Not mine. Does follow "Cavalier," but can stand alone.

Nora's at the mirror undressing when Eric enters, and he has to stop and just watch her for a moment before he pulls his own clothes off and asks, somehow more softly than usual, "Would you try something with me, min söta?"

Of course, she assumes what kind of something he means, assumes it's going to be fun, and she catches his eye in the mirror, grinning. "You indulge me, and turnabout is fair, after all," she coos. "It would be wrong of me not to." She looks herself over now, calculatedly curious about what it is that they haven't tried yet or ever, and nods to the leather corset that Pam persuaded her into tonight. "Shall I leave it, then?"

"No, no," Eric says, appearing behind her to loosen the lacings and unfasten the hooks. "That's not necessary."

"Didn't you like it?" she pouts.

"Of course I did," he says soothingly, brushing a hand over her shoulder. "I don't want the made-up you, though. Not tonight." He tosses the corset aside, wraps his arms about her waist, and she has to notice again that it's done with far more tenderness than they often begin with, at least when they're happy.


"If you say so," she murmurs, at this point slightly unsure as to what a not-made-up her even constitutes but figuring that if anyone deserves it, it's likely him.

He kisses her neck and smiles, far too innocently for her usual liking –she thinks this means, or might mean, that he's got devious plans she just hasn't figured out yet and he's going to surprise her. "Follow me," he encourages.

"To where?" she giggles, rather optimistically. "Are you going to rope me up in your dungeon like one of your fangbangers?"

Eric rolls his eyes, albeit affectionately, and sits on the edge of the bed. "Kom bara hit," he instructs. (He always comes off more commanding in his native tongue, and she hopes this bodes well for her just now.)

Shrugging, Nora obeys, pulling her panties off as she does. "Now what?" she asks once she's sitting beside him, looking for all the world like she's about to start kicking her feet like an impatient child, if of course she did things like that.

"Lägg dig på rygg," he continues patiently, and he scoots enough away to give her room to do so.

"All right," she chirps, in no time flopping back and posing with her legs open and her wrists crossed above her head.

"Cheeky," he half-scolds, albeit lightly, positioning himself on top of her.

She's not sure what the game is yet, but she suspects it's one where he'll allow her to get away with pulling him closer, kissing him urgently with her eyes closed. She's hoping if nothing else to provoke him into action.

Except for it doesn't provoke him at all, at least not in that way; he just returns the kiss, murmuring dotingly against her lips. At least he moves to enter her – much more slowly than she'd like, but it's something.

"Oh, well, hello," she hums, intending to encourage him.

He replies by beginning to thrust his hips gently, tucking hair behind her ear; the pace he's setting is slow and languid, which she supposes is fine – unusual but fine – and there's nothing at all adventurous about it, which is not quite fine, but she'll try.

And then he goes and locks eyes with her, rapt and not at all playful, and it's only a matter of time. She tries for his sake to keep it up, staring right back at him as they fuck, and she doesn't press to go harder or faster, no, but she only has so much willpower. Too long of it, in all of its simplicity and normalcy, and she just has to look away, biting her lip, trying so hard to play nice –

But she just can't. She bursts out giggling, getting quickly wilder about it, and grabs at the sheets to anchor herself.

"What?" Eric asks indignantly, rolling off of her.

"I'm sorry," Nora sputters, curling on her side and hiding her face in her hands. "It's just – you're so serious, my goodness." He makes a harrumphing noise, and it's so disgruntled that she almost feels bad. "I just mean more intent than usual, more – I don't know, quite, just more –"

"What?" he repeats. "More affectionate? More human?"

"No," she says defensively, scrunching up her nose. "Maybe. I don't know. More normal, perhaps."

"More vanilla, you mean," he mutters dryly. "Too vanilla for the know-it-all kink queen."

She rolls to her other side to glare at him, snarky and vitriolic all in one. "You have to admit, brother," she exclaims, almost laughing. "We've never been the soft, sweet loving types, either of us. If you didn't want the made-up me, you shouldn't have given me a made-up you."

"You've never lain down with someone like this?" he snaps. "Never took someone to bed just to be with them? What, Salome never fucked you tenderly?"

Eyes flashing with rage, fangs distended, she smacks him upside the head – too light to really hurt, but forceful to make her point. "You're not to mention her again," she hisses. "That time is passed."

"Or maybe she did, but you don't want to remember it," he presses. "It just hurts too much?"

"And I suppose this is just how you used to fuck your fairy, and you got nostalgic," she shoots back, since they're clearly not playing fair anymore.

That means, of course, that it's his turn to glare. They know each other's buttons to push, that much is true, and there's no telling even which one of them started it by now. "I don't bring her in here with us," he grumbles, almost to pouting.

"I wish you could," she whispers devilishly. She's never known when to give up, especially when provoked.

"Brat," he mutters, shoving her away.

"Prick," she retorts, raising an eyebrow.



"Insatiable harlot."

"Sentimental fool."

They glower at each other for a solid minute until, almost furiously, he pulls her close and kisses her. There's none of the earlier sweet and tender now, certainly not; this seems like the best possible course of action. Suiting the game to the players.

"Who's impetuous now?" she whispers, trying not to giggle.

"Maybe I'm just intending to shut you up and teach you a lesson," he replies.

"A lesson," she repeats, almost as a dare.

"That's what you want, isn't it?" he asks, gathering her in his arms and clambering to his feet. "You certainly deserve it."

Grinning, Nora squirms against him. This is much more like it, at least she hopes. "Teach me, then," she cries, her eyes widening.

Eric shakes his head, sets her before a nearby chair. "Böja dig framåt och håll still," he commands, his hands never leaving her waist. (This is much more what she had imagined.)

Carefully, she obliges, moving her hips over one of the chair's arms and placing her hands so they're gripping the other before settling in. "Does this suit?" she asks, though she suspects knows the answer.

He gives her ass a smack, eliciting a giddy shriek from her, and positions his hands at her hips. "Rör dig inte förrän jag säger att du får," he cautions in his playfully-benevolently-cruel way.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she says earnestly.

Some time later, after several orgasms (more but not only hers) and relocations (pressed against the wall, her sitting atop the bureau, once back to the bed so he could eat her out), she's got him pinned to the floor beneath her, and she just has to grin as she looks down at him.

"See," Nora declares, "This is so much better for us."

Eric shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself. "Much more our kind of normal," he has to agree.

min söta; "my sweet"
kom bara hit; "just come here"
lägg dig på rygg; "lay back"
böja dig framåt och håll still; "bend over and hold on"
rör dig inte förrän jag säger att du får; "don't move until I say"