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Post by Riffael Dureau on Jun 4, 2008 20:45:38 GMT -5
The voice that answered his question was slightly less bright as it was before. He felt a sharp pang of regret in his chest, an ache that continued to throb there like a wound with every beat of his heart. His throat felt tight. At the same time, he felt a thrill for her interest. Was it just curiosity? He hoped that it was a bit of something else, too. Something that might last beyond the end of mysteriousness. It was one thing to hold interest in a puzzle and another thing entirely to hold interest in the outcome.
Giving her his time? Unworthy! Oh, what a mix-up. Yet was she speaking out of modesty or earnest self-depreciation? He hoped that it was the former. His mind shifted back to the problem at hand. She did sew; but how would he get his shirt to her without showing himself? He lifted himself without much effort to be silent, and slipped from his hiding place to kneel the well-worn catwalk, still concealed from below. He hesitated for a moment and then removed his vest, his quick fingers running efficiently down the buttons and then pulling the garment from his shoulders. The loose white linen shirt beneath hung limp and badly stained, revealing well-toned muscles beneath the great tear at his abdomen. In one swift movement he had the thing pulled over his head, and now, slightly chilled, held it bunched unceremoniously in one hand.
"I have a shirt that is in desperate need of repair, and no other means by which to have the job done. If you would be so kind, mademoiselle--I would so very greatly appreciate it." He made his way to the edge and extended his arm to drop the shirt to the stage. It fluttered, but ultimately fell a small distance from the piano. For a brief moment, muscled and scarred bare back showed, and the back of his curly-brown-haired head. In just the next instant he had moved out of sight, hoping that she had not seen, and if she had, that she had not been insulted by his state of undress.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Jun 5, 2008 16:10:41 GMT -5
Ever so slowly, she'd sat up with a grace that was party to her slightly toned muscles of her abdomen. Moving without hindrance of the score as it tipped up, resting now securely against her breasts and stomach. He'd bid her a favor of sorts this man, Riffael, and she'd offered most eagerly to do what she could to appease that favor. Carefully, as though the score were glass itself, she settled it down onto the piano board. A palm pressing the leather for a moment, securing it there to her satisfaction that it wouldn't tumble off and spill upon the floor. She'd be up all-night trying to re-arrange that mess, it might even take her farther into morning than she would like. Satisfied, she stood gently smoothing her skirts with her hands and fingers, barely running over the corset that held her firmly.
The stage her darkest delight when not bothered by chorus girls, ballerinas, other instructors, the managers and what not. Formorian found she wasn't put out by being 'disturbed' by Riffael, his voice was quite gentle, easily appealing. Tipping her head back she gazed around the darkness, wishing to find him like playing a forbidden game of 'Hide and Go-Seek', only the seeker didn't know where to start. Most certainly Riffael had denied her the sight of him, at least visibly, so long as he did not deny her his voice she was content to speak to her Phantomly appropriate Romeo.
Distantly she heard the rustling of clothing, it fluttered around her how she wished to pin-point the source.
"I have a shirt that is in desperate need of repair, and no other means by which to have the job done. If you would be so kind, mademoiselle--I would so very greatly appreciate it." He said, catching her off-guard in the silence with her heart thundering inside her breast, doing a somersault of delight and startlement. Rationalization of his words brought a slight curve to the corner of her mouth, for it seemed this Romeo was as most: Unskilled with needle and thread. Half lost in her thought of the man's simple, expected imperfection. She was brought to attention with the movement up-higher, barely noticed from beneath thick lashes.
Looking up then, pointedly in the area she'd seen the movement, Formorian's heart skipped a beat, two, almost three, before hammering away. Up in the walks he stood, Riffael. His back slightly exposed with a hanging lamp from a distance away, showing broad-shoulders, a slight burnished bronze that could easily be false by the light. His back was strong, the slightest rise of something...scars? Marred the area in an abstract art of a past best left unquestioned unless he gave need to speak on it. Spine curving, rising, dipping to joint a slightly bowed head, the back of neck visible for only a half inch to an inch before rich, seemingly silky, brown curls tumbled against the nape. No sooner had this happened than he stepped away from her line of vision and she hardly noticed the rustle of his shirt-landing a few feet from her and the piano.
Her brain put a few things together...He was..Naked. His upper body had been Naked! Never had she seen a man naked, even partially for that matter and never had she really wanted to see one. That is until she'd seen the silk of this strange man's skin, slightly marred but still it looked ethereal from her standing point. Mouth and throat dry, Formorian looked down to the shirt, forcing herself to move. She'd seen muscle ripple with the slightest movement and silently she wondered if he'd look anything like a few of the statues in the Populaire. The males statues, like Roman and Greek gods, Apollo.
Forcing herself to move, she stepped to the shirt, shocked at her musing thoughts thinking it high-time she admitted herself to a nunnery or something! Impure thoughts, impure thoughts....She wondered..if his hair was silky soft, if her fingers could comb through without hindrance. Mentally slapping herself, a blush on her cheeks she slowly took hold of his shirt, bending slightly to retrieve it. Finding that it was in a sorrier shape than he'd probably admit. Stained, torn, she pursed her pink lips together in though as she turned it around in her hands. Bringing it against her gently, she spoke allowing her voice to carry wherever he was on the walks.
She wasn't about to look back up there, no siree, her brain was active as it was and a sight of his chest, or if his face was equally handsome. She'd be in Sunday confessional for a month after tonight. Swallowing, her throat still dry and her mouth equally so, her voice carrying to him.
"I...I will return as soon as I've finished with it Monsieur. Excuse me..." Formorian said, giving the empty stage a curtsy, almost taking off without the score. Quickly she returned, took that and fled on dainty feet, walking briskly as her blood throbbed in her veins. His shirt tucked under one arm the score under the other, she made haste and returned the score to the conductors room. Her next stop was actually down to the laundry room, quirking a brow as she some-how figured hot to get the steam pot going. That done, she filled a bucket with water, setting the grading inside as she sudsed up the water. Alright so he only wanted it sewn but it was..filthy!
Dipping the fabric she gently began to wash it in the cold water, running it over the ridges and scrubbing the grime, stains from it. It went from worn tan, to a passing ivory by the time she'd finished, her hands red and she'd pruned! Sighing she eyed it, pleased with it well enough, she set it over the steam pot after wringing it out. It'd get it dryer faster plus, she made for the storage portion and rummaged around. Finding nothing appealing or remotely close to the size, she left his shirt to steam. Taking herself up to her room where she searched through her things.
"Hmmm..I could've sworn I brought some with me." Placing hands on her hips, she remembered. Going to what should've been her hat box, removing three shirts that her cousin had simply left for her to cart around. Removing them they seemed like they'd fit, snug about Riffael's chest if anything but still. Thanking God for the shirts, knowing he'd not miss what he'd already forgotten. Grabbing her needle and threads, she made out of the room and back down. Humming a tune as she worked, taking his original shirt down she did her work on the fabric.
Pleased well enough, she folded her donated shirts in butcher paper, tied it with a string and left the laundry room as it was before she'd come. The hour was growing later and later, but no matter now with thoughts of silky, brown curls in her head she'd been occupied. Sighing softly, Formorian returned to the stage, looking around into the darkness.
"Riffael?" She called as though she'd known him her entire life. Hoping he'd not gotten tired of waiting and left. Slowly she walked over to one of the ladders of the cat-walk, setting down the package of shirts at the base, with the still drying and very clean shirt to hang from a small hook just beside the ladder. Stepping back she made her way across the stage, far from the darkness of the spot, after all he'd not wanted her to see him. So she gave him the privacy of the darkness.
"Monsieur?" Formorian called again.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on Jun 6, 2008 12:01:56 GMT -5
Riffael smiled down at the boards on which he knelt as if he could through them to her. There was a long silence, and he couldn't help but wonder if she had indeed seen him and been repulsed. It was strictly out of the social order for an unmarried man and lady to be alone together in any circumstance, let alone with one of them unclothed. He wasn't one to adhere strictly to the rules of the current social order, but he was unsure of whether she was. He hoped that if she was, she might overlook his slip and allow him at the very least, a friendly acquaintance. Although he couldn't help but admit that he wanted more. Exactly how much he wanted, he wouldn't admit.
In the next moment she had promised to do as he asked and run off into the darkness. She had sounded so nervous, though. He guessed that she must have seen him. As the patter of her hurried feet faded off, he silently stood and made his way down a ladder that carried him into the pitch black mustiness that was the left wing off the stage. There he reclined against the church alter from Roméo et Juliette, and fought back sleep. The hour was very late now, and though he was more of a night person than day, the day's work had been vigorous and long. His muscles ached, and the dark mass of yellowish fading bruises was a constant dull pain.
He heard her walk back, and from his dark place watched her in stillness by the light of her lantern as she hung up his sopping shirt--sopping? She had washed it? He smiled wryly. Apparently she had found the state of his clothing less than satisfactory. She had also brought a package, and laid it neatly at the ladder which he had so recently descended. He wondered what it was that she had placed there, guessing that it was for him. She then retreated to the other side of the stage and deigned not to spy him, and he took it as his cue to investigate those things which she had brought.
He paced toward the ladder, and then stooped to pick up the package. His steps across the wood echoed eerily around the theater before fading off. Giving it a small shake so that she would hear and know to what he was referring, he asked, "Is this package for me, mademoiselle?" His voice was much closer to her now, and did not come from above.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Jun 9, 2008 4:14:50 GMT -5
It was silent once more, forever silent or so she had thought as soon as her legs had carried her across the stage. Barely audible as her light-weight moved from one side to the next, in her own production. A woman speaking to the darkness of the Opera House and not so much as being terrified by it. For she'd seen him, partially, enough to make her acutely aware and remind her of the baser things in life. Things that made proper women blush, and she'd blushed plenty while cleaning the man's shirt. Distantly though across from her, the wood of the stage creaked, and she swallowed, placing a hand to the wall nearest her. Just in front of the thick curtains.
He was still here, and she reminded herself to breathe.
"Is this package for me, mademoiselle?" The man inquired, sending a shiver down her spine at the clarity of his tone as it ghosted to her. She'd been on the stage long enough to pin-point where people were now. He was there, adjacent her on either side of the stage and she almost collapsed into the wall. Leaning heavily against the polished wood, and gold trim her platinum locks glowing with the glittering of her lamp-light. Finding somehow to breathe, she inhaled once more, hearing the package rustle in his hands as the butcher paper gave to his touch. She swallowed again, her icy-blue eyes fixated into the darkness.
"Y...Yes....Monsieur....." She began, trying not to recall that he was in a state of undress. Wanting desperately to crawl into the safe folds of the curtains of the stage she nodded her head so he could see her. He was so very close now, the rumble of his voice from inside him was as compelling as a sin just to see his face. Continuing she explained to him, her thick lashes swooping down as her pink lips parted to speak.
"It..the package is for you. It's a little bit of nothing and a bit of something..My cousin...He lives in Calais, and I visited him before coming here. He left a few of his linen shirts in a trunk of mine, and judging the measure of those to yours. I should think that the shirts will fit you, perhaps a bit....um...snug about the chest area..if. If...the Monsiuer has..a slightly.....expanded chest, broad shoulders, and back..." Formorian managed, blushing anew obvious to perhaps his earlier concerns that she'd seen him. A lady would not forwardly say the like, and as a lady she didn't only indicated to him that she'd glimpsed his state at least.
"If....they are not to the Monsieur's liking....I'm...certain they can be altered or traded off. They are very..fine." Going silent, she set the lantern down keeping the compulsion to glance over in his direction a quickly losing battle. She was twenty, and so very curious now about things she normally didn't even question. One being now the male form. Damnation, she'd be in confessional for a year!
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Post by Riffael Dureau on Jun 11, 2008 21:34:20 GMT -5
He smiled, relief flooding through him. A cousin! When the paper had given beneath his probing fingers and he had seen a man's shirts, folded neatly with feminine care, his heart had seized with an angry, sweltering jealousy that did no justice to her generous gift. Now he felt a bit ashamed of his initial reaction. After all, she was not his. She did not belong to him in any sense. But, oh, he wished that were not so. Two sides of him fought as he held the shirts in his hands, unfocused, lost in his own inner turmoil. He wanted her. He wanted to seduce her, to stroke her beautiful cheek and whisper to her all of the thoughts of love and adoration that flew to his head, without restraint. He also wanted to protect her, and to protect himself against her rejection. Yet what if he sought to make her his, and she came to a terrible end? There: the choice was made.
Finally he took a shirt from the bunch and while she spoke, attempted to pull it over his head. It was a little tight, but fit well enough. As he shifted his shoulders a little to get used to the feel of them, he watched her. She was so near! He could see a few flyaway strands of gold drifting in the mysterious but ever-present draft of the theater, and the becoming curve of her back, inward from her breasts to her behind. He pulled his gaze away with guilt and quite a bit of difficulty. His throat felt tight and his veins felt as if they had been infused with pepper.
"I would never think to trade away something given to me by your own sweet hands, Formorian." He said gently, truly humbled. He had asked her to stitch his ripped old shirt, and she had not only done that but washed it and given him three new ones. "How might I repay you?"
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Jun 13, 2008 2:06:56 GMT -5
Distantly she heard the crumple of the butcher paper, knew he was there even further that he...Riffael was on the same stage as herself. Before he'd been above her, God-like in his own mysterious way in the darkness, both leaving her bereft and to fathom him from the smallest glimpse she'd seen. Keeping her thoughts as composed as possible, desperate for a bit of Holy-Water to cool the burning thoughts in her mind as to a man's span of chest or back. Naked of course. Curiosity that no proper woman should have, but then again....She was entirely wrong. The most refined women had much worse thoughts and if she knew the truth perhaps her guilt of impure ideas wouldn't phase her as much.
Swallowing softly, to moisten her dry throat she spoke just above the crumpling sound of paper. Giving him her reasons for bringing them, that they were indeed her cousin's and in the darkness. Did she almost hear a sigh? Perhaps a most pleased sigh, relieved, or maybe she was hearing things? Was it possible to also..'feel', a man smile? It was like her heart fluttered with each crumple of paper, each pop and crunch echoing. The sound of fabric against flesh, moving, rubbing, rustling, touching his skin made her impurity of mind begin to race again.
No no no! Stop thinking such things! Silently chiding herself, as she blushed in the darkness thankful it was dark. He'd not see the apple in her cheeks hopefully she'd stop blushing. Warmth in her veins, in her face she finished speaking the silence settling around them as it had done over the past few hours. That constant draft of the house caressed her silky hair, allowing her unruly, platinum curls to sway a few strands that refused to be tamed. Her back to him still she inhaled softly once his voice filled the theater. Just a few feet away and she needed air.
"I would never think to trade away something given to me by your own sweet hands, Formorian." That gentle rumble touched her insides, making her stomach knot deliciously. Her name rolling off his tongue made her moisten her pink lips in readiness to respond. Why was she acting so silly for a man she couldn't see, and could only hear? It was madness but then again what she'd heard of the Populaire things weren't entirely normal. "How might I repay you?" He asked.
Let me see you? If you are as handsome as I so believe kiss me true? Allow me to call you Romeo whether you'd be mine or not? Read me a poem with such passion I might weep? Attempt a sweet part of a song and so your voice would make me crumble readily? These were all things she'd have a care to say, but she did not. Swallowing she turned towards his voice then, moving slowly not wanting to startle him or herself. In the distance she could barely make out a slight form of white where he stood by the ladder. Yet she could not make anything other than that.
Timidly she extended a hand in his direction, offering her arm and palm out to him. A faint smile upon her lips as her face remained serene, framed by silky, waves of hair. Her voice soft, delicate in the darkness she responded.
"Show me you are real...." Contemplating she spoke once more, her hand suspended in air of offering to him. "Touch me..." Formorian asked, taking a tentative step forward leaving behind her lantern willing to plunge herself into darkness to get her answers. If this Monsieur Riffael would so give them.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on Jun 13, 2008 2:59:44 GMT -5
Riffael tried to rearrange the remaining gifted shirts back into their original, neatly folded state, and failed miserably. Having done his best to restore order to the small stack of fabric, he re-wrapped the paper gently over and placed it back where she had left them, on the ladder rung. He would need to move his resting place after tonight, as he had contemplating doing before. Keep your hand at the level of your eyes! The terrible laugh echoed through his brain and an answering shiver ran down his spine.
As he turned, he saw her turn. He tensed immediately, freezing with the fear that she had seen him. She was in danger! So much... his logical mind dimmed as she began to come closer. For what would she ask? He knew that she would not ask to see him, for he had made it clear that he could not. His eyes swept over her face, so close that he could see the becoming little blush upon her cheeks, over which the shadows of her thick lashes splayed beautifully. His breath caught. Every movement, the vision of her thighs as they briefly brushed against her skirt when she stepped, the rapturous and nervous look upon her sweet face, the unintentional sway of her feminine, graceful walk, bringing her closer--he could see the rise and fall of her chest with every breath! He felt his entire body strain not to take her into his arm, and... and... such things were not fit for respectable ladies. Still, he burned all over.
Her eyes were a bit unfocused on him, so he relaxed in the realization that she could not see him in a definite way. He was in shadow. She had set down her lantern and still moved slowly toward him. With every step he felt his heart speed up, his blood heated. "Show me you are real... Touch me..." Her words echoed vaguely in his harrowed, barely functioning mind; he watched her, and almost felt as if he had drifted into an nonsensical dream.
In the next moment she was near to him, and he reached out, gently cupping her outstretched hand in his palm and using the light grip to fold her delicate fingers in and pull her toward him with loving care. One arm came around her waist and aided in reeling her into him, until the length of her was pressed into him entirely. She was so small and delicate. He inclined his head to let his cheek gently rest against hers, his breath brushing her ear. He inhaled and her scent assailed him, bringing him into an even greater high. He wasn't thinking straight, and had lost the desire to try to.
"Exquisite..." He whispered, in ecstasy of her presence.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Jun 14, 2008 1:09:21 GMT -5
Formorian cast sanity to the wind or rather in this case to the darkness, walking with a uncertainty to the shadows. Her arm had long since been lifted, outstretched into the abyss where the man stood. Entering herself into his obvious world of night, plunging down into oblivion all with a request that could both be her end and beginning. Ever so softly, her voice quivering with a desire, a need for what she requested of him. For this unknown man, this man that could prove to be just as easily a monster rather than an acclaimed Romeo. Yet how could she be so cruel as to judge him and his darkness?
Walking, tentatively into the snare of a man whom had a repute as sullied as the shirt she'd returned to him. Formorian Carlisle was lost to her own innocent yearnings of the unknown. Her hand to the air, caressing nothing but the void between herself and this man. The crumpling of the paper had long since ceased and her lingering request glided like a raven into the darkness. Unanswered save for the sound of her heart, thrumming loudly in her breast. 'Causing the almost, unknowing invitation to the rise and fall of her chest. A Distant sound of breathing that was not her own assailed her and she was ready if ever he would be.
Unable to find him as he could so easily see her silhouetted by her lantern the platinum hair, gold now with the feint light painting her. Each step drew her nearer, each step caressed the common feel of skirt against her legs that were becoming increasingly unsteady. Swallowing the moment came where she'd not ever be able to return, when she had finally stepped close enough. Stepped into his arms reach, into his iron will to not see her, or let him be seen and still be given this opportunity to be touched by him. Entirely...Touched.
Rough fingers slipped against her own, the calloused flesh scraping against the silken softness of her own. An entire contrast to one another it sent an undeniable shiver of delight down her spine. Ivory digits engulfed in a strong hand that claimed her, shackled her into his grasp and she got her request of his touch. Only so much more awaited her, being drawn in like a moth to a flame her petite legs moved with fluid grace. Entrusting herself to his commanding grip that expressed a gentleness that belied the hardships his hands told just by touch.
Into his darkness, into his world, Formorian felt the darkness become hotter, real, caressing every inch of her. Until an iron hard arm encircled her waist, claiming her slender torso with the final movement. No sooner had she given a gasp of surprise than the air was knocked from her lungs as her body molded against a hard wall of muscle. Pure masculinity to heighten her senses beyond compare, her hand abandoned as she instinctively raised her arms to curl about his neck. Feeling the dense, shifting muscles, rolling with his breathing just as a warm cheek, a slight days stubble coming to tickle her face delightfully.
Formorian couldn't breathe for the longest moment, her body flush against his own, the sound of his voice purring into her ear made her quiver. Her eyes rolled into her skull at the sound, thick lashes fluttering down as she tipped her head up never leaving the contact of his cheek only pressing her own against him for more warmth, more always more. Slowly did her hands moved down to rest against his shoulders and she moistened her lips, finding air eventually with her heart pounding a rhythm against his own.
"Exquisite..." He whispered, tickling her flesh and she gasped out on an exhale. The warmth of her breath ghosting his skin, his ear to comb through his silky hair as well. Inhaling sharply then, she clutched at him, taking the scent of him with her. Cleanliness of the shirt mingled with the slight scent of sweat, a slight underlying bit of leather, along with a unique spice that could readily be called his own. It intoxicated her and she found will to say one thing, one word....one name.
"Riffael..." She breathed, whispered huskily, unable to draw away so long as she was his prisoner. He was tall, strong as could be in her minds eye, and with his skin against her own so warm, so inviting. God forgive her for being such a weak creature...for being a woman. Eve had been tempted, and if this dark man was to be her forbidden fruit so be it.
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Post by Riffael Dureau on Jun 14, 2008 23:02:18 GMT -5
Riff quickly untied the backs of and tripped off his leather gloves, and little rings of chafing burned briefly at where the fingers cut off from extended wear. He managed to remove the one behind her back without moving his arm from her waist, and the other he pulled away after. The gloves dropped unceremoniously to the floor behind her, forgotten for the moment. He shivered as her little fingers grazed over the tense muscles in his back and shoulders, twining into his hair. The fabric of the shirt seemed alight with fire on his skin after her touch.
She felt soft and small against him, and he slid his bared palm over her lower back with gentle pressure just to feel the feminine curves there, and the way that her smooth body melded into his. His hand then made gentle circles, almost soothingly. She seemed to melt against him, and it took all of his power not to lay her down on the makeshift performance alter and oblige his yearning.
His name whispered off of her lips, flowed out like a stream, released involuntarily upon him--his restraint broke, discarded somewhere on the floor with his gloves. All the air seemed to leave him and his face turned, dipping to lay a trail of heated, adoring kisses along her neck and up her jaw. His hand trailed up to slide into her hair and cradle her head gently before his lips met hers.
He felt as if his heart were suddenly made of light, burning with palpable joy. His insides churned, muscles tensed and released beneath her hands, just at the simple meeting of flesh. His mouth slanted over hers and he could feel the fullness of her lips beneath his, which sent him into elation. There was no longer any nagging reminder that he was being stupid and unfair to her. He was lost completely in the feel, smell, and taste of her. Formorian! Her name was like a prayer in his mind, echoing there and soothing away his doubts.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Jun 15, 2008 1:16:17 GMT -5
In the darkness of the stage she could feel it move, feel the hard wall of man before her making movements. Removing the leather of his hands, the same leather she'd only touched briefly as he'd reeled her in, into his snare. Fingers still tingling with the recollection of his calloused fingers making her body quiver in shamed, wonder as to what was becoming her. Unable to step back, to re-think what this darkness held in store, with his strong arm still keeping her slender waist as his prisoner. Shackling her to his body without even trying it wasn't as though she were fleeing for her life just yet.
Rather she moved her fingers against his hard, span of muscled shoulders curious to the feel of each ripple of toned muscle moving beneath her open palm. It was extraordinary in her opinion, never had she touched a man like this as though half-mindedly exploring while at the same time being slightly aware of her own inexperience. It caused her to worry her full bottom lip when he shivered at her touch, sending a warmth through her veins that she could only guess was...delight? Delighting that her touch had made him shiver? Could that possibly be it?
A revelation at her own thoughts of touch made her blush hotly, placing the apple into her cheeks once again. Melting herself into the tall, long, hard length of his frame almost molding against him in this darkness. Like a Master soothing a kitten he stroked her lower black, moving along the fabric and the area heated to his touch. Unable to stop the soft whisper of his name it escaped her like a forbidden fruit that she'd taste and then either be ruined or saved? Who knew? Whatever it might've been, whatever restraint he'd been keeping under a taught hold broke.
Formorian felt it in the intensity of the atmosphere, changing instantly like the Gates of Hell or Heaven had been opened for the war to begin. A very painfully, desirable, unknown, war that she'd never known and wasn't ready to do battle with most certainly. Yet how could she stop it? Herself? It felt so right, yet so very wrong he must think her so easily won out! But oh...God....His lips against her neck nearly had her buckling instantly. Her body going slightly slack and she thanked God for the strength of his arm holding her against him.
His lips made her toes curl in her shoes, willingly tilting her head in offering of her ivory neck to his torture. Such a pleasant torture that she knew should be wrong, her pulse thundering in her veins as he ghosted to her jaw. Between that distraction and the next, her hair had been claimed by his strong, hard, calloused fingers. Twining through the spun gold as though he had every right to do so with her, cradling her head ever so gently before over-powering her senses with his kiss. It only took a brief moment, so readily parted in her bliss those plump, folds were his to claim at his will.
Formorian tasted pure male then, without even trying to fear the kiss learn from it, to store the experience in her mind. At first she was shocked, rigid, but his coaxing encouraged her. His heart calling to her own and it answered his beat for beat, thundering in her ears to rhythmic drumming. Under her palms he was rock hard of dense muscle, his shoulders struggling between tensing and relaxation in quivering spasms. Silken lips parted, tasting ever so tentatively of him slipping into a euphoria that was forbidden and oh so natural.
A calling to her dormant desires now awoken to this mysterious Riffael. As his face slanted her hands abandoned his shoulders to frame his face, keeping him against her as she slowly learned his kiss. Memorized the taste of him when his tongue stroked against her own, drawing a sing-song moan of first awareness into his kiss. Ivory digits combing into his rich, head of dark hair that gave to her clutch and pull. Closing her eyes in her bliss, she drew away reluctantly, feeling his desires beginning to overwhelm her.
Riffeal...sweeter taste of Romeo if she so boldly thought it and she did. He was every bit male, in his taste, in his smell, the way his muscles moved, flexed, rippled and drew her securely as his prisoner. She doubted if she'd ever find sanity because of him. Kissing this mysterious man who had somehow, someway drawn her like a moth to a flame. Formorian was not beneath being alert and distantly she heard foot-steps and she went still. Clutching at his shoulders she'd broken his kiss, trying to breathe and reaching up in the darkness, she placed a finger to his lips.
"Shhh....listen...." Formorian whispered in a husky, yet urgent tone the hardness of his desire pressing into her abdomen and she shivered now at the realization. Yet she wasn't ashamed of it, of his desire it was almost..empowering. Resting her head against his chest, the wall between oblivion and ecstasy she held to him, hoping whomever it was would leave. But silently she prayed they would come, she had to know who Riffael was, she had to....she couldn't just let herself fall like a wanton.
"Someone comes..." Her voice was soft, with her cheek pressed against his chest. Unwilling to leave him just yet, him and his warmth.
[ooc: I hope you don't mind that Liana might join this thread and distract Formorian from Riffael. It keeps Riff hot and bothered, Formorian hot and bothered but still walks away with her cherry. So that maybe next time things aren't as awkward as they are now.
Let me know if you don't agree and we can change it]
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Post by Liana Marceau on Jun 15, 2008 2:07:27 GMT -5
Why were men even allowed to exist? Why had God not created only women? Why had God even bothered with creating them out of a man's rib when women were truely far gentler and more benificial creatures. No woman would scare another woman. No woman would touch another woman without cause or just because of pure desire. If the world were just women, there would be less crime, less war, all together less sadness and devisatation if Liana had to guess. It seemed that men were behind all those emotions. She certaintly not met one to deter that opinion as of yet. Her father, her fiancee, the stage hands. Some had been kind, but in the end they all seemed to only think of beauty and how they could use that beauty to benifit them. To men, women were merely ribs to be used to better their images, their stature, or anything else they wished!
With a panicked look on her face Liana ran down the back passages of the opera house. There was nothing truely wrong with her really, just shock. Shock and panic were her main ailments after a run in with the lead tenor. She knew he was just being kind, but she felt persued. Not even pursued, but hunted almost. The way he tried to bring up seeing her again using books. The way he looked at her. And the way he had fallen. Of course he had gotten up right away, but after that every time he looked at her she could almost feel his eyes trying to peel off her clothing! It was positively inappropraite and rude and frightening as all men were!
It was possibly blaphamous but as she ran Liana truely questioned God's judgements. Only Mori would really understand. She hated the way the men treated the chorus girls. She hated the way most of the chorus girls reacted too. Mori would counsel her. She was always calm and sweet and understanding. The chorus mistress was really the only one who knew truely how well and how high Liana could sing. She also was a bit of a mother to her despite the similiaritites in their ages. She reminded her a bit of her own mother, comforting her in such a strange and mysterious place. She would help her now if she could be found.
It was strange as Liana ran without truely seeing anything onto the stage. The girl had to be somewhere around here. There was not a time besides the night when Mori could not be found near to the stage. She was always practicing or helping a soloist, or working the parts so they would balance just right with the challanges of the mediocre choir. So why was this night different? Had something happened to her too? Liana could not bare it if something had happened to Mori? But if it had how would she fight back? Could she even do such a thing?
The panic that had been prevolant in her ridged nervous body before rose and Liana ran faster, lifting her skirts slightly so it would be easier to run toward the wings on the opposite side of the stage. She could see bodies there. Well, a body that seemed to be moving into two! Liana felt the blood rise to her cheeks as she stopped in horror and shock. It couldn't be! It just couldn't be! She had to catch her breath as she watched open mouthed as the bodies pressed together again just for the slightest moment even as they seperated. Embaressed by this display whoever's it was, Liana's eyes widened in clear disbelief and her mouth dropped. Her throat was dry as she tried to speak, but she knew it could not be her dear friend. No! Mori would not do such a thing! Not in the open! And she would have known if there was. Well....if there was some sort of lover or man. It just couldn't be and yet. Standing there like some gaping fish caught on land. Liana's sparse breath managed to leak out timidly. "Mori?"
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Post by Riffael Dureau on Jun 15, 2008 2:38:31 GMT -5
Riffael felt his whole being split into two: heavenly and earthly pleasures, love and lust, fear and contentment, him and her. As she stiffened against him he began to school himself into letting go, but then... her mouth moved against his. A little gasp, quickened breath, began to drive him mad. Or at least, even more mad, if it were possible. He had never felt this way before. There was lust, of course, for a seductive walk and suggestive looks, as any man. It was easily and quickly sated.
Yet with her, right now, every movement, every word, every smile, every time her white teeth curled over to nibble on her full bottom lip, he wanted more. More of her voice, more kisses, more words, more nervous chuckles, more time to bask in her. He was in love with her. He might as well get the admitting of it over with, and this might be easier for him to cope with. Yet he had to remember that although he had watched her, listened, as long as she had been here, he was nothing but a ghost to her. He had just pulled her into the darkness, and pressed his desires upon her. He couldn't comprehend much at the moment.
He snaked his tongue to lip her plump bottom lip, tasting her there. He then pressed entry into her sweet mouth, and their kiss became more heated. He felt her press up against him of her own accord, and his whole body shuddered in response. He knew that she must feel his arousal, and could only hope that it would not scare her away. He was descending fast into complete mindlessness, and her innocence was at risk.
He wondered if he should pull away, to protect her. After all, this couldn't last. A sharp pain invaded his heart as this thought occurred to him. If she knew who he was, what he did... if she heard about Celeste... if the Phantom heard about her! She pulled away and an icy chill of fear descended upon him. He couldn't let this be the last time that he held her in his arms.
He froze, hearing also the arrival of another. Her soft finger landed upon his lips, blocking the possibility of stealing another kiss. He laid a little kiss there on the soft pad of her index finger instead. His eyes fell on a girl, who he thought must be part of the chorus. She was staring wide-eyed at the silhouette of bodies pressed to each other, faceless in the dark.
'Mori?' Oh! Mori! A nickname. It gave him such a wonderful warmth to know it. His reflexes were quick. He used his arm to turn her and pull her back into his chest. Dipping his head, he laid a quick kiss upon her neck and whispered into her ear, "I will see you again, my English rose--my Juliet." He said the last part in highly accented English, and a touch of possessiveness crept into his tone. In the next moment he had slipped away quickly into the darkness and disappeared into the sanctuary of the stagehand's hidden world.
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Jun 15, 2008 3:07:16 GMT -5
Formorian knew she wasn't wanton or at least she never had been, never ever occurred to her that the opposite sex was entirely, and utterly....desireable. Until now. Until her mysterious man by the name of Riffael whom flattered her, spoke so sweetly, thought himself an unworthy Romeo, and also...proceeded to kiss her into a spiral of unknown desires. His lips were the sweetest poison she ever tasted, the apple of the tree and may she forever be a sinner now and forever for this unknown man. A man that seemed to know her far better than she knew herself.
The flick of his warm tongue against her bottom lip had her wanting to worry it with her teeth as was her custom. Yet she did not, instead her mouth was so wondrously plundered by him as he slanted his lips over her own. Deepening each kiss until she was responding in time to each movement, the moist mixture of him and her in one another's mouth so entirely intimate she was as good as marked she felt. Between their two bodies his hardness pressed and it didn't take a complete genius to figure that out, thank God she'd listened like a blushing virgin..which she was...to some of the Chorus and ballet girls when they spoke of such things.
Distantly the frantic foot-falls came to her and she drew away with a reluctance that was easily noted. Was it wrong to not want to stop kissing a man you didn't know, nor couldn't see? Was she so easily a lamb lead to slaughter for this Riffael fellow? Oh God it seemed it was! Quickly placing a finger to his lips that were warm from her own kisses, she knew her own lips were plumper now from his insistent passion. As though to tease her, never phased, Riffael kissed the pad of her finger earning him a nervous little smile that he couldn't see.
Glancing to the person who now joined them, Formorian wasn't surprised to see little Liana. Well not as distraught as she'd been when flying around on the stage, now she was just staring into the darkness straight at her and her mysterious man. Distracted, watching as her chorus girl's jaw practically dropped through the stage and down deep into the cellars of the opera house. Riffael took both female instances of drifting to spin her around and she almost gasped aloud in surprise. Only to have her body pulled back against him, molding her there as well with his arousal pressing against her lower back just above her firm bottom.
A kiss touched her neck sending a shiver down her spine, but nothing compared to his voice whispering in her ear. What he said at least.
"I will see you again, my English rose--my Juliet." He said, his English making her flesh burst into goose-flesh at the sound of a native tongue she knew so well. However it was his tone that made her stomach knot deliciously, as he marked her unknowingly, staking claim on her as she was 'his' Juliet. 'My Juliet'...and he would see her again. Possessed to the core, she almost gave a whimper when he disappeared. The solidity of him gone, leaving her there bereft as though she'd only dreamt the entire thing.
Time passed, and Liana spoke bringing Formorian out of her revere.
"Mori?" Shaking off her lost innocence of kiss, Formorian stepped forward then. The boards creaking slightly as she walked, quite obvious that she'd been clothed entirely and perhaps Liana had misjudged what she'd witnessed?
"Liana? What's wrong my dear? You looked upset. I'm sorry if I startled you, I was working on the score for Romeo et Juliette. But a friend asked a favor of me." Formorian said, allowing her long mane of platinum locks to fall over her shoulders as she came to stand before the taller girl. Looking up into her eyes as Formorian was much more petite than most of the other girls. In Liana's eyes Formorian of course saw more amiss other than shock. Frowning she extended her hands to the younger girl.
"Come now sweeting, whatever is the matter?" However she kept her composure was beyond her but she thanked God she kept it.
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Post by Liana Marceau on Jun 15, 2008 3:55:25 GMT -5
It could not be happening! This could not be happening. It was Mori. It was Mori and some man hidden by darkness. She did not wish to see his face, but at the same time she did! Who could catch her after all? Her friend had never shown any preference for anyone. She had never even shown the slightest interest in men at the least come to think of it. There had been nothing there and yet, now here she was. She was cloaked in darkness but there was no mistaking the fact she had recognized her as she spoke her name. Still, before that, even when she had shown that she knew her it was as if she was never there. Liana was sure that her cheeks were bright red. It was so...odd to be able to do that with someone watching none the less.
Her head was swimming in confusion, overwhelmed by everything that she had seen today or that had happened as her friend calmly walked over as if she had not just...well, there was no real way to describe it. There surely was Liana knew, but what the term was she did not know. After all, she was not one of the girls that discussed such things with such interest and detail. She could not even listen to the conversations. She may be masquerading as a chorus girl after all but she had never been brought up one. The very thought that women would think about such things with many men much less one was repulsive and shocking. And now, to see someone who thought similarly in such a state well, it seemed like a disease and Liana for one dreaded the day she caught it.
Still, her curiosity was there. She could not just ask who he was or why she was not told about this man. That would be so forward and Liana did not at all have the heart. She could barely speak for that matter despite the obvious look of fear and shock and confusion on her face and her friend's constant prompting. Was it that obvious that something had been wrong even before she had witnessed all that displaying in front of her. And at the same time how could she confess to what happened to her after seeing what she was doing!
But she couldn't not answer. Liana's large doe eyes looked down into her friends. It seemed so silly that she was looking down on her despite the fact that Mori was obviously the elder and more mature of the two. Certaintly the most experienced after today. Liana took a deep breath and her friend's hands for a moment. Opening her mouth as if to speak and then quickly shutting it again. She would sound so foolish but what else was she to say? "He fell on me! A man fell on me!"
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Post by Formorian Carlisle on Jun 15, 2008 16:29:04 GMT -5
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