Re: Dinner with a Werewolf
Posted: Thu Apr 23, 2015 2:05 am
Reluctantly, Archie slipped his bedrobe back on. He felt like clinging onto arousal for a while longer, but his body was spent. The port had closed, his reserves of sterile oil had been spent, and all he had left were the ghosts of Crystal's caresses. He slipped his bedrobe on along with his slippers and headed for the observatory. Shamus was still asleep for the time being, as was his habit. You could hear his snores from the stairs' landing, as loud as they were. If anything, seeing his friend in such a placid state made him slightly resentful towards his body's lasting pangs of desire. Still, that resentment didn't go too far, as all he had to do in order to dispel it involved going back to its source. If he left his thoughts drift towards Crystal again, he found himself seized with the more voluptuous twin to yesterday's date-related anxiety. He had to fight the urge to race back up the stairs and tear his own clothes off to join her in the shower, rust be damned.
Once in his maintenance area, stripping again and entering his vat of oil didn't procure him quite as much relief as it usually did. As ever, he felt the viscous fluid seep into every nook and cranny, replacing the occasional errant bit of tension with rediscovered smoothness. He found no relaxation on a mental or emotional level, however. He still went through his routine, rotating all his main joints and working every motile part of his anatomy, making sure nothing would stick or hit a snag during the day. The sensation of oil invading his cranial space usually brought him a sense of immediate stress relief, but all he felt was that superfluous jelly had been allowed to jiggle around behind his eyeballs. Drying himself off in the large sawdust vat wasn't any better, the fluffy wood flakes feeling unusually cold today.
As ever, he'd carried the day's clothes with him to the observatory and got dressed. He found himself assuming that young lovers felt the way he did, that it was normal to feel as if clothes were suddenly some kind of hindrance. The only thing he wanted to wear was her, and her scent was on absolutely nothing. It felt like putting on someone else's clothes, a rather eerie sensation.
Still, coming out into the brisk morning air did chip away at his remaining lust. He'd wanted to give her a privileged access to what was hidden behind Lord Holden's affectations, but he still needed these shows of gentlemanly distance to feel at ease. That ice he'd chipped at felt like it was rebuilding - albeit with a special door to which Crystal now had the key.
Returning inside Holden Hall, he chanced a look at himself in one of the potted ferns' curved reflections of the main hallway. Everything was in place and nobody could've guessed that a profound change had taken root inside himself. He quirked an eyebrow at himself, mostly for show, and was rather pointlessly relieved to see that everything was still the same. If you didn't know what to look for, you wouldn't have guessed at the ways in which Lord Holden had changed.
It wasn't everyday that you became aware of your own quirks, of the things that made you yourself. His sword cane's angle, the spats he'd chosen, his copper-tinted paisley waistcoat and the assorted cravat, shirt and tail-sporting morning jacket. His fob watch's little pocket, his white gloves...
Everything had changed, and nothing had changed.
Without really knowing why, he chose to post himself at the foot of the stairs, top hat cradled in one arm and his other hand resting on his cane's pommel, as if he were waiting for her. Maybe some part of him hoped that she'd see how he'd changed without changing. What he did know, however, was that nervousness had inexplicably left him. He'd greet Crystal like the lady she was in his eyes and heart and would offer her breakfast as naturally as if they'd been courting for years. Propriety didn't matter, as he knew deep down that she was to be his for as long as her wolf spirit would give her strength and vigor, for as long as she would draw breath.
Once in his maintenance area, stripping again and entering his vat of oil didn't procure him quite as much relief as it usually did. As ever, he felt the viscous fluid seep into every nook and cranny, replacing the occasional errant bit of tension with rediscovered smoothness. He found no relaxation on a mental or emotional level, however. He still went through his routine, rotating all his main joints and working every motile part of his anatomy, making sure nothing would stick or hit a snag during the day. The sensation of oil invading his cranial space usually brought him a sense of immediate stress relief, but all he felt was that superfluous jelly had been allowed to jiggle around behind his eyeballs. Drying himself off in the large sawdust vat wasn't any better, the fluffy wood flakes feeling unusually cold today.
As ever, he'd carried the day's clothes with him to the observatory and got dressed. He found himself assuming that young lovers felt the way he did, that it was normal to feel as if clothes were suddenly some kind of hindrance. The only thing he wanted to wear was her, and her scent was on absolutely nothing. It felt like putting on someone else's clothes, a rather eerie sensation.
Still, coming out into the brisk morning air did chip away at his remaining lust. He'd wanted to give her a privileged access to what was hidden behind Lord Holden's affectations, but he still needed these shows of gentlemanly distance to feel at ease. That ice he'd chipped at felt like it was rebuilding - albeit with a special door to which Crystal now had the key.
Returning inside Holden Hall, he chanced a look at himself in one of the potted ferns' curved reflections of the main hallway. Everything was in place and nobody could've guessed that a profound change had taken root inside himself. He quirked an eyebrow at himself, mostly for show, and was rather pointlessly relieved to see that everything was still the same. If you didn't know what to look for, you wouldn't have guessed at the ways in which Lord Holden had changed.
It wasn't everyday that you became aware of your own quirks, of the things that made you yourself. His sword cane's angle, the spats he'd chosen, his copper-tinted paisley waistcoat and the assorted cravat, shirt and tail-sporting morning jacket. His fob watch's little pocket, his white gloves...
Everything had changed, and nothing had changed.
Without really knowing why, he chose to post himself at the foot of the stairs, top hat cradled in one arm and his other hand resting on his cane's pommel, as if he were waiting for her. Maybe some part of him hoped that she'd see how he'd changed without changing. What he did know, however, was that nervousness had inexplicably left him. He'd greet Crystal like the lady she was in his eyes and heart and would offer her breakfast as naturally as if they'd been courting for years. Propriety didn't matter, as he knew deep down that she was to be his for as long as her wolf spirit would give her strength and vigor, for as long as she would draw breath.