Nightingale, Blackbird {Christian}

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

He was winning. He was actually winning. Oh, it was a glorious feeling. The added bonus of having her body pressed so tightly against his, her breasts pushed up against his chest, their smells mixing in a strange aroma of flowers and petrichor. She was trying to keep her poise, but it was slipping so far from her, and it was beautiful. Like a ballet dancer who was finally caught off balance. Like a bird that flew into a window, and tried to hop back up as if nothing had happened. Like a green hunter who just wet himself over the dreaded fang toothed fawn or the razor taloned pheasant. And in her vulnerability, Christian found himself feeling a part of the highly exclusive club who ever saw Emilie Simone in such a state. Perhaps even the lone member.

If Christian ever loved anything, it was feeling special.

"Is there something to tell? Anything? I don't think there is. Generally people who have done nothing reply 'None of your business', as oppose to 'Yes, but I'm not going to go into detail.' Or some variant of that." He grinned, his crooked grin on his wide clever lips, pale blue eyes dancing and singing. She had slipped up. By not confirming, she was denying. The pressure, it would seem, had gotten to Millie Song Bird, who was even Millie Song Bird in his head.

His hand s slipped under her rear, her ever so apple bottomed derrire, her exquisite posterior. And he lifted his Song Bird from her perch, and set her on the keys of the piano. Though it made no sound that was in tune, it was music to Christian. It was a victory march. He stayed pressed against her, though now her routes of escape were gone. Not that he would rape her. Christian was a hedonist, and a bastard. But his liking was to make a willing partner experience something they would not normally do, would not normally indulge in. Not force them to experience something that would be fussed over later. "We're not family, Millie. We've never been family. People like us don't have family." Not in a literal sense, obviously. Emilie had her sister, Christian had his Grandfather.

But did they really? Hadn't Katrina Simone married a man near three times her age, despite knowing that he was bad, that he was dangerous. Had she not put her little sister in known danger for the sake of receiving money, all with the price of waiting for an old man to die. And hadn't Grandfather- well. His crimes were inhuman, and certainly improvable. People like Emilie and Christian were bred to be perfect, and thus they could only depend on themselves. There was no sense of unity between these two, not even a link through blood.

His lips hovered over hers, teasing. Teasing the both of them. He wanted, so very much, to kiss her. To feel her tongue, and to feel the lingering pressure on his lips. Still, he'd take his time, as he wanted her to want it too. "We're a pair, Millie Song Bird, you and I. They'll never understand us like we do each other. It's silly that you're still trying to make that connection. It really is." For once, his voice did not drip with a languid mocking tone, but pure sincerity in his words.

The world was not use to their types.

That's just how it was.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Of course he’d see right through her. If anyone in the whole world was capable, it was Christian, with his piercing eyes and sneer of a smile. Not that such aspects of his person alone had any effect on the matter; really, all it boiled down to was the fact that she hated him, loathed him, and therefore he knew her far better than anyone else ever could hope to. Perhaps it was the same for him. She could only hope so, although it was clear now that no such knowledge would give her an advantage. Words were worth very little at this point, and so it seemed even her strongest arsenal had been stripped of its value and tossed away.

“Yes, but you said it yourself, didn’t you? I’m hardly one to go with the general way of things,”[/color] Oh, she was in deep now. Reaching for something, anything to keep her afloat in this. Of course it didn’t show in her voice, which was just as calm and smooth as ever, but in her eyes and her lips. The way her gaze seemed to dart over him, only making contact for a split second before returning to that point just over his shoulder that she apparently found ever so safe. How her lips were tight, top working over the bottom in a manner that to any onlooker would be habitual, but to her way as suicidal as admitting defeat outright.

And as he slid his hands under her and she found herself lifted onto the bench, as the keys made the most mournful sound she’d ever heard, Emilie felt more trapped than she ever had in her entire life. She was used to finding cracks, loopholes and tiny tunnels in the seemingly smallest corners, but here it seemed he’d done his thinking. There certainly wasn’t a way out, now. Not one that didn’t involve telling him exactly what she was never, under any circumstances going to admit, and that was that he was winning and she gave up. Not quite in those same words, for they never outright acknowledged the fact that they were battling, but it wouldn’t matter much what she said. The concept would all be the same. Never was she going to be the willful cause of that nasty smirk.

Clever boy, Christian, to cage her this way. Hateful, but clever. His words stung her despite her original statement being a mere defense strategy; she knew, in a manner of speaking, that he was right. She had no family. Trina hardly counted, what with how little she saw her and all that she’d done. She didn’t even visit her parents’ graves any more. Patches. She probably could, if she made enough of a fuss, but what did it matter, really? They were gone. She cried, sometimes, in the privacy of her room with the door closed and locked, soft, quiet tears that never reached past the bedspread anyway, for it was undeniable that she missed them. But always by the time she exited, it was as though nothing had happened—never a sniffle nor a fraction of make up out of place. Appearances were all anyone had, after all. And he was right. She hated him for honesty, but truth it still was. Still, silence was all he received.

Emilie’s eyes flickered to his as he moved closer still, then to his lips, and she felt every hair on her body stand on end. A fraction of a centimeter, that was all there was between them. She could do it, if she wanted. Lean forward and kiss him first. Would it taste sweet? Or bitter, perhaps, as that was all he ever was. She held her breath beneath his words, the feel of his warm breath tickling her as he spoke. Still as a statue except for her eyes, which flickered up once to his and then back down to what bit of the piano bench she could see beneath his arm.

“It seems a terribly lonely existence, just a pair,”[/color] she spoke just above a whisper, voice as sincere as she’d known his to be, “Forgive me for liking the feel of company, or at least the illusion.”[/color] And although her words could probably be taken several different ways, Emilie couldn’t help but feel he knew what she meant, even if on some level, it meant he’d won. She flicked her eyes back to his, long lashes grazing his cheek, for they were so close.

They were a pair, that was certain; close as oil and water, distant as fire and ice.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

They were close right now. Closer than they had ever been before. Closer than when they waltzed for Grandfather's amusement. Closer than when they had wrestled over her cookie that Christian had stolen from Emilie during the summer when they were eight years old. They were even, on the same level. For all the battles that he had lost in the past-and Emilie had won more than Christian, he was embarrassed to admit- they were right now squared.

He raised his hand testingly, touching her far to soft hair, a certain hungry beast quivering in his throat. Desire. It was not something that he was use to putting off or abating with means other than indulgence. But the temptation was thick, and he could feel it deep in his rhythmic pulse. His fingers tangled in her locks, pulling her head back gently. Not enough to hurt, but enough to direct. Her exposed neck was lovely, and he pressed his lips against her voice box, his tongue peeking between them.

Beautiful.

She spoke of illusions, and Christian couldn't help but smile. It was not his usual sardonic smile, with a condescending kiss at the corner of his lips. It was a genuine, almost exhausted, wise smile. "Truth or illusion, Millie; we don't know the difference. No, but we must carry on as though we did. Amen." There was a quiet, intimate, laugh that followed.

But it made Christian uncomfortable, his little joke. It was far too true, for his taste. Because, quite frankly, he really wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't sometimes. They had their games, and sometimes the games went to far. Were they going to far now? Did he car that they could be? No, not really. Should he? Perhaps. It seemed human, the empathy thing. Though, to be frank, Christian never liked the idea of being human. Nor, did he think, did Millie like the idea much for herself.

His own words felt like weapons against himself now, and he didn't much like it. Yes, Christian was done for now. He sat down on the piano bench in front of her, and played Moonlight Sonata, as if she were not even there. It was an easy tune, ingrained in him from a young age. Ludwig Van would make him feel better, yes, of this he was sure. Save him from thinking of his own words. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. Or listening. Whichever one applies. But I think I won this one, this match, all the same, Millie. Or we could call it a draw, if it suits your ego better." Though, it was also for the sake of his ego.

If he called it quits now, then he controlled it. If he controlled it, she didn't, and everything was okay. They'd have another battle, at some point, but for now it was done. Wasn't it? Her creamy legs were still right there in front of him, as if making small, sweet, whispers at him to be touched. To be explored, and kissed, and tease. Her smell was still in his nostrils, and her song was in his ears. She did sing so beautifully. He had even paused his music in his room, when they were home, to listen from time to time. He wondered if she would sing for him now...

Looking up at her, he had a curious gaze, as if he were completely alien to her. And, in a mood swing that would surprise anyone who did not know him, he put his arms around her waist, and pulled her into his lap. Nuzzling her neck, he considered. "What song, Millie Bird?" His voice asked, with an innocent twinge filling in every syllable.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Emilie could feel her breath catch in her throat as his hand made its way through her hair; any words she’d had to say would no doubt have been lost as well, so she thanked silently whatever higher power that there were none. For once, she was quite glad to be speechless. Far better to have no words at all then to have them stolen, anyway. Her pulse raced as he tilted her head back, exposing her in a manner that, were he any other boy, would have most certainly rendered a reaction of gargantuan proportions. Emilie despised vulnerability. More than that, she hated Christian for being the one able to do this to her. There was no other she had met with whom she would be so comfortable, although that was hardly the right word, as with Christian she was always on her toes. Exposed, yes. Perhaps not half as much as most girls he toyed with, but for her, this was exceptional. Oh, how she loathed him for being that person. The one she would listen to without a second thought. For the most part; there were, of course, limitations as was always the case with her, but they hardly mattered at a moment like this, where the touch of his lips alone—on her neck, not even her own—rendered such a feeling. Feelings.

If this was their game, perhaps she would play a bit longer. Just long enough. No doubt there was a line to toe here, as well, if only she could find it; somehow, she had a feeling it was hers to draw. And if he thought not, well, she could certainly make it so.

“Amen,”[/color] she shared in his laughter, if only for the briefest of moments. It was not in her nature, laughter, and for the past few years at least, quite strictly hadn’t been.

There was a mixture of surprise and relief in her eyes as she watched him slide away, leaving her alone on her perch. Still, despite what would have been probably be considered the proper choice, she made no move to shift her position other than to move her hands, now folded in her lap. He may have won, as was obvious not only by his small victory speech but her tiniest of acknowledging nods, but she could make him fancy her quite comfortable where she was, resting so far very far from what she was used to—being in control. Winning. Whichever. It mattered not, as she was quite far from both, it seemed, at least for now. Her suspicions were confirmed when, in what seemed to be the blink of an eye, his arms were around her waist and she was drawn downwards, now resting in his lap. She smiled slightly as he nuzzled her, although it was gone the second after he spoke.

Pulling away from him with a small, almost shy turning up of her lips after a moment more, she spoke softly, considering the words carefully. “Well,”[/color] she paused, considering carefully. Who said she had to sing for him at all, anyway? She could just as easily tell him “No,” stand up and walk out; the whole thing would be over and done with, then. Clean cut and tied with a ribbon, even, if she chose never to mention it again. Which she wouldn’t. Emilie never spoke of defeat. She continued after a moment more of thought, lips working over one another as she pondered the possibilities. “If you really think you’ve won, then perhaps you should pick. As a reward of sorts.”[/color]

Hands folded neatly in her lap, she watched him, sure to keep the tone even, as though they were back to sitting side by side, a good foot apart. “So whatever you’d like, really. Just the one, though, and only because you asked so nicely.”[/color] There was an almost warning tone to her voice, subtly telling him she would certainly go no further. It was bad enough to agree with him once—do it too often, and she’d most certainly lose her advantage.

[CHRISTIAN REICHENBACH]

The sat for a moment, while Christian sorted out this particular situation he found himself in.

On one hand, he had a beautiful girl sitting on his lap, and he would dare say he could convince her to lay with him. Possibly right there on the piano. And, mind you, Christian had indulged in many places. But, sadly, never on a piano.

On the other hand- the less fun, more grim hand- this was Emilie Simone. Who was a constant source of annoyance to him, who was always belittling him, who was the apple of his Grandfather's eye, despite the lack of relation, and the strong pretense of lechery. His very dangerous Grandfather. His very dangerous Grandfather who had forbidden exactly what was happening right now, who would beat him quite cheerfully because of it, and who might even go so far as to kill him if it went further.

What a pickle.

But right now, he was faced with something quite unexpected. He didn't just want to fuck Emilie. Well, of course he did. She was lovely and charming and intelligent. He'd been with far worse. But it wasn't his driving force. It wasn't what was compelling him to keep her on his lap, so snug against his body. Nor was the fear of his Grandfather the force that dimmed his horny teenage boy prerogative. Hardly. Adolfo was far away, both in a physical sense and a psychological sense.

Christian was left feeling quite confused as to why he did not ravish her right there, with the music books and instruments as an audience, and quench what the serpent in his mind has assured him is truly so sweet. Why he did not simply end the past decade of foreplay for something he was certain the two of them new was bound to happen, despite the hatred. Hell, maybe even because of it.

His hands climbed up her sides, feeling the little ridges of her ribs under the thin fabric of her dress. Not overly pronounced, but she was slim. His lips trailed from her shoulder to the crook of her neck, and he found his brain unable to come up with a suitable comeback. He was no longer battling. What a strange place to be in; speaking to Emilie, but not at war with her. This was new territory. It didn't make sense.

And then the pieces fell into place. And it was far to scary to be true. It had to be dealt with. Quickly. "My Millie Song Bird. I do think you love me." There was a sense of victory back in his voice, a certain swagger that echoed in his words. She loved him. He quite liked that. And, being just a boy at heart, he would in no way admit that had feelings to match. No. that would be far too simple. Instead he laughed, almost teasing her, much like he did when he called her 'Millie Millie so Contrary' growing up. Weightless, by his stance, but would be heavy as bricks on her. "Oh, my Millie Song Bird, I do think I'll have to call a rain check on my victory song for another day. I can't have you trying to romance me with a siren song, for we are family." He laughed a thick, jovial laugh, and rose to his feet. "And, here me, with out wax to plug up my ears. I am most vulnerable."

She would think him cruel and mean, for lulling her into such a place of security with him, only to be an ass. Only to mock her, only to taunt her. Which is precisely what he wanted. Because he loved her. And there would be no good in loving him. He could see it now...

If they were to love one another, their futures would be marred with suffering and pain. With him, there was no future.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

His silence was, as always, dangerous. She could feel it, as she could feel most things around Christian were doomed at some point or another; she'd seen the end results far too many times not to, in her defense. That, at least, was not a conclusion drawn solely from bitterness and spite.

Eyes watching him with all the quiet thoughtfulness of a curious feline, Emilie waited, although not with baited breath, for his response, gaze flickering over him as though he were a particularly curious sort of housefly. The kind that everyone would have been much happier to have squashed, but she couldn't bring herself to lift a paw against, for it was just so amusing, the way he buzzed his little tune right in her ear, just in time with the swishing of her tail and grooming of her coat. And she was lazy, perhaps. Just a bit too intrigued by the funny way he flew. Or maybe she liked batting at him, poking this way and that just to see how far out of her reach he'd get before he came right back. And if he flew far away for too long, she'd get up and follow, make it look wonderfully coincidental, her interest in the pesky little thing, when in reality there was just no one else else to play with. She'd grown so used to him, the nasty little horsefly that bit and stung, that she really couldn't see anyone else being worth half the time it took him to jab and sting.

And sting he did. Oh so cleverly, too, so fast she might not have seen it coming were she not beginning to realize the gravity of the situation herself. This was close. Far too close, although they had been nearer to each other moments before. Perhaps his lips were not near hers but they were far closer than she'd have liked them to be, given the choice; and his hands moved over her dress and she felt him, the pressure against her ribs that she wanted nothing more from but to leave. They were nestled together, yes, but worlds apart. It couldn't be allowed to go on like this, or who knew what the little fly would buzz in her ear next, what sort of tempting dance he'd have her step to, only to dip and drop and leave her with that all too familiar sneer. Not that she'd ever let that happen. Emilie was not one to let things get out of hand. He was lucky enough she'd let him lead thus far, even admitted to losing, if only for the moment. Never, however, would it go further than this. It would satisfy him far too much. Never mind what she wanted.

It seemed he was growing uneasy as well, however, for in an instant his mood had changed yet again. And as much as she hated him for what he said, there was the smallest twinge of appreciation for him doing what she was only now contemplating. Still, it was just a twinge. Nothing could stop the boiling loathing she felt inside her at the words, at that self-satisfied tone in his voice she had always despised, although especially now they were older and speech oftentimes meant more than action.

"Oh?"[/color] she was careless in her reply, voice light as her brow lifted in an impeccably good display of innocent surprise. "Well I think you've gone too far again, my little lamb. You're forgetting just how highly you think of yourself, and just how very low that puts you in my book. I'd dare say you're not even on my radar, were I to go so far."[/color] She rose with him, eyes narrowed and body tense, although perhaps not visibly so, although her voice grew curt. "So perhaps you should run along now, if you really think me so deadly, lest I send some manner of wolf to come nipping at your precious little heels."[/color]

Oh, how she loathed him. It could never last.