Encounterlogs
Laurens Odd Encounter Sr Avriel 240517
Lauren's late-night urban stroll takes an unforeseen turn into the surreal when she's abruptly whisked away to a dreamlike reality by a fae named Ciaran, who expresses a peculiar romantic interest in her. Amidst her initial confusion and resistance, marked by a visceral response to her abrupt transition into this otherworldly setting, Lauren finds herself in a dialogue with Ciaran, who both bewilders and entices her with a display of magnificent scenery that seems crafted just for her. Despite the allure, Lauren's skepticism and sharp wit are evident as she navigates this uncanny encounter, questioning Ciaran's intentions and the very nature of this extraordinary rendezvous.
As the narrative unfolds, it becomes clear that Lauren's will and intellect are pitted against Ciaran's supernatural allure and enigmatic charm. He reveals a snippet of his identity, tying himself to Celtic mythology as possibly a son of Cernunnos, which adds layers of mystique and foreboding to his persona. Despite her trepidation, Lauren negotiates the terms of this unusual liaison, demanding her safety and return. Giving in to a moment of intrigue and perhaps a desire to delve into the unknown, Lauren consents to Ciaran's proposal for a singular night of intimacy, underlined by a pact that seems to bind them within the ethereal confines of a fae's enchantment. The story crescendos into a blend of apprehension and acceptance, leaving Lauren at the precipice of an experience that promises to be as beguiling as it is potentially perilous.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRAvriel):SRAvriel)
[Thu May 16 2024]
At Fleet Street and Devilwood Drive
Cracked and pothole-ridden asphalt roads make up this part of town,
bordered on either side by poorly maintained cracked sidewalks. The
aluminum streetlights are painted a deep, chipped green and appear regularly
along the side, illuminating the street in spots of warm electric light when
it's dark. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old
twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem old
and poorly taken care of.
It is night, about 71F(21C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target is swept into a pocket dream world by a true Fae interested in a romantic liaison
)
Lauren's calming early morning walk - as calming as such a thing can be, on the seedy intersection of Devilwood Drive - is abruptly interrupted. First, there is a sharp tugging sensation and an instant of vertigo as the material world spins out from underneath her. The ephemera of the nightmare brushes on past, too: she's being pulled from her world at speeds beyond anything a mortal man might be able to muster, and falling at terminal velocity. It drives her heart into her throat and drops it down into the pit of her stomach, it makes light flash at the backs of her eyes, it makes her butthole clench, and then she is at utter rest, laid on her back in a bed of rose petals and potpourri.
"Darling," whispers an inhuman voice. Impossibly beautiful, graceful, musical - but inhuman, its pitch rising from dull to sharp in a swannish glissando that could be nothing but alien. "Pet," it reaffirms. The speaker has not yet chosen to reveal itself to Lauren. "Wicked girl... I could not stand to see you run from me. To run from /us/. Beautiful Lauren... I forgive you, nonetheless. I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you thrice-over - know that and be at peace, beautiful one..."
Compared to whatever's going on right now, Lauren's early morning walk was /very/ calming. The most calming of all walks, even, considering what comes after, the world twisting and turning around her at dizzying speeds. 'This must be what it feels like to be clothes in a washing machine,' comes an idle thought over the terror that fills her mind, not even a scream daring to escape her, her vocal cords frozen entirely for once - turns out this is all it takes to get Lauren to be speechless.
And then, sudden stillness.
Lauren does the only reasonable thing she can be expected to do at the moment, once the world is still and yet her vision still spinny: she shifts over to a hunched-over seating position, leans over, retches loudly, and throws up whatever remnants of dinner remained in her stomach, right onto the rose petals and potpourri.
"Oh dear, oh dear, gorgeous," comes the alien voice again, as if spoken by the thrumming of a harp. Even without any visual indicators for Lauren to follow, there's the sense of a hand being flicked dismissively through the air, and the small puddle of vomitus fizzles out of being with a series of technicolour sparkles. "Poor kitten," the voice once more speaks up. "Lie still there, Lauren. Rest your stomach." There's motion, then - someone comes to sit by Lauren's side, but her eyes glide away from them - it? - rather than allow her the chance to get a good look at her captor. There's... a russet brown, and shagginess. That's as much detail as she can glean, right now.
Similarly, the world around her bears little detail, until she focuses on it. The blank slate of the sky bears no stars, and beyond her bed of rose petals, the earth would be better described as covered in 'green', rather than true grass. Yet, as she watches, beauty unspools, with blades of grass coming into individual definition in their own shades of green each, not unlike shards of stained glass in the most resplendent of cathedrals. The sky above betrays the brush strokes of a master painter, coming alive in a gorgeous rendition of van Gogh's Starry Night, only the stars truly twinkle... Breathtaking, indeed.
"You who adorn yourself with golden ornaments," speaks the voice by her side, now with a more natural timbre, "This is for you, Lauren. I fashion myself an aesthete... and I hope to share this crafted vision with you, tonight. You are not in danger, sweet girl."
They know her name, because of course they do. Lauren is still gasping for breath when the puddle of vomit vanishes - are those roses and potpourri now infested with tiny vomit-particles, or did it clean those too? A part of her brain is interested, and the rest of it is simply too overwhelmed to think too deeply on it. She follows the cue and instead just sits back, breathing out and in slowly as the world finally stops spinning after her vertigo-inducing trip to wherever this is.
Breathe out.
In. Take in the colors, watch the world come to life around her, try to glance at the being next to her. Fail. Back to the colors it is.
"Well, shit." Lauren exhales, lifting a hand to run her fingers through her hair. "Uh. Tha--" Her jaw closes with an audible click. No, nope, no thanks will be offered. She tries again. "I... appreciate it? Um. That's cool." She's definitely had more eloquent moments, that's for sure.
There's a warm puff of laughter, quiet and understated, as the unseen figure by Lauren's side decides to lay themselves down on their side, leaning their head in their hand and letting their elbow take their weight. The strawberry-blonde sees all these things happen, but she still can't get a good eyeful of the figure themselves - beyond whatever personal reaction she might have to it, it's grating on the senses, if only mildly.
"There's no need to be coy," teases the most-likely fae. "I do not believe in false modesty, gorgeous. You can admire the scenery. It's all yours, after all." There's a pause, and then a soft breath of the visitor's own, quietly admiring. The only scenery for it to admire, though, is Lauren herself. "Look at you," they murmur in a hush. "Bearing all the colours of autumn itself... If we look past /these/." There's a simple pinch-and-tug that somehow tugs on all of Lauren's clothes at once. Nothing forceful, nothing threatening, only a playful teasing - and there's a grin in their voice as they say it. "Though, of course, you Americans like to call it Fall, don't you?" There's a click of the tongue, then: "Do you find lovers to /Fall/ at your feet very often, then, Lauren?"
It's really hard to hold back the reflex to say 'thanks', it turns out, but Lauren manages, just barely, biting down on her tongue to keep words from escaping her. She's learned to talk too much for too long it's almost a defensive mechanism at this point, but she knows better than to just blurt words out without considering them thoroughly right here. "Er..." A pause, to think over the question. If the most-likely-fae was looking for intelligent conversation this morning, they'll have to search elsewhere. "I don't usually take... lovers..." Is that what's going on here? Her eyes are a little wide from the realization, and the next words are all reflexive humor, "Most people just make like a tree and leave."
A shudder wracks its way down her spine at the tug at her clothes, playful as it may have been, and Lauren curls her arms around her front, almost protectively, as though there's anything she can reasonably do to hold the other back in this scenario. It's time to do what she does best then - digress: "I heard something about forgiveness - had I offended you somehow?" A question for a question - surely this has to be acceptable and won't end with her getting her soul somehow bound to a fae with power beyond her comprehension.
"You fled my little labyrinth," sighs the assumed Fae. Their breath is warm and grassy, though the scents shift even as they play across Lauren's olfactory receptors - from the summer meadow to the spring dew to the warmth of mulled wine warding against the bite of winter. It's backwards, but pleasant. "Don't worry," they reassure. "I don't hold it against you. I prefer it when you mortals figure out how to escape properly, but a magical escape is... valid in its own way, much as magic ever is." There's a small petulance in their voice, clearly meant to be heard, but not all that pressing. "I had arranged for that little group to procure me some new options, so to speak. I gave them a building to conduct their work within, and they caught you. I was transfixed. A golden girl, unconcerned with cleaving to conventional standards, but beautiful all the same. I admit... the piercings caught my eye, at first, but I've grown to admire you more wholly than that, Lauren. I only regret that I cannot show myself to you fully... Not beyond the gates of the Golden City, anyway." There's a low, dark chuckle, now, in stark juxtaposition to the musical quality of their normal tone. "I do not presume to invite you there... yet. I wanted only this first tender moment, and your company."
"Yeah, well, you know how mortalkind is. Always not wanting to die and all that." Lauren forces out a short laugh that quickly fizzles out - wild how being kidnapped and told they're going to have a 'tender moment' isn't quite enough to get her in the mood. Women have such high standards these days...
She's slowly being piecing together bit by bit of this interaction, trying to figure out what the intentions of the maybe-definitely-fae are - though if they happen to be able to read minds, they're just going to be treated to a long litany of 'don't say thank you don't say thank you don't say thank you' and 'don't say dumb shit don't say dumb shit don't say dumb shit' in a loop on repeat. Slowly, now that she's slightly more certain of her situation, does she start: "I'm glad you find me pleasing, really." Let's add 'don't be sarcastic' to the mental loop now. "But, uh, my standards are kinda... high, you know? I can't just have 'tender moments' with anyone, especially someone I don't know. 'cause like, you were watching me all... definitely not stalkerishly, but I don't really know anything about you, and one-night-stands aren't my thing. I mean, really, all I know is that you like gold too and you like ripping off Van Gogh. I want something more /original/, you know? So hey, how 'bout we pick this up another day once we've had time to know each other better and you've gone on a heroic quest or two to show me you're serious about this?"
There's a chuckle - throaty enough to hint at maleness - and a patient breath before Lauren gets another response. "Yes, we can hear your thoughts," they murmur, as if just to indulge her curiosity in a question she didn't ask. "And you don't need to worry about me stealing your name, or holding you in endless obligation over a word of appreciation, Lauren." Their hand - or the shape of it, ever obscured from her direct line of sight - sweeps out in a wide gesture towards the fantastic demiplane spread out before the blonde. "I need no permission or verbal trickery to do as I will. We aren't in court, nor do I mean you any harm. You may relax." There's no prickliness at the less charitable contents of her thoughts, either - though, anything which can hear thoughts has probably heard worse than hers. "Now, for what it's worth, and I'll only defend myself this once - I am not 'ripping off' our favourite earless artist. Melpomene and Erato were friends of mine, once. I have seeded many works of art in the hearts of men." There's a faint click of the tongue, but no more on it - the Fae apparently does not want to waste time on proving itself to the mortal woman.
"I am afraid that you and I will never again meet, Lauren, unless you wish to seek me out in the Golden City. Even here, in this little dream world, where I am only half-present... It would not do to make these a regular occurrence." Warm, leathery fingers, twice as large as a normal man's at least, wind gently around Lauren's shoulder - gently, yes, but their touch brims with impossible power, and leaves no illusions as to whom absolute control belongs to.
"I do not apologise for my own behaviour, Lauren," the fae whispers. "I understand that it may have upset you. Tonight, I offer you a wholly more pleasant experience, instead. You need only say yes."
Fae can't lie, right? Everyone knows that, and surely that is not a lie perpetrated by the fae to trick mortals into believing them. Surely. Whether or not it may actually be the case, there's a minute loosening of the tension in Lauren's shoulders - only for a split second, until she feels the hand come to wind around it, bringing back all the tenseness and then some. Decisions, decisions.
There's a reason their trickery and cruelty is at the forefront of all stories told about the fae - plenty of good reasons, actually, some she's heard firsthand, in much detail. Some she's /seen/, merely a week or two ago, the snarling face of a man-beast hybrid reaching for her in the shadows. And let's not forget the fact that the building she was held in was provided by this very fae, not that this isn't a cage in itself, just a prettier one that she's been swept away to - they're not nice, she reminds herself, as much as they'd like to play at such.
They can probably hear all her thoughts, so Lauren doesn't care about hurrying up with her answer; she's going to take her time figuring out what the optimal result is while she stares up at the Starry Night that may or may not be ripped off, mind swirling through different scenarios - maybe they mean 'harm' as in physical only, and she's still going to be enthralled into doing as they wish regardless if she says no? That wouldn't really be /harming/ her, right? It's a strange thing, to ask for consent when both of them know how far the power dynamics skew between this unlikely pair. Maybe it's a trick, and they want her to refuse so they can spring something else on her. Of course it's a trick. They don't /need/ trickery to do as they will, like they said, but that doesn't mean it doesn't amuse the fae anyway. Lauren would know, of course, even with her own blood as diluted as it is. She does lie for fun often, when it wouldn't change anything to tell the truth.
She's been quiet far too long. Lauren lets her gaze stray away from the stars and to her side, at the being she can't quite make out for as long as her eyes will let her before slipping away like water off a duck's back. A slow, deep inhale.
"Tell me your name," she doesn't say 'give me your name'. "And I'll say yes." An exchange. They already know hers, after all.
"I have been known by many names to many people," the Fae laughs, soft and supportive - as if speaking to a slow child. "I could answer you in the tongue of the Hellenes, or older. I am best known by my time with the Celts, I think, today. I am named Ciaran, and I was known to be Cernunnos' son, if that pleases you."
There's a quiet rustle as a sourceless breeze whispers past the pair, and Lauren finally gets a glimpse of the fair-folk's arm - muscled and swarthy, and thickly furred from the elbow to the wrist. His hands are as leathery as they felt, thick-knuckled and hard-nailed, but his touch remains gentle and sweet. Still, Lauren's eyes refuse to meet his face - his glamour only half-lifted, in the end.
A slow, soft breath escapes Lauren - had she actually expected him to oblige her? Maybe, maybe not, but she's surprised regardless. Pleased, though? Maybe it would have been better for her if he'd been the one to back out, but a deal is a deal. "Ciaran," she repeats, getting a taste of the name. It's not unpleasant, as far as names go, so maybe she /is/ pleased. Then, a jutting of her chin up, put-on stubbornness as though she's got the power to name terms: "Just for tonight. And... you will put me back where you got me from, without harming my body or my mind."
A pause.
"Yes."
"Do not," chides the unseen Ciaran, "Make firm demands of my kind, Lauren. We are easily offended... and enjoy a good excuse." The Fae recedes, and from the corner of Lauren's sight, draws his hands about himself, removing whatever it is he's wearing - she cannot even cast her eyes upon those once they're pooled upon the floor. "Don't worry," he then reassures. "I have no intention of harming you, Lauren. I simply wish to have one night's taste of you."
He gathers Lauren up in his arms, inhumanly tall and inhumanly strong, and cradles her to his chest - furred and pleasant and carrying such an animal's scent as to make her nostrils flare at the first trace of it. Of course, her invisible lover still cannot quite be seen, but that does not keep Lauren's hands from wandering, or inhibit her ability to bury her nose in his fur... nor, apparently, does it keep him from simply discarding her clothes to the ground with divine ease. Thick, calloused fingers wind their way through Lauren's hair, and he whispers into her ear, "You must let me know when you begin to feel faint, Lauren. Do you understand?"
As the narrative unfolds, it becomes clear that Lauren's will and intellect are pitted against Ciaran's supernatural allure and enigmatic charm. He reveals a snippet of his identity, tying himself to Celtic mythology as possibly a son of Cernunnos, which adds layers of mystique and foreboding to his persona. Despite her trepidation, Lauren negotiates the terms of this unusual liaison, demanding her safety and return. Giving in to a moment of intrigue and perhaps a desire to delve into the unknown, Lauren consents to Ciaran's proposal for a singular night of intimacy, underlined by a pact that seems to bind them within the ethereal confines of a fae's enchantment. The story crescendos into a blend of apprehension and acceptance, leaving Lauren at the precipice of an experience that promises to be as beguiling as it is potentially perilous.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRAvriel):SRAvriel)
[Thu May 16 2024]
At Fleet Street and Devilwood Drive
Cracked and pothole-ridden asphalt roads make up this part of town,
bordered on either side by poorly maintained cracked sidewalks. The
aluminum streetlights are painted a deep, chipped green and appear regularly
along the side, illuminating the street in spots of warm electric light when
it's dark. Where the street is widest small median islands appear with old
twisted trees planted in them. The buildings that line the street seem old
and poorly taken care of.
It is night, about 71F(21C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target is swept into a pocket dream world by a true Fae interested in a romantic liaison
)
Lauren's calming early morning walk - as calming as such a thing can be, on the seedy intersection of Devilwood Drive - is abruptly interrupted. First, there is a sharp tugging sensation and an instant of vertigo as the material world spins out from underneath her. The ephemera of the nightmare brushes on past, too: she's being pulled from her world at speeds beyond anything a mortal man might be able to muster, and falling at terminal velocity. It drives her heart into her throat and drops it down into the pit of her stomach, it makes light flash at the backs of her eyes, it makes her butthole clench, and then she is at utter rest, laid on her back in a bed of rose petals and potpourri.
"Darling," whispers an inhuman voice. Impossibly beautiful, graceful, musical - but inhuman, its pitch rising from dull to sharp in a swannish glissando that could be nothing but alien. "Pet," it reaffirms. The speaker has not yet chosen to reveal itself to Lauren. "Wicked girl... I could not stand to see you run from me. To run from /us/. Beautiful Lauren... I forgive you, nonetheless. I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you thrice-over - know that and be at peace, beautiful one..."
Compared to whatever's going on right now, Lauren's early morning walk was /very/ calming. The most calming of all walks, even, considering what comes after, the world twisting and turning around her at dizzying speeds. 'This must be what it feels like to be clothes in a washing machine,' comes an idle thought over the terror that fills her mind, not even a scream daring to escape her, her vocal cords frozen entirely for once - turns out this is all it takes to get Lauren to be speechless.
And then, sudden stillness.
Lauren does the only reasonable thing she can be expected to do at the moment, once the world is still and yet her vision still spinny: she shifts over to a hunched-over seating position, leans over, retches loudly, and throws up whatever remnants of dinner remained in her stomach, right onto the rose petals and potpourri.
"Oh dear, oh dear, gorgeous," comes the alien voice again, as if spoken by the thrumming of a harp. Even without any visual indicators for Lauren to follow, there's the sense of a hand being flicked dismissively through the air, and the small puddle of vomitus fizzles out of being with a series of technicolour sparkles. "Poor kitten," the voice once more speaks up. "Lie still there, Lauren. Rest your stomach." There's motion, then - someone comes to sit by Lauren's side, but her eyes glide away from them - it? - rather than allow her the chance to get a good look at her captor. There's... a russet brown, and shagginess. That's as much detail as she can glean, right now.
Similarly, the world around her bears little detail, until she focuses on it. The blank slate of the sky bears no stars, and beyond her bed of rose petals, the earth would be better described as covered in 'green', rather than true grass. Yet, as she watches, beauty unspools, with blades of grass coming into individual definition in their own shades of green each, not unlike shards of stained glass in the most resplendent of cathedrals. The sky above betrays the brush strokes of a master painter, coming alive in a gorgeous rendition of van Gogh's Starry Night, only the stars truly twinkle... Breathtaking, indeed.
"You who adorn yourself with golden ornaments," speaks the voice by her side, now with a more natural timbre, "This is for you, Lauren. I fashion myself an aesthete... and I hope to share this crafted vision with you, tonight. You are not in danger, sweet girl."
They know her name, because of course they do. Lauren is still gasping for breath when the puddle of vomit vanishes - are those roses and potpourri now infested with tiny vomit-particles, or did it clean those too? A part of her brain is interested, and the rest of it is simply too overwhelmed to think too deeply on it. She follows the cue and instead just sits back, breathing out and in slowly as the world finally stops spinning after her vertigo-inducing trip to wherever this is.
Breathe out.
In. Take in the colors, watch the world come to life around her, try to glance at the being next to her. Fail. Back to the colors it is.
"Well, shit." Lauren exhales, lifting a hand to run her fingers through her hair. "Uh. Tha--" Her jaw closes with an audible click. No, nope, no thanks will be offered. She tries again. "I... appreciate it? Um. That's cool." She's definitely had more eloquent moments, that's for sure.
There's a warm puff of laughter, quiet and understated, as the unseen figure by Lauren's side decides to lay themselves down on their side, leaning their head in their hand and letting their elbow take their weight. The strawberry-blonde sees all these things happen, but she still can't get a good eyeful of the figure themselves - beyond whatever personal reaction she might have to it, it's grating on the senses, if only mildly.
"There's no need to be coy," teases the most-likely fae. "I do not believe in false modesty, gorgeous. You can admire the scenery. It's all yours, after all." There's a pause, and then a soft breath of the visitor's own, quietly admiring. The only scenery for it to admire, though, is Lauren herself. "Look at you," they murmur in a hush. "Bearing all the colours of autumn itself... If we look past /these/." There's a simple pinch-and-tug that somehow tugs on all of Lauren's clothes at once. Nothing forceful, nothing threatening, only a playful teasing - and there's a grin in their voice as they say it. "Though, of course, you Americans like to call it Fall, don't you?" There's a click of the tongue, then: "Do you find lovers to /Fall/ at your feet very often, then, Lauren?"
It's really hard to hold back the reflex to say 'thanks', it turns out, but Lauren manages, just barely, biting down on her tongue to keep words from escaping her. She's learned to talk too much for too long it's almost a defensive mechanism at this point, but she knows better than to just blurt words out without considering them thoroughly right here. "Er..." A pause, to think over the question. If the most-likely-fae was looking for intelligent conversation this morning, they'll have to search elsewhere. "I don't usually take... lovers..." Is that what's going on here? Her eyes are a little wide from the realization, and the next words are all reflexive humor, "Most people just make like a tree and leave."
A shudder wracks its way down her spine at the tug at her clothes, playful as it may have been, and Lauren curls her arms around her front, almost protectively, as though there's anything she can reasonably do to hold the other back in this scenario. It's time to do what she does best then - digress: "I heard something about forgiveness - had I offended you somehow?" A question for a question - surely this has to be acceptable and won't end with her getting her soul somehow bound to a fae with power beyond her comprehension.
"You fled my little labyrinth," sighs the assumed Fae. Their breath is warm and grassy, though the scents shift even as they play across Lauren's olfactory receptors - from the summer meadow to the spring dew to the warmth of mulled wine warding against the bite of winter. It's backwards, but pleasant. "Don't worry," they reassure. "I don't hold it against you. I prefer it when you mortals figure out how to escape properly, but a magical escape is... valid in its own way, much as magic ever is." There's a small petulance in their voice, clearly meant to be heard, but not all that pressing. "I had arranged for that little group to procure me some new options, so to speak. I gave them a building to conduct their work within, and they caught you. I was transfixed. A golden girl, unconcerned with cleaving to conventional standards, but beautiful all the same. I admit... the piercings caught my eye, at first, but I've grown to admire you more wholly than that, Lauren. I only regret that I cannot show myself to you fully... Not beyond the gates of the Golden City, anyway." There's a low, dark chuckle, now, in stark juxtaposition to the musical quality of their normal tone. "I do not presume to invite you there... yet. I wanted only this first tender moment, and your company."
"Yeah, well, you know how mortalkind is. Always not wanting to die and all that." Lauren forces out a short laugh that quickly fizzles out - wild how being kidnapped and told they're going to have a 'tender moment' isn't quite enough to get her in the mood. Women have such high standards these days...
She's slowly being piecing together bit by bit of this interaction, trying to figure out what the intentions of the maybe-definitely-fae are - though if they happen to be able to read minds, they're just going to be treated to a long litany of 'don't say thank you don't say thank you don't say thank you' and 'don't say dumb shit don't say dumb shit don't say dumb shit' in a loop on repeat. Slowly, now that she's slightly more certain of her situation, does she start: "I'm glad you find me pleasing, really." Let's add 'don't be sarcastic' to the mental loop now. "But, uh, my standards are kinda... high, you know? I can't just have 'tender moments' with anyone, especially someone I don't know. 'cause like, you were watching me all... definitely not stalkerishly, but I don't really know anything about you, and one-night-stands aren't my thing. I mean, really, all I know is that you like gold too and you like ripping off Van Gogh. I want something more /original/, you know? So hey, how 'bout we pick this up another day once we've had time to know each other better and you've gone on a heroic quest or two to show me you're serious about this?"
There's a chuckle - throaty enough to hint at maleness - and a patient breath before Lauren gets another response. "Yes, we can hear your thoughts," they murmur, as if just to indulge her curiosity in a question she didn't ask. "And you don't need to worry about me stealing your name, or holding you in endless obligation over a word of appreciation, Lauren." Their hand - or the shape of it, ever obscured from her direct line of sight - sweeps out in a wide gesture towards the fantastic demiplane spread out before the blonde. "I need no permission or verbal trickery to do as I will. We aren't in court, nor do I mean you any harm. You may relax." There's no prickliness at the less charitable contents of her thoughts, either - though, anything which can hear thoughts has probably heard worse than hers. "Now, for what it's worth, and I'll only defend myself this once - I am not 'ripping off' our favourite earless artist. Melpomene and Erato were friends of mine, once. I have seeded many works of art in the hearts of men." There's a faint click of the tongue, but no more on it - the Fae apparently does not want to waste time on proving itself to the mortal woman.
"I am afraid that you and I will never again meet, Lauren, unless you wish to seek me out in the Golden City. Even here, in this little dream world, where I am only half-present... It would not do to make these a regular occurrence." Warm, leathery fingers, twice as large as a normal man's at least, wind gently around Lauren's shoulder - gently, yes, but their touch brims with impossible power, and leaves no illusions as to whom absolute control belongs to.
"I do not apologise for my own behaviour, Lauren," the fae whispers. "I understand that it may have upset you. Tonight, I offer you a wholly more pleasant experience, instead. You need only say yes."
Fae can't lie, right? Everyone knows that, and surely that is not a lie perpetrated by the fae to trick mortals into believing them. Surely. Whether or not it may actually be the case, there's a minute loosening of the tension in Lauren's shoulders - only for a split second, until she feels the hand come to wind around it, bringing back all the tenseness and then some. Decisions, decisions.
There's a reason their trickery and cruelty is at the forefront of all stories told about the fae - plenty of good reasons, actually, some she's heard firsthand, in much detail. Some she's /seen/, merely a week or two ago, the snarling face of a man-beast hybrid reaching for her in the shadows. And let's not forget the fact that the building she was held in was provided by this very fae, not that this isn't a cage in itself, just a prettier one that she's been swept away to - they're not nice, she reminds herself, as much as they'd like to play at such.
They can probably hear all her thoughts, so Lauren doesn't care about hurrying up with her answer; she's going to take her time figuring out what the optimal result is while she stares up at the Starry Night that may or may not be ripped off, mind swirling through different scenarios - maybe they mean 'harm' as in physical only, and she's still going to be enthralled into doing as they wish regardless if she says no? That wouldn't really be /harming/ her, right? It's a strange thing, to ask for consent when both of them know how far the power dynamics skew between this unlikely pair. Maybe it's a trick, and they want her to refuse so they can spring something else on her. Of course it's a trick. They don't /need/ trickery to do as they will, like they said, but that doesn't mean it doesn't amuse the fae anyway. Lauren would know, of course, even with her own blood as diluted as it is. She does lie for fun often, when it wouldn't change anything to tell the truth.
She's been quiet far too long. Lauren lets her gaze stray away from the stars and to her side, at the being she can't quite make out for as long as her eyes will let her before slipping away like water off a duck's back. A slow, deep inhale.
"Tell me your name," she doesn't say 'give me your name'. "And I'll say yes." An exchange. They already know hers, after all.
"I have been known by many names to many people," the Fae laughs, soft and supportive - as if speaking to a slow child. "I could answer you in the tongue of the Hellenes, or older. I am best known by my time with the Celts, I think, today. I am named Ciaran, and I was known to be Cernunnos' son, if that pleases you."
There's a quiet rustle as a sourceless breeze whispers past the pair, and Lauren finally gets a glimpse of the fair-folk's arm - muscled and swarthy, and thickly furred from the elbow to the wrist. His hands are as leathery as they felt, thick-knuckled and hard-nailed, but his touch remains gentle and sweet. Still, Lauren's eyes refuse to meet his face - his glamour only half-lifted, in the end.
A slow, soft breath escapes Lauren - had she actually expected him to oblige her? Maybe, maybe not, but she's surprised regardless. Pleased, though? Maybe it would have been better for her if he'd been the one to back out, but a deal is a deal. "Ciaran," she repeats, getting a taste of the name. It's not unpleasant, as far as names go, so maybe she /is/ pleased. Then, a jutting of her chin up, put-on stubbornness as though she's got the power to name terms: "Just for tonight. And... you will put me back where you got me from, without harming my body or my mind."
A pause.
"Yes."
"Do not," chides the unseen Ciaran, "Make firm demands of my kind, Lauren. We are easily offended... and enjoy a good excuse." The Fae recedes, and from the corner of Lauren's sight, draws his hands about himself, removing whatever it is he's wearing - she cannot even cast her eyes upon those once they're pooled upon the floor. "Don't worry," he then reassures. "I have no intention of harming you, Lauren. I simply wish to have one night's taste of you."
He gathers Lauren up in his arms, inhumanly tall and inhumanly strong, and cradles her to his chest - furred and pleasant and carrying such an animal's scent as to make her nostrils flare at the first trace of it. Of course, her invisible lover still cannot quite be seen, but that does not keep Lauren's hands from wandering, or inhibit her ability to bury her nose in his fur... nor, apparently, does it keep him from simply discarding her clothes to the ground with divine ease. Thick, calloused fingers wind their way through Lauren's hair, and he whispers into her ear, "You must let me know when you begin to feel faint, Lauren. Do you understand?"