closed starter: amala for eric (@paythereaper) where: eric's apartment when: while he's fast asleep.
A soft touch began at the very tops of his shoulders, like the ghost of a lover once removed. Tips of her fingers met clothes skin with a light pressure, firming as knuckles and palms made contact. Like a python constricting prey, Amala's arms slowly pushed as hands ventured south, down his chest. The weight of her body, despite his lucid state, pressed against the back of the chair he sat in. Her chin came to rest in the crook of his neck, the sweet scent of coconut and jasmine palpable and memorable, even in a dream.
He was an invaluable asset to her, though she wouldn't admit it in so many words. A direct line to the Vitellis—information she could choose to share with her allies. Or perhaps, keep all to herself.
Nails raked their way back up his chest as the cool pressure of her body vanished, only for her figure to re-materialise in a dark, wraith-like haze. Amala sat on the desk he faced, right in his eye-line. Short, even in the blur of her silhouette that was perpetually clouded in a vignette of smoke.
Unless, of course, she specifically revealed herself.
"Wake up, Eric," she taunted the good doctor. A voice like a melody tuned to his ear alone, and a phrase hypnotic in its intention.
It'd been a handful of weeks since she'd last gotten to flex her muscles, and getting into the doctor's head was child's play. He was an open book to a trained mind, but she was careful not to exhaust the link; to offer him something in return.
In a slow manifest, Amala's outstretched arm came to view as proof of the exchange; a small site penetrated and smeared with a crimson bubble. One she swiped away with a manicured index finger. The vials in question had materialised beside her; three she'd filled before she'd found herself light-headed and hungry. That familiar burn in the back of her throat begging to be sated, the blood in her veins aching to be replaced.
"Talk to me," she purred.