emotional equivalent of mr. toad's wild ride (martinis) wrote in fableless, @ 2016-10-03 11:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! log/thread, araminta shapiro, keiran mcqueen |
WHO: Araminta Shapiro and Keiran McQueen
WHAT: Here's a story of two people cheating and then picking out a house together lalalala~ Someone pick up the guy mentioned in this log lalala~
WHEN: Over the last three years or so!
WHERE: The first two sections are at parties; the next is at his house. The last is in the woods.
WARNING/RATING: Infidelity. Hints of loveeeemaking, but nothing blunt.
It's one of those parties only rich people would bother attending--is anyone having fun, or is everyone just getting sneakily drunk on fancy liquor and bragging politely about their lives?--so maybe no one noticed that one of their number does not belong. He’s been to a few of these lately, quiet and unassuming, the guest of some wealthy friend or other--working on a favor, usually, and taking full advantage of the perks. He wasn't born into the lap of luxury--far from it--but he’s determined to get his share before he’s through helping these people. But across the room, once again, is the girl: golden hair, calculatedly carefree laugh, a smile whose warmth has been measured by practiced degrees. She is much too clever by half, and dangerously charming. He’s watched countless others buckle under the radiant glow of her attention. He longs to be the first she cannot affect. He stands, just politely angled out of a nearby conversation in which he’s lost interest, and sips his drink, transfixed by her movements. No matter how many of these he attends, he always catches sight of her, beautiful and cunning and lit from within. They've spoken before, here and there, always careful not to know one another too well. Tonight, as he watches her work her way around the room, he wonders if the time has come to take their game a step further. He sips again, waiting to see if she'll notice him first, unknowing that she has practiced and mastered the art of peripheral appraisal. So mastered that she picks a moment when he looks bored with current conversation to float over, a martini glass held steadily, as if it were the pivot point for the rest of her body. She will offer him an out without while seeming patient and kind, lingering just close enough to express interest, but not so rude as to interrupt their conversation. Her arrival comes as a surprise--but not an unwelcome one. “Ah. Miss Shapiro.” He nods lightly to the group, a polite have to mingle, you know how it is, and turns delicately toward her. “Should’ve known you’d turn up sooner or later--not a proper party without you around, is it?” She answers him with a carefully placed smile; the kind where the corners of her mouth barely turn up. The real smile is coming from her eyes: slightly lidded and ever-confident. “Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. McQueen?” Her eyes glance just beyond him, at the group he had been talking to. He smiles just a little, looking around the room with a polite but distant air. “Immensely.” Far from it; it’s been more boring than usual this evening--some charity thing or other, piles of rich people bragging about their financial contributions, but such is the life. He glances over her outfit, appraising respectfully but appreciatively, but chooses not to comment. “Having fun yourself, I trust?” “No.” Her expression doesn’t change. Her tone doesn’t change. Her head tilts idly to the side after she takes a showy sip of her drink before glancing behind her, where the man she came with is trying to find her in the crowd. “If you’ll excuse me.” Inclining her head in a gentle nod, she leaves him. Confused--and perhaps a bit annoyed--by her early exit, he follows her gaze off to the chattering crowd. There, amidst a dozen other people he couldn’t care less about, is the insufferable object of her affections, once again standing in the way of their continued conversation. “Of course.” With mild frustration--and perhaps the smallest tint of regret--he watches her drift away; he turns back to the group and sips again at his drink, though both it and the conversation have lost its taste for him. The midsummer heat crackles with anticipation, the darkness of this forgotten side room tingling with electricity and the feeling of urgency built by the desperate smacking of lips and sudden hitched breaths. A cool night breeze drifts through an open window, a welcome relief on heated skin. This stolen moment cannot last--he knows this--but the smell of her perfume and the warmth of her body have driven all other thoughts from his mind. The music beyond the door is muffled, like the moan she feeds into his mouth. When not his mouth, then his hand. They both know that given the circumstances, secrecy is required. She arrived tonight on the arm of someone else. And she will leave the same way. But for now, she is his, and his alone. For the first time, but not for the last. She plucks the sheet from his bed and brings it up to her chest as she removes herself from his side. Her phone glows bright with a notification: I’m home early. Where are you, Ara? It’s still on the locked screen; he doesn’t need to know that she’s read it yet. The sudden departure of her warmth from his side stirs him; he shifts, searching for her, and gathers her into his arms with a tiny kiss on her bare shoulder. “Time is it?” he mutters sleepily against her skin. “Early, darling. Go back to sleep,” she answers quietly. Affectionately. Sadly. “Come back here, then,” he whispers beseechingly, wrapping himself around her and planting a long row of soft kisses down the side of her neck. She protests with a whine, but her neck arches anyway. “No, no. I can’t. He’s home.” She knows she doesn’t need to clarify who she means. The familiar stab of longing lances through him. He knew, when this all started, that this was part of it. Lately, it's become harder to bear. “Stay,” he pleads softly, with kisses along her shoulder and back up to her throat. Her body melts with a sigh, her eyes closing as she ponders his words. “He can live without you until morning.” “He’s already wondering where I am.” It’s superficial at this point, both her words and relationship. He paints the picturesque inevitability-- an enviable job. A good Tale. It's politics. It's the obvious choice. He sweeps aside a lock of golden hair and presses one hard kiss behind her ear. “So tell him,” he suggests gruffly. “Keiran,” her tone is both scolding and playful as she briefly entertains the idea. There is a brief pause, during which time she turns her body towards him, fingertips gently playing over the surface of his chest. “Tell me you want me.” “You know I do,” he teases, brushing stray wisps of hair away from her face. “Have I not made it quite clear how much I want you?” “Tell me,” she starts again, talking over the end of his sentence, “that you want me more than him.” Ah. This is a different conversation than what he’d thought. He hesitates a moment, searching for the right phrasing, stroking back her hair. “I want you,” he begins slowly, “more than I know how to tell you. But I can tell you, without any doubt, that if he wanted you even half as much as I do, you wouldn't even be here now. Because he would be working much harder to give you reasons to stay.” “Then do me a favor,” she speaks with all the breathy, reckless abandon that passion requires, “and prove it.” She hesitates, wondering if she needs to provide more to trigger his power-- a clause, or an if. A slow grin spreads across his face. “And...if I do?” He shifts, hoisting himself into a better position to lavish attention on her collarbones. “What shall I get in return?” “The chance at me.” Only the chance. She wasn’t going to bind herself to him because of a poor choice of wording. She tilts her head another way, her hand going to idly scratch at the back of his head. “Ah, I’m afraid it doesn't work that way, darling…” His tone is conversational as he moves up along her throat. This has become a much more delicate situation than he had planned. “The spell requires a price. And the price must be paid first. And I’m afraid a ‘chance' at anything isn't quite enough...” No matter how hard his heart is lurching against his ribs, aching for exactly what she's offering. She scowls, clearly dissatisfied by the rejection of her offering. She doesn’t touch him back for the moment, her hands going back to prop herself up on his bed. “Well. What do you want, Keiran? What can I give you?” He sits back, away, contemplating. He knows what he wants--but the question is whether she is willing to answer. “The truth,” he says simply. “Whatever it may be, I’d like to hear it. Do you want me more than you want him?” He studies her expression in the pale moonlight of the approaching dawn. “And do remember, it will only work if the price is paid in full--as in the absolute truth, whatever it may be, and not just what you want me to hear. Will that do for you?” It was chilly enough in the mornings now to warrant a sweatshirt. She hugged it around her, hands in the pockets as she leaned against the taller man, her eyes taking in the scenery before them; his arms locked loosely around her waist, he stood quietly, considering all that it meant. In the thick of the woods, near the cliffs that dropped to the beach. Close enough to their town, but far enough that they could just exist as they liked. The two of them. The same thought seemed to have occurred to him, as well; he gave her a small squeeze, for once in his life without a witty remark. Her head tilted up at him, her smile without hidden meaning and her eyes soft with affection. “This will do.” |