[She's dressed just as pleasantly as he is, elegant and neat without going so far as to be dressed up, emphasis and all. There's a smile on her face, pleasant but not particularly eager; she welcomes him in with a little nod.
It's all so very nice and pleasant, isn't it?
Ah, but her facade does break for a moment. She glances down at his hands, bare instead of gloved, and one eyebrow raises. It's impossible not to notice those scars, but she won't interrupt things by asking him about them just yet.]
Dinner's on the table already. Help yourself while I get the wine-- and thank you, by the way, for that.
[She won't take no for an answer, honestly, so hand over the bottle so she can find some glasses and a way to open it. The table is set, as she promised, and the lights are pleasantly dimmed (although the effect is a little ruined by the lab equipment everywhere). But the food is hot, something with chicken and wine. Not the most complex meal, but decent enough.
She returns, two glasses in hand, and takes a graceful seat.
And waits.
She'll sip her wine, but she won't be the one to initiate conversation. She's impatient at the best of times, but she also hates losing; she can wait for him to speak. Besides: this is all a bit much, isn't it? He'd left her moaning in his lap, her clothes stripped off and her dignity in pieces. He'd left her humiliated, panting, mewling for him, telling him how badly she wanted him . . .
And now here she is, acting as though this is their anniversary dinner.
If the warning bells aren't going off, he must be very stupid indeed. But he's also a curious thing, so she thinks her plan will be all right.]
[ he hands over the bottle without complaint and shuts the door behind him as rosalind sweeps away to pour the wine. he looks around clinically to register the flat's features. it's similar enough to the few other dominant apartments he's seen personally that once he gets the details down, he can just focus on her, the odd subtle tension in the room that he refuses to flinch away from.
and then she sits, straight-back and dignified, the wineglass held aloft in her elegant fingers. he makes it a point not to think about that night—
(even if it exists perfectly in his head, a picture captured in pristine glass, the way she'd looked strung up and dripping—)
—and picks up his own glass, his mouth subtly quirked. ]
You seem to have settled in well. [ even if she hasn't really personalized the space, she seems to fit right in. ]
I'm used to surroundings like this, though they're a bit brighter than my own home was. And once I found lab equipment, well. That's all I really need to be at home.
Though I wouldn't say no to a Rembrandt or two.
[Remember when she had the power to just steal them? And did? Ah, good times.]
[ he arches an eyebrow at the mention of a rembrandt, but before he can further pursue that line of inquiry rosalind references directly the ... well. holiday. it makes him pause as he takes a long sip of his wine.
sure, tumenalia and its attendant repercussions have been on his mind. he's sent out a few vague apologies, but really, he wasn't himself. he can hardly be held accountable. most of those people he won't call back. ]
Well enough, I suppose. I understand things got rough in this section of the city. [ rough might have been an understatement. he's heard about violence beyond what even he supposes he could control. ] I'd say I kept my nose clean enough in comparison. [ and then, with a touch of dry loaded humor: ] Certain circumstances notwithstanding.
[She and Dinah had killed two people, so, yeah, pretty rough. But she won't tell him that. They had it coming, and she doesn't regret it for a moment.]
Ah. That's what we're calling it.
[Her head tips. Her eyes are hooded, unfairly smug; there's a slight smile on her lips. He's sipped at his wine, and she wonders how long it will take to hit him. She'd doused it with aphrodisiacs, of course; potent ones, unable to be tasted, and she'd endured the leer of the shopkeep just to ensure she could get what she needed.
He'll start to feel it soon. He'll feel needy, desperate to be touched, desperate for her. And she'll touch him, oh, yes. She'll give him everything he wants and then some.
But no harm in stoking the fire a bit on her own. You can't trust everything to drugs.]
And how many times have you thought about that night since we parted?
[ he sets his wineglass down and leans back in his seat, uncovered fingers steepled low in his lap beyond view. there's something in rosalind's expression that he'd be stupid to trust, for the same reason it was at least ten percent stupid to come here in the first place. everything about that night is filed away in his head and what he remembers best, most vividly, is the look in her eyes as she sat astride his lap: like she'd just as soon cut his throat as she would take her pleasure.
and the fact that he's into it says more about him than he's been willing to admit to himself so far.
he shifts a little in his seat. he's never been easily embarrassed, so the warmth under his collar he can probably attribute to the wine. ]
I don't think it's a matter of quantity but persistence. I have a good memory, so ... consistently. If it pleases you to hear. [ a small dry quirk of his lip. ] But it was a long week. I assume it was the same for you.
[She smiles just slightly, acknowledging she'd heard him, without doing him the courtesy of a proper answer. Instead: she shifts, crossing one leg over the other, her slender fingers playing absently against her neck. He'd stared up at her so reverently, longingly, his body sliding over every inch of her; she has no doubt he'd stared at her throat, too.]
And did you tell anyone of what you and I did in that room? How you tied me up, put my arms over my head . . .
[Oh, yes, he remembers. She does too, he wasn't wrong there. She never would have invited him over if the only thing she'd gotten out of that night was repulsion. Instead: a furious sort of attraction, a desperation to both win and lose, hungry for revenge and humiliation both, all twisted into one heady desire that leaves her so terribly hungry for him.
Not as hungry as he'll be for her soon. Perhaps she should have put in more? Ah, but they'd only recommended a few drops, and she'd poured quite a bit more than that, so.]
All those things you made me say . . . I was shocked when you didn't make me beg you more, you know. You seem like the sort who'd enjoy nothing more than a good please.
[ stephen's eyes unblinkingly follow the path of her fingertips over the curve of her throat, the neckline of her blouse. unbidden the memory of having put his mouth there winces its way to the fore, and with it a surge of heat to add to the uncanny warmth under his clothes. he's wondering, inappropriately, what it would be like to put his mouth back: to scent beneath her ear, leave new marks. surely it was good enough, for all its disgraces, that she'd let him—would want it, ask for it without the insistence of some paltry enchantment—
he shifts in his seat, the corner of his lip tightening. he takes another long drink of wine, as if this indulgence on its own will explain the color in his neck. and the words, jesus. it's inconvenient now, to remember vividly every second, the sounds of her desperate moans in the back of his head like an echo. good to be behind a table; he's way too old to be getting hard over dinner. ]
I haven't discussed it with anyone. [ one question answered, curt and honest. stephen's transgressions are between him and those who may have been hurt. he supposes he's grateful rosalind looks unbowed.
and then his brows draw together. he sets his glass down and leans back, pulls in a long breath to steady himself, order his words carefully over the sudden thrum of his pulse in his ears. ]
... n a clearer moment I did think that begging excessively against your will didn't become you. [ his voice low. his mouth curves in a wry smirk, and then. maybe it's the wine, he reasons, that he's running hot, pushing his luck— ] Now I'm wondering if I missed out.
[Her smirk grows. She's terribly eager to take him back to her bed now, he's not wrong there, though he might be imagining a different outcome than the one she has planned. But no, she thinks, she should wait just a little. So she sits, reveling in his gaze, letting her own slide over him in turn.
He's staring at her so hungrily, his gaze so very unsubtle as it drags over her, lingering at the plane of her neck and the curve of her chest . . . god. He's flushing, she realizes with quiet delight, not with embarrassment but pure arousal, good god. He's so eager, and she'd bet anything he's at least a little hard beneath the table.
God, but she'd like his mouth on her again. Every inch of her, really; she'd enjoyed being tied up for him, though she'll never admit it, because in no small part it had meant he'd taken his time with enjoying her. The slow seduction, the languid way he'd shed her of her clothes and taken what he wanted . . . it was a pity they'd only had an hour, but, she supposes, there's always another time to have that happen again.
She'll have to be tricky about it, of course. She can't possibly ask him for it. But she'll figure out something.
In any case: he seems to be right on the verge of being too turned on to function, which is good. She tips her head, her smirk growing, and raises an eyebrow at him.]
I suppose you'll have to find that out on your own. That is, if you can manage without my being forced into obedience.
[She lets that thought sit between them for a few seconds. It's a delicious one, really, and it only adds emphasis to what happens next. Rosalind rises, not bothering to tug her skirt down as it rides up her thighs, abandoning her wine (only sipped) in favor of moving to head down the hall.]
Come along. I think dinner can wait, don't you?
[She calls it lightly over her shoulder, hips swaying as she heads for her bedroom. There's all kinds of toys waiting there for them (although they look as though they could be used for either of them, because she's hidden the more male-oriented ones away for now). Those metal handcuffs could be used on her, couldn't they? Surely that's what she means: for him to tie her to the bed and make her beg, yes, she's sure his hormone-addled brain will think something along those lines.]
[ his eyes track her as she rises from her seat, dropping down briefly to the way her skirt pulls up the creamy expanse of a thigh, too close to places he's run gloved hands over, places he's touched. he can hear, again, the slow thud of his heart in his ears; it occurs to him he's fully hard now, and his hands are twitching with the need to reach out and touch again, pull her back in his lap.
which is why that order—come along—comes with almost noxious relief. he lets out a long, slow sigh, mouth closed; he folds up his napkin gingerly and rises as well. he lingers by the table for the briefest of moments, flexing his hand against the wood, watching her ass as she saunters on ahead. it doesn't even occur to him to wonder, for now, why the hell he's so wound up, only that it takes immense will not to stalk after her more abruptly, push her up against her own bedroom door, work his cock back inside her.
instead he follows grudgingly, stopping at the doorway. she'd been ready for him, he thinks, and that just makes his jaw clench, makes him ache more. he draws in close behind her and rests a hand on the slope between her neck and shoulder, closes in on the other side, breathing in the scent of her throat, murmuring low and velvet against her ear. ]
[It's not as if, she reminds herself for what seems the hundredth time, she isn't attracted to him. It's not as if she doesn't want him. So there's no shame in melting just a little, an agreeable little shiver running through her as she tips her head and bares her throat. She knows intimately well what it would feel like for him to drag his tongue there, and a small part of her aches for it. For his teeth to drag possessively against her skin, renewing the marks he'd left there a week ago; for his hand to wander lower, slipping beneath her skirt, spreading her legs open while she tried not to moan and rock against him-- god, and there's no danger of her will faltering, but still for a moment she lets herself fantasize.
And lets him fantasize. Lets him look down her shirt, see the way her chest rising and falls a little more sharply thanks to his presence; inhale her scent and imagine all the filthy things she'll surely mewl out for him in a moment.
She even shifts her weight, settling back, letting her ass rub up against him for just a moment. He's achingly hard, hard enough that she could likely get him off without even taking his trousers off, and oh, isn't that a lovely thing to know?]
No. Not this time.
[Well, maybe. But not for long. Rosalind savors his presence for just a moment longer before steeling herself and stepping away, turning to face him with a raised eyebrow.]
Do as you're told, Stephen, and you'll find out. Go on. Lie down. Take your clothes off or don't; I'll let you decide. Though, [she adds, and reaches up, tugging languidly at the buttons of her blouse,] I still haven't gotten to see you properly.
[ when she draws in that deep breath it occurs to stephen, every bit as addled as he was that week, that he never did get a chance to put his cock between her tits. that moment feels so near at hand he can practically taste it in the air, and when the pert firmness of her ass rubs up against his hard-on he pulls in a long, low breath of his own. he's about to drop a hand onto her hip when she pulls away. ]
... fair's fair.
[ he has to make an effort not to sound petulant, which in itself might have been embarrassing normally—how he can only grudgingly do anything other than touching her, breathing her in, putting his mouth or fingers or prick wherever he pleases. his mouth twists briefly, and then he's reaching up to shed his own clothes: his shirt first, and then his scarred fingers reaching down to pull off his belt, socks, trousers.
he's all hard muscle underneath, misleadingly broad-shouldered. he didn't bother with underwear today, either, his cock long and heavy and practically already twitching. there's no room for shame in his head normally, and even less so now that he's this close to fucking her again; he slides onto the bed and stretches out, reaching down to give his cock a cursory pull. ]
Any day now. [ because festival-drunk or heavily drugged, stephen strange is still an asshole. ]
[She might bridle at his words another day. They're impatient and disrespectful, sneering like a child when he doesn't immediately get his way. Rosalind normally never allows people to talk to her like that, and today is no different, but . . . today, because she has something planned, she only smiles serenely. She'll have her revenge, and he'll learn.
It's just a matter of time and patience.]
Poor thing. You're so neglected, hm?
[As if. That's actually a joke, said sweetly as she comes forward, climbing on the bed and straddling his hips all in one swift movement. Her skirt pushes up, the tops of her stockings and bare thigh revealed. Let him look; she's too busy gently taking those scarred hands in hers, hoisting them up over his head as she leans over him.
It's not pinning him down. More of a joking suggestion of it, really, her fingers wrapping around his wrists as she kisses him. She pours her all into it, her hips rocking back to grind against him, her mouth opening pliantly. Those handcuffs are near, but she won't bother with them, not yet. Not until he seems thoroughly distracted.
So she kisses him. She slips her tongue forward and nips at his bottom lip; draws back only to scrape her teeth against his throat before she resumes. The rhythm of her hips is steady, eager, grinding back against him, staining her skirt with the drops of pre that have already gathered there. It's not enough for him to get off, but it's enough to distract him.
And when she thinks it's enough-- when he's that far gone, when all he can think about is her-- she reaches to the side, moving swiftly, handcuffing him to the bed. The click as the lock slides into place is so terribly satisfying, and she sighs as she sits up.
It's the least of what she'll do tonight, but happiness in the little things, right?]
That's a bit better.
[Rosalind rises, gently dusting herself off. Her shirt hangs half-open, her skirt rucked up, but still she keeps her clothes on. But ah, she isn't leaving him entirely-- just going to sit next to him instead of atop him, one hand idly dragging against his thigh.]
[ stephen kisses back hungrily, openmouthed and devouring. it's an easy distraction, the velvet heat of rosalind's mouth, those slender fingers in his hands. the urge to push her down and crawl over her coils like a snake in his gut; he knows any minute now he will, if he can tear his mouth away from hers, tear his head away from every brush of skin against his throbbing cock—
and then the cuffs click, and stephen's eyes open with sudden realization. the fog of lust keeps his pupils dark and wide; he looks up, pulls at his wrists, considers momentarily a magical solution—but then he's distracted when she slides off his lap and just. sits. ]
[He most certainly isn't, not if those drugs have any say. He's addled out of his mind, but just in case he focuses, her fingers creep back towards his cock. Lightly, so lightly, she slides two fingers against him, base to tip, lips parting in silent amusement at how maddening that must feel.]
Besides: if you're good, you'll get a treat.
[She glances up at him, biting her lip deliberately for a few seconds before her smug expression resumes.]
Now. Let's start at the beginning, shall we? Do you know what you did?
[ as rosalind's fingers brush up the length of his cock he actually groans, loud and low, arching up off the bed yearningly into the touch and eyes nearing rolling back already. he's so hard it'll start to hurt soon.
when at last he settles back against the bed his eyes on her are searing, following the sink of her teeth in her lower lip. he wants that—wants better than a treat, he wants to bite her mouth, kiss her hard, shove his cock inside her, her cunt, her mouth, anywhere—
so much that he almost doesn't hear the question, but when it does register, just barely through the red haze, he bares his teeth a little. ]
[Oh, those drugs were potent, weren't they? She pulls her hand back, licking her fingertips lightly before offering him a positively sadistic sort of grin.]
Poor Stephen. I know it's hard, but do try to attend.
[Ah, but maybe he needs some help. Rosalind leans forward, edging up so she can face him properly. Her hand, still damp from her tongue, slides sweetly over his cheek, caressing him like she might with a lover. His breathing is so ragged, and they've barely even started. She was always going to win this round, of course, but she hadn't dreamed it was going to be so easy.
Lightly, mockingly, her hand draws back; she cuffs him lightly on the cheek, a reprimanding little slap just to get him to pay her mind. He doesn't deserve a proper smack, not yet. He'll get one later.]
I know where your mind is. All you have to do is refocus it a little. Tell me why it is you think you're tied up here, hm? What crime could you have committed to warrant this?
[ the touch he could handle, cloying though it is; he's nearly addled enough to forget his pride. but when she cuffs him he actually growls, scarred hands jerking against the cuffs.
(it'd be simple, to do a little magic, wrest out. either it doesn't occur to him or he doesn't care to, actually, when she's so near at hand and he'd take her any which way—is she really not going to ride his cock, the idea she wouldn't is fucking appalling—) ]
Crime?
[ he settles back against the bed, eyes burning on hers. he pulls in a long breath, carefully reorders his thoughts into words rather than fuzz. ]
You mean when I tied you up. Fucked you good. [ he licks his dry lips, his eyes wandering again, over her breasts, her hips. ] I suppose ... you're looking for a mea culpa.
[It's . . . something to hear him say something so filthy, that's for sure. She could stand to hear him speaking like that for ages, but that's not the point of tonight. Still: there's a shiver that wanders down her spine as he murmurs that, heat flooding pleasantly in her cheeks.]
Something like that, yes.
[Her fingers hook under his chin, tipping his head up. His eyes are locked on her breasts, but he'll get that treat later, perhaps. For now, she leans in, forcing his eyes to meet hers.]
A proper apology. For putting words in my mouth, for forcing me to be your your little doll. For tying me up, yes, for vanishing my clothes, for marking me up-- for coming in me . . .
[She fires off each sentence like a gun, in no small part to make him writhe. He's so turned on right now, and it'll only get worse the more he thinks about what they did.]
If you wanted me, Stephen, you ought to have done it properly, but here we are. So an apology . . . a proper one. And then, perhaps, if you're very good . . . I'll let you have something.
[ each word is accompanied, of course, by a picture-pristine memory. putting words in my mouth translates too easily to i want your cock, not just your fingers; tying me up, and he's thinking about the way she looked, back arched and ass in his lap, the way her nipples had stood out, exquisite flushed peaks highlighted by the way the ropes had sectioned off her body. she's talking about the marking, he's thinking about his teeth in her neck, the rough dig of his fingers in her hips—he'd bet money that she couldn't look at them later without thinking of him, how good it had been to be held up, fucked hard, put away wet—
his throat is dry. he swallows hard, pupils blown, eyes on her face. his cock is painfully hard; he can't keep thinking of that night, the way she'd felt around him, without almost losing it already.
and even then, his mouth twists again. ]
And what happens if I'm not.
[ because it wasn't his fault, technically—no one told her to go in there, and she should've known what to expect. that stephen, in his condition, wasn't inclined to be generous for any reason other than his own voyeuristic pleasure. ]
[Oh, she'd so hoped he'd be stubborn like this. Rosalind rises, heading over to her nightstand, her back to him. Let him stare at her ass for a few moments; it's only going to make things worse for him.]
Well, then, Stephen . . .
[Whatever she'd gotten is held tight in the palm of her hand, hidden from view. She crawls over him, her free hand sliding eagerly over his bare torso, nails dragging lightly just to leave little marks. She catches him in a swift kiss, eager if not closed-mouth, savoring the taste of him even as she reaches back blindly. She'd done this with Akande; it takes only a little bit of groping . . . not there, but there, and there's such a satisfying little click as the ring snaps securely around the base of his cock.
She pulls back, nipping at his bottom lip, her eyes glittering and her mouth deliciously reddened.]
I suppose you'll simply have to suffer.
[And he will suffer. Rosalind shifts, settling between his legs. A coy look upwards, and then she tugs at her top, pulling buttons free and shedding it neatly. She's left in a lacy bra, and in some ways that's more alluring than if she'd shed it. It's a tease without satisfaction, a hint of her breasts without ever giving him the full view. They look good in this bra, hoisted up and so full, nipples hardened and straining at the fabric-- she looks good, she knows, and she looks even better as she bows over him and wraps her pretty lips tight around the head of his cock.]
[ as soon as rosalind steps away to head for her nightstand stephen's already watching her hungrily, eyes glued again to the sway of her hips.
the kiss that follows when she returns is good, though it isn't an ample enough distraction. he cranes his head up eagerly into it and tries to deepen it, succeeds at least somewhat in licking his way back in her mouth. the taste of her kiss floods his senses, rich and intoxicating; his hands pull against the cuffs, his back arching off the bed, his head turning so he can mouth hungrily at her jaw—and then the click happens, and he stiffens. ]
What the hell do you think you're doing?
[ the most coherent he's been since he's arrived with the tight grip of the cockring pushing some of that blood forcibly back to his brain. the new pressure on his cock is almost unbearable, the shaft flushed dark and aching with need. he tugs harder against the cuffs, snarls, and then rosalind's gorgeous full lips are on his cock, hot and tight amid all that pressure. ]
Fuck. God. Are you fucking kidding me—
[ if he had his head on straight stephen, who is rarely given to direct vulgarity and even forays far into arcane speech, would probably find this deeply déclassé. stephen doesn't have his head on straight; he has a vise on his dick and rosalind sucking up the beading precome on the head—her skin, her tits under that lacy bra, everything he so desperately needs just out of reach. ]
[It takes everything in her not to laugh, but she's enjoying herself too much to stop things right when they start. For all he's insufferable (and that's a big for all), Rosalind really does enjoy his body on a purely physical level. His cock is fantastically large, big and thick and such a pleasure to play with. He hadn't been wrong, she does want to sit on it again, never mind feel him bending her in half and pounding into her.
So she very much enjoys what she's doing right now, as her lips wrap firm around the head of his cock and she ducks her head down. There's real sincerity in the way she moans as his cock fills her mouth, heavy heat on her tongue, arousal already spilling down her throat; one hand even darts back, slipping beneath her skirt to tease at herself through her panties. She's content like that for a long minute: rubbing at her clit, bobbing down, letting the head of his cock nudge against her throat again and again in blatant temptation. She doesn't know if he's watching, but he ought to be; what a sight this is, with her breasts poised and her mouth all reddened and swollen.
But nothing good lasts. Her fingers grip the base of his prick, keeping him still, letting her take her time in how she draws back and slides her tongue just beneath the head, teasing him obscenely well.]
Poor Stephen . . .
[She purrs it out, smirking up at him.]
You know what you have to say, sweetness.
Or, well. What you have to say, yes, but how you have to say it, too. I shan't accept something half-assed.
[Her fingers release him, dropping to slide over his hip instead. His prick looks agonizingly hard, aching for release; she smiles as she exhales, hot breath against wet skin, her nails scratching his hip.]
I know you know how to be good, Stephen. You were so eager to wring it out of me, after all.
[ he almost doesn't hear the words, his eyes wild and set on rosalind's mouth on his cock, the sway of her breasts as she bends over him, the way she rubs herself over the lace of her panties. the sensations come too readily with memories: the way her cunt had felt around his throbbing cock, the way she'd smelled that night, it all flickers in and out of his head, an agonizing accompaniment to the present. he's overheated, his cock feels like it could've burst ages ago, maybe even from the minute she put her mouth on his dick.
she's too good at this. that's part of why really does appreciate her. there'd been finesse in everything she did for him that night, the way she'd ridden cock, came moaning on his lap. he wants more, wants to see what else she's capable of. wants to push her as hard as he did that night and then some, soak the sheets in here with her pleasure.
but even then, he doesn't beg, has almost never done it a day in his life. and he's almost visibly loath to start now, even hard and pained as he is. ]
Rosalind.
[ it's not good enough, he knows it's not good enough. he grits his teeth, tries to arch up into her touch on his hip instead, briefly caging the words he needs to say in his throat—just not far back enough. ]
[It's an indulgent inquiry, sadistic in its soft innocence, as she glances up at him, her eyes so wide and her expression so eager. Obedient, he'd called her last time. His pretty girl, his indulgent slut, his perfect little toy . . . well, if he wants that, why shouldn't he have it? Here, now, with her lips still wrapped around him, tongue dragging eagerly over the underside, her fingers working more intently.
Soon enough she breaks his gaze, though-- but only to duck down, taking him as far down as she can manage (not entirely, not yet, but more than the first pass, he's so big, fucking hell), whimpering as she does. As though she simply can't help but suck his cock; as though nothing, nothing could be better for her than tending to him.
She's really quite enjoying herself.
But ah, ah, he'd called for it, and for be it for her not to respond. That wouldn't be good, would it? Oh, no. She draws herself up slowly, letting him watch the agonizing sight of his prick slowly slipping past her wet lips, until at last only sticky strands of precome and saliva connect them-- and then nothing at all, as she pants harshly, her mouth wet and swollen, and stares at him.[
What is it?
[She has never looked so innocent and so sadistic all at once.]
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no subject
It's all so very nice and pleasant, isn't it?
Ah, but her facade does break for a moment. She glances down at his hands, bare instead of gloved, and one eyebrow raises. It's impossible not to notice those scars, but she won't interrupt things by asking him about them just yet.]
Dinner's on the table already. Help yourself while I get the wine-- and thank you, by the way, for that.
[She won't take no for an answer, honestly, so hand over the bottle so she can find some glasses and a way to open it. The table is set, as she promised, and the lights are pleasantly dimmed (although the effect is a little ruined by the lab equipment everywhere). But the food is hot, something with chicken and wine. Not the most complex meal, but decent enough.
She returns, two glasses in hand, and takes a graceful seat.
And waits.
She'll sip her wine, but she won't be the one to initiate conversation. She's impatient at the best of times, but she also hates losing; she can wait for him to speak. Besides: this is all a bit much, isn't it? He'd left her moaning in his lap, her clothes stripped off and her dignity in pieces. He'd left her humiliated, panting, mewling for him, telling him how badly she wanted him . . .
And now here she is, acting as though this is their anniversary dinner.
If the warning bells aren't going off, he must be very stupid indeed. But he's also a curious thing, so she thinks her plan will be all right.]
no subject
[ he hands over the bottle without complaint and shuts the door behind him as rosalind sweeps away to pour the wine. he looks around clinically to register the flat's features. it's similar enough to the few other dominant apartments he's seen personally that once he gets the details down, he can just focus on her, the odd subtle tension in the room that he refuses to flinch away from.
and then she sits, straight-back and dignified, the wineglass held aloft in her elegant fingers. he makes it a point not to think about that night—
(even if it exists perfectly in his head, a picture captured in pristine glass, the way she'd looked strung up and dripping—)
—and picks up his own glass, his mouth subtly quirked. ]
You seem to have settled in well. [ even if she hasn't really personalized the space, she seems to fit right in. ]
no subject
Though I wouldn't say no to a Rembrandt or two.
[Remember when she had the power to just steal them? And did? Ah, good times.]
And how have you coped since the holiday ended?
no subject
sure, tumenalia and its attendant repercussions have been on his mind. he's sent out a few vague apologies, but really, he wasn't himself. he can hardly be held accountable. most of those people he won't call back. ]
Well enough, I suppose. I understand things got rough in this section of the city. [ rough might have been an understatement. he's heard about violence beyond what even he supposes he could control. ] I'd say I kept my nose clean enough in comparison. [ and then, with a touch of dry loaded humor: ] Certain circumstances notwithstanding.
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Ah. That's what we're calling it.
[Her head tips. Her eyes are hooded, unfairly smug; there's a slight smile on her lips. He's sipped at his wine, and she wonders how long it will take to hit him. She'd doused it with aphrodisiacs, of course; potent ones, unable to be tasted, and she'd endured the leer of the shopkeep just to ensure she could get what she needed.
He'll start to feel it soon. He'll feel needy, desperate to be touched, desperate for her. And she'll touch him, oh, yes. She'll give him everything he wants and then some.
But no harm in stoking the fire a bit on her own. You can't trust everything to drugs.]
And how many times have you thought about that night since we parted?
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and the fact that he's into it says more about him than he's been willing to admit to himself so far.
he shifts a little in his seat. he's never been easily embarrassed, so the warmth under his collar he can probably attribute to the wine. ]
I don't think it's a matter of quantity but persistence. I have a good memory, so ... consistently. If it pleases you to hear. [ a small dry quirk of his lip. ] But it was a long week. I assume it was the same for you.
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And did you tell anyone of what you and I did in that room? How you tied me up, put my arms over my head . . .
[Oh, yes, he remembers. She does too, he wasn't wrong there. She never would have invited him over if the only thing she'd gotten out of that night was repulsion. Instead: a furious sort of attraction, a desperation to both win and lose, hungry for revenge and humiliation both, all twisted into one heady desire that leaves her so terribly hungry for him.
Not as hungry as he'll be for her soon. Perhaps she should have put in more? Ah, but they'd only recommended a few drops, and she'd poured quite a bit more than that, so.]
All those things you made me say . . . I was shocked when you didn't make me beg you more, you know. You seem like the sort who'd enjoy nothing more than a good please.
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he shifts in his seat, the corner of his lip tightening. he takes another long drink of wine, as if this indulgence on its own will explain the color in his neck. and the words, jesus. it's inconvenient now, to remember vividly every second, the sounds of her desperate moans in the back of his head like an echo. good to be behind a table; he's way too old to be getting hard over dinner. ]
I haven't discussed it with anyone. [ one question answered, curt and honest. stephen's transgressions are between him and those who may have been hurt. he supposes he's grateful rosalind looks unbowed.
and then his brows draw together. he sets his glass down and leans back, pulls in a long breath to steady himself, order his words carefully over the sudden thrum of his pulse in his ears. ]
... n a clearer moment I did think that begging excessively against your will didn't become you. [ his voice low. his mouth curves in a wry smirk, and then. maybe it's the wine, he reasons, that he's running hot, pushing his luck— ] Now I'm wondering if I missed out.
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He's staring at her so hungrily, his gaze so very unsubtle as it drags over her, lingering at the plane of her neck and the curve of her chest . . . god. He's flushing, she realizes with quiet delight, not with embarrassment but pure arousal, good god. He's so eager, and she'd bet anything he's at least a little hard beneath the table.
God, but she'd like his mouth on her again. Every inch of her, really; she'd enjoyed being tied up for him, though she'll never admit it, because in no small part it had meant he'd taken his time with enjoying her. The slow seduction, the languid way he'd shed her of her clothes and taken what he wanted . . . it was a pity they'd only had an hour, but, she supposes, there's always another time to have that happen again.
She'll have to be tricky about it, of course. She can't possibly ask him for it. But she'll figure out something.
In any case: he seems to be right on the verge of being too turned on to function, which is good. She tips her head, her smirk growing, and raises an eyebrow at him.]
I suppose you'll have to find that out on your own. That is, if you can manage without my being forced into obedience.
[She lets that thought sit between them for a few seconds. It's a delicious one, really, and it only adds emphasis to what happens next. Rosalind rises, not bothering to tug her skirt down as it rides up her thighs, abandoning her wine (only sipped) in favor of moving to head down the hall.]
Come along. I think dinner can wait, don't you?
[She calls it lightly over her shoulder, hips swaying as she heads for her bedroom. There's all kinds of toys waiting there for them (although they look as though they could be used for either of them, because she's hidden the more male-oriented ones away for now). Those metal handcuffs could be used on her, couldn't they? Surely that's what she means: for him to tie her to the bed and make her beg, yes, she's sure his hormone-addled brain will think something along those lines.]
Lie down for me.
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which is why that order—come along—comes with almost noxious relief. he lets out a long, slow sigh, mouth closed; he folds up his napkin gingerly and rises as well. he lingers by the table for the briefest of moments, flexing his hand against the wood, watching her ass as she saunters on ahead. it doesn't even occur to him to wonder, for now, why the hell he's so wound up, only that it takes immense will not to stalk after her more abruptly, push her up against her own bedroom door, work his cock back inside her.
instead he follows grudgingly, stopping at the doorway. she'd been ready for him, he thinks, and that just makes his jaw clench, makes him ache more. he draws in close behind her and rests a hand on the slope between her neck and shoulder, closes in on the other side, breathing in the scent of her throat, murmuring low and velvet against her ear. ]
Planning to sit on it again?
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And lets him fantasize. Lets him look down her shirt, see the way her chest rising and falls a little more sharply thanks to his presence; inhale her scent and imagine all the filthy things she'll surely mewl out for him in a moment.
She even shifts her weight, settling back, letting her ass rub up against him for just a moment. He's achingly hard, hard enough that she could likely get him off without even taking his trousers off, and oh, isn't that a lovely thing to know?]
No. Not this time.
[Well, maybe. But not for long. Rosalind savors his presence for just a moment longer before steeling herself and stepping away, turning to face him with a raised eyebrow.]
Do as you're told, Stephen, and you'll find out. Go on. Lie down. Take your clothes off or don't; I'll let you decide. Though, [she adds, and reaches up, tugging languidly at the buttons of her blouse,] I still haven't gotten to see you properly.
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... fair's fair.
[ he has to make an effort not to sound petulant, which in itself might have been embarrassing normally—how he can only grudgingly do anything other than touching her, breathing her in, putting his mouth or fingers or prick wherever he pleases. his mouth twists briefly, and then he's reaching up to shed his own clothes: his shirt first, and then his scarred fingers reaching down to pull off his belt, socks, trousers.
he's all hard muscle underneath, misleadingly broad-shouldered. he didn't bother with underwear today, either, his cock long and heavy and practically already twitching. there's no room for shame in his head normally, and even less so now that he's this close to fucking her again; he slides onto the bed and stretches out, reaching down to give his cock a cursory pull. ]
Any day now. [ because festival-drunk or heavily drugged, stephen strange is still an asshole. ]
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It's just a matter of time and patience.]
Poor thing. You're so neglected, hm?
[As if. That's actually a joke, said sweetly as she comes forward, climbing on the bed and straddling his hips all in one swift movement. Her skirt pushes up, the tops of her stockings and bare thigh revealed. Let him look; she's too busy gently taking those scarred hands in hers, hoisting them up over his head as she leans over him.
It's not pinning him down. More of a joking suggestion of it, really, her fingers wrapping around his wrists as she kisses him. She pours her all into it, her hips rocking back to grind against him, her mouth opening pliantly. Those handcuffs are near, but she won't bother with them, not yet. Not until he seems thoroughly distracted.
So she kisses him. She slips her tongue forward and nips at his bottom lip; draws back only to scrape her teeth against his throat before she resumes. The rhythm of her hips is steady, eager, grinding back against him, staining her skirt with the drops of pre that have already gathered there. It's not enough for him to get off, but it's enough to distract him.
And when she thinks it's enough-- when he's that far gone, when all he can think about is her-- she reaches to the side, moving swiftly, handcuffing him to the bed. The click as the lock slides into place is so terribly satisfying, and she sighs as she sits up.
It's the least of what she'll do tonight, but happiness in the little things, right?]
That's a bit better.
[Rosalind rises, gently dusting herself off. Her shirt hangs half-open, her skirt rucked up, but still she keeps her clothes on. But ah, she isn't leaving him entirely-- just going to sit next to him instead of atop him, one hand idly dragging against his thigh.]
Let's talk about apologies. Shall we, Strange?
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and then the cuffs click, and stephen's eyes open with sudden realization. the fog of lust keeps his pupils dark and wide; he looks up, pulls at his wrists, considers momentarily a magical solution—but then he's distracted when she slides off his lap and just. sits. ]
What, now?
[ ??? WHY GOD ]
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[He most certainly isn't, not if those drugs have any say. He's addled out of his mind, but just in case he focuses, her fingers creep back towards his cock. Lightly, so lightly, she slides two fingers against him, base to tip, lips parting in silent amusement at how maddening that must feel.]
Besides: if you're good, you'll get a treat.
[She glances up at him, biting her lip deliberately for a few seconds before her smug expression resumes.]
Now. Let's start at the beginning, shall we? Do you know what you did?
[She may just drag this out forever.]
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when at last he settles back against the bed his eyes on her are searing, following the sink of her teeth in her lower lip. he wants that—wants better than a treat, he wants to bite her mouth, kiss her hard, shove his cock inside her, her cunt, her mouth, anywhere—
so much that he almost doesn't hear the question, but when it does register, just barely through the red haze, he bares his teeth a little. ]
What.
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Poor Stephen. I know it's hard, but do try to attend.
[Ah, but maybe he needs some help. Rosalind leans forward, edging up so she can face him properly. Her hand, still damp from her tongue, slides sweetly over his cheek, caressing him like she might with a lover. His breathing is so ragged, and they've barely even started. She was always going to win this round, of course, but she hadn't dreamed it was going to be so easy.
Lightly, mockingly, her hand draws back; she cuffs him lightly on the cheek, a reprimanding little slap just to get him to pay her mind. He doesn't deserve a proper smack, not yet. He'll get one later.]
I know where your mind is. All you have to do is refocus it a little. Tell me why it is you think you're tied up here, hm? What crime could you have committed to warrant this?
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(it'd be simple, to do a little magic, wrest out. either it doesn't occur to him or he doesn't care to, actually, when she's so near at hand and he'd take her any which way—is she really not going to ride his cock, the idea she wouldn't is fucking appalling—) ]
Crime?
[ he settles back against the bed, eyes burning on hers. he pulls in a long breath, carefully reorders his thoughts into words rather than fuzz. ]
You mean when I tied you up. Fucked you good. [ he licks his dry lips, his eyes wandering again, over her breasts, her hips. ] I suppose ... you're looking for a mea culpa.
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Something like that, yes.
[Her fingers hook under his chin, tipping his head up. His eyes are locked on her breasts, but he'll get that treat later, perhaps. For now, she leans in, forcing his eyes to meet hers.]
A proper apology. For putting words in my mouth, for forcing me to be your your little doll. For tying me up, yes, for vanishing my clothes, for marking me up-- for coming in me . . .
[She fires off each sentence like a gun, in no small part to make him writhe. He's so turned on right now, and it'll only get worse the more he thinks about what they did.]
If you wanted me, Stephen, you ought to have done it properly, but here we are. So an apology . . . a proper one. And then, perhaps, if you're very good . . . I'll let you have something.
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his throat is dry. he swallows hard, pupils blown, eyes on her face. his cock is painfully hard; he can't keep thinking of that night, the way she'd felt around him, without almost losing it already.
and even then, his mouth twists again. ]
And what happens if I'm not.
[ because it wasn't his fault, technically—no one told her to go in there, and she should've known what to expect. that stephen, in his condition, wasn't inclined to be generous for any reason other than his own voyeuristic pleasure. ]
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Well, then, Stephen . . .
[Whatever she'd gotten is held tight in the palm of her hand, hidden from view. She crawls over him, her free hand sliding eagerly over his bare torso, nails dragging lightly just to leave little marks. She catches him in a swift kiss, eager if not closed-mouth, savoring the taste of him even as she reaches back blindly. She'd done this with Akande; it takes only a little bit of groping . . . not there, but there, and there's such a satisfying little click as the ring snaps securely around the base of his cock.
She pulls back, nipping at his bottom lip, her eyes glittering and her mouth deliciously reddened.]
I suppose you'll simply have to suffer.
[And he will suffer. Rosalind shifts, settling between his legs. A coy look upwards, and then she tugs at her top, pulling buttons free and shedding it neatly. She's left in a lacy bra, and in some ways that's more alluring than if she'd shed it. It's a tease without satisfaction, a hint of her breasts without ever giving him the full view. They look good in this bra, hoisted up and so full, nipples hardened and straining at the fabric-- she looks good, she knows, and she looks even better as she bows over him and wraps her pretty lips tight around the head of his cock.]
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the kiss that follows when she returns is good, though it isn't an ample enough distraction. he cranes his head up eagerly into it and tries to deepen it, succeeds at least somewhat in licking his way back in her mouth. the taste of her kiss floods his senses, rich and intoxicating; his hands pull against the cuffs, his back arching off the bed, his head turning so he can mouth hungrily at her jaw—and then the click happens, and he stiffens. ]
What the hell do you think you're doing?
[ the most coherent he's been since he's arrived with the tight grip of the cockring pushing some of that blood forcibly back to his brain. the new pressure on his cock is almost unbearable, the shaft flushed dark and aching with need. he tugs harder against the cuffs, snarls, and then rosalind's gorgeous full lips are on his cock, hot and tight amid all that pressure. ]
Fuck. God. Are you fucking kidding me—
[ if he had his head on straight stephen, who is rarely given to direct vulgarity and even forays far into arcane speech, would probably find this deeply déclassé. stephen doesn't have his head on straight; he has a vise on his dick and rosalind sucking up the beading precome on the head—her skin, her tits under that lacy bra, everything he so desperately needs just out of reach. ]
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So she very much enjoys what she's doing right now, as her lips wrap firm around the head of his cock and she ducks her head down. There's real sincerity in the way she moans as his cock fills her mouth, heavy heat on her tongue, arousal already spilling down her throat; one hand even darts back, slipping beneath her skirt to tease at herself through her panties. She's content like that for a long minute: rubbing at her clit, bobbing down, letting the head of his cock nudge against her throat again and again in blatant temptation. She doesn't know if he's watching, but he ought to be; what a sight this is, with her breasts poised and her mouth all reddened and swollen.
But nothing good lasts. Her fingers grip the base of his prick, keeping him still, letting her take her time in how she draws back and slides her tongue just beneath the head, teasing him obscenely well.]
Poor Stephen . . .
[She purrs it out, smirking up at him.]
You know what you have to say, sweetness.
Or, well. What you have to say, yes, but how you have to say it, too. I shan't accept something half-assed.
[Her fingers release him, dropping to slide over his hip instead. His prick looks agonizingly hard, aching for release; she smiles as she exhales, hot breath against wet skin, her nails scratching his hip.]
I know you know how to be good, Stephen. You were so eager to wring it out of me, after all.
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[ he almost doesn't hear the words, his eyes wild and set on rosalind's mouth on his cock, the sway of her breasts as she bends over him, the way she rubs herself over the lace of her panties. the sensations come too readily with memories: the way her cunt had felt around his throbbing cock, the way she'd smelled that night, it all flickers in and out of his head, an agonizing accompaniment to the present. he's overheated, his cock feels like it could've burst ages ago, maybe even from the minute she put her mouth on his dick.
she's too good at this. that's part of why really does appreciate her. there'd been finesse in everything she did for him that night, the way she'd ridden cock, came moaning on his lap. he wants more, wants to see what else she's capable of. wants to push her as hard as he did that night and then some, soak the sheets in here with her pleasure.
but even then, he doesn't beg, has almost never done it a day in his life. and he's almost visibly loath to start now, even hard and pained as he is. ]
Rosalind.
[ it's not good enough, he knows it's not good enough. he grits his teeth, tries to arch up into her touch on his hip instead, briefly caging the words he needs to say in his throat—just not far back enough. ]
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[It's an indulgent inquiry, sadistic in its soft innocence, as she glances up at him, her eyes so wide and her expression so eager. Obedient, he'd called her last time. His pretty girl, his indulgent slut, his perfect little toy . . . well, if he wants that, why shouldn't he have it? Here, now, with her lips still wrapped around him, tongue dragging eagerly over the underside, her fingers working more intently.
Soon enough she breaks his gaze, though-- but only to duck down, taking him as far down as she can manage (not entirely, not yet, but more than the first pass, he's so big, fucking hell), whimpering as she does. As though she simply can't help but suck his cock; as though nothing, nothing could be better for her than tending to him.
She's really quite enjoying herself.
But ah, ah, he'd called for it, and for be it for her not to respond. That wouldn't be good, would it? Oh, no. She draws herself up slowly, letting him watch the agonizing sight of his prick slowly slipping past her wet lips, until at last only sticky strands of precome and saliva connect them-- and then nothing at all, as she pants harshly, her mouth wet and swollen, and stares at him.[
What is it?
[She has never looked so innocent and so sadistic all at once.]
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