Marius Lestrange has his affairs in order. (sang_pur) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2008-04-06 18:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! [1979-04] april, ! npc, marius lestrange |
Who: Genevieve and Marius
What: She wants to remind him that she's still interested.
When: Sunday evening after Regulus has gone home
Where: Marius's bedroom
Status: Finished
Rating: PG 13
Marius was sore but happy after spending four hours dueling with Julian nearly non-stop. He had forgotten what it was like to have friends around for constant companionship, and so long after he should have called things off, he finally got around to winning and they'd called the duel in Marius's favor. Agreeing to get cleaned up and rested for awhile they decided to meet again in two hours for a late dinner and sent word with a servant to Genevieve what they had planned.
Marius was curious how her afternoon with Regulus would have gone. He'd been in there for quite a while before Marius had seen him leave, and so it was to be expected that they must have got on fairly well. He had fully been expecting Genevieve to try something with Regulus, since she had been known for that sort of thing for as long as he'd known her, but with his young cousin it was difficult to tell. Sometimes he seemed so stiff and rigid, a breeze would likely knock him to the ground... and Genevieve was more like a hurricane.
He could have easily waited the two hours and asked her about her afternoon at dinner, but he was not a patient person and once he had washed and dressed, he felt bored enough to give in to temptation. Calling a servant, he directed the woman to ask Genevieve if she would join him, and then sat down in the sitting area of his room with a good book to wait for her appearance.
Genevieve's entrance was a slow one, for she was intent upon punishing Marius for his utterly unacceptable welcome of her into England. It was a droll little place, full of awkward men and grey skies - and worse, the food! She was utterly displeased by the entire affair, but she knew that if she might just spend enough quality time with Marius, it would make the agonising cold ever so slightly more acceptable. And so she made him wait, for impatient men's desires were always piqued by wait, and she painted her lips just so and powdered her cheeks with the utmost care, making sure the scented brush swept across her well positioned decolletage. She frowned a bit at the freckles that crept beneath her corset, determined to charm them off later. There were some places freckles simply had no business being.
"Mon chéri!" She purred, entering his room smoothly and sweeping back her hair as though Marius had been a second though. Every syllable dripped with honey, though her eyes glittered with a kind of rapt impropriety. He would simply die at her little tale. "Tu me laisses avec une forte envie pour ton attention! It is terribly unkind..." And she leaned in, soft curves tumbling warmly against her corset and silken chemise (which was such a mockery of modesty she might have made less of an impression simply leaving her shoulders bare), and pressed a kiss to each cheek, even as her fingers drifted downward to push the offensive book away, out of his attention.
Marius was used to this behaviour from Genevieve, seeing as he'd known her since she was a child, but it never failed to amuse him slightly. In truth, she would have been a good match if his life was meant to be lived in France, and if he had felt like settling down earlier than he had. He had always known though, it was unlikely a wise idea to be attached to any particular girl in France, though, and so early on he filtered his affections to her as nothing but brotherly. He could tell it drove her to the peaks of frustration, but there was nothing to be done for it. That didn't mean he didn't enjoy the attention, it only meant that he had enough will power to know when it must by stopped.
"I would never mean to be unkind to you, Genevieve," he countered, allowing her to guide the book down to the table next to the chair where he set it carefully. "I thought you might enjoy spending time with Regulus, he is my cousin after all," he reminded her. She was a smart girl; he had no doubt that she knew exactly what he'd been doing by introducing her to another man -- or boy in this case. He, himself, would never consent to an engagement with her, but he wouldn't mind having her around England year round. He could use the company, and the ceaseless flirting of a friend who would no doubt allow him any access he wanted to that eye-catching bodice was a pity to waste. If she was engaged to Regulus that would have to be exceedingly careful, but Marius had learned from his mistakes with Isabelle, at least to the degree that he was convinced the next time he had an affair with a married or engaged woman, he wasn't going to get caught.
"Tell me of your day?" he insisted, hooking an arm around her waist and pulling her down to sit half on his lap.
Genevieve made a soft little squeal of a noise, all breathiness and delight and girlish overexaggeration in case he had any doubts of the appeal she found in his actions. But, of course, a girl mustn't be wanton, now - and she protested vaguely, squirming in his lap (all in the name of modesty) and never realizing once how uncomfortable such wriggles could make a man. If only Genevieve wasn't such an innocent young thing, she might have been more considerate of how riling her body language was.
And she looked up at Marius with the sort of wide eyes that protested precisely that - her innocence - no matter how laughable such a notion was to any person with a pulse and two eyeballs. "Oh..." she trailed, fingers sweeping over his cravat and smoothing the rich fabrics just so. "It was nothing terribly exciting." But her eyes glittered here, making the statement so patently, obviously false, and the very corner of her mouth quirked with a sort of delight. "Your cousin, you know, he is so very unlike the regular Englishmen here." With a practiced ease that only women of scheduled temper tantrums could know, her cheeks colored softly, and she covered her smirking lips very tenderly with her fingers.
"You must have lied to me, chéri; he must truly be a French man, non?"
Marius struggled not to laugh, because while if it had been anyone other than Regulus he would have taken her comment seriously, the the thought of his permanently rigid cousin loosening up to the degree of matching the French was proposterous. He managed to keep his face in order though as he let his hand slide up her side. The hard and unyeilding boning of a bodice under soft fabric had always held a fascination for him, and he squeezed her slightly in mock jealousy.
"Should I have a talk with him then?" he asked, managing a tone of seriousness that hid his amusement. "I will not have him dishonoring my only sister," he said wickedly, punctuating the remark with a peck to her chemise covered shoulder. Using his other hand he swept her hair tenderly around to the other side of his face so he could trail slow kisses up to her ear. "But you would not let him do that, would you?" he asked, whispering the words in her ear.
Rarely had he ever allowed himself such freedom with Genevieve, but she was leaving in three days time, and he had missed the warmth of a woman. He couldn't risk embarassing his father by making scandal for himself with any of the pureblood girls around here, but there was no scandal to be had when it came to his friend. Lest she ended up pregnant, not even so much as her father would take issue with anything Marius would do with her, and he had too much self-control to allow things to progress that way. Not with Genevieve at least. Good sense, and a genuine amount of affection, would not permit him to hurt her in that way. But this? By the time she found a husband she would forget all about these encounters, no matter how pleasing they were.
Genevieve's tongue pushed against the inside of her teeth as she watched him struggle, her own features alight with amusement. Her toothy, wicked smile only barely hid the catch in her throat at his touch, but nothing could hide the swell of her breasts over her corset at she inhaled, deeply, wondrously, every inch delighting in his attention as though a sunstarved feline. He tortured her, and she encouraged every cruel insinuation, tempting herself onward with wild undercurrents of hope and desire. Oh, but that she were a more forward creature, for as she was, limited by weak limbs and a tender disposition - she was utterly at his mercy. Or so she pandered to her own cravings so, eyes fluttering closed as much in enjoyment of him as in the idea of him - of her. Of them.
Oh! How his kiss mocked her every bit as much as his words, and she gave a little pout, slipping her fingers more tightly against his cravat with an almost possessive sort of tidiness. Their closeness made her every breath a warmth against his neck, and as she spoke, her words spilled hot against his ear, her voice treacherously, treacherously close. "Vous ne me prenez pas sérieusement."
But oh, she could give less of a damn whether he took her seriously in words, for the way his lips danced up her neck made her back arch, pushed her ribs into his palms, and forced her knee up, up onto his thigh so that her skirt rode dangerously upward, revealing the long expanse of lush, warm flesh.
"Always mocking, Mssr... but even your cold-blooded English cousin - he could kiss with a fire within him." She hissed across his earlobe, frustration, angry desire spilling into every syllable. She could not bear this - oh, but she would, she would.
There was no room in her words for doubt that she and Regulus had kissed, and while he wouldn't call the feeling it stirred within him jealousy, a competitiveness certainly lingered there. And maybe that was what she wanted; he would never underestimate Genevieve on her talent for stirring up emotions in men, but he didn't care one way or the other. If it kept her within his reach for the time being, it served his purpose as well as hers.
"English fire still," he corrected, hooking his fingers through her hair and looping it around his hand so that he could turn her face roughly toward his own. "Which would never do for you."
Between the tangled grasp he had on her blonde locks, and the force with which he could pull her against himself, she wasn't moving an inch if he didn't desire it, and he held her there for a few seconds simply to take in the view before pressing his lips to hers. They had shared short, unimportant kisses, but this was the first time Marius had ever deigned to treat her as if this could mean more than trying to appease her advances. He dug his fingers into her back against the rigid bones of her bodice, driving them into the softer flesh beneath as he kissed her the passion of an entire month spent alone.
If she was feeling frustrated, he was doubly so, though more with the dull ache of missing than Isabelle than any specific desire for Genevieve. She would do for now, and he tightened his grip on her hair as he nipped at her bottom lip. "Do you feel mocked now?" he asked, leaning down to ghost hot breath along her collar bone and enjoy the way she was trapped in his clutch.
It was an immaculate sort of victory, though Genevieve agonized to think how short-lived it could be. Every second that passed meant another second closer to the time when this would be snatched away from her in some brotherly concern. Brotherly! She could spit upon her brother for causing her this torture - and in one hot second as her thigh ground up against Marius's, begging begging for any contact - she remembered Julian with a murderous sort of hatred.
But Marius had her attention, and the way he grabbed her, the way he forced her played into her fantasies in ways he could not ever hope to comprehend. As he finally, finally took control, she spilled against his hands, a pliable bit of flesh begging to be manipulated, vulnerable and soft and desperate to be that sweet Genevieve, that victim she had always impersonated but never inhabited. And she splayed against him, propriety so distant a dream that she could not have cared if the English President or King (or whatever the hell these stupid English pigs governed themselves with) himself walked in, reveling in every second she was allowed this.
And his lips were consuming, masculine and demanding against her and she was desperate for more, even as the pain of her boned bodice shot up her ribs, she could ask for no reprieve, no pause for the breath for which her chest burned. Though she craved his desire, this pretense was enough - she accepted it, she relished it, and try as she would to demand more - she was in no position to do so. "Je suis à votre pitié, Mssr," she purred against his temple, the pause for breath enough to force every curve upward, swelling in the agony that was fresh air (that was separation). How could he have denied her for his Isabelle? Was she not every inch as perfect? As vulnerable?
"That is right," he said, pulling her head back a few inches away from him. It was always this way; when a girl gave in completely, that's when he remembered himself. "It is better when you keep that in your mind from the start."
He let go of her hair, gone from hot to cold in a matter of seconds. It could be cruel if he thought of it that way, but it didn't cross his mind. He wasn't incapable of guilt by any means, but he was more capable of keeping his mind on an ultimate goal, and when it came to Genevieve, that goal was not to allow her enough of him to ever stop wishing for more. He awaited the anger he assumed was coming with a patient air, and shifted his weight so that she was nearly dumped from his lap.
"The next time you attempt to make me jealous, be more subtle," he suggested, in a tone that had once again returned to brotherly. He could have delivered his reprimand with venom, but it was infinitely more appropriate to sound kind. She had no one to run to here to complain of his behaviour, Julian would tell her the same, and she needed to be at dinner looking composed within a half an hour. He got the distinct feeling that she could paint herself purple and Rodolphus wouldn't notice, and Bellatrix did not strike him as the sort that would be anything more than annoyed at a soppy girl eating dinner. "And you should wear something more modest when we dine with my father," he added, placing his hand on his book so it was clear to her they were finished here.
Her reaction was of a girl doused in cold water - shock, embarrassment, anger - though it was all twisted up in a sharp noise and a dark, extremely dangerous expression. A man should know better than to fool so cruelly with a woman's heart - a French woman even, and even as she was dumped unceremoniously to the floor, Genevieve managed to keep her composure, but for that black, vicious expression.
She pulled herself to her feet, cleavage precariously close to reaching heights that were very nearly obscene, and as the knot twisted in her stomach (fury, unmitigated fury), she knew all at once that she would still play into this game. But if Marius thought for a moment she would do something so very predictable as slap him... he had been in England too long. Thoughts of dinner were beyond her, thoughts of cleaning up and venting until she could prevent a gentler expression. For now she devised the only way she could possibly imagine to rile him, and that was to walk away - as if this conversation was done - and out into the hall.
With the door left open, the sounds of Rodolphus's priceless baroque valuables crashing to the floor would be quite unmistakable.