Absit Omen RPG
Role-Play Boards => London => Muggle London => Topic started by: Figaro Sellaphix on November 04, 2021, 05:16:00 PM
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7 April 2021
8pm, Saturday
Provisions restaurant
Marylebone, London
Figaro Sellaphix waited under the awning at Provisions, a posh London restaurant. He'd come ten minutes ago to ensure he'd arrive before Wilhemena. Occasionally, the doors would open and he'd hear the gentle sounds of the experience inside. Music, the clinking of silverwear. He wore the suit[1] Virgil Carstairs had chosen for him two nights ago, as to comply with Wilhemena's directions.[2] It was dark blue, impeccably sized for him, and accessorized with silver. A purple flower was on his lapel. He'd done nothing special with his dark blonde hair. He instinctivly knew that one thing Wilhemena liked about him was his youth and youthful faux pas - he had to come slightly undone.
Presently, a black taxi arrived and Figaro quickly extinguished the cigarette he'd bummed from the man at the door. Fig didn't smoke as a habit, but this evening he aimed to calm his nerves. The doorman was quicker on the take than Figaro to move forward and help Wilhemena out of the cab. Wilhemena and sparkling. Pale skin, platinum blonde hair dressed in a chin-length wavy bob, and all in gold.[3] Figaro put his hand behind his head and bit his lip as he approached, utterly taken in. Her smile was only in her eyes as she let Figaro take her hand. She loved that shit.
"Hi," he said. "You look amazing."
She touched on the knot of his purple necktie and made an approving tisk. She was satisfied with his outsourced effort; she might have even been surprised. Wilhemena knew that he must have got help - and savvy help at that. The look was young and expensive. She moved her hand from her tie to his cheek and gave it a little pat.
"Oh, don't."
Wilhemena was the spokeswitch for the Werewolf Wing of the Ministry of Magic, an accomplished and always put-together witch. Her love life was defined by its complexity; she knew exactly what she was doing, scooping up a much younger thing like the work-in-progress Figaro Sellaphix. He was charming and utterly grateful to have her, in so much as she allowed it. She'd plucked him up and cleaned him off in defiance of anyone who expected a witch in her mid-thirties to settle down. At her day job, she cleaned up scandals. At her side hustle, she flirted with them.
Later.
The server had cleared their dinner plates away and Figaro was bragging. Wilhemena watched his mouth and his hands as he told some story about having met a terrorist. His heavily diluted Mancusian accent was informal and wandering. He smiled a lot and smiled more when he caught Wil looking at him.
"What?" Figaro stopped and asked.
He'd caught her staring. She sipped from her cocktail. "It's nothing. Go on. How did you get back?"
Figaro's story didn't make much sense to her, but he had an absurd dry sense of humor she liked.
"Floo." Figaro shrugged and left it there, now aware he'd been doing all the talking. To keep himself from saying more, he reached for his drink, something dark and peaty in a short glass.
"You must have been frightened," Wil said, propping up her chin in her palm.
"Shat myself, yeah."
Wilhemena made a sour face at the vulgarity.
Figaro apologized, his eyebrows giving away insincerity. Wil caught on to the cheek and smirked at him. One corner of her mouth showed her own lack of committment to her scolding.
The server returned and offered them desert, or perhaps something more from the bar. Wilhemena declined on their behalf and passed over a muggle credit card. Figaro finished his drink in one.
M: sexual scenario
Much later.
Figaro lay in Wilhemena's big soft bed. About twelve pillows were scattered on the floors nearby, unnecesseary in shape and number. She had two nightstands even though she lived alone. He was naked and warm. His neck was wet with sweat. Wilhemena and her impossible smoothness was sitting on the edge of the bed, her bare back to him. Her hair was now a wild halo, careful curls all akimbo.
"Go again...?" he asked sweetly.
She looked over her shoulder like she was posing for a photo.
"Not tonight. It's time for you," she stood up, taking a bedsheet with her, "to go home."
As she turned, she pulled the sheet around her expertly. She proceeded around the bed towards the loo slowly, keeping a watchful eye on Figaro who tracked her as well. He sat up in bed, not bothering to perform the same modesty.
"Come one, didn't you like it?" he coaxed her. "I'll do the thing again."
Wil laughed brightly, genuinely. Her nose wrinkled. "No, no. No, you go now. You go home."
She'd made it to the bathroom door and switched on the light, the yellow glow changing the color of the bedroom from cool to warm. She was lit up from behind and Figaro groaned in protest.
"Go!" she insisted. "Or I won't have you back."
Figaro aped her mannerism as he moved to comply. Wil's gaze fell on the chair where most of Figaro's clothes had landed.
"Don't forget the tie," she said, then disappeared into the bathroom for a shower. Figaro would be gone well before she returned.