A Lesson in Aesthetics (for asthedrivensnow )

[prettyawkward]

Maybe there was something to be said for less sleep in a twenty-four hour day.  Rabastan hadn't done much to the rest of the house, but his studio was, for the most part, much cleaner than it had been previously.  He had even purchased a new chaise, shoving the other in the far corner as a new storage place for scrap canvases and boards.  The lighting had been rearranged, and he had even managed to paint the walls in solid colours, relieving it of the splattered paint swatches, cracks, and tears that had developed over the last few months of his restless nights.  His room, of course, was still an absolute disaster area, but Narcissa hadn't mentioned needing to occupy that space.  

Currently, Rabastan was sitting in the hall that led to his bedroom, staring at the wall before him.  Several times, he had imagined Narcissa returning, to the point where he had almost convinced himself she had, only to realise it hadn't happened, after all.  His eyelids closed and opened in near slow-motion.  Everything felt delayed, and he wasn't really sure how long he had been sitting there.  There was a mutter, and he responded, but so quietly he could hardly make it out himself.

Comments

[asthedrivensnow]

"Mind the needles don't prick you, too," she sighs, a little dreamily, as he slowly exposes her back and the peach silk camisole she wears beneath the dark green dress.

The buttons run all the way to the cleft of her bottom, though that's hidden from him by matching silk shorts, held on at her hips by velvet ribbons.

She shrugs her arms free and lets the heavy fabric fall, trusting that he'll catch it.

[prettyawkward]

That he does, his hands full of the fabric when they'd rather be somewhere else. He held up the dress as though he was afraid touching it too much might damage it somehow.

He glanced around for something, anything to hang it up with, finally locating a twist of wire that he can form into a makeshift hanger, and perch atop the open door.

"Does...that feel better, Narcissa?"

[asthedrivensnow]

She's standing at the window again when he asks his question, about a metre or so from the sill. Still on tiptoes, she turns once in a slow circle, the wan sunlight creating shadows as she moves.

"Yes. It does."

Then her eyes spy her glass and she flits over to it, picking it up with both hands and facing him with a guileless expression.

"Shall we have another?"

[prettyawkward]

Rabastan took a moment, his eyes distracted by smooth silk and what it hides. He snapped out of it soon enough.

"Ah...you won't fall asleep on me, will you?"

[asthedrivensnow]

Normally she'd have a snappy reply ready, but she's already pleasantly buzzed and floating. So she thinks about it.

"...probably not?"

[prettyawkward]

It was her reaction that caused the muscles in his face to pull tight into a smile.

"All right, then," he said, motioning for her to follow him back to the kitchen, "You'll join me, yeah?"

Maybe in the back of his mind he thought she might disappear if he went by himself. All these once strange thoughts sometimes seemed so reasonable, but at least he wasn't feeding off of them as much as he usually would.

[asthedrivensnow]

Nodding, her smile echoes his - but hers is much more relaxed, and she doesn't so much as walk with him as meander slowly behind him, staring into her glass.

He may have to remind her to hurry if he doesn't want to turn around and find her in a room she shouldn't be in.

[prettyawkward]

He kept an eye on her, guiding her all the way there. As much as a part of him would want her in his bedroom, there's a much larger part that would be terrified of what she'd see. Walls covered in carved words, painted words, slashes and marks everywhere. A gateway into his brain, for the most part. An absolute, horrific mess of abusive and terrifying words that he hears on a regular basis.

But enough of that.

He led her into the kitchen, pulling out the firewhiskey, and the small vile of potion. He quickly, haphazardly mixes up the concoction, handing her the glass back, and taking a large gulp of his own.

"Haaaa, fuck...I hope I don't get too out of hand for you!"

[asthedrivensnow]

She'd be horrified and fascinated, and frankly, she's in the frame of mind where she'd crawl all over everything and ask invasive questions.

Leaning against the table as he mixes their drinks, she takes her glass back and stares at the amber liquid. Narcissa has absolutely no way of knowing what the correct dosage is of that potion, nor does she care at this point. She has another mouthful, licks the remnants of liquor from her lips and says, "Fuck is a very vulgar word, Rabbie."

[prettyawkward]

"Hmm? Oh. I suppose it is. Sometimes I say it so often I hardly realise it."

He looked down at his drink, rolling his glass around so the liquid swirls around the edges.

"Sometimes I forget what it means. I'm sorry if it offends you..."

[asthedrivensnow]

Her head tilts, and she stares at him for a moment that's almost too long as to be uncomfortable.

"I didn't say I was offended, though, did I?"

Many words are vulgar. And she's a lady, in her undergarments, high in his kitchen.

[prettyawkward]

It did make him feel slightly uncomfortable. Enough that he broke his eyes away from hers and stared at the ground with a shrug.

"No, you didn't. Mum always thought it was inappropriate. She'd slap me for it, often. I just kept doing it. She finally gave up.

Haaa, that's a downer. So you're all right with me saying it, then?"

He took another sip of his drink.

[asthedrivensnow]

She shrugs, the thin strap of her camisole sliding from her shoulder. There's no brassiere beneath it.

"You may say whatever you wish in your home." Another sip. "But I reserve the right to comment on it."

[prettyawkward]

"Fair enough," he said, but his eyes fell on her shoulder. The skin looked smooth, milky and he fell into a series of mental scenarios of how he wished he could proceed over the next few minutes. They all passed through his mind at once, and although it felt like ages, it might have only been a few seconds in reality.

After a moment of dumb blinking, he snapped back into the present.

"You...your skin looks...soft. Er...I mean, since before you had said the dress was like needles, but now you look like you feel soft. Very...soft."

[asthedrivensnow]

Her head tilts as he examines her, and the air in the kitchen feels thick, like fog and molasses. At his words, her hand lifts to that shoulder, her fingers briefly caressing her skin.

"It is," she replies, tugging her strap back up, not that it makes any conceivable difference. "And it was, it was hideous. I'm better off without it."

She sways a little, then has another mouthful of her drink.

[prettyawkward]

There was a brief hesitation, and then Rabastan moved toward her, stopping a few inches from her. With a wary, halting sort of reach, he moved his hand in an attempt to touch that same shoulder.

He wasn't sure if she'd allow it, or if it would ruin anything, but he somehow just felt utterly compelled to do it. Just a small, light touch. Fingertips on skin. A harmless part of her, he'd hoped.

[asthedrivensnow]

She watches him approach, her wariness firmly squashed by the dreamy lassitude the potion has induced in her. Grey-blue eyes watch his fingers move toward her shoulder as if through water, and when they finally reach her skin, she sighs.

"Feathers... that feels like feathers..."

[prettyawkward]

"Yeah?" he asked, feeling a bit more confident now that she seemed to appreciate the touch. He moved his fingers up across her neck, and then back down her arm.

"You really do feel soft. I think...it might be the drink. It makes everything feel different. Not strange, or anything, just...different. Do you like it?"

[asthedrivensnow]

"Yeah... I mean. Yes," she corrects herself, the skin that he's touching shuddering under his fingertips. "Feathers."

She feels very fuzzy and cloudy, like she's wrapped in cotton wool, and she stares at him when he asks his question, not quite sure if he means does she like his touch, or the effects of the drink. Both are causing a physical reaction, and she covers her confusion by lifting her glass to her lips and taking another mouthful. A single drop of potion-laced whiskey falls from her lip to the top of her breast, leaving a darker patch on the lace-edged peach silk. "It's... nice." Which doesn't answer anything, and she thinks she's been marvellously clever.

[prettyawkward]

His eyes fell to the drop, swallowing hard as he was considering how to proceed. He knew everything he wanted to do, but he wasn't sure it was something he should do, and her behaviour wasn't really giving him a definitive reading.

"You've...spilled," he muttered, barely audible through a shaky breath. She was so close. So close, and so thinly dressed.

[asthedrivensnow]

Her gaze follows his, and she looks down at the darker drop of silk with a vaguely confused air.

"...oops?" There's a quiet sound that might be a giggle on someone less refined, not that her currect state is anything approaching refinement. Her hand lifts to touch it, the tip of her index finger lightly brushing the wet fabric before it falls to her side. "You wanted me to take it off at some point anyway, didn't you?"

For Art. Of course.

[prettyawkward]

"Ah---" he hesitated, not expecting that question, so he just sort of mumbled an incoherent, yet positive, response that he topped off with a nod of his head.

[asthedrivensnow]

Her eyes are clouded from the potion, the only part of her iris not swallowed up by her artificially enlarged pupils much more grey than blue, and she drains the rest of her drink, setting the glass down on the table.

"You should," she begins poking him in the chest and then turning around and drifting to the door, peach silk only just covering her backside, "use your words."

[prettyawkward]

He followed along like an obedient dog as his eyes kept a close watch on just how that silk kept everything just out of sight.

"I'll use whatever you want me to," he let slip out, not really sure what he meant by that, or how she'd take it.

Rabastan's own mind was clouded over by the potion, the alcohol, and now that familiar, building lust. He had been doing well with keeping himself at bay, but now it was like the floodgates had been opened.

[asthedrivensnow]

"Will you?" She turns her head to give him an arch look over her shoulder, and stumbles only slightly as she makes her way along the hall. One hand uses the wall for balance, and she muffles a giggle. "But I like words."

Words do more for her than money, material possessions, looks... as soon as Lucius works that out, Narcissa will end up giving in. But so far, he's too busy trying to impress her the same way most other girls are impressed - with his name, and his wealth, and the places he can take her. He's neglecting to take into account that the Blacks are just as wealthy, and that as the youngest daughter, Narcissa has already seen young men falling and fawning all over her sisters. She knows what she wants, and he's yet to give it to her.

Slipping into his studio, her balance abandons her, and she crumples into a giggling heap on the floor.

"Oops..."