(What, now? — something she almost says out loud, deciding instead to close the conversation instead and get up from the floor where she'd been sitting, cross-legged and leaning back against the foot of her bed. They're flatmates in a sense, her and this... plant god of indeterminate gender, and it's pretty easy to come over. All that separates them is a bathroom.
She goes into it and does not knock before coming out the other side.)
I didn't ask how long it takes but I do want to know that, too.
[ Proof of his compromise is that he isn't fully naked when Ptolemais walks in, just shirtless, tending to one of the bizarrely shaped plants that fill out his room. There's a little over a handful of them, remnants of friends and acquaintances who have come and gone, from a killer to a queen, a fairy to a witch. The rest are common plants, healthy and blooming, regardless of the season. He turns to her with a smile, tilts his head in a quick motion to invite her to come closer while he finishes a loving ritual with his garden. ]
It shouldn't take long. Here.
[ He picks up a small vial, the slightest amount of white, shining fluid, the impression of something more crystalline than the purest water she's ever seen. ]
This will help.
[ A delicacy from Life itself, bled from his own flesh to be consumed. To help the seed take shape before it's removed. He won't hide the truth if she asks. ]
(Listen; Ptolemais is not immune to shirtless people. She doesn't come immediately closer when he beckons but watches him tend the plant he's working on, taking her time to drift near. To say that he has a green thumb would be an understatement but — as Ptolemais understands it — isn't he a god? He can be good at anything. How is gardening fulfilling?
She takes the little vial between forefinger and thumb.
To you? Barely anything. Others would feel euphoric. Healthier, happier. It could affect their libido, too. [ She's aligned with Death; the fluid would have to be black to have any of these effects on her. He'd say she's safe from it all, but there's a reason he's feeding it to her. If she accepts it. ] It'll just give you what I need to collect that seed. Everything that happens after that is unrelated to the drink. Are you squeamish?
(It's weird. It's probably a bad idea but — fuck it, she's curious.
She stares at him for a while longer, confirming his delight, before she relents and lifts the vial up to drink from. No tasting it first. She downs it in one, quick and perfunctory, and hands it back.)
[ Ptolemais drinks and Zephir smiles like she's just brought him news from home, warm and grateful. ]
Sit, [ An invitation, taking the vial back in his hand to let it rest on some shining top of furniture. It's replaced by a pack of cigarettes and lighter. ]
(It's certainly better than getting a smile that says 'you just drank poison'.
Ptolemais folds herself into an armchair. The vial full of liquid didn't taste like anything but there's a thin film in her mouth left behind from drinking it. It makes her want to run her tongue over her teeth.
... Is she feeling some kind of reaction right now or just tricking herself that she is?)
Yeah. (A cigarette would be perfect, actually. She takes the pack, holds it politely out to him first.)
[ One cigarette plucked, lighter clicking until it comes alive, Zephir takes the first drag as he hands that over, too. He takes a seat on his bed, leaning back with one palm flat on the mattress. ]
I've been thinking about you. Before this, I mean.
(Before Ptolemais can answer that she needs to drag hard on the cigarette she's just lit for herself. She waits for the smoke to coat her throat before exhaling, leaning back to watch him as he takes the bed. Obviously his body is very different to the woman who kissed her at that party but they both have the same mannerisms. He spreads his legs the same way when he rests his weight on his hand.)
[ Of course, of course. Zephir has no reason to be shy; he thinks and talks about it openly, gaze soft with a hint of seldomly seen mischief, on a quest to find out how Ptolemais reacts. ]
We made a mess, didn't we? I'm not sure I thanked you properly.
[ The orgasm-inducing kiss doesn't count. Though maybe he should apologize for that one. Another drag, and then, ]
I dunno. (Ptolemais stills in her chair but she's watching him, sharp-eyed with interest. He's so languid, stretched out there all soft around the edges. It almost makes her forget that he's powerful.) That was the hardest anybody has ever made me come.
(It was a good thank-you. And she thinks about it, often.
She exhales in totality, turning her head to keep from blowing the smoke at him.)
Why did you choose me? (At the party. For a flatmate. For this, the vial and seed.)
[ Some playfulness, but that's also how Zephir operates — searching for those who would have him, coiled around them as they accept his gifts. What's in the vial, what will be taken from Ptolemais' body in a few moments, the kiss that bloomed into an orgasm.
Zephir always wants to give. He wants to be chosen, even by those who don't belong to him. Anyone who drifts close is perfect to him. ]
Glad I could give that to you. It does wonders for my ego.
(Ptolemais rolls her eyes and grins, reaches over and ashes the cigarette onto a saucer beside an occupied pot.) You're going with the no you approach? O-kay. (But she is here, isn't she? Doesn't matter who is doing the choosing; Ptolemais keeps showing up.)
I dunno how I feel about it being in service of your ego.
[ He raises the cigarette between his fingers like a slow cheers, then takes the last drag. Like any regular normal person, he puts the cigarette out on the palm of the opposite hand. ]
(Too late to back out now. She realises then she still can't feel anything, no discernable change. Ptolemais squirms in her seat but doesn't put out her cigarette (in the palm of her hand or otherwise).)
Ready. (Ish.
Is there a way to be ready for something like this?) What do I do?
Just stand here and lift your shirt, [ He demonstrates on himself as he gets up, hand held sideways against his front, just under the sternum. ] Here, if you don't want to take it off.
[ Though he should add: ] There will be some blood.
(She hesitates for seconds, eyeing him — then pulls it off entirely, dropping the long-sleeved shirt beside her feet on the ground; she likes it. It would be annoying to get blood on it.
Shirtless she's pale and tattooed, folding her arms across the front of herself self-consciously, the practical, plain black of her bra. Without a collar there to hide it the scar at the base of her throat stands out on her skin all thick and ugly.)
'Kay. (Measured; calm. She's frowning, but that's normal.)
[ He makes no secret of his fascination with scars - her scar, standing out all thick and ugly, as his favorite ones often are. Scars are the wounds that loved you too much to leave.
Zephir gently breaks away from that thought as his gaze breaks away from the mark. Smiling, his fingers touch one arm, kindly nudging it away to leave her front unobstructed. Everything from that point on is measured, but no less impossible and terrifying. That's why he won't hesitate, and why he won't stop.
At least he won't let her body feel the pain.
The tip of a finger presses up against her stomach, joined by a second. Like he's drawing an invisible line, his fingers brush downward, and like a piece of paper being turned into two, Ptolemais' flesh splits open, blood pouring to welcome a god's arrival. ]
You won't die.
[ He adds without pause, pushing his hand inside, searching her insides while his eyes search hers. The changes in her expression, the words written on her lips, whether she speaks them or not. ]
(Fear washes over her, cold. She grabs his shoulder with a shuddering gasp, snarls her nails in. It doesn't hurt — but there's a sick sort of pressure she's experienced before at the dentist, a tugging and pulling sensation sans pain; Zephir's hand sinks in, impossibly deep. He shifts something aside.
Ptolemais wants to say something but she can barely breathe. To breathe would be to further dislodge the balance of his fingers poking slowly through her, blood wet on the inside of his wrist. The sound of it is impossibly fucking loud.
She shudders at that but doesn't shut her eyes, watching him as he watches her instead of what he's doing. Wetting her lower lip with her tongue.)
[ There it is, so Zephir finally stops. Hand slipping out of Ptolemais' stomach, drenched in blood, he pinches a seed between index and thumb, holding it up against the light coming in from the window. Fascinated, like it's the first time he's seen anything like it; smiling because he's grateful that she said yes. ]
This is what we made together, love.
[ He lets her see it for a drawn out, intimate moment — then it goes in his mouth to be swallowed. A bizarre end for a fucked up collaborative project. Zephir heals her wounds next, fingers sliding up as skin stitches itself back together, smooth and healthy. The only evidence of his work is in the blood staining them both. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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(Wait.)
— dumb question, don't answer that. (Probably a sex thing.) Okay. I'll do it.
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That's wonderful. Come to my room?
-> action
She goes into it and does not knock before coming out the other side.)
I didn't ask how long it takes but I do want to know that, too.
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It shouldn't take long. Here.
[ He picks up a small vial, the slightest amount of white, shining fluid, the impression of something more crystalline than the purest water she's ever seen. ]
This will help.
[ A delicacy from Life itself, bled from his own flesh to be consumed. To help the seed take shape before it's removed. He won't hide the truth if she asks. ]
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She takes the little vial between forefinger and thumb.
Kinda like Alice in Wonderland.)
And what happens after I drink it?
(Does she get smaller? Ha)
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She's watching him now, level, a little wary.)
Is the seed for planting?
(Her gaze flicks over to the weirder looking plants and back to him again.)
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That's right. It'll be the only one like it.
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She stares at him for a while longer, confirming his delight, before she relents and lifts the vial up to drink from. No tasting it first. She downs it in one, quick and perfunctory, and hands it back.)
Okay.
(Okay. She did that.)
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Sit, [ An invitation, taking the vial back in his hand to let it rest on some shining top of furniture. It's replaced by a pack of cigarettes and lighter. ]
It'll be a few minutes. Do you smoke?
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Ptolemais folds herself into an armchair. The vial full of liquid didn't taste like anything but there's a thin film in her mouth left behind from drinking it. It makes her want to run her tongue over her teeth.
... Is she feeling some kind of reaction right now or just tricking herself that she is?)
Yeah. (A cigarette would be perfect, actually. She takes the pack, holds it politely out to him first.)
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[ One cigarette plucked, lighter clicking until it comes alive, Zephir takes the first drag as he hands that over, too. He takes a seat on his bed, leaning back with one palm flat on the mattress. ]
I've been thinking about you. Before this, I mean.
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In what context.
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[ Of course, of course. Zephir has no reason to be shy; he thinks and talks about it openly, gaze soft with a hint of seldomly seen mischief, on a quest to find out how Ptolemais reacts. ]
We made a mess, didn't we? I'm not sure I thanked you properly.
[ The orgasm-inducing kiss doesn't count. Though maybe he should apologize for that one. Another drag, and then, ]
Do you think about it?
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(It was a good thank-you. And she thinks about it, often.
She exhales in totality, turning her head to keep from blowing the smoke at him.)
Why did you choose me? (At the party. For a flatmate. For this, the vial and seed.)
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[ Some playfulness, but that's also how Zephir operates — searching for those who would have him, coiled around them as they accept his gifts. What's in the vial, what will be taken from Ptolemais' body in a few moments, the kiss that bloomed into an orgasm.
Zephir always wants to give. He wants to be chosen, even by those who don't belong to him. Anyone who drifts close is perfect to him. ]
Glad I could give that to you. It does wonders for my ego.
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I dunno how I feel about it being in service of your ego.
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[ He raises the cigarette between his fingers like a slow cheers, then takes the last drag. Like any regular normal person, he puts the cigarette out on the palm of the opposite hand. ]
I think you're ready. Shall we?
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(Too late to back out now. She realises then she still can't feel anything, no discernable change. Ptolemais squirms in her seat but doesn't put out her cigarette (in the palm of her hand or otherwise).)
Ready. (Ish.
Is there a way to be ready for something like this?) What do I do?
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[ Though he should add: ] There will be some blood.
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Shirtless she's pale and tattooed, folding her arms across the front of herself self-consciously, the practical, plain black of her bra. Without a collar there to hide it the scar at the base of her throat stands out on her skin all thick and ugly.)
'Kay. (Measured; calm. She's frowning, but that's normal.)
cw: gore/body horror
Zephir gently breaks away from that thought as his gaze breaks away from the mark. Smiling, his fingers touch one arm, kindly nudging it away to leave her front unobstructed. Everything from that point on is measured, but no less impossible and terrifying. That's why he won't hesitate, and why he won't stop.
At least he won't let her body feel the pain.
The tip of a finger presses up against her stomach, joined by a second. Like he's drawing an invisible line, his fingers brush downward, and like a piece of paper being turned into two, Ptolemais' flesh splits open, blood pouring to welcome a god's arrival. ]
You won't die.
[ He adds without pause, pushing his hand inside, searching her insides while his eyes search hers. The changes in her expression, the words written on her lips, whether she speaks them or not. ]
cw: gore/body horror
Ptolemais wants to say something but she can barely breathe. To breathe would be to further dislodge the balance of his fingers poking slowly through her, blood wet on the inside of his wrist. The sound of it is impossibly fucking loud.
She shudders at that but doesn't shut her eyes, watching him as he watches her instead of what he's doing. Wetting her lower lip with her tongue.)
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[ There it is, so Zephir finally stops. Hand slipping out of Ptolemais' stomach, drenched in blood, he pinches a seed between index and thumb, holding it up against the light coming in from the window. Fascinated, like it's the first time he's seen anything like it; smiling because he's grateful that she said yes. ]
This is what we made together, love.
[ He lets her see it for a drawn out, intimate moment — then it goes in his mouth to be swallowed. A bizarre end for a fucked up collaborative project. Zephir heals her wounds next, fingers sliding up as skin stitches itself back together, smooth and healthy. The only evidence of his work is in the blood staining them both. ]
Thank you.
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