Post by Miss Jack on Jun 2, 2008 22:42:44 GMT -5
[[The bits in red are where Molly added in.]]
Iker stretched his fingers experimentally. They were dainty and feminine; not at all like Armand’s, which were blatantly male, and used to handling a variety of weapons. It was an interesting change. Iker turned Iseabail’s body in a slow circle in front of the mirror. No, his body. The separation he felt when initially taking control began to fade. He could already feel her body’s tendencies molding to his own. The shy, but graceful walk, the heavy mass of hair that hit her (his) back becoming hardly noticeable.
Though, this was hardly a suitable takeover. He could still sense her presence, hear her irritatingly accented voice. No, this was not like controlling the body you were placed inside, when you became the host, and the previous tenant disappeared. Still, this situation would serve a good purpose, for now.
He strolled with Iseabail’s walk to her closet, humming as he did so. “My my,” she chuckled darkly. “I have such a pleasant voice.” Iker stopped short. “Ah. And also no accent. Hmm.”
What do ye think ye are doing, Iker?
He searched the caverns of her mind, pulling out habits and gestures. He didn’t want to give Iseabail any more control, even things she did subconsciously, than he had to. But he could not fake a believable Scottish accent.
No as easy as you thought it would be, is it? She felt trapped, trapped in her own mind, but there was nothing she could do about it. Anyway, Iker was ignoring her.
She winked at her reflection. “Aye. Now tha’s better.”
She continued to sing, pulling some Gaelic mumbo jumbo out of memory, perusing through the wardrobe selection. “Bleh,” she stuck out a tongue at her music selection. “How about something a little more modern? It’s raining meeeen, Hallelujah! It’s raining meeen, Aye-men! God bless mother nature, she’s a single wo-man tooo…” She swayed her hips in time to her own singing. She stopped abruptly, glaring into the closet. “Iseabail, Iseabail. Don’t you ever seduce anyone? These clothes are bordering on prudish. Oh well. To the costume room! I know a certain former diva who made sure every leading lady’s costume was plenty risqué.”
I’m sorry ye’re no pleased, she said, dryly. I have been meaning to go shopping, but I havena exactly had a lot of time recently. And that was Iker’s fault.
As she left the room, Iker slipped further into Iseabail, letting her mannerisms and accent flow naturally. None of her co-workers that she passed suspected a thing.
Glad for his ability to know male preference, and particularly Armand’s, Iker chose a silk, scarlet number in the costume room that was more than a little sexy, but not quite up to Atropia M. Belladonna’s standard. No, something that ‘come hither’ would have been out of character.
Well, she did have to admit; Iker had good taste. Iseabail was going to have to remember to find some new clothes; the ones she had currently were very … old-fashioned. Still, she wished that the reminder had come another way.
He took a carriage to the castle, tipping the driver generously (it wasn’t his money, after all), and sauntered inside. “The prince home?” she asked the guards, met with simple nods. I should have specified which, Iker thought. Not that he wouldn’t relish another encounter with Alexander. Iseabail’s face smirked at the thought.
She hadn’t been nervous before, but now that they had reached the castle…
She went up the stairs, finding her way around the castle as easily as someone who’d been born there, which technically speaking, she had. She knocked on Armand’s door once she reached it and then without waiting for an answer, strolled inside. The room was empty, much to both Iker and Iseabail’s disappointment. Even without conscious thought, something in Iseabail was sad that he wasn’t there.
They didn’t have to wait long.
“Iseabail?” His voice was warm--- surprised, but pleasantly so.
Oh, Armand. Only Iker could hear her, though. What was he up to? Could he possibly be helping her?
She turned, giving him a small smile. Iker could tell Armand was glad to see her, but the blue eyes held an edge of wariness. Their last encounter had been less than amiable. Almost like a goodbye. But so long, farewell didn’t work for Iker, or the plans that he had. If Iker was Iseabail, then Armand needed to be hopelessly attached to Iseabail, and utterly repulsed by Zizzy. A long shot, perhaps, but he would start by…. making up.
“Hi,” she said softly, walking to him. Dear, dear, Armand--- ever the gentleman, trying to pretend like he wasn’t completely aware of her choice of outfit, or that it affected him.
When she placed a hand on his stomach, he caved with the slightest push, taking a step back. Iker could have cared less about the muscles on Armand’s abdomen, or how flat or hard they were, but Iseabail’s hand was aware. Iker felt somewhat relieved. Kissing Armand would have not been an enjoyable experience, faking the attraction, but now he could just take backseat to Iseabail’s body.
Oh, God, this was torture. Even though she wasn’t in control of her own body, she could feel everything. She could feel Armand’s stomach muscles, hard against her hand. What would she do even if she COULD regain control? She might actually be doing what Iker had decided to do, anyway.
“I’m no all righ’ with this,“ Iseabail said, pushing him again until his back bumped into his closed door.
“With what?” he asked, and it was unsure if he was more confused about Iseabail’s behavior, or the actual statement. His eyes flitted over her face as if he might find the answer there. He pressed against the door, uncomfortable and clearly wishing she wasn’t so close.
"Separation. Giving, an no getting what I want in return. I'm no all right with ye leaving me, and I'm no all right with sharing ye."
Well, that was certainly true. For all she knew, Iker could have taken that statement directly from her; he was in her head, after all.
“Oh.” Her bluntness had definitely taken him by surprise. A mix of emotions swept across his face. Confusion at her sudden change in opinion, guilt, a sort of desperate longing, and something that even Iker had difficulty naming.
“Do ye want me to leave?” she asked, her voice a gentle purr. She tilted up on her toes, bringing their faces closer.
“No,” he said uncertainly. He sucked in a breath, studying her face. “Are you…okay?” he asked finally.
No, I’m not okay! she wanted to tell him. Don’t trust me; Iker’s got control, but she couldn’t even connect to Armand’s mind at the moment.
“Mm-hm.” Her other hand joined the one near his stomach, and both moved slowly, almost casually, up his chest. His hands flew to her waist, possibly with the intention to stop her, but his grip was far from resisting. Iker felt the shift as the body he possessed reacted to Armand’s touch, remembered it, warmed to it. Armand reacted to Iseabail’s reaction. They were walking a thin, dangerous line.
She couldn’t help her body’s reaction; Iker couldn’t, either. Neither of them directed her to press herself against Armand; it just happened. She was acting partially on instinct now, since her mind wasn’t in control. It was a strange sensation, but Armand was familiar. Familiar and welcome. The other mind inside hers was the unwelcome one; this should be a private moment. Her instincts directed her again:
It wasn’t Iker that tilted Iseabail’s chin up, the intention of the gesture obvious, but everything froze momentarily as Armand’s voice, husky with desire, but troubled, broke the natural movement. “Wait---”
“No,” Iker hissed in Iseabail’s voice, and smashed their lips together before Armand could protest further.
[[TBC]]
Iker stretched his fingers experimentally. They were dainty and feminine; not at all like Armand’s, which were blatantly male, and used to handling a variety of weapons. It was an interesting change. Iker turned Iseabail’s body in a slow circle in front of the mirror. No, his body. The separation he felt when initially taking control began to fade. He could already feel her body’s tendencies molding to his own. The shy, but graceful walk, the heavy mass of hair that hit her (his) back becoming hardly noticeable.
Though, this was hardly a suitable takeover. He could still sense her presence, hear her irritatingly accented voice. No, this was not like controlling the body you were placed inside, when you became the host, and the previous tenant disappeared. Still, this situation would serve a good purpose, for now.
He strolled with Iseabail’s walk to her closet, humming as he did so. “My my,” she chuckled darkly. “I have such a pleasant voice.” Iker stopped short. “Ah. And also no accent. Hmm.”
What do ye think ye are doing, Iker?
He searched the caverns of her mind, pulling out habits and gestures. He didn’t want to give Iseabail any more control, even things she did subconsciously, than he had to. But he could not fake a believable Scottish accent.
No as easy as you thought it would be, is it? She felt trapped, trapped in her own mind, but there was nothing she could do about it. Anyway, Iker was ignoring her.
She winked at her reflection. “Aye. Now tha’s better.”
She continued to sing, pulling some Gaelic mumbo jumbo out of memory, perusing through the wardrobe selection. “Bleh,” she stuck out a tongue at her music selection. “How about something a little more modern? It’s raining meeeen, Hallelujah! It’s raining meeen, Aye-men! God bless mother nature, she’s a single wo-man tooo…” She swayed her hips in time to her own singing. She stopped abruptly, glaring into the closet. “Iseabail, Iseabail. Don’t you ever seduce anyone? These clothes are bordering on prudish. Oh well. To the costume room! I know a certain former diva who made sure every leading lady’s costume was plenty risqué.”
I’m sorry ye’re no pleased, she said, dryly. I have been meaning to go shopping, but I havena exactly had a lot of time recently. And that was Iker’s fault.
As she left the room, Iker slipped further into Iseabail, letting her mannerisms and accent flow naturally. None of her co-workers that she passed suspected a thing.
Glad for his ability to know male preference, and particularly Armand’s, Iker chose a silk, scarlet number in the costume room that was more than a little sexy, but not quite up to Atropia M. Belladonna’s standard. No, something that ‘come hither’ would have been out of character.
Well, she did have to admit; Iker had good taste. Iseabail was going to have to remember to find some new clothes; the ones she had currently were very … old-fashioned. Still, she wished that the reminder had come another way.
He took a carriage to the castle, tipping the driver generously (it wasn’t his money, after all), and sauntered inside. “The prince home?” she asked the guards, met with simple nods. I should have specified which, Iker thought. Not that he wouldn’t relish another encounter with Alexander. Iseabail’s face smirked at the thought.
She hadn’t been nervous before, but now that they had reached the castle…
She went up the stairs, finding her way around the castle as easily as someone who’d been born there, which technically speaking, she had. She knocked on Armand’s door once she reached it and then without waiting for an answer, strolled inside. The room was empty, much to both Iker and Iseabail’s disappointment. Even without conscious thought, something in Iseabail was sad that he wasn’t there.
They didn’t have to wait long.
“Iseabail?” His voice was warm--- surprised, but pleasantly so.
Oh, Armand. Only Iker could hear her, though. What was he up to? Could he possibly be helping her?
She turned, giving him a small smile. Iker could tell Armand was glad to see her, but the blue eyes held an edge of wariness. Their last encounter had been less than amiable. Almost like a goodbye. But so long, farewell didn’t work for Iker, or the plans that he had. If Iker was Iseabail, then Armand needed to be hopelessly attached to Iseabail, and utterly repulsed by Zizzy. A long shot, perhaps, but he would start by…. making up.
“Hi,” she said softly, walking to him. Dear, dear, Armand--- ever the gentleman, trying to pretend like he wasn’t completely aware of her choice of outfit, or that it affected him.
When she placed a hand on his stomach, he caved with the slightest push, taking a step back. Iker could have cared less about the muscles on Armand’s abdomen, or how flat or hard they were, but Iseabail’s hand was aware. Iker felt somewhat relieved. Kissing Armand would have not been an enjoyable experience, faking the attraction, but now he could just take backseat to Iseabail’s body.
Oh, God, this was torture. Even though she wasn’t in control of her own body, she could feel everything. She could feel Armand’s stomach muscles, hard against her hand. What would she do even if she COULD regain control? She might actually be doing what Iker had decided to do, anyway.
“I’m no all righ’ with this,“ Iseabail said, pushing him again until his back bumped into his closed door.
“With what?” he asked, and it was unsure if he was more confused about Iseabail’s behavior, or the actual statement. His eyes flitted over her face as if he might find the answer there. He pressed against the door, uncomfortable and clearly wishing she wasn’t so close.
"Separation. Giving, an no getting what I want in return. I'm no all right with ye leaving me, and I'm no all right with sharing ye."
Well, that was certainly true. For all she knew, Iker could have taken that statement directly from her; he was in her head, after all.
“Oh.” Her bluntness had definitely taken him by surprise. A mix of emotions swept across his face. Confusion at her sudden change in opinion, guilt, a sort of desperate longing, and something that even Iker had difficulty naming.
“Do ye want me to leave?” she asked, her voice a gentle purr. She tilted up on her toes, bringing their faces closer.
“No,” he said uncertainly. He sucked in a breath, studying her face. “Are you…okay?” he asked finally.
No, I’m not okay! she wanted to tell him. Don’t trust me; Iker’s got control, but she couldn’t even connect to Armand’s mind at the moment.
“Mm-hm.” Her other hand joined the one near his stomach, and both moved slowly, almost casually, up his chest. His hands flew to her waist, possibly with the intention to stop her, but his grip was far from resisting. Iker felt the shift as the body he possessed reacted to Armand’s touch, remembered it, warmed to it. Armand reacted to Iseabail’s reaction. They were walking a thin, dangerous line.
She couldn’t help her body’s reaction; Iker couldn’t, either. Neither of them directed her to press herself against Armand; it just happened. She was acting partially on instinct now, since her mind wasn’t in control. It was a strange sensation, but Armand was familiar. Familiar and welcome. The other mind inside hers was the unwelcome one; this should be a private moment. Her instincts directed her again:
It wasn’t Iker that tilted Iseabail’s chin up, the intention of the gesture obvious, but everything froze momentarily as Armand’s voice, husky with desire, but troubled, broke the natural movement. “Wait---”
“No,” Iker hissed in Iseabail’s voice, and smashed their lips together before Armand could protest further.
[[TBC]]