(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. ]
(She doesn't want to look at first and then, after he's held it to the light to admire, she looks and can't tear her gaze away from it, the little thing pinched in his bloody fingers, the sheen of it underneath all the red. There's more to it than the dark of the exterior; it glints when he twists it, brings it to his mouth. She exhales in a hard rush when he swallows.
Just like that.
She croaks,) Where did it go? (Maybe he's like a greenhouse inside, hollow and humid, and the seed will sink down and take root inside the lining of his body. It's intimate in a way she can't explain, made worse by the gentle way he sews her up, drawing the same lines up her to erase the hole in her.
She felt hotter when his hand was there and strangely empty now. It's hard to know what to say. Slowly she uncurls her hand from him, passing the breadth of her thumb across the nail marks left behind, which remain there.)
[ She is as she first started, skin sealed and blood staining them both, but Zephir watches as though he can see some change in her. Ptolemais is a part of him now, and she'll be a part of his garden soon, then part of a garden of her own. It'll be interesting to see how someone can take care of themself when a part of their body lives outside of it. Leaving the nail marks unhealed — for now — Zephir places his hand over her knuckles, smile small and gaze understanding, a fond gesture after the gruesome affair. ]
It'll leave my body eventually. Then I'll show you what was inside you.
[ The potential. The seed wasn't there until she drank his blood. ]
(It's hard to say because everything passed over her like sheet lightning: frightening but harmless. He sunk his hand into her guts and didn't kill her but the blood is on his hand, on her stomach where the cut spilled her into the open air. Something happened and didn't happen at the same time and Ptolemais thinks if she wanted to she could go back to her room right now, sink onto her bed, go to sleep and convince herself, later, that all of this was just a fucked up dream.
She touches the spot where he split her apart very gingerly but the skin there is healthy and strong.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
In what context.
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
(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.)
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
I dunno how I feel about it being in service of your ego.
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
(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?
no subject
[ Though he should add: ] There will be some blood.
no subject
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.)
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
Just like that.
She croaks,) Where did it go? (Maybe he's like a greenhouse inside, hollow and humid, and the seed will sink down and take root inside the lining of his body. It's intimate in a way she can't explain, made worse by the gentle way he sews her up, drawing the same lines up her to erase the hole in her.
She felt hotter when his hand was there and strangely empty now. It's hard to know what to say. Slowly she uncurls her hand from him, passing the breadth of her thumb across the nail marks left behind, which remain there.)
no subject
It'll leave my body eventually. Then I'll show you what was inside you.
[ The potential. The seed wasn't there until she drank his blood. ]
Tell me how you feel.
no subject
(It's hard to say because everything passed over her like sheet lightning: frightening but harmless. He sunk his hand into her guts and didn't kill her but the blood is on his hand, on her stomach where the cut spilled her into the open air. Something happened and didn't happen at the same time and Ptolemais thinks if she wanted to she could go back to her room right now, sink onto her bed, go to sleep and convince herself, later, that all of this was just a fucked up dream.
She touches the spot where he split her apart very gingerly but the skin there is healthy and strong.)