An All Hallows Moon, Tonight

[sterlingwins]

To say that Sterling was not having a good night would have been the understatement of the year. It was a shame, because he usually did so appreciate the holiday; parties and costumes and candy and stiff drinks, what was not to like? Certainly, some costumes left much to be desired, but so did the fashion choices of the general public, so it was

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[sterlingwins]

If you're perceptive, there's something in the way he moves, the sway to his hips, that says he's not quite as uncomfortable like this as he wants to be.  Sterling's a hedonist at heart, and there's something about the feel of fabric, the way the corset pulls in tight against his skin, nips his body in all the right ways.  And the more he looks at Rhys... his breath catching, and he finds himself smiling coy in spite of himself.  He does want this fixed - doesn't he?

"My tattoos feels like they want to crawl off my skin," James comments softly, shifting on those heels as he moves to sit on the love seat; dark brocade and dark wood, styled in extravagant curves that seems to match the time period of what he's wearing.  Sterling's place is nice; smaller than he can afford, but compensated for by matching dark wood antiques, designer rugs, expensive art pieces.  The fact that he's dressed Victorian hints at someone that knew him, at least passingly.

"I.. think I was finalizing some corporate claim," he sounds a little uncertain; it's hard to focus, hard to think about it.  He feels warm and fuzzy, and colors seem just a little brighter than usual.  He shakes his head like he's trying to clear it, then pulls a bottle off the side table, pouring two glasses.  He feels like he needs a drink, and he's not the sort of host to not pour one for his guest and possible savior.  Rhys is the only thing that seems clear, in focus.  He's trying not to think about him too hard, to avoid thoughts about kisses and touches, but that just makes them more prevalent, of course. 

[sleight_of_fate]

Rhys takes a breath and put his bag on the table. It didn't surprise him that Sterling went with small and classy for living quarters. He didn't expect that the insurance agent would surround himself with anything less than the best: Low-key, refined, tasteful. Rhys was, honestly, kind of jealous: he didn't generally have a taste for expensive things, but he did like comfort, and he wasn't able to afford much of that right now. His place was tiny, only three rooms, and furnished with the best IKEA and the Salvation Army had to offer.

He looks uncertainly at the wine when Sterling pours it, then back at the older man. He's tempted, but...this is already weird enough. There's definitely energy here, spilling off Sterling and pooling in puddles like rainwater on the hardwood floor, but he hasn't got a fix on it yet. Just a vague sense of something sweet and heady. It's probably not in the wine, but...

"It might be on the dress, or it might be on you. If you don't remember, I'm just gonna have to try and sense my way through it," Rhys finally says. It doesn't help that watching Sterling is distracting, equal parts confusing and, okay, kind of intriguing. Eyes flickering downward to his bag, he starts pulling out candles, satchels of herbs and stones, and a small silver bowl, trying to refocus himself. His senses are still off, his thinking, and being in the same room with Sterling is still uncertain at best. The only thing making it easy right now is that Sterling's come to him for help, and that gives Rhys a measure of control and familiarity.

"If you want to get comfortable, going to see if I can try and get a fix on where the spell's latched on. If your tattoos are getting pissed off, it means it's probably on your aura, so...you're definitely the target, and that's where I'll start." As much to distract himself as to check the wine, he draws a clear quartz crystal over each glass, a Gaelic counter-charm on his lips and looking for the telltale glow, just in case, then raises the glass his host poured for him, more familiar with the rules of polite hospitality than Sterling might expect. A bit drily: "Slainte." He takes a long sip, then sucks the traces off his generous lower lip and sets the glass back down carefully. It's good wine, of course, and it seems a shame to have to draw the line, but, well, he is working.

Then, quietly, and he's not sure exactly what makes him say this, or in quite this warm tone, he murmurs, "We'll figure it out and get it taken care of, promise."

[sterlingwins]

"Well, if it's on the dress, I'm screwed, because I can't get the thing off." There's something in how he straightens it, jittery hands pulling the wrinkles smooth over his knees that says he's not quite as uncomfortable as he seemed at first. In truth, he likes the feel of the fabric, how it hugs his body, but... well, with Rhys here, it was uncomfortable, shameful. He had been raised in a very traditional family. He might not seem the type for it, but there was still a streak that was self-conscious, even if it was buried deep under pride and arrogance.

"If I thought it would help, I'd start counting off people with a possible grudge, but, well... I'm afraid that list is unmanageably long."

He sips at his wine, swirling the deep red fluid in his glass, watching Rhys as he plays with a crystal before taking the glass, and Sterling smiles. "A vote santé," he quips back. If they're making toasts in other languages, he's not one to be outdone, after all. He's fluent in multiple languages, and given that they're drinking French wine, it seemed the most appropriate. He goes for the full little ceremony: maintaining eye contact and clinking their glasses.

"You know," he comments playfully, a mischievous glint in his grey eyes, "in France they say an improperly done toast is cursed by seven years of bad sex. It's like breaking a mirror, except worse." Yes, his mind is in the gutter, no, he can't help it. It's something about Rhys, something about a scent, a feeling in the air, it's something about that shared dream.

[sleight_of_fate]

Rhys smiles a little, knowing that toast, too...he tended bar for quite a while, after all, and it's still his go-to mundane cover job of choice when he's on the skids. "Well, don't really like mirrors to begin with, and don't think I'm capable of bad sex," he retorts playfully before he can stop the words. Too much a habit, after all.

Then flushes slightly, because that brings back a rush of sensory memory of different waterfalls of silk fabric, of pulling Sterling up to face him in his lap, burying his face in the pulse of his neck where he can smell expensive aftershave and feel the way his blood rushes at Rhys's touch, the murmurs or sighs at each thrust.

Rhys inhales for a moment, holds it, and breathes back out, trying to ignore the way his jeans feel a little tighter. Dammit. He takes another gulp of wine to clear his head, then puts the glass down. "We'll see if I can get the dress off, then? Not gonna find the caster," he agrees. "But break the spell first...then trace it back."

Still wary and with the feel of phantom silk playing on his skin, he sits down on the couch next to Sterling and turns sideways to face him. Yes, that does put their knees just barely touching, but Rhys can deal with that. Casual contact. "Going to do an aura read first, see what I'm dealing with here, then go from there, okay?"

It's not a good idea and Rhys knows it. But he's got to check Sterling over somehow, and this is the way Rhys needs to do it. Plus, he's not without his own defenses, and he's more likely than Sterling to sense something before it takes hold. So, he reaches over, one hand coming to rest lightly on the other man's brow.

[sterlingwins]

Sterling can't help the way he smiles when Rhys says he's not capable of bad sex, a fact which Sterling isn't about to dispute, not with that dream they'd shared, how it still haunts him; waking and asleep, and if anything now it's sharper, more clear.  "I would never suggest you were," he murmured with a quirk of his lips.  He'd been avoiding him before, not quite able to face him, face how much he'd liked it, the side of him he didn't show to anyone that Rhys had seen, all soft and giving and pulling Rhys in like he needed to feel him.  All quiet moans and whispered murmurs as their bodies moved together, and he couldn't get it out of his head, and now it was a rush, painted in his head in bright colors and tactile sensory memory. There's a glint in his eyes that makes it obvious that he still thinks about it; unashamed and forward.

He's getting aroused, just being so close to Rhys, like his body remembers even if it never really happened.  The only real thing was how Rhys had fed on his energy, left him so he was shaking with aftershocks of delight when he woke up, weak and lightheaded.  Which shouldn't have been as hot as it was; the way it felt... there was part of him that wanted Rhys to do it again. He swallows, oh-so-aware when Rhys moves in closer, their knees brushing, and Sterling is trying so hard to not do anything out of line, knowing it's the spell, but it's hard to resist. And with Rhys' hand on his forehead, he just can't.

He leans in, hands catching at his shoulders, a low needy murmur before he presses their lips together.

[sleight_of_fate]

Rhys gets warning in the shift of Sterling's body, the rustling of silk and the pulse of want shooting through the older man's aura, but the kiss is still a surprise, and so is the fact that Rhys doesn't resist nearly as much as he thinks he should be as Sterling's soft lips find his. Even if that night of totally enthralling sex never happened, that kiss in the aftermath of the shadow-devil fight did happen, and Rhys's body is happy to let him know that he remembers that, too. The rough fabric of his jeans pulls tight across his groin, and that only makes things worse, not better.

Thankfully, Rhys isn't nearly as high as he was that night, but it still takes all his will not to just gather Sterling up in his arms, pull him close amid those long skirts. His hand falls away from Sterling's brow, forgetting himself for a moment because he can feel the magic there, sweet and thick as honey, and it definitely occurs to him how it would be kinky as hell to fuck Sterling right here on this expensive couch with him still in the dress.

Dammit. This temptation game between them is infuriating, and now Rhys remembers exactly why he's been avoiding Sterling for these weeks. He draws away as though the other man were made of spun glass, fragile, trying not to feel the sparks against his skin too intensely, takes a breath that just tastes like wine and not Sterling and wine and puts his hands on his upper arms, gentle but firm. He can feel it now, but the spell is good, really, really good, now that he's close. Powerful, a whirlwind of heady perfume, and so sweet and seductive that it's making Rhys forget it's there if he stops concentrating on it.

It's also not affecting him at all. Rhys isn't the target of this spell, and the spillover is a pleasant buzz, but it's not controlling him. It's all Rhys's own desire that's making his jeans tight and his mouth dry, staring into Sterling's gray eyes and remembering the two of them together, the bedroom after the fight and the temple-that-never-happened, of being curled up in candlelight exhausted and sated as real lovers. Rhys isn't fighting anything but his own temptation right now, and well, okay, given the look in Sterling's eyes, Sterling's, too.

And in the moment, all he can think of to say is, a little wryly, "You really do want out of that dress, don't you?"

[sterlingwins]

It makes his head spin, it feels so very good when their lips touch, like a rush of euphoria, warm and electric, and all he can do is lean in. The spell is hard to fight, not just because of the sheer power behind it, but because it's Sterling's own desires that it's playing with. His tattoos are taking the worst of it, are the reason he's remotely coherent, and not just an aching ball of repressed desires, which the spell elevates to another level. His repressed love of dresses and feminine things, how much he wants Rhys. He's been fighting to ignore that for the past few weeks, pretend like what Rhys had seen in that dream hadn't been real.

His body shakes, and he can't help the soft noise of protest that hovers on his lips as Rhys pulls away, touching like he's fragile. Hands on his arms are firm, but gentle, like Rhys is afraid he might break. In any other moment, it would probably annoy him, but at this particular moment, he likes it, how it's almost comforting, not that he'd ever admit to anything remotely like wanting comfort from someone. His pupils are huge, dilated so that the greys of his eyes are just bright, silver slivers around pools of black. He's leaning in, slight, subtle, not pushing, but leaning into Rhys' hands, and he blinks slowly at the question.

"I want you to touch me," he murmurs softly. With Rhys actually here, hands on his body, his self-control is going out the window. He's drowning in the perfumed honey of the spell, but there's a razor hidden at the heart of it. It will kill Sterling, if given a chance, after it's pushed him to show ever card he holds close.

[sleight_of_fate]

Rhys sighs quietly and resists the urge to punch himself in the groin. Again. He wants Sterling, but not like this, and...

Now that he can feel it, he can feel the spell wrapped in Sterling's aura like brambles. Dark gray...no...black, and building slowly but insidiously. It's a black curse, not just a practical joke, and subtle enough that when he looks away from it, it seems to disappear. This is a powerful working, one that Rhys will need a full ritual to counter.

"Yeah. But you're under a spell, so now's not a good time to be making that kinda decision," he says quietly, resignedly. He won't take advantage of Sterling while he's under a spell. So he just reaches up to brush away a little of Sterling's hair, just because he wants to, and sighs, then sets his mouth in a thin line. Even if there's nothing between him and the insurance agent but some sparks, this assault feels personal, and Rhys is already going through all the counter-rites he knows, having decided that he's going to use a mirror rite to shove this nasty bit of business right back down whoever sent it's throat.

"Think we're gonna have a talk about this after, but for now, let's seeing about stamping a great big 'return to sender' on this."

[sterlingwins]

He murmurs softly as Rhys' fingers brush through his hair, leaning into the touch, a shiver running through his body. He knows, in a distant sort of way, that he's right, that he shouldn't really be doing anything with anyone like this; there's something in the thorns on the black brambles of the spell lacing through his aura that says anything actually sexual would likely make it stronger. But, that doesn't help how he feels; hot and aching for Rhys to be closer, pressed up against him, touching him against the fabric that flows around him like the silk of red priest robes in that dream.

"Knew you would fix this," he murmurs quietly, almost resigned. He trusts Rhys, even if he'd never say it like that outloud. Trusts him so that even when he doesn't know which way is down, that he trusts him to fix it, to make it better. Which is strange, almost nonsensical for someone as classically paranoid as Sterling. But there was something about the dream, about the way they'd fought together, fought for each other twice over, that earned Rhys that trust.

"We can talk now, if you want to," he breathes, his hands brushing against Rhys' shoulders, one hand going to comb through his hair. He can't keep his hands to himself, even if he's trying to let Rhys do his thing, he just wants him too much to be as cooperative as he ought to be.

[sleight_of_fate]

Rhys lets his breath out, slow and shaking when he feels Sterling's hands in his hair. It's tied back now, but there's a lot of it, and rather than pulling away, his eyelids flutter a little, just enough to let Sterling know he likes that. Rhys takes good care of his hair, his one real vanity besides his tattoos, and it shows in the gleam of lights off that perfect, sleek black. A mix of textures to play in: silk where it's long, and velvet along the back of his head where it's cropped close to his skull. Rhys isn't femme at all, never has been, but having his hair brushed...that's a luxury he has a feeling that Sterling would enjoy just as much as Rhys knows he does.

"Should probably wait till someone's not trying to kill you to talk," Rhys says after a second, trying to be authoritative and only halfway making it. He still wants to lay Sterling down on this couch right now, but instead he reaches for his bag at his feet, pulling him away from temptation for a second. He starts rummaging for what he needs to start working on the spell, herbs and oils and a small silver bell. "'specially since this might hurt a bit." He means for him more than Sterling, really- the spell's going to fight him and it's going to take effort, but Sterling should be warned, too.

And this distracts him from the conversation he's a little afraid to have, too. What's he going to say to Sterling, anyway? That he has a little crush on him, after having hot dream-sex with him, and was thinking of asking if he was hiring?

The truth is, he's afraid of this, so afraid of what he wants out of this. He and Sterling might be able to work, in a weird way. Sterling knows what he is, and accepts that, and in spite of being irritating as fuck at times, there's something about the man that brings out the caretaker in Rhys, makes him feel needed. Part of Rhys can see living in this nice little apartment, being here at home when Sterling gets home from work, dinner on the table, bullying the older man into relaxing in a hot bath at the end of the night...fantastic sex afterward in a big, comfortable bed, and sleeping curled up together, Rhys holding him close...

And even worse, part of him can see that maybe Sterling might want something like that, too, at least for a little while.

But Rhys...Rhys knows better than to want things. It's never worked out well for him. So he tries to stop thinking about domestic fantasies, and concentrates on the spell tangled in Sterling's aura instead of how good the other man's very insistent hands feel.