dressed with somewhat more flair than usual. Her figure was presented more adamantly in the dress. This fact, in itself, distracted him for a second before he continued: “But this was not the sort of hobby I had in mind for you,” he said, his voice peculiarly musical and dripping with the suggestion of liquor, “Whatever floats your raft, I suppose.” he clicked his tongue, tipping his hat-less head to her powerful drink, “Not very ladylike, is it?”

<br><br><br><br>
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WRITTEN FOR LIS’S CHARACTER APHELIA HOLIMION
<br> IN AQUARELLE IN 1482 WORDS.
<br>OOC: N/A
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Aphelia felt her usual stiff posture slipping away. She was becoming one long piece of rubber, melting under the heat radiating from her cheeks, the flush an unfortunate side affect of the liquor she’d imbibed. The dances, against the far wall, moving in time with the delicate rush of the music filling the room. Luckily, her server was particularly dedicated and had not yet said a word, so the relationship was going very well. The small arrangement of candles, piled on one another, new ones placed in the puddles of the dead, reminded her oddly of the place she had attempted to leave. But, she discovered, the alcohol and observing the strangers around her only did half the job. The glare of candlelight held in her unblinking eyes drifted out of focus and appeared as a simple wire-lined cot like the ones they had. One body holding it just long enough to expire and then passing it to another hopeless case. It rather reminded her of musical chairs, in a morbid, horribly unfunny sort of way.<br><br><br>

Some would think that, with her not working explicitly among the patients, that she would as much as not notice they even exist. This, however, was not the truth. She walked by them every day. Smiled at the few who allowed her to do so, and checked their status. Every time a bed was left, unexpectedly or otherwise, empty it set another paperweight of guilt down on her shoulders. Wasn’t she one of the ones responsible for the cure, for fixing them, and she had let one more slip through her fingers. He had told her, eyes flitting to her drink, that she was not meant to carry such a burden. The chilled glass was brought to her lips; the cold and acidic heat hit from it made shivers run up and down her arms. Her eyes closed in pleasure. She couldn’t even taste the alcohol anymore, which generally meant she had taken her first steps on the road to intoxication.<br><br><br>

Still, the woman kept herself from the haze with surprising grace for a slip of a woman, and she could feel, not that she as much as acknowledged their presence, the eyes of a few admires from the surrounding tables. She could handle herself, which wasn’t particularly uncommon among her own race, but she’d heard that women of the other cultures weren’t held in such high esteem, the Mystic women in particular. Aphelia let her eyes drift to the swaying bodies on the dance floor, the emotions on their face, the way they held one another. It gave her a satisfaction to do so, without actually having to engage in the exposing performance herself. Some of the few women stayed permanently on the dance floor, hips curling and shaking in a seductive, risqué display. Her eyes lingered there, enchanted despite her sensible notions about flesh and what should be left to the imagination. Her fingers ran along the rim of her drink, idly. Something moving in the corner of her eye caught her attention. <br><br><br>


She turned her head, assuming it would be the waiter, returning with another glass and to take away her cleaned one, a bright smile of gratitude radiating from her face. However, when she looked, it was not the slightly stout livery-clad, black-haired attendant. To begin with, he was nearly a head taller and incredibly more attractive. His lean yet muscular form seemed familiar and the way it‘s user held it, contained a loose, barely contained energy she found riveting for a moment. It took a second to place his face, perhaps it was due to the haze in her mind which seemed to make things dull and vibrant at the same instant. Her eyes focused on his face and then it sank into her, startling her from her pleasant reverie mightily. Kazimir Gregorzski. The heat in her checks turned to a searing blaze. To believe she hadn’t been able to place him because of the absence of his sterile gloves and dying patients as a backdrop, it reminded her exactly how little of the man she knew. It was easy to forget from within the familiarity of her lab, but among strangers, unable to even notice one of your acquaintances, the effect can be quite jarring.<br><br><br>

No more shocking, though, then when he continued to approach her. She had assumed, after their little debacle last time, that they would continue their fine job of ignoring one another until the end of opportunity. Both of them had bared more then they had intended and been wounded more then they cared for, and she had not been alone in her feinted ignorance of his presence this past fortnight. He sat near her, and she felt her back press into her hair, certain it would leave an imprint of the wood grain within her tender flesh. His words did nothing to put her at ease. It was as the expression goes, a devil in a Sunday hat, something that was too good to be true generally was… Not that she strongly desired men to flock to her, shower her with praise, but Kazimir’s admittance of her beauty seemed like a small victory, and despite her every desire to remain alone throughout the night, the drink had begun to make her solitary presence feel like a burden instead of a blessing. Upon suggestion that she was less than a lady, her lips pulled into what one could only describe a smug smirk. The insinuation that she could ever be a lady, even if she tried, was quite humorous. And, regardless of her clothing, being one did not rank very high on her list of things to do before she perished. Her mute server appeared at her elbow. He took the glass and deposited a fresh one. She nodded pleasured by his capable assistance; however, she could not miss the glance the man shot Kazimir, something of aggression, if the drink hadn’t already hazed her eyes beyond the point of seeing what is and what isn’t there. <br><br><br>


Her face turned back to him, the genuine smile still etched upon it. “Flattery, Dr. Gregorzski, is hardly necessary.” The remark came out as if she had meant it rather jokingly, but the base self-deprecation in it could not be ignored. One of her hands, unhindered by the usual restraint she carried around with her, came to feel the shape of a midnight-colored curl hanging over her shoulder, straightening it. It was a tell of nervousness, she knew, but couldn’t force her hand back down into her lap where it should have laid peacefully. ”I’ve come for diversion, not for empty words.” The glass rose again to her lips. She gingerly took a sip of the liquid, remembering a bit of propriety now that a gentleman sat beside her. Her eyes looked over Kazimir from head to thighs, no… a little less than a gentleman, really. Her smile appeared again from it’s momentary absence. “I am far more ladylike than those woman over there…” She with a slide of eyes, indicated the woman taking the dance floor, bodies bared to the world, or at least the room full of foreign eyes. She felt an odd urge to strip the layers of propriety binding her own flesh and become one of them, ladylike behavior be damned, just to show them that they had no way to trap her. That she was free and fluid and unchained… and that her hips could move if free from the whalebones that pushed her cleavage half-way to her chin. With a wide-eyed, innocent desire, her liquor-loosened tongue revealed, ”It’s extraordinary, the way they move their bodies, as if made of water and fire. What fun it must be, to loose themselves in such a way.”<br><br><br>

It was not but moment after that, when silence filled the space between the two of them, that she remembered herself. This was her colleague, not some anonymous man to throw the night away with, and no matter the level of rum in her blood, it was her duty not to embarrass herself in front of those she worked with. “Not that I would… I would ever dance, near nude, in such a fashion.” Her eyes moved to the drink in front of her. In the low light the little droplets of condensation on her glass reflected back the rainbow. They were amazing, but she the level of fascination she found in them was far past reasonable. There was a discomfort, she realized, in looking back into the penetrating eyes so near her. Though he might have not thought it anything at all, she knew that the man had an ability to pierce through her armor. He had stuck his needle in her tender flesh, and the spot still stung. She was not foolish enough, not even while halfway frishnicket, to willingly expose herself like that again.



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<br>♥ kazimir gregorzski dances in the snow ♠ drunken survivors of gin house "aquarelle" ♣
1492 avalanches of the violent disharmony ♦ the tune <br>
ooc: this is when kaz says aphelia would neverever, so she can get sleazy about the whole place and insight other mens interest!
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In the same vacant way that he observed Aphelia at first – maintaining the complex disinterest and yet a absorbed attention – Kazimir was aware of the dancers. The rhythm that they found in the music was unexpected and strangely harmonious. It neither fit the melody nor ran against it in a displeasing fashion. Instead, these women held themselves in a manner which was transfixing to behold. Their flesh was initially the appeal, but it was their sexual charisma which enchanted and hypnotized their watchers. Every sway of their hip was done in a manner which bore supreme confidence, and every wave of a hand, in a slow and seductive pattern, exulted their bodies. A slender Ethereal with auburn hair drifted her fingers across her generous chest, continuing to slide her shoulders back as sweat was collected with her touch. The shadows left little the imagination, but the women were gifted in the way that they manipulated their forms, lifting enough skirt to expose indecent amounts of thigh and create vast shadows to stretch across their bare skin. They were raw and proud, energized in a passionate and erotic display of all-but incomparable showmanship.
<br><br><br>
Kazimir’s medical eyes were asleep, and he didn’t focus on the details of their figures, such as where additional weight suggested a lavish lifestyle and opiate addictions, or where a cadaverous figure implied malnourishment, poverty, or alternative lifestyle choices of consequence. Somehow, when in a bar, the Phoenix found himself wholly desensitized to his company. If a man sat at his side, with saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth, shallow breaths, and dilated pupils, sipping laudanum at his pleasure, Kazimir was unlikely to pay the same mind to it as he might on the street. These women – whores in any other context – set the mood rather than appeared grotesquely shameless. The further he recessed into the whisper of alcohol, the less he judged his company and glorified what differences they shared. They were, in this shared environment, cut of the same cloth and therefore destined to appreciate that they were there with similar purpose. It didn’t matter who was there for celebration and who was there for mourning, for all sought liquor, and had chosen, with a collective mentality, this one particular shelter from the outside world.
<br><br><br>
He supposed this was not the appropriate response to have in the company of a dignified lady such as Aphelia. Kazimir wasn’t in the state of mind to register the way that she addressed him with both title and surname, rather than resorting to the casual first she had let slip from her lips in the labs. It didn’t seem particularly ridiculous to him that she would still be a woman of ice, even in an environment with vodka and rum pouring from the walls and steam rising from the bodies of patrons. The air, smelling of drink and sweat, would not permeate a surface of hard glass; the elastic motions of dangers would do nothing to loosen the persona of a woman created of steel. She was welcome to be herself, for Kazimir was inebriated enough that his social indecencies didn’t register, nor truly have comprehensible effect on his decisions. She was welcome to disapprove of him, for he wouldn’t dwell on the sentiment. Drinking provided him with confidence. It was normally exercised at Wicker’s side, first at a table and then perhaps in a bed with a woman, but if he was to take this road alone, he would embrace independence, however indecent and however senseless.
<br><br><br>
This was the second time that he had listened to the lady depreciate her worth. Before, when they had met in her laboratories for a rather violent exchange, hadn’t she cried out and pronounced hate for her person, resentfulness at her inability to find a cure for Sanguis Variabilis? Now she denounced her physical worth as well, and he, being a presumptuous man, asserted that this was modesty speaking, rather than a true insult to her formal attire, so far from the norm to which he had become much accustomed. He hadn’t pegged her the sort to be vain, but he had also not pegged her as self-loathing – neither conclusion would have pleased him particularly, and so he allowed the comment to go unchallenged, in spite of its inaccuracy. Kazimir listened to her, though his features were glazed in such a way which made the attention present as haphazard. He tipped back his glass, eventually, for a considerable sip of the clear drink. The heat of the liquid shot fire down his throat, stinging tears to dare his eyes, but there was no alternative than to polish off the glass and collect a second, even while the dark-haired server gave a rather suspicious glance in his direction. Kazimir was unaware of it, though, had he been, it would have occurred to him as reasonable enough: a man sitting at a lady’s table, clearly having allowed his inhibitions to lapse in the great enemy of vodka, was reason to be suspect.
<br><br><br>
Diversion: he dared not respond to this, forcing himself to bite his tongue, conscious enough though liquor had loosened it already. They had already bared their souls for the other to view, and the result had been all but disastrous. The result was a catastrophe, literally consisting of breaking glass and sparks flying. Her hand had raised a weapon, and his had prepared an offense which he would ultimately push aside. They were not well-matched for conversation of such matters, decidedly, for each was remarkably selfish in their own right and unforgiving in their fixed ideas. Neither was forgiving of the other, in spite of what attempts were made to carry on and dismiss snide and biting remarks, and it was for the better that they had avoided each other with such particularity over the last few weeks. The aftermath of the fire had left many spirits on the edge, and Aphelia’s, knowing the strain she was under, was surely no better than his, which was beaten in pride and spirit. This was the last topic which could ever be called safe, and he skipped wisely around the potential conversation of what was lost, what damage had been done to themselves and the hospital. They were damned together to be damned alone.
<br><br><br>
Her eyes trailed sideways, and curiosity led him to follow her stare. It didn’t immediately strike him as peculiar that Aphelia chose to pay mind to the dancers. His head felt like a tremendously heavy weight on his shoulders, insufficiently supported by his neck, and he allowed it to roll lazily to face them once more, noting with muted appreciation their gyrating hips and the passion which dripped off their skin. He was oddly tempted to vocalize a tale of indiscretion from his own shameful and drunken experiences with such women, but caught himself – or, perhaps, was conveniently interrupted. Where he had neglected to find anything unusual in the moments before, he similarly found nothing uncomfortable in her words now. Aphelia’s statement, on the contrary, amused him in a pleasing way, and he watched her doe-like eyes, even while they were turned away from him. He watched her, still, even when silence settled around them, and more so when she diverted her attention to the glass. She was intriguing him, though, with the level of attention he seemed to have developed, it seemed likely he would be amused counting the scratches on the table. Yet – oh, hadn’t she all but dared him? Hadn’t she brought this upon herself with her own denial? She was asking him for this discussion, he misinterpreted; she was attempting to bait him for certain remarks. Smart fish, he understood, did not bite. Fish who swam in alcohol, perhaps, did.
<br><br><br>
Kazimir learned towards her, covering some distance between them so that he could address the scientist with a low tone. The dark chuckle which passed through his lips could easily have been confused for perverse, particularly with the words which accompanied it: “I think you’re wrong,” he said blatantly. His eyes flashed gleefully, “I think that, given the proper motivation, man has no real limit.” He didn’t know where he was going as he spoke, but he folded his arms on the table, fixated on the depths of her eyes as he carried, “In fact, I think you ought to stand up and give it a shot,” the corners of his mouth twitched in a wildly amused fashion, unafraid to provoke any reaction in this manner of dialogue, now that they had forsaken serious conversation about their emotional souls. He dared her, almost mockingly, “If you rise and give us a ‘water-and-fire’ motion, whatever you order tonight – it’s on me.”
<br><br><br>
With a whisper of a laugh, he smirked at her to say, in such a manner which would imply this was a very special privilege he was offering her alone, “You can even keep your clothes on.”

<br><br><br><br>
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WRITTEN FOR LIS’S CHARACTER APHELIA HOLIMION
<br> IN AQUARELLE IN 1492 WORDS.
<br>OOC: I COULDN'T RESIST.
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She had a feeling that her nervous energy would be much abetted after a little physical exertion. She was no stranger to the joy of her muscles singing with use and sweat running down her spine. How would it feel to stand before all these people and have them witness her reckless abandon? At first, the glimmer of thought running left in her brain decided it would be cheapening. They would see her flaws, her nervousness at being presented, and they would judge her as a homely woman. A frown settled on her lips. Not, of course, if she had no shame, no nervousness, like the women before her. Then, she’d be powerful, she’d be autonomous, and she‘d be liberated. Free. The word sounded oddly enchanting in this situation, especially considering how she hadn’t been able to draw in a full breath since she donned her corset. Would she never really do such a thing? She shook her head. Of course not, to do so would be to do everything she stood against. Reputation, her mother had said, took a lifetime to build and an instant to lose. Still, to feel like that, like those lost women, her hand brought up the glass and she smiled against the rim of it, distracted from her companion.<br><br><br>

However, his announcement that she was incorrect shocked her back to attention. She knew, generally, this is where ire rose up within her. Being wrong was something she did not allow from herself. She was a scientist, mistakes were forgiven but could potentially ruin your whole career, and a tactician, mistakes, if severe enough, could end with your own neck split on a knife; however, she was also drunk, or well on her way to it, and the usual feelings did not appear. Instead, she fixed him with an exaggerated quizzical stare. As if, for an instance, he had lapsed into some foreign language. As he continued her rebuttal, Aphelia found she couldn’t entirely object. People, she knew, could be plied with many things to force a change of opinion, a revolution or a massacre really wasn’t all that difficult to excite, if you knew how. Even now, she was the perfect example. Because, as she listened to him talk, her eyes focused with an odd sort of tunnel vision upon his moving lips. They were lovely. She wondered why she’d never taken the time to really see him before. Her fingers twitched, desiring to break out of their bindings of propriety, and still them so that they would be easier to examine. Her hand, however, remained contained, despite the fact her focus drifted in and out. Was this man really as bad as she’d imagined? He seemed hardly threatening now, maybe even a little amusing to her rummed brain. His meaning arrived finally from the muddle of words it had arrived in… he wanted her to stand and dance?<br><br><br>

Laughter erupted in her throat, unable to be contained. Obviously, he was making a joke. Still, his face did not contort in the usual way. The way humanoid faces did when they had told something funny and ridiculous, as if they were vaguely apologetic and content in the same moment. It dawned on Aphelia that he was serious only after he’d continued with his mockery of her, giving her the small incentive or large, more rightly, given the amount of alcohol she’d imbibed of paying for this nights tab. He could have still escaped, though. It wasn’t too late for him. Aphelia’s eyebrows were arched, her head cocked, and her lips slightly agape in the shocked stupor of drink, but she didn’t have the same broken appearance as others in the bar. She held her youth, for once, in her face and a wildness in her eyes. Her sense of affronted honor, though, was fading away. It seemed silly to let him ruin her good mood. Vaguely, she felt amusement and something else swelling in her belly… what was it? How did you express such a feeling? He spoke, interrupting her thoughts, giving her the privilege of her clothes. There it was, the noose synched about his neck. The feeling surged back into her, and though she couldn’t express it, she knew what she wanted… she wanted to do it just because he thought that she wouldn’t, she wasn’t capable of such a thing. And, a little bit, she wanted to do it because she grew entirely bored sitting and plying herself with alcohol. <br><br><br>

The smile that took her lips, one she was certain him nor anyone at the facility had ever seen, should had been the first clue that this wasn’t the woman he was used to dealing with. Aphelia had hung her at the door, and was free. Free. She intended to exercise that freedom, over and over, until it got boring as well, and then she’d pass out in the beds upstairs and not wakeup until at least dawn the next day. Beautiful. She began to rise from her chair, but paused-- her hand came up, consumed by the desire to feel flesh against her own, brushing the back of her knuckles down the slope of her chin. Scruffier than she expected, but warm. The exhaustive use of title and surname discarded, she called him by name, “Oh, Kazimir. Let’s find something to wipe that filthy smirk off you face, aye?” She used the hand, still radiating with a tingle where she’d stroked him, to withdraw her gun and place it on the table before him. “Don’t lose that.” <br><br><br>

Then, she moved away from the table, called towards the swaying figures of the women. She brushed by men calling for her to join them, calling her kitten and less kind things. They had no idea what she had planned, things such as it simply did not happen. However, rogue selkies more than a little tipsy with nothing to lose were frequently not in their company. She caught the eyes of one of the women from across the dance floor. Her hand came up and pulled out, pin by pin, the delicate coiffure on her head with a few sugar curls hanging down. The locks tumbled down in a wave around her shoulders. It caught the woman’s attention. She smiled mightily, pleased to have such pretty prey as this, and began to approach. Her eyes were pure white, obviously an Orc. Aphelia was fine with that, it made things easier, if anything. Meeting the woman halfway, she bent her to the shell of her ear and confessed loudly, so as to be heard over the commotion of the music, “I was wondering if you could assist me. My companion thinks I lack the resolve and ability to perform with you. I think I have what it takes. Unfortunately, I find myself incredibly covered in clothing, and it would be difficult to move as you do… without some small assistance.” <br><br><br>

The woman had not stopped moving. No, she had merely taken to undulating close to Aphelia’s own. Without words, which was a blessing because it was difficult to hear anything other than the driving beat of drums and melody intertwining, the woman moved her hands to Aphelia’s waist. There was a flicker of hesitation in that moment, however she moved her hips as the hands directed her to do. The woman’s lips peeled back to reveal a pleased, heady smile. She continued to direct, moving her body closer and more intimately until Aphelia could merely follow the woman’s body’s direction. Her hands, she felt, snaked up her back. They found purchase at the ties holding the casing of her dress and began to untie them. Halfway down, she heard a call from the tables, a whoop of admiration or approval. Moments later, her dress slid to the floor. She stepped out of it, as if she was shedding her skin. <br><br><br>

Aphelia breathed with relief when the women pulled off the shift and loosened her corset so she could breath and move more fully. However, then she realized she had barely anything but that and her stockings on. In an half-hearted attempt for decency, she pulled her belt from the discarded clothing and strapped it around her waist. Better cover than nothing, she decided, but her body was already being summoned by the woman. Her back was warmed by the comforting sway; she matched it with her own ebb and flow. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back to rest upon the taller woman’s shoulder. Her hands, taken in the woman’s hands, were raised above her head, one finding purchase in the woman behind her, her instructor’s hair. It lasted only for moments before they separated, passing some final examination, and the women left her swaying on her own. Her hands cut the air and molded it into shapes around her. Aphelia felt magical, felt powerful, felt beautiful… more than she had remembered feeling in a very long time. Her hips churned in graceful arch and circles, knocking back and forth sometimes to the beat, finding it to be more seductive in practice than is viewing. She rolled her body and felt the corners of her lips turn up. Nebulous, a thought drifted through her head, was Kazimir watching? As the music switched, she discarded it to ride the beat.



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<br>♥ kazimir gregorzski dances in the snow ♠ drunken survivors of gin house "aquarelle" ♣
1560 avalanches of the violent disharmony ♦ the tune <br>
ooc: ohohohohohoho~ mylaughisaneviiiillaugh.
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Somewhere along the line, the two of them had stopped playing colleagues. They had ceased to pretend that they were professional beings in the company of one another, who worked together and respected each other as professionals. Kazimir neglected to view her, quickly, as the cold scientist who boarded herself in her laboratory and increasingly more as one of the random and insignificant women who took residence in these bars. She had evolved from a businesswoman into a companion, a friend who was encountered and conversed with out of mutual drunkenness and respective unconscious frankness. Aphelia was permitted these lapses in her dignity, for she would have little choice than to allow similar lapses in him. Her touch intrigued him, and was, in no way, of peculiar propriety. It was entirely natural, given the circumstances, and he allowed his face to sink against her knuckles, the soft backside of her delicate fingers contacting a few days’ worth of unshaven growth, and residual marks from his slide across the floor during the fire. He had, prior to that night, always supposed she felt cold and marble-like, but was surprised to find her touch tender and hot. He held his eyes on her confidently, her unexpected flirtation fascinating.
<br><br><br>
Aphelia dropped her gun on the table, and he barely registered it enough to be alarmed. In the style of a femme fatale, she carried herself assertively, now with the aid of a dangerous tool. It would normally be captivating, even frightening, but took only a second of his attention that night, a moment to devote to noting that his companion was prepared. Other circumstances might have dictated he ought to delve deeper into the psychology of this. Kazimir would be regularly inclined to study the item and wonder to what length it spoke of her paranoia and the effects of a militaristic past – tonight, it was a mere prop, abandoned on the tabletop between their glasses. Questions, like reservations, were abandoned at the door, or perhaps simply pushed aside for a later time, as it was with a striking and decisive confidence that he was forgone by his ally in favour of standing on display among the gyrating women.
<br><br><br>
At first, Kazimir was inclined to laugh at Aphelia. It wasn’t an unkind reflex, so much as that she was so determined to act that it was positively enchanting. He was about to watch a dare he had made, in only partial seriousness, reach its conclusion, and the unexpected mirth this brought him instantly drew a malicious smile to his lips. He studied her as she approached. An attractive woman, she unsurprisingly acquired sounds of approval, acquisitive glances which suggested to the tremendously lust in man and his inability to hide desire. She was a desirous form, even in her layers, but his protective mechanisms, however dulled by vodka, prickled instinctively at the manner she was immediately objectified. Kazimir was no gentleman – he was not above appreciating the figure of a beautiful woman – but it was grating to see others fall to the lure of a covetous woman, particularly when he, in the spirit of the evening, had become rather possessive of her quickly. Aphelia was, in a sense, his charge, and their gawking attraction was vile and coarse. They were uncivilized, he thought irritably, before a woman approached his scientist and sought a close dialogue. His mood was quick to change.
<br><br><br>
The seductive undulating of their bodies kept him unabashedly transfixed. At first, though he did smirk at her, he was curious about what exchange transpired, but his questions receded the more urgently the women moved. It was foolishly masculine to be drawn into this behaviour, so mindlessly absorbed in the behaviour of the two females, and yet the thrall was unable to be ignored. They had a manner about them which suggested that they were in their own space, enclosed and private, and yet moved with the same knowledge that they were performing, putting on a show for willing eyes, eager onlookers. He was astonished that she had the audacity to step forward and dance with the other woman at near proximity, but was further amazed at the willingness she expressed in allowing herself to be undressed by her company. This was where he was conflicted between dropping his eyes from the pair of them and holding it more fervently than ever. He wondered self-consciously if she knew that he would be observing this, or whether she would simply be thinking in the moment, in her own head, away from the man who had driven her to stand there in the first place. Her dress seemed to be a heavy burden, and was dropped from her person by the Orc’s coaxing fingers. With slightly-parted lips, he followed the movement of her shoulders rather than the dropping garment. Her corset, taut around her midsection, was loosened slightly, and this was where his embarrassed gaze had to slide upwards, from her slender waist to her increasingly-exposed breasts.
<br><br><br>
A nagging temptation kept telling Kazimir of the joys of the flesh. It suggested to him the feeling of such a dancer straddling her legs round his torso, lowering her body gradually to rest on his thighs, the slow motion causing a domino effect of feeling: first, she would cause his pants to shift lightly, tempting and mocking the hairs on his legs into a rousing awareness, and then she would become lower again, pressing so that he could just feel her weight on his skin; finally, lowered to a sitting position, where the very muscles in his legs would be affected by the gentle rotating motion. The impurity of this thought might have been worsened if Aphelia were in any other state that the one that she was in, but instead it remained a dull, guilty-pleasure. Watching them move was indulging his active mind, and he wondered if he oughtn’t step forward and interfere with this display, if for no other reason than to stop the prying eyes of perverts from the sidelines – to protect her from the elements of unadulterated men. Kazimir raised his hand to the dark-haired server, raising his eyebrows as he indicated towards their drinks: more, as promised, was now necessary.
<br><br><br>
A man striding towards the dancers would regularly only suggest one thing and, in some respect, it was correct: he was about to stake claims on a woman, and insist she leave their numbers, whatever the reaction was from either onlookers or the woman herself. Aphelia was enchanting, not strictly for the reason that she had dismissed much of her attire, but for the confidence she exuded, seeming practiced and just the perfect amount of carefree. This was a stunning moment, surely unique to history and most certainly original in their relationship. Intruding on her private show seemed like a sin, but it had carried on, he suspected, long enough. He was greeted with a disapproving glance from several men, and grins from others, the sort of knowing expression which was arrogant enough to assume that it knew what order the evening would take. He had to ignore them; moving slowly, with the gun and drinks at the table behind him by several meters, he took several strides (some less steady than others) to Aphelia.
<br><br><br>
Kazimir bent first to collect her burgundy dress, draping the garment over his elbow as he rose, finding that he was spectacularly close to Aphelia’s knees without having realized it till he lifted his head. He settled an obtrusive hand on her hip, feeling the motion of her form beneath his palm. Touching the hair on the opposite shoulder with his hand, he teased the dark brown locks over to her back, exposing her ear, to which he leaned in closely for a private comment: “They’re off now,” he said quietly into her ear, indicating her clothes by raising his arm slightly, “And you’re expressly forbidden from putting them back on.” He was so close that his lips brushed against her earlobe without intending, “My challenge, my rules.
<br><br><br>
“I believe that your point has been made,” he stated with a short bark of a laugh, his eyes, not visible as he stood behind her, her back rubbing slightly into his chest, glittering with dark mirth, “I hate to draw you away –” he pulled out each syllable, tasting every letter heavy on his tongue, “But you were my company first,” his other hand settled on the other side of her waist now, holding her to him as he breathed into her shoulder, “And I owe you a drink before one of these lucky fellows tries to claim you for a private dance.” The insult was meant affectionately, and his body language suggested as much as his index finger slid, slowly and conspicuously, along her hip.


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WRITTEN FOR LIS’S CHARACTER APHELIA HOLIMION
<br> IN AQUARELLE IN 1473 WORDS.
<br>OOC: IN THE DYING OF OUR SOULS<BR>OUR BODIES WERE THE ONLY ANSWER.
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As the music picked up, a horn was added into the melody, sending loud turns in the beat through her body. She couldn’t control her movements, but merely sat as conduit for the music. Those that watched her, though she nearly forgot they existed, would have seen her movement as diverting from the tame turn of hips to the radical deviant movements of a burlesque show. Her hips rocketed to the side, punctuating the horn that ran though the room, and she slid her hand down her length to follow the melody erupting from the tickled keys of the piano forte. The violin led the music down and so her body followed. Her hips moved with a gyration and practice that the dancers around her found impossible, but she was accustomed to moving in the water, when allowing herself to wear her true form, and feeling this humanoid body move in similar waves made her feel wild-- made her feel whole.<br><br><br>

When she was beyond the point of strain, her legs began the excruciating, lovely movement to straighten herself back up again. The sweat over her body made her gleam in the dim light, every sinuous movement highlighted, and with her eyes closed she lived only to move. The alcohol had been quite removed from her mind, though the fog of it cloaked any reason she generally had. Maybe some would say she was acting unlike herself, but she could remember a time in which she had not been guarded, she had not been closed off from the world around her, and she had not been above being loved and loving in return. Those times, long ago, she had felt like this… a freedom inherit within her, a desire to experience everything whether good or bad, and a fearlessness towards her own imperfections. So, perhaps, the alcohol had an uncanny ability to awaken the disremembered, darkened bits of herself. Or, maybe she was just drunk and unable to control her impulses. Whichever, she didn’t rack her brain to decided, instead, she let everything drift away. <br><br><br>


A hand settled upon her hip, and she assumed it to be her instructor, again. Reaching around her own body, she settled her thin fingers over his own. The hand was larger than she remembered, but still, she wasn’t conscious of who was behind her. Her body moved, as if controlled by some magnetic pull, to settle firmly against his own, hardly interested in calming its energetic movements. Her eyes stayed closed, eyes having become useless organs merely there to lessen the feeling of everything around her. Plus, when she opened her eyes, things tended to be a bit dizzying at the speed she was moving. It was the voice, in the end, that drew her mind to some semblance of consciousness. She looked over her shoulder, causing his lips to press against the shell of her ear (an ignored shiver ran up her spine), and discovered her neglected companion and the outfit she very vaguely remembered putting on. Shooting him an enigmatic smile, she made no comment on his objection to her clothes. Approval and satisfaction burned in her gut. <br><br><br>


Though the alcohol turned her events of the night into a tunnel of glimpses, she remembered the events that had transpired to get her here. He had smirked at her in disbelief, her point had, in fact, been made. She didn’t remove her hand over his, nor did she make any pause in her movements as he explained to her that she was required to stop her movements and retire to their table. No, if anything, her body found itself more compelled to convince the new companion to stay upon the floor, to be free and transcendent as well. Swaying into him, she didn’t care that he was practically stationary. Aphelia rubbed herself against the long, hard line of his body as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She felt her eyes flutter to half-mast as his finger stroked the sensitive line of her hip above the loosely hanging pelt. It was clearly support for her efforts, and though she wasn’t exactly sure what those were, she wanted to find out. Her fingers trailed up his arm as she turned in his arms, keeping her hands over his arms so that he didn’t feel inclined to move them. They were a comfort in the fuzzy reality around her. Standing up on her tiptoes and pulling at his shoulder it felt for a moment like she was going in for the kill, the lips that had fascinated her not long before were easily within her grasp. A long breath hung between them and Aphelia felt her lips turn up into a aware smile.<br><br><br>

Her lips, instead, found their way to his ear. It was impossible to hear so close to the instruments otherwise. She attempted to explain to him, “This freedom is intoxicating, Kazimir. I find my body unwilling to comply with my wishes. It feels…” She crooned into his ear, once again shifting her hips to the newly created melody echoing in the gin house. “like I’m wearing my skin.” She found herself unable to disregard his closeness the way she had her orc instructors. The smell of alcohol coming from his breath left her as drunk as if she’d drank it herself. Aphelia, never letting her eyes leave his own, jerked her hips in a suggestive fashion. They closed, however, when she was torn by the music to raise her arms above her head. Her shoulder twisted and twined, making her corset look as if it rotated on a hinge. Her head titled back, praising the heathen god who had trapped her hips within his hand, and she leaned back. Her hips forced into his own, and her body hanging in the air like a rag doll for an instant. She drew herself up slowly and sensually until she rested firmly against his chest again. Panting with the effort of it all, Aphelia smiled. This, she knew, is what living should always feel like.




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<br>♥ kazimir gregorzski dances in the snow ♠ drunken survivors of gin house "aquarelle" ♣
1017 avalanches of the violent disharmony ♦ the tune <br>
ooc: oh my, /smacks, aphelia control yourself!
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Kazimir wasn’t quite in the habit of feeling self-conscious and, less still, aware of how he presented to others. This might have been the moment, held by Aphelia in place among the dancers, where he would feel mindful of his body and behaviour. It was, however, as relevant to him as ever – less so, even, by the liquor which poisoned his entire system and stole the reins which drove his body. The leads and whip were in vodka’s hands, and they were thus out of his own. He had no sense of shame before them, in spite of having been an unwilling addition to a show meant for women of beautiful and stimulating natures. They were captivating, and he was nothing more than a prop to add to the appeal which Aphelia brought to the scene, with the magnificent spiral of her hips, unparalleled by any of her companions. He should have felt awkward, standing at this proximity with a woman he could barely get along with, before all these people – instead, he was frozen, and wanted nothing more than to stay that way.
<br><br><br>
Surprised to have been touched as easily as he had touched her, he took a moment of stillness to feel the heat of her fingers on his. Having expected to lead her away, this unanticipated contact left his body unmoving and unprepared for the intensity of her movement. Being thrilled by her actions would truly have seemed ridiculous to him on another occasion – a more sober occasion – and yet the sensuality with which she carried herself, the assertive sexuality she presented in her dancing … it was captivating, unexpected though it was. He was infatuated temporarily, more so when she turned in his arms, where he could examine and admire the shape of her body and the entirely un-Aphelia sheen which covered her eyes. This wasn’t the sharp and articulate woman he had seen on more continual occasions, but a woman who was governed by another element entirely, tossed through a wild sea of intricate pleasures and unthinking behaviours. She was untamed, as man once was, and she mastered the art as few others had before. She wasn’t in her skin, she was out of it. His choice was always to approach conversation with a laugh, and so he brushed his cheek against hers on the path to her ear, for yet another hushed remark: “I should hope you’re wearing your skin,” he carelessly traced the line of the base of her corset through the thin material of the slip, “You’re not exactly wearing clothes.”
<br><br><br>
He could feel pressure against his hips, beneath his trousers, perhaps for the benefit of neither, but certainly at Aphelia’s blame. Her explicit contact had caught him off-guard, but he wasn’t in a position to complain about it, or lie and say that it didn’t intoxicate him just as potently as liquor did. The motion of her body grinding into his was possibly the last straw, the moment where, between the two of them, it was no longer possible to conceal attraction, however fleeting and alcohol-induced. The mild throbbing attempted to alert him further, but Kazimir wasn’t himself enough to be bothered. He ought to have been more embarrassed for his arousal. It was indecent, not only at this venue, but in this public way, but was rather detached from the matter altogether. He tried to hide nothing, for, as far as he was concerned, he had nothing to hide; besides, where his consciousness wouldn’t quite reach, he had a sneaking suspicion that it was more complimentary to his companion than it was awkward for her.
<br><br><br>
He wanted to taste the salt on her skin. He wanted to feel the heat of her body and touch the sweat which built on her brow and lip. Kazimir’s hands had situated themselves in more assertive positions: one, clasped at her lower back, holding her into him from a space below the small of her back, and the other lower still, nearly clasping around the firm curve of her body, ready to slide down at any moment, along every inch of her till he could feel the bare back of her thighs. Instead of acting on this desirable impulse, however, he lifted both hands along her back, along the stitching of her corset and slip slowly. He cupped them around the back of her skull with unanticipated ferocity, forcing her to look at him. Achieving this, his fingers twisted through her dark waves, his eyes unfocused yet attentive on her face. He untangled his grip, moving his thumb along her jaw line with tenderness which edged on necessity. He wanted to be closer to her – and with such an unexpected urgency that it ached to hold back. Tension which slid from his chest to his stomach to his throat to all of him, nameless or unmentionable. He desired her, the unexpected temptress.
<br><br><br>
Time was suspended in preparation for a moment. A Phoenix, savage before they were loving, his instinct was to aim for her neck, hold her there and bite the fair, pristine skin, with only the slightest glisten of sweat marking it. He wanted to make it red, bruise it with his teeth. How could he want this? Want this with Aphelia, who he barely cared for as a person? Barely thought of as a human being? How could he find himself, stiff and sore with yearning, for this woman, of all women? His hand caught her hair once more, running through it, along the strands of it until they passed over her shoulder; he forwent the touch of her locks for the touch of her skin, smoothing his finger along her collarbone and down, down to the rise of her chest, displayed in its bare attire, if only he would tip his eyes from hers and down. The touch slid along the indistinct valley of her chest, deliberately cautious, deliberately withdrawn. Slipping over this, he lifted his touch, comfortable to have omitted the ultimate and unmistakable contact by so little; he was once at her hip, once more, however stationary, grasping her to him, inescapable. He wanted to kiss her. It was plain enough, written across his face and riddled in the language of his body, but he wouldn’t tilt forward. He held his blue eyes on her, not daring to be the one who brought fire and water to a catastrophic step, one which felt too intimate, even for two whose interaction had been explicit in its own right. He murmured into the distance between their faces, his breath thick with vodka, “We might make a lady of you, yet.”

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WRITTEN FOR LIS’S CHARACTER APHELIA HOLIMION
<br> IN AQUARELLE IN 1114 WORDS.
<br>OOC: /IS KIND OF IN THIS PLACE, LIKE<BR>I CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE THIS. >__<
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Aphelia had not expected him to be so adamant in his body’s response to her. Not because she thought there was a layer of nicety still between, that had been abolished long ago; neither because he and she had no great affection for one another, that had left the equation for passion when her belief of true love had; and it was not because she thought herself incapable of winning his affections, though Aphelia was not vain, she knew how to excite when necessary. It was, after all, because the possibility of something being more luscious than her own body moving to the rhythm and sound of music, audience or no, had not even entered her mind. Of course, though easily past the realm of reasonable drunk, she recognized, given the nonexistent separation between their forms, the insistent pressing that had appeared against her abdomen.<br><br><br>

A gasp left her mouth, pleased more than surprised. There, she supposed, was a smile of triumph upon her lips as the realization lit up her eyes with the joy of conquests won-- of course, she hadn’t exactly known she was fighting a battle, but winning tasted glorious, all the same. It had been a long time since she’d made such a victory in the battle of the flesh. These times have been hard on her, and finding someone appropriate, worth her body’s devotion and piety. Kazimir had proven himself, despite his distaste for him generally, as a man worth his salt. Despite her drunken behavior, Aphelia was not the type of woman to lay herself before an inadequate mate, not some sacrificial lame, and she would have shot anyone other than the laudable doctor for daring to approach her in such a state. <br><br><br>


She subdued her hips, in an effort to keep him appropriately tantalized, until they were slow and leading in their patterns. Teasing, her mother had always told her, wasn’t kind. But, now, she cared not for kindness. She wanted to drive him up the wall. Her mouth kept agape and eyes on his face, she waited for reaction, needed to feel the result. The hands sliding up her back sent a shiver through her. He felt so very large next to her. Despite having years of military training and being fully capable of defending herself, she found the security lapping at her insides to be compelling. It had been so very long since she’d allowed herself the bliss of relation. Even when his hands abruptly grabbed the nape of her neck, she had not an ounce of fear or hesitation within her. Submission left her body for the first time in years. She bared the white of her skin, eyes rolling closed in the feeling of it. “Yes,” the word left her in a sigh, barely audible even to herself. <br><br><br>

Then, his hands were disentangled from her hair, running along the line of her jaw, and she opened her eyes questioning the mercurial nature of his emotions. However, before she could voice any such thing, his eyes caught her own again. The gentle brushing of his fingers down near the whole of her body made her pull her lower lip into her mouth. When they settled, again, upon the swell of her hips and yanked her firmly against him, she had stopped dancing all together. Instead, she stood transfixed. There was something in the darkening of his eyes, the severe dilation of his pupils, that made her wet her lips. However, the tension hung between them. His words were odd, but she smiled. Her hands ran up the contours of his chest. They spilled over marveling his deltoids with fervent tactile exploration, similar to his own performance on her body. Then, with the heavily-lidded eyes of a predator, she wrapped them around his own neck. “I am going to do things to you a lady couldn‘t dream of…” She tugged him down to her. Their lips met, a brief taste of the kisses to come between them, and Aphelia pulled away almost immediately.<br><br><br>


Despite having very specific rules about workplace affections, she had no doubt exactly what she was going to do with this man. Things had gone too far, alcohol had been too plentiful, and fate, it would seem, a little too kind to render them both lonely tonight in their beds. She leaned back up and lingered against him longer, exhilarated by the feeling of their lips brushing chastely past one another. Her fingers turned to grip at his shoulders through his shirt. When they broke again from one another, it was impossible not to hear the whoop from over the crowd. Disregarding any audience, she pulled him to her again, the need she had for him hit her like a hollow ache in the pit of her belly. Each brush of his flesh against her own merely accentuated the desire, fanned the flamed, and it left very much in fear that she might melt into a puddle at his feet. His arms, though, seemed quite sound. There was no doubt that he could support her if occasion called for it. As she deepened their embrace, there was no doubt in her mind that if things continued this way, she’d have every need of them. <br><br><br>


When they separated again, she heard clear words. “Take the strumpet right there, mate!” one called in the rare quell of sound from the instruments. She found herself unable to completely disagree with the shout. Aphelia, overbearing sense of self-respect at the door and honor at the bottom of a bottle, would have had him press her against the back wall between the French horn and violin. However the next hackle couldn’t be ignored, even in her deep inebriation, “Rip her open. Show the dumb bitch why she should have stayed at home. Give it to her good, aye?” It was one thing to vilely objectify her and wish them to get to it, which she in fact felt much of herself, but to have someone wish her, well practically, rape. It disgusted her out of the haze of their embrace. She pulled away, though it pained her to separate from him, placing a feather-soft kiss to appease the sudden loss of connection. A groan of pleasure and disappointment left the hollow of her throat. “Time for us to find a little… privacy.” Her lips moved against his own, refusing to move even as she poke of the necessity of it. She opened her eyes, ill-timed humor lighting them; her hands slid from his neck down to his chest, toes dropping from their point, forcing herself to withdraw from his lips. “The ingrates had more of a show then they deserve…”




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<br>♥ kazimir gregorzski dances in the snow ♠ drunken survivors of gin house "aquarelle" ♣
1123 avalanches of the violent disharmony ♦ the tune <br>
ooc: VICTORY! OH SWEET VICTORY!
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As quickly as her lips had flitted, with a butterfly’s lightness, over his, he longed to catch them again. The brief second was so fleeting it was as if it hadn’t existed, and he hungered for more. A mere collaboration of two soft mouths against one another, lasting seemingly less than a single second. Heat rushed to his face, though Aphelia had drawn away, and his cheeks flushed with vibrant awareness as he gazed at her through bleary eyes, which dared not stare at her, in this radiance which had overcome her, and yet couldn’t bear to be torn from it, for it was mesmerizing. The second of contact pushed alertness of her company through his teeth. She tasted like rum, something which was strong and as potent as the alcohol which had covered and overwhelmed his taste buds. A pause for the thrill of first contact, the moment of electricity and craving, where more was wanted and none was received. It was a wicked foreplay which led to starvation, having a quick taste of something desirable and being tormented by an increasingly daunting distance. Kazimir could feel her, where her lips had brushed before they lifted, a single instant causing him to yearn for her flesh. Each brief kiss which followed he wanted to elongate, wanted to hold her firmly into him and beg for her again. Yearning was vicious, and the slip of their mouths against each other, the nip of a lower lip, the suspension of contact, the momentary moisture – none of it was enough. None of it was sufficient.
<br><br><br>
This was a display of lust from both of them, rather than anything which was motivated by prior affection. They were preparing to make the mistake of finding the only thing that they were compatible with as a pair, the only behaviour that they could manage as a team. This was the single benefit to their relationship, this seduction and the twist and turn of their bodies against each other. Were they only in a position that clothes could be abandoned, why, then, they would have found the ultimate sanctuary from their former argumentative state. The implications of this were severe, and somewhere, Kazimir could hear himself asking: Do you want this? Do you really want this? But his answer was obscured in the hypnotic sway of her body and the exhilarating potential for more. The act of making love – to Aphelia. It seemed too unforgivably far-away to imagine, before, but now? Now that their bodies were acquainted and taunting each other with the promise of a perfect union? Now, it seemed natural, as if there were never any reason to doubt it at all.
<br><br><br>
Her body drew away from his, affected by the words of those around them. It might have bothered him, from the perspective of etiquette, to be objectified entirely and used as vulgar entertainment, and yet in his insobriety it was far from the front of his mind. Kazimir was vaguely flattered by the attention, slightly triumphant in having it made known that this woman was his for the night – his, his alone. That she was referred to in such tones and words which implicated prostitution and whorishness was only slightly bothersome, but it had to affect him, for Aphelia was discomfited by it. He needed her with him again. In this, she had become as addicting to him as some found opiates. The bareness left in the space which she had unapologetically vacated, pressed to his figure, was cold, reassured only when she leaned forward for a slight kiss and a short statement, hot breath from her mouth mingling with his at their close distance.
<br><br><br>
“I suspect you’re right,” Kazimir agreed simply, his forehead against hers. He lowered his body to the ground, his touch trailing along the long, slim shape of her leg as he did so, scooping up the dress which had fallen, tapping her ankle gently to suggest she step in, as so he could pull the attire up with him as he rose, settling it on her body in a haphazard, temporary way. He extended his arm to her, a satirical effort at gentlemanly behaviour, when the two of them had already consorted in ways which were far less proper than the offering suggested. He had quite forgotten what he’d done with everything he owned, and rather forgot to care, as well. They passed the table of their previous occupation, complete with two drinks, Aphelia’s gun, and a hat Kazimir had failed to remember was his own until they were immediately at the spot, where he popped it onto his head, seeking a means of carrying it which wouldn’t detract from the hold he had on his companion.
<br><br><br>
“The weather’s cleared up nicely, you know.” The clerk at the desk attempted to convince them helpfully. The adjoining inn was strategic and entirely intentionally placed. No, it was explained with a self-explanatory tone. A room was necessary, “Up the stairs, first on your right.”
<br><br><br>
On stairs, a mere set of four leading to a dim hallway, he offered his hand to her in a characteristically mocking way, longing for an opportunity to touch her again. The key he balanced within his fingers was weightless, and he was only distantly aware of having slipped it into the lock to open the door, “Charming,” he commented, irony embellishing the word. The room was sparse, providing only the basic necessities. A nightstand sat at the side of the bed, the space between the mattress and the wall enough only so that people could squeeze in. The dresser at the foot of the bed was located with equal distance from the bed, and yet Kazimir, though normally the type to nitpick over hygiene in such locations, critique the conditions, could hardly care less.
<br><br><br>
It took only a second to pause and embrace their new solitude. From slightly behind her, he wrapped an arm around her waist, the other snaking beneath her arm and tracing his touch softly around where he had carefully avoided before. Though not, by definition, a buxomest woman, the curve of her chest was full enough to slink his fingers over as his teeth teased the base of her neck before turning around her, bringing them face to face. He tipped his hat onto the bureau and folded her into his arms in quick succession, holding her as he trailed kisses along the line of her jaw, tasting perspiration on his tongue. Liquor had numbed his judgment, and it took little bravery to find her lips, striking slowly before urgency set in and he took her for the prolonged kiss he had been denied when they were on display in the gin house downstairs.
<br><br><br>
He slid the dress, which had only been replaced provisionally, to both of their knowledge, he was sure; off her shoulders, assisting the fabric in a fall back down to the floor. There: back to the way things were supposed to be. He had forgotten that he, too, was clothed, for his priority was undressing her, and the rest, well, he would be concerned with that later. He released her waist from the confines of her belt, the requisite pelts hanging off; this piece he set on the dresser with more care than he had disposed of the dress, making a conscious effort to show respect in spite of this lust. The effort was less strenuous than it might have been, for the cramped space made the distance between them and the counter nearly nonexistent. The stiff corset’s back still shaped her physique, but he firmly held her, bending to bring their heights more equal. The lower he became, the lower he allowed his hands to venture, his lips caressing the exposed portion of her chest above the slip, with his fingers eventually sliding to skim the white inside of her thigh, allowing her to determine the implication.

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WRITTEN FOR LIS’S CHARACTER APHELIA HOLIMION
<br> IN AQUARELLE IN 1325 WORDS.
<br>OOC: N/A
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The door opened revealing the worst hotel room she’d ever seen in her existence. The wallpaper was curling away from the walls, and everything seemed to emit the sordid smell of stale smoke. A small sconce of a gas lamp was the only thing that illuminated the room. There was no window. She had an odd impulse to grab him and pull him out beneath the stars to lie with her by the water and roll in the dirt. Without a doubt such a thing would be lovely and only enhance their lovemaking, but Kazimir, she knew, was a bit touchy about being exposed to the natural things of the world. And, ignoring feeling that this room held much more disease that the soft grass beyond Or`lin would, she pushed any other venue from her mind. Her hand squeezed his own in a reassuring way that her mind informed her would put him at ease. The synapses firing in her mind, gone rogue, would have told her to do whatever necessary to see her body slicked with satisfaction.<br><br><br>


There was only to be one thing inside him mind, and she had decided that, for this moment, it would be her. It would take, decidedly, far too long to change location anyway. She needed him with more fury than she could remember. She kicked the door shut behind, sealing their fate. Neither of them were going to get out of this unscathed, she was quite determined to see it that way. Separating their hold on each other‘s hand, she walked forward, checking the small dresser at the bed for any hidden luxuries, perhaps a blanket to spread out on the bed in order to make the germophobe a touch more comfortable, but discovered it nothing but an empty prop. Miserably straightening, the liquor going to her stomach and making her vision blurred, she prepared to resign herself to the man‘s further explanation of the room‘s inappropriate make-up. Her lips opened to say something, but the warmth of his fingers caused her to pause.<br><br><br>


His hands curled around her for the second time, and this time, she knew exactly who it was and slid her body comfortably against his broad chest without a second’s hesitation. A smile, similar to the fabled Cheshire cat’s, slunk across her lips as his hands roved over her, and a very pleased moan exited her mouth when he palmed the sensitive flesh of her chest. Her lower lip was sucked into her mouth, her teeth strained again it to break the tension wracking her frame. However, it helped very little. His teeth grabbing the tender flesh of her neck, tortuously using her body against her, made her knees knock. When he turned her, she wasn’t entirely sure if it had been the movement or his maddening ministrations. His kisses did nothing to dispel the rushed panting of her breath or quell the spinning taking her vision.<br><br><br>


Closing her eyes against the chaos, she lifted her chin, simultaneously giving him perfect access to her tender flesh and her access to his own. Her hands claimed his chest with the raking of her fingernails. His skin was tantalizing beneath the thin shit, coiled muscles intoxicating without any help from drink. Something vaguely wondered how blind the lab made her, so that she couldn’t see the waves of power and beauty emanating from the man before her. It was like all the glory and heat of the sun had been placed within a single, lovely corporeal frame. Her tongue slid up the length of his neck under his ear. His skin tasted better than she could have dreamed it would. She offered no resistance when he pulled her back to his lips. They joined, electricity running down the whole of her spine, converging upon that ache in the pit of her stomach. She needed more of his flesh, much, much more.<br><br><br>


Her clothing tumbled from her shoulders down to the floor, and Aphelia felt herself smile, the smile of a woman overcome. He didn’t want to tie her down, to bind her. He wanted to free and exposed, natural. She placed a tender kiss of thanks upon his adams apple. Wasn’t it only right to free him similarly. Her fingers went to the line of buttons, tiny and incomprehensible in her state. Fumbling fingers managed to get off two while he deposited her belt on the nightstand. Normally, it would have caused her to snarl in rage. That was her skin, no one was allowed to touch it, or else she would become trapped like the selkie maid of myth, never to feel the waves again. Tonight though, the removal of anything separating their bodies was a kind assistance. In frustration, she popped the third obstacle, the harassed button falling helplessly upon the ground. Then, she felt his hand brush the tender flesh so eager for his affections. Taking either side of his shirt in hand, she wrenched them apart. Buttons flew and settled in odd places throughout the room. It wasn’t like his clothes would escape a burn pile anyway, given the cleanliness of the room. She pushed the fabric away from his shoulders, exposing as much of his warm body as she could. Her fingers explored the contours with a starved fascination. <br><br><br>


Aphelia bent under his hands, pressing herself up into his body. As his mouth teased near the rim, she found her mouth watering. The feeling of her eyes rolling back in her head struck her with a realization. This teasing was far too much for her sensitive, drugged system. Her body would have tried to move, but she couldn’t bear to be disentangled from him. Hands gripping his face, she pulled him up until there eyes were level. Setting her lips down upon his own, she edged herself backward. Following the sway of her body, he stepped forward as well. Another step followed, and she broke the contact, tongue sliding across the flesh of him.“I can’t take anymore of your infernal teasing, Kazimir.” The sound of his name sliding from her tongue made heat shoot through her body. She placed distance between their two bodies, despite experiencing physical pain with the effort it took her. Her hands left their comfortable position on either side of his face. They ran down his neck, the plains of his chest and abdominals, and finished their quest at the line of his pants. Fingers equipped with more skills than he could have imagined loosened the buttons and ties trapping him, never looking away from his oppresive blue eyes.<br><br><br>


The slip was lifted and discarded without a second’s hesitation, eyes turned to their duties instead of checking his face for a reaction. She loosened the corset with the skilled hands of unassisted assembly and pulled it down the curves of her body. Stepping over it, she used her foot to fling it away. Without looking at him, she could feel his eyes roaming over her flesh. She found herself unabashed in front his gaze though. Remaining articles of clothing cast away, Aphelia turned and pawed her way across the bed. Finding some semblance of comfort, she laid before him. Her elbows supported her torso, body inviting. After a long moment of silence between them, eyes raking his form up and down. The blond man was a thing of midsummer dreams, not to be found so easily in her arms. Why, she wondered, hadn’t they done this sooner? The nagging answer to her question, however, was ignored as she spoke again, “Come to me. I need you.” The words would have seemed awkward from most, but the heat emanating from her made the honesty of the statement quite clear. This was the only thing that needed to be said. The truth between them. Odd and unbelievable as it was…



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<br>♥ kazimir gregorzski dances in the snow ♠ drunken survivors of gin house "aquarelle" ♣
1308 avalanches of the violent disharmony ♦ the tune <br>
ooc: I'm gonna marry the NIIIIGHT!
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Kazimir was shocked at her forwardness, the instantaneous decision that this could no longer be postponed. Aphelia had accepted the inevitable truth of their behaviour that he had come to terms with, and she was pressing forward at tremendous speed. His heartbeat was powerful in his chest, sending blood pumping through his body, his pulse notable in his wrists, his ears, behind his knees. Everything about this moment had him on the edge of the moment, preparing for the foreseeable circumstances. They were an alarming match, if they could be called so, but the power of this unexpected union was compelling him to hold her, touch her without reserve or embarrassment. The time for most desperate behaviour had come, and this was where the final layers of reservation were dropped. The very feeling of her tongue against his neck set his blood rushing with such acuteness that he could hardly bear it, his lower lip beneath his teeth in a feeble effort to contain a noise of pleasure. He grasped every part of her, his hands gripping into her back vehemently with desire.
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The struggle to remove his clothing was evident, but it somehow escaped his attention entirely. How she managed to do it in the end, rather than being concerning or commendable, was mere background noise to the intensity of his desire for her body. The more of it he was able to see, the more of it he was able to touch, the more of it he craved. The commotion of Aphelia’s fingers at his waistband stilled him for a moment, his hands frozen in their reach. The sensation of her nails sliding against his skin, the faint, hovering brush of her knuckles as she worked with the hem of his pants – a groan caught in his throat, suffering for how he wanted her. He could scarcely breathe as her hands darted on the shape of his body, and his teeth were ground together tightly. The luxury of her fingers trailing across his abdomen was unbearable. The skin she left untouched begged for her fingers, and what skin she had already visited wished her back. Once more, he ached for the feel of Aphelia, his entire body caught in a frenzy, waiting for more of her. She was as deliberate as he had ever known her to be, though, and held herself away from him, though he wanted nothing more than to press her into him again, enter her without hesitation – but who was he to disturb her when she was, with practiced hand, removing what was left between them?
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Shamelessly, he admired her bare body. She had undressed what he had neglected to, crawled across the sheets to sprawl herself there, display herself upon a grimy, second-hand pedestal. With her figure entirely exposed, she held herself proudly, maintaining the confidence she had held among the dancers on her own. Her mannerisms suggested that she knew full well that her form was striking and magnificent, and Kazimir marvelled at her, as she expected that he would. Both were so plain for one another to see. This was the moment where there were no secrets, this second where the two of them had nothing to hide, no coverings, no shields from one another. This was the raw disclosure they had been aiming for the entire evening, through the “infernal” foreplay and teasing, and it could only be embraced and appreciated – just the way that Kazimir appreciated her form, made classically and pale as marble. He heard her words like a distant dream, but, however clearly he heard them, there was no doubt what was left to become of the night.
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Aphelia was tired of waiting, and as was he. With nothing but flesh between them, he joined her form, perfectly presented across the mattress, waiting, inviting, verbally and physically. He almost sought to torture her with slowness, cause them both agony. If only he were less tempted himself, he might have spent more time examining her with his mouth; instead, he found it unavoidable that he would have to give in to the direst of temptations. His hands moved before the rest of his, landing on her thighs and lazily pulling him closer to her. With his hands on her shoulders, his lips touched the bare expanse of her torso, lingering at her breasts, leaving a trail of biting kisses from her neck to her mouth. It was a matter of moments, undoubtedly, before the desire would overcome him, and he could no longer absorb himself in the feel of her tongue alone. He drew from her face, the sound of their breathing filling the room, and studied her for a moment before leaning back, putting his hands on her knees and spreading her legs apart, almost forcibly.
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This, the fatalistic combination of two elements, was what they had spent the night waiting for. This was the destination of the lengthy climb they had embarked on earlier in the evening, with liquor as their companion and no map into the unforeseeable aftermath. The motion in his back as he worked against her body irritated where glass had buried itself some weeks prior. The memory of the pain was reawakened, though not undesirable. Somehow, it drove awareness through his flesh and heightened every sensation of her touch, numbing for a moment after the initial sharp reminder. His hands curled around the sheets, holding them with enough strength that they pulled from their folded position beneath the mattress. He groaned into her shoulder, his eyes rolling back into his head, overwhelmed by the sensation of their union. If this was a mistake, it didn’t feel like one yet. Yet.


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WRITTEN FOR LIS’S CHARACTER APHELIA HOLIMION
<br> IN AQUARELLE IN 951 WORDS.
<br>OOC: I'M YOUR BIGGEST FAN <BR>I'LL FOLLOW YOU UNTIL YOU LOVE ME.
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