The Gentleman Caller.

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Yva
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The Gentleman Caller.

Postby Yva » Wed Feb 09, 2011 1:25 pm

It started small, with just a glimpse of a name in a newspaper. Feats were mentioned, a past riddled with trials and tribulations that were trumped by eventual victories, all of which had a cost, but none of which destroyed her life. She had a good profile in the picture posted there - it was strong in some places, soft in others. Her eyes were sharp with just a little glint of mischief. Her smile promised loud laughs and sly smirks all at the same time.

It was enough to draw him in, to want to know more. He was, at first, simply curious.

The problem was she was like the snippet to a song he couldn't get out of his head. He'd work with his leathers, tanning hides and crafting armor from whatever scales or materials he could muster up. They called him an artist with a needle, and they paid well for the fruits of his labors. What they didn't know, what he couldn't explain himself was how he thought of her the entirety of those work hours. He pictured the jut of her chin, and how her nose had that little tilt. He'd picture the arc of her ear, and the way her hair looked when the strands hung in her face. He worked his fingers to the bone, willing her to leave his thoughts, but she came back, drifting into his life like a ghost - not quite there, but not gone either. She was an ever present distraction within the confines of his workshop.

Like any man possessed he thought to purge her from his system. With songs, once you heard the actual tune it'd usually have the good grace to leave the caverns of your mind, and so he said "Just one glimpse of her in the flesh will do, it'll be over then." Her people - yes, she had people, and they wore black and red - had an establishment in the shadier parts of town. He went there later at night, hoping she'd stop by to conduct her business, or to fraternize with the renowned ne'er-do-wells she called her brethren.

Thanks to awful timing, or perhaps her own long absence, it took almost two weeks of nightly visits to see her.

He was waiting in the corner, quietly drinking, for the most part ignored by the boisterous bunches occupying the main room. She walked in with a smile and a wave, making her way to the largest center table. There was a swing to her movements he hadn't counted on, and the way she held her head exposed the column of her neck - slightly long and graceful, making him think of a swan. Something primal inside of him demanded he walk over, lift her hair, and sniff her skin. He bet she'd be sweet and maybe just a little salty, like the sea air in the harbor. Immediately he was appalled at his thoughts; he was a good man, a hard working man, a man who kept to himself and was respected by the community. Men like that didn't picture themselves sniffing ladies in public. Especially ladies with a gentleman who strode up to rest his hand on her shoulder. She was taken, perhaps, or at least close to one of the men there. This meant she was off limits. She was not to be.

That first night he slammed his coin onto the table, swearing he'd never return. He'd seen her, no longer a whimsical fantasy from a page seven news article, but now a thing of flesh and blood. He'd thought it'd be enough, he'd thought he'd be done now. The problem was, the reality was so much better than what he'd conjured that his hands were shaking and he was trembling all over. When he returned to his flat, alone with a candle and shadows to stoke his imagination, he tried to rub her from his mind, to sate the hunger that he had to accept would never be sated.

It wasn't enough. It'd never be enough, and looking at his soiled handkerchief just made him frustrated. He was pathetic, a grown man given to a young man's lust, given to something that had surpassed "interest" and moved onto "consuming". He couldn't get her out of his head - her shoulder, her arm, her laugh. Her skin.

Damn her skin.

He worked himself into a frenzy thrice that night just thinking of the smoothness of her skin.

The next day was the first he couldn't concentrate on his trade, stabbing his calloused fingers with his needle over and over, to the point he had angry red pinpricks marring him from tip to knuckle. He thrust the leathers away and found his now-weathered copy of the paper, opening up to that article and, more specifically, her picture. He took scissors to the page, meticulously cutting her out, ensuring that he never clipped a strand of her hair or trimmed her shadow short. Even the silhouette of her against the wall was too precious to lose. Staring at it, staring at her, he realized he had no focus. There was no way he could justify returning to the tools. The leatherman would get nothing accomplished today, and so he closed the shop, heading home to revisit the previous night's fantasies.

Soft skin, supple curves, valleys and hollows left to be explored.

Three days this continued, him barely remembering to eat or drink or wash. He peered at the photograph, utterly transfixed before the release came and - once spent - he'd kiss her on her papered cheek as if to thank her. It wasn't burying his nose in her hair, or holding her tight, but it was something. It was a suitable replacement for the time being.

He should have known then that it wouldn't get better, that it'd only get worse. The rational parts of his mind, the parts that were still "a good man" should have warned him away, but the will was weak in the wake of such want. What had started small had grown into something much bigger, something much more frightening. The initial attraction was bordering now on a physical need that pained him, that chafed him raw and left him breathless for more.

It was a sobering realization, and yet . . . he did not draw away from it as he ought. The good man was silenced by the loudness of the blood pounding through his veins.

Yes, he needed her now.

The question was, how to get her.

((I haven't quite decided which Rider lady is getting stalked. You too could be the target of Leatherman's affections. AREN'T Y'ALL JUST LUCKY?))
So if you meet me have some courtesy, have some sympathy and some taste. Use all your well-learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste.

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Alonora
Posts: 137
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Location: Hiding in those trees ahead, to the left. No. Your other left.
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Re: The Gentleman Caller.

Postby Alonora » Thu Feb 10, 2011 1:53 am

((*munches popcorn* This is too awesome, I am loving it. Moar plis? XD ))
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