o4 . january catchall

[clocktowers]

Who: clocktowers and CR.
What: A bit of drama at Clockhouse.
When: Early January
Where: Throughout Trench.

Content Warnings: Tagged in subject lines as needed.

Ozpin's Vampirism Timeline:
- [Ford] rescue from the Sleeper Farm
- [Qrow] not talking about it
- [Willow, Tara] rancid vibes
- [Zhongli] a fight
- [Willow] stalking
- [Willow] on the groupchat
- [Oscar] checking in
- [Ruby] the intervention pit
- [Ange] on the groupchat
- [Sayo] a wakeup call
- [Shannon] after the wakeup call
- [Faith, Willow] a confrontation
- [Willow] on the groupchat
- [Oz] on the groupchat
- [Qrow] after the confrontation
- [Willow, Ford] discussing options
- [Faith, Qrow] hostile stalking
- [PH house] meeting the inlaws
- [Qrow] an offer
- [Willow] reconciling
- [Ford] at the Red
- [Willow] wolf talk

Comments

cws start here for blood, biting, nsfw, dubcon via intoxication/altered emotions

[clocktowers]

[ Ozpin has not touched him like this in so very long. Stanford is warm and solid beneath his palm, as he always has been.

This was an astonishingly bad idea, and it is too late now to do anything but submit to gravity.

Stanford pulls him down, and Ozpin goes. He is keenly aware of the rise and fall of Stanford's chest, the weight of a too-broad grip around his slim wrist. Ford parts his lips, and Ozpin is a breath away from kissing him before he remembers himself. He holds himself over the man's lap, instead: a knee on the chaise beside Ford's hip, a hand braced at his lapel, one simple shift from pinning him.

Stanford would let him. At least, he would have, once. Ozpin does not know what he's allowed, now: it is uncharted territory again.

He does what they expect him to do. He slides his free hand up Stanford's nape to tangle in his hair, bends close, lowers lips to throat. The room is narrowing to only warm darkness and distant music, the planes of Stanford's body beneath his hands, the smell of dark blackberries. When Stanford bares his throat, Ozpin exhales a sound against it. He parts his lips, tastes skin and salt, and for one heady moment there is nothing in his mind but sweet anticipation. He puts teeth to throat and sucks, lightly, to raise blood in the skin.

Then he bites, and the bloom of Darkblood in his mouth is perfect. ]

[cryptograms]

[ The warmth of the hand against his chest, the fingers winding through his hair, the brush of breath and lips against his skin... All of it is too much, too intimate, an old, familiar comfort and a strange, unfamiliar invasion all at once. The sharp stab of fangs breaking his skin is mostly new, but only mostly. His discomfort should be through the roof.

But it's so much nicer when he's expecting it.

Ford's breath catches, a faint stutter with only the barest hint of voice behind it. His fingers flex around Ozpin's wrist but only to try to ground himself in the moment, to keep his thoughts oriented towards a mental 'true north'. The situation has already spiraled so far out of control that he stops trying to control himself. He lifts his hand up and smooths his fingers over Ozpin's exposed collarbone, then to the side and under his shirt, sliding his hand over Ozpin's shoulder. ]

[clocktowers]

[ Stanford smooths a hand up into his shirt, warm and broad, and Ozpin makes a low sound against his throat. He is cognizant of very little except heat and taste. He sucks at the wound rhythmically; his throat works as he swallows.

He does not consciously mean to press Stanford down onto his back. The shift of weight is greedy and automatic: one hand now tangled in Ford's vest, the other in his hair, keeping his throat bared just so. Pressing Stanford down is a natural progression, a simple movement of gravity. It's only once Stanford's shoulders hit the chaise that he thrills with familiarity and realization.

It's enough to inspire a flicker of higher thought. Ozpin licks the smear of blood away, warm and intent, then draws back just enough to look at him.

His eyes glow in the low light. His fangs are bright white against his stained-dark tongue, and he licks blood from his lips before he can be caught by hesitation or shame. Stanford is flushed and rumpled and still bleeding, beneath him, and he has not felt this sweetly euphoric in possibly the whole of his existence. His whole being seems to buzz with it. Whatever he does next is not likely to be intelligent. ]

[cryptograms]

[ The now-familiar lightheaded sensation that comes with blood loss starts to creep over Ford again, but this situation is much less stressful than their last encounter, the bite much less abrupt. It's a milder sensation this time, the lightheadedness of a breath drawn too deep and held too long, and without any trace of concern that he might not be able to draw another. He is relaxed and hazy with alcohol and mild blood loss, sharply aware of every tiny movement of Ozpin against him but oblivious to anything else. Even his own movements don't quite register to him; his thumb traces tiny circles over the inside of Ozpin's wrist and he shifts his leg against the inside of Ozpin's thigh, but both gestures just get lost in the moment.

He notices he's being tipped backwards, but the significance of it doesn't register until his shoulders are against the chaise and Ozpin has pulled away from him. The scene is suddenly achingly familiar. The heat, the hand against his chest and the other in his hair, the flush on his cheeks that's now too deep to be blamed on alcohol, even the lingering twinge of pain at his throat. The uncanny light in Ozpin's eyes and the glint of sharp canine are the only new factors and they only serve to send a thrill of excitement through him. It's a familiarity he shouldn't indulge in and an excitement that should make him wary.

But he lets the familiarity and excitement guide him. The hand around Ozpin's wrist stays where it is, but the other slides over his shoulder and up his neck until Ford can sink his fingers into Ozpin's hair; he suspects it'll be just as soft as he remembers and he cannot place how he feels when he's proven right. He doesn't dwell on it, however. He leans up, pulls Ozpin down, and finally presses their lips together. ]

[clocktowers]

[ Stanford is pinned beneath him, there is hot blood in his mouth, and then they are kissing.

He has missed this. It is a sweet crescendo of realization, a sweet ache on the backdrop of blackberries. He has missed this very much, and he ought to be angrier than this— ought to hold some scrap of dignity, of distance— but that was never truly on the table. Stanford kisses him and Ozpin kisses back like he's been waiting all these months. Maybe he has.

This is the point of no return: this is what he already knows he will regret, and could never stop himself taking.

Ozpin kisses him deep and slow. He smooths his fingers at the nape of Ford's neck, tangles their legs together. He is not used to these teeth, and would apologize for the way he catches Stanford's lip more sharply than intended, were he under any illusion that Stanford minded.

There is no pretending for either of them. He breaks the kiss to lick up the welling blood at Ford's throat, fangs pressed hard to the line of muscle when he shifts. For this he abandons thought entirely, and his hand slides from Ford's hair only so that he can tease the top button of his vest with his fingertips. ]

[cryptograms]

[ Ozpin is correct - the sharp scrape of teeth against his lip does nothing more than send a shiver rushing over Ford. He scratches his fingernails against Ozpin's scalp in return, tightening his grip until he's tugging steadily at the fine strands of silvery hair.

Ozpin pulling back would normally be when Ford gets a chance to breathe, a moment to gather his thoughts and recenter himself. Instead Ozpin returns his focus to Ford's neck, and thus Ford's thoughts stay stubbornly scattered to the four winds. A soft, eager, and embarrassingly needy sound escapes him - or at least, it would be embarrassing if Ford had a single iota of brainpower to spare for such a thing. Right now the only thing he can spare any brainpower for is plans to get as much out of this situation as he can.

Ford is loathe to remove his hand from Ozpin's hair, so instead he finally removes his other hand from Ozpin's wrist. Getting shirt buttons undone with one hand will be tricky at best so Ford bypasses them entirely. He goes right for Oz's belt instead, working his fingers between the strap and the buckle until he can pull the slack loose. Even with the music still filling the club outside their little room, Ford swears he can hear leather whispering against metal. ]

nsfw ramps up from here

[clocktowers]

[ Ford tangles a broad hand in his hair— longer than it used to be, loose and messy to his collarbone— and he feels every flex of those fingers to the roots. Ozpin exhales a sound against Ford's throat, the heat of his breath lost in the heat of the blood. Against the smooth red of that vest, he thumbs open one button of too many.

The smell of Stanford's body is different now, drowned in blackberries and wine, but the warm skin under his lips is just the same.

Stanford releases his wrist only to hook steady fingers into his belt, and heat jolts in Ozpin. He kisses away blood from Ford's throat and draws back, up into that pull on his hair. He shifts to give Stanford a bit more room to work. It means abandoning his effort on Stanford's vest, which aches at him: he wants to bare collarbone and chest. He could bite again, and again, and relish the break of skin and burst of blackberries each time.

But he won't stop this. There is a terrible moment in which they could look at each other, and that tense distance looms just beyond their warmth. But Ozpin licks Stanford's blood from his lips, and from his fangs, and the moment does not break: he reaches down to help get his belt off, instead. ]

[cryptograms]

[ The rest of the encounter is a mix of delightfully too sharp, luxuriously hazy, and indulgently nostalgic. Conscious thought, already only dubiously present in the situation, falls away completely in favor of impulse and instinct. At some point they lace their fingers together, and it's not until he needs that hand for another task that it occurs to Ford that he should draw away.

Normally, Ford might expect winding down to the afterglow to be the moment where reality come creeping back, dragging regret along with it - but the lingering alcohol and bloodloss keep him feeling relaxed. No, it takes a few moments for any inkling that this may have been a mistake to come creeping in. Ford's breathing and heart rate both have a chance to return to something close to normal levels, and he even has a chance to push himself upright. Only then does it really sink in that he's alone in a small room with Ozpin, covered in bite marks and with his clothes in a state that can't even loosely be considered appropriate for public. Not say nothing of why all of that just happened and...

Hm. Ford elects to not say anything for a moment, only to realize that there's actually a very pressing question he needs to ask if he wants to make any progress on this walk of shame. ]

Ozpin, do you know where my glasses went?

[ Which even Ford realizes is about the worst thing anyone could say after an unplanned sexual encounter with their ex but... hell, is there really a good thing to say after something like that? ]

[clocktowers]

[ Ozpin sits up, and for all that they have not been here terribly long— it has all rather blurred together— he is plainly a mess. His hair is mussed and sticks up in silver cowlicks. His own glasses have gone, indeed, somewhere; he looks vastly younger and less put-together, bare-faced like this. His Pthumerian-gifted shirt and coat are still on, which looks a bit ridiculous with his long pale legs bare. The scar at his throat is on display, and the scars on his wrists and palms, and he does not have the presence of mind to be self-conscious of either.

He threads a hand back through his hair, which only rumples it more badly, and tries to blink away the pleasant haze of satisfaction. It doesn't quite work; he still looks as though he's only just woken up. ]

Oh.

[ Reality begins to set in. He blinks again, this time as though he's faced with a difficult puzzle; it furrows his brow. He raises a hand to wipe absently at the edge of his mouth, for fear he will still find indigo blood there. The silence hangs for one beat, then two. Some of the warmth begins to fall out of it.

At a loss, he says: ]

I... Perhaps the table.