moritat | Victorian weenie au

"Tell me what that may be, up the stairs? There is a vase to fill."

Once upon a dark and sinful night he followed her up a different staircase, a creaky thin set stripped almost bare of paint. This one's bonafide mahogany and fitted with a lushly designed carpet. Biblical paintings line their ascent and stop at the second level with a depiction of Cain, the notorious betrayer. Paloma stares too closely at it.

"His collection."

"Why, the colour of my skin and my sex, of course." At least he realises.

He pauses to look at the paintings, admiring each. Some may not be dissimilar to paintings he owns himself. "Quite remarkable, I have always appreciated Biblical artwork." It's a good thing to look at while trying not to think about the last time he followed her up a set of stairs.

Don't look at that swaying ass, either. Pure, virginal thoughts.

Paloma rests a palm over the knob on the upper landing. As if hiding the bouquet of flowers from view of those works of art, she keeps it slightly behind herself. "And my curse also is my blessing. Some of the men who leave, they believe they go with what they came for. Or else become suddenly kind to me ..."

Cain remains in the same seething position.

No, he's... Definitely not doing that. Absolutely not. Why would he stare at her butt. He never stares at her breasts, either. Nothing sexual ever.

"I hope I haven't been one such fool!" He laughs, because he's quite sure that isn't the case! But he can't take the joke so far as to suggest she might have told him a lie about having sex........

Her chin jerks from the paintings and back to him in a move too fast to be natural.

"No! Not ever!" Paloma sucks in a useless breath and lowers her voice out of prudence, and for the servants who aren't far. A horrible fear-- his cause to doubt the veracity of the love he confessed to-- takes root in the dead cavity of her heart. "Please, trust that."

Oh no she took him seriously-- "No, certainly not, I trust it entirely!" Now he feels terrible for making her worry about that?! "It was nothing more than a joke in poor taste!" Without thinking it over, instinct pushes him to reach out for her hand, to emphasise his point.

This is fine, too. She is okay with the events currently unfolding.

Far from taking back what he's stolen, Paloma lets things go this way. The firmness of that hold is grounding and gratifying. A wavering smile forms.

"That relieves me. After what you see, I could not cast blame if you did not. Would you ...?" A light tug to join her on the landing, to find that vase. "Follow me?"

Yes, to find that vase...that's all. "Of course." He says, even though he desperately wants to kiss her and nothing else when he steps up onto that landing.

"Your home is very lovely."

Sssh. Vase now, no dick-sucking

Her smile falters a tad, but he can't very well see that from his place behind. Maybe the silhouette of her lashes lowering in remembered submission. "You are not incorrect. The one who shaped it could brag of beautiful taste."

Some of those beautiful objects he'd left in his escape should be burnt, if she were the burning type, or could bring herself to destroy art.

They pass into a long hall fitted with half-crescent tables between every closed door. The vase they seek sits empty on one such table, next to a door that is very much open. Paloma introduces the flowers to their new home, hefts it, and sees that it's absent a necessity: water!

"Ah!! So sorry, they will not remain dry. Let us find them what they need." The impropriety of a man on her heels, into her private quarters, does not sink in right away. She's already traipsed in.

Jekyll follows, until a few steps into the room, where he realises this must be her bedroom. And promptly takes a few steps backwards to stand outside the door, heart all aflutter, cheeks very much red.

"When they do begin to wilt, they would make a fine potpourri, I would imagine!" This he calls out from the hall, so that it will reach her.

As she plants her grip over the tap in her washroom, that word mystifies Paloma enough to give pause. "A, a potpourri? What is ...?"

A light twist does nothing. Did the handle not turn far enough? It's been such a short while since its last use, surely-- no, nothing's coming out. A tiny droplet forms on the rim of the tap's spout, but that's all.

"Drat!! No!" What comes after is too rude for English. He better investigate.

"Dried petals, for giving their perfume to a space." But those sounds throw him.

"What is it...?" Ahh, should he go in? No he shouldn't! But- he should help her. There's a long moment of debate, but finally, he rushes in, trying to forsake the bedroom entirely. If he just goes right to the washroom it's fine right?! Nothing against propriety!!

She cuts off her own stream of hissed curses, Spanish condemnations of the tap's parentage and any and all future tap spawn. At least she appears faintly embarrassed by her ugly language when he enters.

Stuttering initially, Paloma gestures in helplessness. "The water does not ...!!" Listen here, she needs that for washing off blood, it can't just not pour!? About to continue complaining in a lower tone of voice, paying more attention to their surroundings clues her in to footsteps down the hall.

They cannot find Henry in this place, she knows at once, or he may burst into flame and she'd need to exercise that awful influence upon them and, and, and!! Her lips clamp shut. She darts to the door and shuts it as noiselessly as possible, pressing against it heavily to listen.

"Why not then--" But he's cutoff from proposing an alternative when she suddenly closes the door.

"Ah-- what is it? Is everything alright?"

Lightning-fast, she whips around to press a finger over her lips, and returns to her listening post.

Fortune be not with these two. No less than three different voices sound off around the open door to her quarters. Confident nobody is within, the servants hover and exchange local gossip at a downright slothful pace. Moving on doesn't occur to them.

Paloma backs away from the door, rising onto her toes to carry a whisper. "Better you are not seen here." Gee. Brought their lips terribly close, didn't she.

His cheeks flush, his heart pounds...his dick swells. Although he tries to fight the urge to kiss her all the more. He must try. But it's terribly difficult. Who's out there - her servants? Oh no...this could take a while. Locked in a washroom together.

No, he can't stop himself. It's a valiant effort, but it all flies out the window when he closes that small gap between them by pulling her toward him. How long he's been holding it back is evident, it's a kiss worth no less than a dozen.

At least he remembers not to make a noise. Lest they be caught locking lips.

That dizzy and dizzying look to him is a recognizable one, but were she not searching for it Paloma would've rocked onto her heels. Kept distance and minded propriety more.

She has not and will not. Suspension off-balance satisfies her a deal more than the dry patch they've done without kissing. Hyde's does not figure in. Gasping foolishly, her hands behind his neck urge him closer, closer. 'Yes' and 'please' are the two things she says in a whisper almost nonexistent.

He doesn't dare to say anything at all, not only for the fear of one of the people in the other room hearing it, but perhaps more importantly, for preoccupation. The more pressing matter is the need to kiss Paloma and to have her in his arms. Because for all that he's nasty and sexstarved he's also a sentimental weenie. Holding her tight against himself is just as important. It isn't meant to be sexual at all, but his boner might ruin that a little.

Either he's got the self-control of an adolescent boy or he's that happy to see-- er, hold her. Paloma likes the second option better.

They hadn't been up to anything suspicious until real danger of people catching them at it cropped up. That coaxes a breathy laugh out against his mouth, not a shove. They're home, why should they separate? A flash of glee at their-- well-- their preoccupation leads her to instigation. Trouble-making that starts with teeth in his lower lip and the slide of her hips.

It's a thought that occurs to him as well, that the fear of being caught is so clearly exciting, that ultimately it pushed him to take that step over into impropriety. But he doesn't want to consider what it could say about him.

And once he starts to give himself over to such things, he can't only go halfway, it's all or nothing. So he doesn't stop himself from laying a hand on her waist, or letting it travel further, seeking out the end of her skirt to slip under and onto her thigh, nor does he stop his hips from pressing back against hers. It's a good thing too that her mouth muffles his reaction to her bite, or they really might be heard.

He spends ages going about the business of a hand under her skirt, but that's okay, they're busying themselves in the meanwhile. Paloma has entirely too much fun confusing blood-hunger for something sexual, so easy when they're interchangeable.

Laughter from outside the quarters. Her mouth slices left off of his, partly open but fang-free for now, and she listens keenly. Equally keen hands slip underneath his waistcoat in a blind hunt for hooks, buttons, whatever keeps his trousers up!!

Buttons and suspenders are what she'll find. Meanwhile he realises the curse of the fashion of the time. After getting past the mass of skirts, there's still bloomers to contend with, when all he wants is uninterrupted thigh. And maybe a handful of ass. But no they have to make that difficult. Still, he slips his hand under the elastic cuff, if only to spite these damn clothes!!

But the absence of her teeth pushes him to finally speak, as low as he can manage, "Did you need to drink...?"

Pooh pooh to the double trouble of suspenders AND buttons. She's let blood magic alter, no, add onto her appetite, meaning frustration like any other enterprising lover. Paloma quite forgets he'll have his own legion of buttons to contend with.

At least the bloomers won't resist. Haphazardly working on his trousers while insistently stealing kisses again and again, "No, no! Just this. Please."

Well, it isn't any trouble to accommodate that. At least once he gets his hand into her bloomers and slid up her thigh, he has an easier task than she. If he ignores properly undressing her for now. No one can ever say Henry Jekyll is a selfish lover...!! At least there's that to keep his good name, right?

"I swear I didn't come here with this in mind...!" Just so she knows. He wasn't being a randy bastard when he knocked on her door... Even if right now it's gotten the better of him.

What is it about the touch of a glove rather than bare skin on skin! She sucks in air too sharp, too noisily, and her legs quiver. Some miracle releases the last bit holding the trousers aloft. Now just their hips pressing roughly together keep them from sliding any.

Still more to unbutton. And she's less than perfectly deft with his hand between her thighs. "I know, I know. Neither did I ...!" These awful underthings.

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