moritat | Victorian weenie au

"I suppose it must be." How does he respond to that. It's clear what she's suggesting, but how can he do it. On the other hand, he also can't quite say no. If he's being honest, he desperately wants to, but he shouldn't. She's married, and he must have restraint and stop this tendency before it becomes a habit, before he truly becomes this sort of man who goes sneaking around sinning in the night. But he already is that kind of man, and she seems to be set on her own quest for the night...

Discouraging.

If she stands (and she does, drawing his coat more firmly around to ward off the rattle of nerves and their chill) Paloma has some options. The dark of the night outside holds fewer terrors than it ever did. She could thank him for his kindness. Warn him against chivalry and leave.

Or she could drift past Jekyll with a light touch to his arm, moving like molasses toward the inn's stairwell.

Do not look. But Paloma steals a look behind her, wondering if she will be aching and isolated in this foolishness too.

It sends a shiver down his spine, a lump in his throat, and seems to squeeze his heart. What should he do - he should stay where he is, or leave, but he refuses to, for he has promised to escort her. But he should still stay in that chair. There's no need to make this worse, the attempt was bad enough, but to be seen in the very act-

And yet his legs seem to carry him forward without permission, following after her.

Paloma is strangely unafraid of losing face or virtue when the latter isn't in the cards anymore. Living with a man pretending she is his wife, surviving off the blood and suffering of others, to think of virtue is to play make-believe.

His footsteps weigh more heavily on the wood in her shadow. She's glad, isn't she?

Is this not playing pretend? Pretending she still has virtue to lose? Her hand slips out from the cover of his fine coat, opening tentatively to take him by the hand when they're a floor up. Paloma stares up at Jekyll. "A secret."

"A secret," he agrees, placing his other hand overtop of hers as he offers a small smile and bends down to kiss her. He still doesn't know what compels him to carry on with this, but she has a lovely smile and eyes that draw him in, and perhaps he wishes to seek comfort for his sin in them.

This is different, she realizes, becoming increasingly wrapped up in him and the kiss. This is different than letting a stranger corner her and think he's found a feast, found prey, a tender cunt to fuck.

When did she last feel like her kiss has value? That she is precious?

Searching along the wall-- fresh paint, shocking, and black streaks along her knuckles-- Paloma bumps into the cool metal of a doorknob. "This, this way."

It does a good job of calming him, giving in to his baser self that he so wishes did not exist. But now he forgets to feel shame, only what is natural, following Paloma into the room.

And he does a good job of fully committing to this part of him, until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, weeping and uttering apologies upon apologies. In the nude, shivering either from his sobs or the cold. "How can you ever forgive me."

She's perched on a pillow and still stinging pleasantly from their exertion. Any warm feelings left get mixed with the confusion of seeing him cry and cry.

"Harry? What am I forgiving you?"

Paloma crawls across the bed to his side, cautious and more graceful than one ought to be after so much enthusiastic-if-brief love-making. Her fingers light on his shuddering back.

"This - for, for doing you wrong." He covers his mouth, wanting to take her hand, but unable to bring himself to look her in the eye. "I fear I have taken advantage -- and that you have been witness to something so shameful." Meaning, of course, his desire, not his crying.

She sits on her haunches and studies him.

Not with any sense of detachment, not for lack of empathy. As far as she's concerned, a weeping handsome man is by itself cause for heartbreak. And out of a belief he's done wrong by her?

Paloma inhales shallowly. Her cheek then laid next to his remains warm, for a time, and won't lose that warmth if they stay. "Ah, sssshh ... you have only taken from me what I want to give. I-- wish to tell you another secret."

He would finally turn to look at her, but her cheek on his is a pleasant thing he doesn't want to give up so quickly. In his mind he argues her point, that regardless of her willingness, it was wrong of him, that lust is a terrible, grave sin, and he has damned both of them in giving in to it. And he is still so very nearly a stranger to her, and a horrible, duplicitous man. But he keeps quiet with it. "...Yes?"

But if he hadn't, he would learn she is already damned. However she struggles.

Since Jekyll has neither shrugged her off nor pulled her closer, Paloma's content to stay as they are. He smells nice. He smells like her. She holds onto that idea to bury her fear.

"I am not married. He stole me and says I am his wife. Lying with you is not that grave sin."

"Nor are we married, nor seeking children-" Sex should only occur for the purpose of reproduction, between a married couple, as God intended! He could rattle off everything he believes without questioning about vices and virtues, but her first words finally set in. Startled by it, eyes growing wide and chest constricting, he finally turns to Paloma. "He what?"

Admittedly Paloma's perspective on sin has warped despite Catholic upbringing, a direct result of the Embrace, its effect on the psyche and realities of nightly living. That being said, guilt sticks to them like burrs on a horse. On the backburner if not in focus.

When he moves, so does she by necessity. An arm crosses over her chest in a subconscious need for some protection. "He lies. I lie. I cannot do anything else. Please, Harry, I told you because you understand hiding a shameful truth, because I am already lost, but I wanted to be alive tonight. You took no advantage."

Realising in that action that they are having this conversation undressed, that they have been for some time, his cheeks flush. Jekyll reaches for a sheet to offer to her, and not finding a second...places a pillow in his lap. As if it matters now. Nudity is a big deal okay.

But then it's back to what she's revealed. "Yes, yes, but are you alright with that arrangement?" With pretending to be his wife, with being taken away overseas.

The answer is in how quick her eyes are to slide off of his.

Paloma wears the sheet to be polite and to have something to hold more than misplaced embarrassment. They've done worse than look and be exposed. "What changes? He is shown as false, and then I am less than before?"

Nothing changes after today.

And yet he holds on to his own covering so it won't shift, in deep embarrassment.

"It is no fault of your own, you would not be less." Although part of him does know that is how she would be seen by others. "There is no reason you must endure such mistreatment."

"Fault is mine," she argues unthinkingly. The poison she's been drinking curls in and around every word. Her knees draw up to her chest, and the sheet droops indecently only to be ignored. "I let him court me. Like a child, I believed in him. And I said, 'I can be with you!'"

Paloma subsides and bites the inside of her lips, releasing them instantly in recognition of that being an awful habit even for sheathed fangs. She hides her face into her knees.

"You cannot tell. Please."

"Even should I wish to speak of your secret, which I do not, it would need be explained how it is I have come to know such a thing. My own shame would be revealed. There is no better insurance."

He leans forward, tentatively, to touch her cheek (don't look down, don't look down, weenie noises, don't look down, eyes on the prize, keep it eyelevel, not on her nakedness nope). "It is not your fault, every moment there are men lying and women believing them. If you are robbed, none would think to argue the fault as yours, it rests solely in the thief. Such a lie may as well be theft of innocence."

She's glad for that secrecy, for hearing the truth. He won't have to forget.

Even though the Beast is ever-present in its appetite and his blood would serve as well as any, Paloma tilts into his palm, eyelashes tickling Jekyll's fingers.

Making a meal of him is the last thing she wants to do. So long as the Beast is caged. There's other prey.

"You mean all these words."

"Of course. You were not wrong to love." In a moment of boldness, Jekyll takes her head in his hands and kisses her forehead. "Although you need not live this way."

Plucking at his shame cushion in shyness, her lips quiver. He may not be good, but he's kind. Even in the jaws of her sire she can dream a little dream.

"You are so generous." Were her eyes so hypnotically luminous before? They're dizzying. "He cannot be touched as a farmer never puts hands on a king. But I greatly love to see a future without."

"Not at all." He can only be shameful, not generous, he hasn't done anything for her. And that shame cushion better stay where it is.....

"There would be less damage done sooner than later." It's only to point out to her, not to insist at all. Something to keep in mind. Realising where his hands are, he drops them, into his lap, on the shame cushion.

That persistence is frustrating but wins him a partially suppressed smile. It reminds her of the hopelessness of the trap she's fallen into, but he means well.

Is there harm in indulging a fantasy?

Paloma curls onto her side, head pillowed by an outstretched arm. "Perhaps he is ran off. Would you appear?"

Victorian weenie au

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