deercountry | o4 . january catchall

Entry tags:

o4 . january catchall

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Ozpin is genuinely pleased to receive the outfit, trimmed in his usual emerald green. Surely Oscar will forgive him setting aside the hand-dyed gloves for a day and enjoying the fresh silk, in the spirit of new beginnings.

He can recall last year's ball. But he doesn't want to think of bonfire smoke and marshmallow margaritas, so he gladly takes up the offered champagne. Perhaps it won't even betray him, here in Trench.

It's a glass or two later— and an hour of watching performances, smiling to friends and acquaintances, clinking waters with Qrow— that he realizes the risk. With most blood types, the hunger is bearable. He has adjusted to the keen awareness of other people, the thrum of delicious power just under the skin. But he still knows the taste of Darkblood, that bloom of blackberries and void, and he craves it like a drowning man craves air. It has been a full month since the fight that stole him less than a mouthful.

He knows that this is a sign of the pressure building. He knows because his gaze catches on Ange again, here, and he has to turn hurriedly away. He knows because he seems to follow Darkbloods without even meaning to; he turns toward their bodies the way flowers turn to light.

So when he finds himself face-to-face with the one Darkblood he hoped not to see, it feels like both a horror and an inevitability. ]

Edited 2022-01-12 00:28 (UTC)

[ Let there be no mistake: the Red is not in any way, shape or form Ford's usual scene. Ford doesn't even have a usual scene, unless 'whatever bar happens to be closest to the docks in subarctic fishing towns' counts as a usual scene. Normally it would take a force of nature to get him in here.

But a direct invitation from a Patron Pthumerian is close enough to a 'force of nature' to count. Add in the Darkblood urge to be extremely social and you end up with a nerd normally too self-conscious for parties fearlessly flitting through the crowded theater-slash-nightclub. There are just so many interesting people here, and with just a couple of drinks in him Ford loses any and all doubt or hesitation about things like approaching complete strangers to strike up a conversation.

People he knows, on the other hand? Those are who he'd like to avoid. Unfortunately he's not entirely paying attention to who he's approaching until he gets close enough to actually single someone out, and before he processes that there's someone extremely familiar nearby, Ozpin has already turned around and made eye-contact. Ford draws up short, suddenly fumbling for what to say. After how they met and parted last time he should probably address the situation direction, so after a moment he finally settles on: ]

Ozpin. Uh... hi.

[ Stanford says Hi, and Ozpin is utterly adrift. The last they saw each other, he still had Stanford's blood in his teeth. He was wearing the robe of a dead man. The holes punched into his hands were a half-healed mess, and he was barely steady enough to walk under his own power.

Now he wears immaculate soft gloves and has not tasted blood in weeks. He knows how Stanford's would bloom into his mouth, knows the smell of his throat and the way Ford reacts— used to react— when he puts his teeth to it.

The beat hangs far too long. ]

Stanford.

[ He has his cane in one hand, champagne in the other. It's his third, and feels abruptly like a dangerous thing to be holding. ]

I'm... glad to meet under better circumstances.

[ Ford has no drink in hand for the moment, but that's the exception rather than the rule for this evening. He'd even been coming to the bar to reload, though he supposes that's not an option now. It unfortunately means that he has nothing to occupy his hands with, so he ends up habitually tucking them behind his back. ]

Agreed.

[ If he has to run into Ozpin, better here than in the nightmare that is the Sleeper Farm. At least here he can just turn around and walk away. Not that he's actually doing that... ]

Willow contacted me for help with...

[ That whole situation, he intends to finish, though he does not. ]

Are you feeling better?

[ Actually, yeah, it's way too awkward to just stand here. Ford finishes his trek to the bar and, once he has the bartender's attention, quietly orders something much stronger than champagne. ]

[ He... does not expect Stanford to linger in the conversation even this long, truly. The uncertain tension in his shoulders makes even less sense. A wary glare seems more deserved now than it had been in the fall— so where is it?

Ozpin trails behind him, off-kilter, til his brows draw together in sudden tension. ]

Willow spoke with you? [ Then, dawning realization: ] Is this how she was called off the hunt?

[ It's meant to be said with levity, but he cannot get past his surprise. Stanford is the one person genuinely harmed, the only individual he has taken from without the absolution of self-defense. It makes wholly more sense that Willow reached out to coax Ford down once she'd hit upon a solution, and yet he can't make the pieces fit together in that way.

It's foolish of him to ask: Stanford's expression will shutter, he will say No, I told her to kill you, and it will be confirmation of what he has been avoiding all these weeks. And yet.

He is too at a loss to touch the question, which is perhaps answer enough. ]

It might have been.

[ Ford has a real talent for thoughtlessly blurting out things that are uncomfortable and hurtful. Lord knows it's gotten him into plenty of trouble and damaged - if not outright ruined - several of his relationships. It's not like he's incapable of being deliberately cruel but he usually needs to be pretty worked up first - and an awkward meeting run-in with his ex really doesn't meet that threshold. Not even one that's this awkward.

Thus, thoughtless comment it is. ]

I told her that becoming a vampire hadn't made you any more dangerous than you already are.

[ That drink really can't get here fast enough. But once it's been ordered Ford has no excuse to not turn around and face Ozpin properly. He has no idea why he's even having this conversation with Oz, but he can't come up with what feels like an adequate reason to walk away. ]

I also told her it was probably irreversible.

[ Ozpin is so occupied with the revelation that Ford voted against his execution that he is unprepared for the statement that follows it. He blinks as though slapped.

It's the sort of statement that could be a compliment. It plainly isn't meant as one.

Probably irreversible is not much more comfortable a note to end on. ]

Well. [ A horrible beat of silence hangs between them. ] Be that as it may... I owe you something of an apology. [ Another stilted, hanging beat. ] I've not had a situation get so drastically away from me in the time before or since.

[ So he is, on the whole, feeling better: he has not suffered anything like the Sleeper Farm, and he has not taken blood from anyone since Ford. No matter how badly he has wanted to. ]

[ An apology from Ozpin is...

Hard to define, actually. Ford's doesn't hate it, but he's not sure he can say he appreciates it, either. The last time he got an apology from Ozpin he was left with the impression that it was less sincere and more placating, another easy lie told to smooth a situation in a direction Ozpin felt was beneficial. Then again, his memory of that time is a little inconsistent. Some parts he recalls with agonizing clarity and others with a haziness that's like the relief of shade on a sweltering summer afternoon. He's been so out of sorts after...

Remembering makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, so he shoves the memory aside. ]

So it wasn't irreversible?

[ Ford is just talking for the sake of moving them away from an uncomfortable subject, but he realizes how curious he actually is about the answer as soon as he asks it. Reversing the effects of vampirism aren't a priority for him when it comes to managing Mabel's condition, but it's a situation where there's no such thing as useless information. ]

I would not call it reversed. [ The topic remains uncomfortable enough from Ozpin's point of view. ] The effects are simply manageable.

[ This feels unpleasantly like a grand reveal, a confession that he is still looking at Stanford and thinking how he might taste. In all fairness, he is. ]

The element of compulsion is less an issue in a peaceful situation. I suspect it only presents a problem in times of dire need.

[ Ozpin's careful phrasing does something terrible: piques Ford's interest. His gaze sharpens not with distrust or wariness but with intent and curiosity. He's definitely already had too much if he still hasn't turned around and walked away, but when the bartender finally returns with his drink he takes it without a second thought.

There is a part of him that's aware he should take a step back and leave. Ozpin is dangerous with or without the whole vampire thing, but the vampire thing is still a distinct danger. Ford has in no way forgotten how little Ozpin hesitated to bite, how easily he'd killed the zealot, how it took Castor literally and physically forcing them apart before he finally let go.

He also hasn't forgotten the arm around his waist, the hand in his hair, the brief sharp pain undercut with a steady warmth that was far too familiar, the vague notion floating through his mind that the situation wasn't that bad.

Ford lifts his glass and takes a drink. He really should leave and refuse to engage. ]

Manageable how? It doesn't seem like something that can be contained just by avoiding stress.

Edited 2022-01-31 05:17 (UTC)

[ This is, unfortunately, not an easy question to answer. Ozpin's expression betrays as much: Stanford knows him well enough to read the slanted little frown, the flicker of irritation at something he can't readily sidestep. ]

The hunger is tied to Corruption. [ The hunger. This is as overtly as he's referred to it, and there's a flicker in his expression at that, too; for a moment his gaze is on Stanford's throat, at the place where he'd set his teeth. That skin isn't usually left bare, but in this outfit, the whole warm stretch of Stanford's throat is visible against the sharp white of his collar.

It lasts only a moment, but he has to drag his attention back to Ford's face with an effort. ]

It is best handled by keeping Corruption levels low. [ Wholly without meaning to— on the momentum of the evening, the warm thrum of don't-worry in the air or in the drink— he adds: ] I've not indulged any other method.

[ Foolishly, Ozpin finishes his drink. It doesn't seem to buy him much of anything, not time nor space nor presence of mind. ]

[ Ah. He's being studied in a way that he's long since learned isn't just idle interest. It may or may not be harmless, but based on past experience and where Ozpin's gaze seems to settle he's betting on not harmless. He knows better than to assume nothing will come of it because something always does - particularly coming from Ozpin. Not much ever manages to break him out of his standard suite of mildly amused, mildly surprised, or mildly annoyed expressions. Any situation that does is always... interesting.

Ford doesn't balk or back down, however. The logical reason would be that revealing any sort of weakness like uncertainty or hesitation to a (predator? aggressor? enemy? unknown quantity?) tends to invite more trouble - but the truth is that Ford's pride won't allow it. He is not afraid of Ozpin (not for something like this, anyway) and he won't allow himself to behave like he is. ]

You can't manage hunger by ignoring it.

[ Hunger being Ozpin's choice of word, not his. Regardless, not even Ford knows what he's really getting at with that statement. He's not trying to accuse Ozpin or lying, nor encourage him to share more information, nor is he even being pedantic for the sake of being pedantic. Or rather, he's not just trying to do any of that. He just wants to know-- anything. Whatever Ozpin will tell him, or show him, or reveal through his actions.

Ford doesn't finish his drink for the moment, but he doesn't need to. He's already passed the point of reminding himself this is a bad idea. ]

[ He catches Stanford catch him looking, but Ford doesn't bristle. Instead he says... that, apparently.

And what, genuinely, does that mean? What is he meant to construe from that? Ozpin feels terribly far from solid ground; he would be better off turning away and seeking another conversation entirely. This will do neither of them much good. It feels like walking on thin ice above some vast and dark water.

(This is a particularly inapt metaphor because they've done that. Long ago, in a dream. He still recalls the constellations.) ]

I do not recognize any other appealing option.

[ He is losing face, because this is said stiffly. Qrow's offer hangs heavy over his shoulders. He could have accepted it; he could still accept it now. He could return home still buzzing with this wound-tight energy, and knock on Qrow's bedroom door, and perhaps it would even be easy.

But that isn't what he wants. It seems unwise indeed to ask what he wants, here and now. ]

I would not ask that of anyone. [ This is so patently a lie it cannot stand, and he is pressed to amend: ] Not among my household.

[ Well that's a lie, and it's a lie so blatant even Ford can see through it. He looks properly annoyed for the first time this entire conversation, though that smooths out again when Ozpin makes his addendum.

Though it doesn't smooth out into neutrality, or anything even slightly approaching it. Ford, again, looks deeply interested in what Ozpin just said, to the extent that he's aware of just what kind of expression he's making. He flicks his gaze away after a moment and, lacking anything better to do, lifts his glass and drains the rest of it in one go. It's meant to buy him some time to think, but when he sets the glass on the bar he hasn't even slightly settled on what he wants to say next.

So he speaks without thinking, and the results are predictable. ]

So who would you ask?

[ If it weren't for the drink and the general atmosphere of (enforced) relaxation in the air he'd be embarrassed by how much he's expecting a particular answer. ]

[ He recognizes the expression on Stanford's face. It feels like standing at the edge of a precipice, some terribly long fall. There will be nothing good at the bottom.

He is so keenly aware of the thrill of falling.

Ozpin looks back at him, and knows he ought to be ashamed of whatever shows in his eyes: they are bright and unnatural again, pupils flared, the shape subtly inhuman. His voice has dropped low, barely audible under the music and the movement of the party. He has to shift forward, into the space between them, to be heard— and because he urgently needs to see Stanford step back, away from him, to let this moment be broken. He does not know what he might do if it isn't. ]

You already know.

[ Ozpin steps closer. With a clearer mind Ford might recognize that the smarter decision is to step back and prevent the already too-small gap between them from shrinking any further. In this moment there's no difference between allowing Ozpin to get closer and inviting him to get closer.

But right now Ford is being directed by a commingling of survival instinct and pride. He's dealing with a predator, and if he bolts it might trigger a chase reflex - and he's dealing with his ex, and if he bolts then it means admitting that he's not completely over everything that happened.

So he stands his ground and immediately realizes he's made a mistake. Ozpin has always been markedly taller than him but it's only now, as Ford tips back his head to keep his gaze on the the inhuman shape of Ozpin's pupils, that it finally feels like that height makes any amount of difference. Like Ozpin is using it to deliberately loom over him. Ozpin's answer sounds like a threat and a promise rolled into one and it sends a thrill of something that could be unease or excitement or wariness or anticipation racing through him. Ford holds out for only a moment longer before his resolve breaks and he glances away. He can only be grateful that the faint flush from the alcohol means any additional flushing he might be doing won't be obvious. ]

I thought that might be the case.

[ He slides his gaze towards Ozpin again. He's suddenly lost ground in this back and forth he's been having as Ozpin and it's only with that loss that he realizes that there was any ground to be lost in the first place. He doesn't balk or back away, but there's a guarded quality to his gaze that wasn't there a moment ago. ]

Is that why you're here now?

[ It would be normal if his tone was cautious or accusatory. Instead, Ford only sounds inquisitive. ]

[ It's dangerous, the way he thrills at this. He expects Stanford to shift back— the tension of waiting for it has him wound tight and foolishly breathless— but he doesn't. Stanford tips back his head to look him in the eyes, and it feels like so long since they've had this, an era since Ozpin met this man's eyes and had the first idea what he was thinking.

It is, briefly, a breath of air to the drowning: Stanford sees him again.

Ford looks away, but it isn't that tight, bristling energy of a man about to snap. All that has been smoothed out of him, here. He looks relaxed, at ease. He looks distressingly good.

Ozpin's gaze slides to his throat again, the way Ford's collar reveals the smooth line of tendon when he turns his head. It's only the question that drags his gaze back up again, and there: the distance has returned to those eyes.

Something changes in the set of Ozpin's mouth, a new slant of tension. ]

It wasn't meant to be.

[ This is too close to an open admission, and it breaks the spell. He looks away, though he has nothing much to look at; the glass in his hand is empty. With nothing else to do, he shifts past Ford to set it on the bar. This proves to be a terrible idea, as it brings them so close together that they nearly touch. He ought to step back, regain reasonable distance. He doesn't.

Ozpin turns, a breath away, and looks down into Stanford's face. His eyes are very bright and very strange, pupils flaring in the way of some large cat's. When he parts his lips, it shows the faintest catch of a canine that hadn't been so sharp a moment ago.

He'll make a fool of himself. He does not remotely understand what they're doing here. He is strung tight with the awareness that Stanford will laugh, or go cold, or— worst— both at once.

He needs to see that flare of heat again. He can't bear to turn back to the faceless press of the crowd and Qrow's bedroom door. The music seems to swell, the warm darkness of the party pressing in ever closer. ]

We could discuss this elsewhere.

[ Ozpin has been close enough to touch for several moments now, but when he shifts to set his glass down he draws close enough that not touching is more difficult. Ford has to make a conscious effort to not shift his weight, to not fidget restlessly, to not so much as breathe too deeply. It's actually easier to make himself stand perfectly still and focus on tracing his gaze over the lines of Ozpin's jaw, throat, shoulders--

He looks up again in time to meet Ozpin's gaze. Despite just thinking that he shouldn't he draws in a slow, deep breath; he's almost disappointed when that doesn't actually bridge the minuscule gap between the two of them. Recognizing that disappointment, and recognizing how absurd it is, should be enough to snap him out of his haze of curiosity and anticipation. Instead it only has him wondering how and if he should try to deliberately close the gap between. He could step closer and do it himself, or offer a hand and let Ozpin make the decision, or maintain his distance and leave the entire decisions in Ozpin's hands. He's not sure which option he would like more because he's not sure which option would get him what he wants first.

Ozpin makes his offer and Ford knows it's his last chance to back out. He's reasonably confident that he won't be prevented from leaving later if he chooses, and entirely certain that he won't want to leave. There are partitioned off rooms for privacy and music loud enough to thwart any eavesdroppers. Once they leave the public eye no one will be interrupting them.

It's a terrible idea. Ford takes a step back. ]

We should.

[ His voice comes out steady and smooth and much more even than he expects. He almost sounds like he still has the situation under control, except that the distance between them suddenly feels like too much and he's antsy with the desire to close the gap again. ]

I know where we can find unoccupied private rooms.

[ An utterly terrible idea, because the feeling that swells in his chest would be humiliating to admit. He is sure— at least, he'd been sure minutes ago, before they began this conversation— that Stanford would recoil to know it. He does not know when he might put a foot wrong, here, and watch the man's expression shutter closed.

But there is nothing he'll do to stop this now, not before... not before.

Eyes still too-bright, Ozpin tips his head in a gesture of Lead on, and follows. ]

[ Ford is both highly analytical and not terribly socially intelligent, so he immediately sets to puzzling over, without much success, what it means that Ozpin is electing to let him take the lead in this situation. Is it a peace offering to cede that degree of control of the situation? Is he giving Ford another chance to back out? Does he just not know where the private rooms are? Without his focus directly on Ozpin he has nothing to do but consider the implications - and without his focus on Ozpin his mind is finally clear enough for him to wonder if perhaps his trepidation isn't a sign. He's not really past the point of no return yet. At any moment he could turn around, say he's changed his mind, and leave the Red entirely.

Instead he keeps walking, heels tapping softly against the bloodstone tiles of the Red as he leads Ozpin away from the bar and dance floor. They never truly leave that main hall, but the open floor gives way to corridors of wood partitions and velvet curtains. Each room stands in isolation, set apart from the others by a few feet, and the ones that are unoccupied are easily identified by the ropes holding open the curtains that serve as doors. Ford walks until he finds one surrounded by unoccupied neighbors and finally comes to a stop, reaching out to pull the curtain further back and allow Ozpin to step through first.

The interior is about what one might expect. Lunar orbs emitting a soft, faintly red-tinted glow line the walls. A table in the corner sports a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice alongside two champagne flutes. There's ample seating, including a few plush armchairs and a chaise lounge too large to be considered a couch but not quite the right size or shape to be called a proper bed. The walls are dotted with strategically placed hooks and loops and there are several small wood chests placed in such a way that one never has to stray too far from their seat to reach one. Overall, it's an incredibly unsubtle room that stays just discrete enough to maintain a degree of class.

Ford steps into the room after Ozpin and lets the curtain fall shut behind him. The steady pulse of the music grows muffled and distant as the curtain falls into place, the heavy velvet and what Ford suspects is a bit of spellcraft further insulating them from the rest of the party. There's a heavy finality it, a finality that makes Ford realize he has no idea how he wants to proceed. The desire to get this over with and his dislike of awkward silences run up against his unease over ruining the mood, but after a moment the former wins out. ]

I don't suppose either of us need more champagne.

[ It's probably not wise to call attention to the fact that neither of them are totally sober right now, but it's not any more unwise than anything else he's done tonight. ]

[ Ozpin follows two paces behind him, and with Ford turned away he need not restrain himself: his gaze roams along the lines of those shoulders, that bared throat, to the short hair at the back of Stanford's neck and the cut of his jaw. In that mechanical place, they had not had the luxury nor the presence of mind to dwell on each other. Here, in this warm darkness, under the beat of the music...

The curtain shuts behind them, and Ozpin surveys the room. The line of his mouth tightens with a further edge of trepidation, a shiver of something he does not want to name. He does not look at Stanford, but that means looking at the decor. ]

Perhaps not.

[ It is a remainder that Stanford may hate him for this in the morning. It seems a certainty that he will, but then, it had seemed a certainty he'd be appalled at this idea. Ozpin has lost all ability to read him. They see so little of each other now they have become strangers.

Which makes it altogether worse that Ozpin can look at him and feel this as so familiar, some bitter echo of an old hotel ball. He'd not known what they were to each other then, but in the sweetly thrilling way of something not yet explored. This is something broken, and he does not know how to step around the jagged pieces of it.

He exhales what is nearly a sigh, and it has the feeling of a man resigning himself to the gallows.

Ozpin steps forward: into arm's reach, then closer. When he reaches out, smooths slim fingers against the fabric of Stanford's vest, it feels like a moment of truth. It is horribly familiar as the moment preceding a kiss. One more step backs Stanford up towards the chaise lounge, and he is not sure what would be worse: that the man stands his ground and forces him to put what they're doing to words, or that he goes pliant and drops. ]

[ Ozpin steps closer and Ford draws in a slow breath, lifting his head to meet Ozpin's gaze again. He thinks to himself once again that this is the last chance he has to really back out; even now he lacks the self-awareness to realize he's hoping that he might finally want to back out.

The hand on his chest is the first time Ozpin has touched him since the Farm and the first time he's touched him without some extenuating circumstance demanding it since before they arrived in Trench. It sends a frisson up Ford's spine and has something heavy settling in his stomach. It should be the contact itself that bothers Ford the most, but instead he's most put off balance by the quiet intimacy of the gesture. This isn't a touch to render medical aid or pull him out of danger or yank him into biting range. It's just contact, and even when Ozpin nudges him back it doesn't feel like there's the same level of intent behind it. It feels like a touch that exists for its own sake, and that's worse than anything inspired by danger.

Ford lifts his own arm, skirting his fingers over the back of Ozpin's had in some almost-forgotten habitual gesture. At the last second he corrects his course and shifts lower, curling his fingers around Ozpin's wrist instead. There's no resistance as he steps back and, once his legs hit the chaise, lowers himself to sit. He maintains that steady grip on Ozpin's wrist, however, pulling with the hope of tugging Ozpin down with him. He parts his lips as if to speak but abandons the idea within seconds. The thought of it delaying whatever comes next any longer is intolerable, but the idea of trying to put it to words is almost worse. ]

Edited 2022-02-08 06:03 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

o4 . january catchall

[ ford; early-mid jan, after returning home. ]

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

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nsfw ramps up from here

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