albinomilksnake | Open RP: Smutty nonsense

It's the most personal question she's put to him so far, and it catches him a bit off guard. But it doesn't take long for Talbot to suspect that this is less about him and more about her--she did give up a life out there. It's only natural she would seek some solidarity.

He finishes off his glass and rocks it between his fingers, staring down at it for a moment before tilting his head to look at her.

"Before this one, I never had a life to miss."

Hell if she knows what that means, but she's got a few guesses. He's at least giving her something to work with; she'll take it.

"Suppose that makes it easier, yeah." Honestly, given the luxuries he and Marlowe enjoy on the regular, she supposes she hasn't got much room to complain, either. Or won't, eventually, if this keeps up.

"Does it get any easier?" Frazer asks, pauses to take another long sip, "All this training, I mean."

For the sake of the conversation, it's fortunate she doesn't push it. He doesn't have any intention of talking about his past.
As far as he's concerned, his life began when Marlowe took him under her wing.

"When what you learn here saves your life, keeps you in good wine and fills your pockets, it gets easier. But never easy," he adds, reaching to refill his glass.

She's surprised he's going in for more. Honestly, she'd half expected him to restrain himself the way he does when Marlowe's around.

But then he'd likely not be seated on her bed sipping 'borrowed' wine if she was around, either.

Which makes her curious as to just how far he can be pressed.

"And that's all you've done till now. Survive and get better at it."

"Surviving implies desperation. Does anything about this place seem desperate to you?" No one who isn't either noble or independently wealthy enjoys the daily luxury they do. Satin sheets, priceless wine, a hand-tailored wardrobe the worth of which must be astronomical.

Talbot has a fair tolerance for the port, but he sips at his second glass more slowly.

"You mean aside from the fact that everyone here is twice our age at least?" Wealth isn't a substitute for company-- real company, after all.

He shrugs, holding the glass between his knees and swirling the ruby red liquid inside idly.

"Something else to get used to. I hardly notice." This is, in fact, the longest conversation he's had with another person his age in years.

"Somehow I doubt that." Very much doubt it, given where he is and what they're doing. Maybe he hadn't noticed it before she turned up, but Talbot certainly isn't here because he's blind to what few things they have in common.

Frazer leans a touch closer."I just think you're missing out."

"Really. And what do other young people have to offer that I can't find right here?" He isn't really aware that she's creeping into his space. Blame it on the wine; it's just beginning to catch up with him.

Frazer sets her fingers-- nail first-- across the mid-point of his thigh. Between the two of them he's the worse off when it comes to wine, but she's always had a weakness for curiosity and control, in equal amounts.

"Oh, I don't know, mate," last bit slipping out before she can catch it. He won't find that charming if he's sober enough to catch it. Ah well. "The conversation might not be as enlightening, but I like to think it has its fair share of assets."

Assets. Get it.

Talbot isn't nearly so far gone that the touch doesn't get his attention. But it's so unexpected that her other faux pas slips his notice.

His grip tightens on his glass, and he eyes the hand on his thigh warily, like a strange and exotic insect he's never seen before.

"For example?"

She has her palm over his thigh and he still isn't taking the hint. Adorable, really.

"Finish off your drink first." Or she'll do it for him, because there's nothing more awkward than trying to balance a half-full glass while--

And he does. Not because the glass is inconvenient, but because as her hand warms that spot on his leg and its implications sink in, he has an inkling he'll need the fortitude in a moment.

Talbot isn't blind. He knows Frazer is a very beautiful, very desirable woman. But until this instant, he hasn't allowed himself to see those traits as anything more than a useful set of tools--a set now in service of the Order.

"Frazer..." he warns. There isn't much conviction in his voice.

It's odd. He's a completely different breed than the sort she's used to dealing with, and for all his polish and training, he's-- well, he's still a bloody kid isn't he? Young and inexperienced even if it's hardly obvious.

Must've been nice, growing up like that.

"Don't worry darling, I'm not gonna hurt you." Teasing or not, Frazer's fingers crawl up a few inches higher as she leans in over the gap between them.

"Pain isn't what concerns me." His voice cracks when he laughs, the sound almost a whisper. He's light-headed, he's warm, and it isn't just the wine. There are a dozen reasons he should brush her off of him and stand, scold her and leave. And yet the one urging him to stay is the strongest, originates in the repressed curiosity of a disciplined young man who's never been with a woman.

She's fascinated by it. Not the intimacy, that she's more than comfortable with, but the shift in power that comes from her hand running along the inside of his thigh, slipping up beneath the hem of his waistcoat and digging in around the edge of his belt. Marlowe holds all the cards ( and likely always will) it's just that before this moment, Talbot seemed above her as well. Untouchable, stern, nearly inhuman with how dedicated he is to the Order's cause.

Frazer presses her lips to the center of his throat. Breathes in once and catches the scent of cologne and pressed laundry. It's strange. It's all strange. He's a bloody guard dog, and she's never once seen a speck of dirt on him.

"Well you're certainly not afraid of me."

The change in the air between them hasn't been a subtle one, either. Even though her mouth at his throat and her fingers at his belt throw his focus, he feels it too. She has him.

That knowledge isn't distressing as he'd expect it to be. The frantic flutter of his pulse under Frazer's lips has nothing to do with fear.

"Never," Talbot says, swallowing down a shiver. "As I said, we're family."

"Good."

Family. Most families don't adopt with suitcases filled to the brim with money, or expect their newly adopted to endure ops level training under the influence. She has to suppress a scoff from slipping out, covers it with the scrape of teeth and a firm tug on his belt to pop it open. Using the leverage of it to climb over him is easy.

The whole thing is, really.

"Shame you've missed out on this for so long..."

There is no avoiding looking at her when she straddles him. He shifts his weight toward the nightstand before she can finish settling hers in his lap, fumbling with his empty glass until it clatters out of his reach and clinks gently off the side of the decanter.

"Have I? Are you so sure?" But he isn't fooling anyone. Once his hands are empty, he finds he has no idea where to put them.

He gets a raised brow for that remark, and the slim, half-curled fraction of a smile that's only locked down for courtesy's sake. She leans back far enough to straddle him, though, one leg on the floor and the other curled around the side of his body. Easier to undo the rest of the fastenings.

"On my hips is fine."

He scowls at her, resentment rising like bile in his mouth at how easily she reads him in this. But it doesn't last, because in an instant his hands are at her wonderfully full hips and his trousers are open and she'll find him hard an risen to the occasion.

Which honestly only serves to encourage her more.

"Thought we were family." She says, all low and breathy through her teeth - through a grin that's just as malicious as it is eager. "You don't mind family having the upper hand now, do you?"

The heel of her palm digs in under the seam of his trousers, slides up lazily till her fingers touch shirt tails. Upper hand. Literally.

"I don't know--" Talbot begins, the last syllable docked short when her hand finds him. He exhales harshly, his fingers biting into her hipbones. It takes a tense, shuddering moment for the sensation to even out and let his head out of its vice long enough to finish his thought.

"I've never had a sister."

"That's sick, mate." Not that she isn't chuckling as she says it, enjoying the sting of his nails sinking in through fabric and settling against bone. Keeps kneading away as she looms over his tense angles, takes in the sight of his face while she does. Control. It's been a long bloody time since that was back in her hands.

"This wasn't my idea," he reminds her. Tempered perhaps by a slipping determination to save face, his voice is remarkably even now. But the rest of his body tells Frazer everything she needs to know: a thin sheen of perspiration gathers at his temples, his Adam's apple works soundlessly in his throat, and he tilts his hips eagerly up into the pressure of her skillful hand.

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