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blue-jisungs · 2 months

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ballroom extravaganza

author's note. my dudes ir might be my fav banner i’ve ever did!!

summary. he’s one step closer to you on the ballroom extravaganza

word count. 1563

warnings, genre. royal/medieval-ish vibes? kinda angsty if u look at it :) ;; lower class!dk, royal-ish!y/n, alcohol consumption

the room was beautifully decorated. good ornaments everywhere: candlesticks, long curtains falling onto the wooden floor like waterfalls, the chandeliers. the railings and cornices on the ceiling shone with a goldish glint too; even the champagne in his glass reflected with it.

seokmin examined the dresses and suits of people surrounding him, all of them wearing the most exquisite and elegant clothing. after all such a ball was an opportunity to shine. he wasn’t any different – black smoking adorning his body, the brown hair on his head styled with gel.

nevertheless, he felt uneasy; he knew he didn’t belong here. no matter the clothes he was wearing or if his hairstyle was fashionable, it was all a cover. seokmin’s heart pounded with anxiety that eventually someone will discover that he’s a simple man from the lower class.

the champagne turned bitter in his mouth as he tried to drink his thoughts away. the taste of such exclusive alcohol made him realize it’s probably the first and last time he’s drinking it.

then he came to a conclusion that he’d rather be tonight.

seokmin made up his mind (rather seungkwan, his younger assistant, knocked some sense into his head… quite literally, with his fists) and decided to confess to you.

because truth be told, he knew you two wouldn’t form a relationship even in his wildest dreams. seokmin was a very regular lower class teacher from the countryside and you; oh, you. you were the daughter of a rich landlord who held an important role in the local government.

the sudden realization hit him like gust of cold wind and yet again he felt strange in this place, where everything was huge, expensive and out of his world.

seokmin felt grateful he could even look at it or at you.

he met you through jihoon, a musical genius who once was passing by seokmin’s village and heard him singing. that’s when they met – jihoon was amazed by his voice and singing abilities, nagging him to train. he offered to do it for free at the beginning since he knew that seokmin can barely afford new shoes.

soon enough jihoon took his pupil to his musical studio in the capital. pianos, guitars, flutes… even a harp! it all made seokmin speechless. but it didn’t leave him as half as flattered in comparison with your meeting.

the delicate sound of the harp filled the room, seokmin holding his breath. he watched mesmerised how one of jihoon’s students moved his fingers and ever-so-gently nudged the strings.

jihoon’s brows were knitted as he nodded, listening carefully. as a teacher, he was terrifying. as a private person… he was scary. but despite the cold mask, seokmin saw through him and noticed a pure, gold heart. he got here somehow in the first place, no?

suddenly, there was a sound of door slamming open which halted the peaceful atmosphere. jihoon let out a sigh and looked up, seokmin’s gaze following his. then, he saw you.

your face was so beautiful that he genuinely thought like he was hallucinating. the e/c eyes sparkling with excitement and a huge smile painting on your lips, h/c hair flowing elegantly on your arms. your dress was pretty too; even from the first glance anyone could tell you’re rich. the pinks and whites contrasting together, creating a princess aura–

“jihoonah, you bastard! why didn’t you tell me you’re back in town, you little rodent?!” you whined and seokmin’s eyes widened in shock. well, he didn’t expect - and met, so far - any girl behaving like that here.

jihoon stood up and walked up to you, placing a tender kiss on the back of your hand.

“ugh, can you not? we’ve talked about this before” you whined and the man just giggled.

“y/n, this is seokmin. seokmin, this is miss y/n. normally, she isn’t behaving like a spoiled brat but apparently she only does around me. now… joshua, did i tell you to stop playing?” the last question cut through air like a sharp knife. joshua, jihoon's student, quickly returned to play the harp. seokmin used this moment to steal a few more glances at you, visibly whipped.

“hello” you said shyly, realizing just now that jihoon isn’t alone. seokmin stands up and bows gently.

“it’s my pleasure to meet you” he grinned and it was so contagious that you couldn’t help but smile too.

“now, seokmin. remember when i said there’s a purpose for your presence here? you’ll be y/n’s new singing teacher. i will leave because of the upcoming opera in paris and miss y/n has to have a teacher. even though you’re not that professional, you do have a natural talent” jihoon announced, your eyes widening in shock.

“you’re… leaving?” you asked.

“me… a teacher?” seokmin muttered, flabbergasted.

suddenly the crowd had come to a halt, his eyes meeting yours across the ballroom. he smiled and you excused the person who was talking to you, approaching him.

looking beautiful, as always, his heart sped up. the puffy beige dress was elegant yet nothing too fancy to make you stand out. however, seokmin thought that you were the prettiest here; looking like royalty.

“min!” you grinned and bowed gently. all words and thoughts unexpectedly disappeared from his brain, vanishing into thin air.

“y/n… miss y/n” he stuttered out, palms staring to her sweaty. you sent him a reassuring smile.

“you must feel so… overwhelmed. you look nervous. and handsome too, by the way. let’s get some air, teacher” you put your hands together; even your posture being graceful as if you were a carved marble statue.

“no, no. i’m fine. i wanted to talk to you about one concern that… has been on my mind” seokmin finally managed to word out something. your brows furrowed ever so gently and you nodded.

“i see. i, too, have an announcement to share” a quiet mumble left your lips, almost getting lost in the rustle of the room.

now it was his turn to frown. you seemed rather upset.

“go first, please” you gestured with your head. he saw jihoon coming towards you.

“let’s go to the dance floor, i see a predator approaching” you giggled and before jihoon (the predator in question) could open his mouth, you snatched seokmin’s hand and landed in the middle of the dance floor.

“i shouldn’t… dance with you. what will people say?” he mumbled, putting his hand on your hip gently as if we was afraid that he’ll hurt you.

“i couldn’t care less, min. we’re friends. what was it you wanted to say?” you asked, looking at him through your eyelashes. he took a deep breath, hoping you didn’t feel how clammy his hands got.

“y/n, i think… no, i’m certain. i’m certain that i like you more than a friend” seokmin answered. if you were surprised, you didn’t let it show.

just swaying to the rhythm of music (that was slowly building up), you let the words sink in your mind. then he noticed your gaze wandering around the room, stopping upon a certain point.

“i- i know we wouldn’t work out but i just- i’ve been mesmerized by you ever since you bursted into jihoon’s classroom door and i can’t… can’t stop thinking about you” he breathed out, trying to save the situation.

the music tempo sped up a bit, you looked him in the eye.

“seokmin, you’re a really cute guy. perfect, if you think about it. caring, loves to work with kids, patient. and… it’s not- it’s not even about you being from the countryside” you smiled softly and when the music came to a climax, making the pairs come to a halt – and so did his heart too upon hearing your next words “jihoon proposed to me”

the world stopped. seokmin felt his smile disappear, air flowing out of his lungs. ringing in his ears got as annoying as a mosquito buzzing around his ear.

“he got filthy rich after the opera display in paris. my dad forced me to agree so… we’ll announce it today, hence the ball. and then…” you gulped, fingers drumming against his arms.

“then what?” he choked out. his heart just got crashed into millions of pieces that he will never be able to put together.

“then we’ll get married in paris and stay there. jihoon signed a contract with the theatre” you added quietly. staring at you, seokmin felt weak.

you know all the words to the play

but alliI wanted was you to stay

your time is running thin

'cause i'm falling through the cracks under your floor

“seokmin, i’m sorry but… i can’t say no” you said, voice cracking. it was getting hard to breathe but he managed to pull the best smile he coulf.

“i understand. you’re a part of me… now you’ll just be apart from me. but… it’s fine. good luck in the new chapter of your life” he hummed, heart aching so painfully he thought he’s dying.

he let you go, stepping aside.

you're one step closer to me

on the ballroom extravaganza

i know you won't find me anymore

i triеd to reach for you once more

seokmin walked away, deciding to leave the room. he only heard jihoon walking up to you. feeling your gaze burning through his back, he made a mental promise to not turn back.

but thе world came crashing to the ground.

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taglist. @mirxzii ,, @primoppang ,, @l3visbby ,, @nicholasluvbot ,, @planetkiimchi ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @slytherinshua ,, @kazmura ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @dazzlingligth ,, @eternalgyuuu ,, @rubywonu ,, @haecien ,, @mine-gyu

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theladywholivesonthemoon · 10 months

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A DANCE OF LOVERS

pairing: kitana/reader

warnings: none, just fluff <3

a/n: my first kitana writing! i’ve loved her for a very long time and i felt the need to write about her because of the lack in fics about her. i might write about other mk ladies as well ;) This fic contains mentions of good Sindel, because Kitana deserves a good mother!

Rain patters against the window of the castle as thunder rings from above. Kitana sits in the silence of her office, the only sounds coming from the rain and her brush signing away documents picked from the giant pile of paperwork next to her right hand. Ever since becoming Outworld’s Kahn all the work she had as a princess greatly increased, leaving virtually no time for any leisure, only scribbling away on documents, meeting dignitaries and council meetings. Kitana felt overwhelmed, but as she had learned since she was a child, she bottled those feelings away, hiding them away on the outmost corner of her mind, continuing to carry her duties with her head held high, however she was alone no longer. Two soft knocks ring in the heavy door, slightly starling her, however she quickly composes herself, bushing her clothes and uttering a commanding ‘Enter’.

The massive door is slowly pushed open, dragging across the ground and creaking loudly. To Kitana’s surprise, a woman emerges from the dark holding a candlestick. The warm light of the candles shine on her face showing brows furrowed in sleepiness. She drags her blue tinted robes towards Kitana’s desk and stops right in front of it. Kitana can feel the woman’s anger radiating from her as the calm and quiet that formerly inhabited the room is replaced with distress. Placing the candlestick on it, she crossed her arms and glares.

“It’s late”. Is all she says. The woman keeps staring, more like glaring, as Kitana clears out her throat. She gets up swiftly, crossing the desk and coming to stand next to the other woman. A pitiful look crosses her face, twisting into an apologetic pout.

“My queen, I apologize for my lateness. The council has been debating over these matters for weeks now and I wished to present more accurate research, however it seems as I have neglected you”. The Kahn bushes her wife’s hair away from her face, kissing her cheeks. She gives one kiss after another, twisting her love around until they both face each other. Kitana places her forehead against her wife’s, their noses brushing against another, until the other pulls back. She steps backwards, turning and leaning on the large wooden desk.

“You have said that a lot these past few weeks. I intend to forgive you, however you must know this is not right. After we had won the battle, destroyed our enemies together, I expected more. Our wedding was the most beautiful Outworld had ever seen, your mother congratulated us both with a painting to signify our eternal love, this one that sits above your desk. Our honeymoon was the most magical moment of my life. But now? Now all I see of you are the painting across this castle. Tell me Kitana, how will we fix this?”. The young woman says, a grimace present of her face. She pondered about their marriage and the amazing time they had shared.

When they bested Kronika and the mighty Shaolin had given their universe another chance, the two women rejoiced. Having met on the battlefield while her Queen served under her, they quickly bonded over their knowledge of battle strategies while planning attacks. Late nights discussing what territories they would invade turned into talking about their shared interests and soon, a confession of love. As soon as Kitana had become Khan, they married in a most beautiful ceremony, the former Queen Sindel blessing their union. The main ballroom had been filled with blue flowers, those coating the walls as light fixtures shone a very soft light on them, the entire room shining like the moon. Kitana wore a white dress, as was customary for the ceremony, her lover wearing one in baby blue to match the circlet worn by the Kahn. When they finally kissed, cheers could be heard from all of Outworld. All of that passed through both their minds, contemplating. Kitana thought back from the past few weeks, lonely days and ever lonelier nights without her lover to warm her in the tender and affectionate hugs.

“For starters, I will adjourn tomorrows meeting. We shall spend the enter day together, Perhaps we could go to that coffee place my mother always recommends. Believe me, my love, I shall never leave you again. If I ever do, slice me with my very fans, because that shall be someone eles” Kitana smiles to her love as she sees a slight smile cross the other woman’s face and a laugh falling from her light.

“I do not need your fans. I shall rip your false copy with my blade. But, yes, take me to that coffee shop. I had been wanting to taste their cakes for a very long time. I will want more evening like these, however. You are not forgiven yet” The Queen moves forward, taking Kitana’s hands in hers and moving for a kiss. Their lips touch, moving against each other in a passionate dance before the Kahn pulls away.

“Oh yes, my dear. I shall keep you on your toes!” Kitana kisses her again, picking her up and placing her gently on the table. The two lovers kiss into the night, their happy giggles ringing about in the cold castle, warming the quiet walls once more.

#kitana #kitana x reader #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat #mk #mk11 #wlw #mortal kombat imagine #everwritingannafics

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dreamingpartone · 2 years

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There was not a single place to hide. The ballroom’s golden chandeliers and the tall, twinkling candlesticks in every corner left no shadows to lurk in.

my illustration from chapter one of Threads of Gold

#azumane asahi #haikyuu!!#haikyuu fanart #threads of gold #doodles and miscellania #i was meant to post this before the weekend but shhh it's fine dw about that #new chapter coming on friday yoooooo #also shout out to anyone who recognises that coat from my previous asahi art #i love that peony pattern so much but i made it in probably the second most foolish way possible so #it took some effort to use again lmao #if u ever want a pattern-design tip i can tell you exactly what Not to do in this instance

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punk-in-docs · 2 years

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I am OBSESSED with your Prince Paul series. I've been reading and re-reading them. I can only hope there's more coming! Like I'd love to see them dealing with the wedding preparations, all the related stress and Catherine being Catherine. Or the first time they say LOVE? Or the first time they see each other nekkid? Or, or, or, anything!! I just love your writing sooooo muuuuuch. (I am also getting inspired to write fan fic or your fan fic, if that's okay???)

🥀 And The Stars Sighed In Unison 🥀

Authors Note: That’s more than ok my love. I’m so flattered! That’s amazing. I’m so humbled the muse has struck you as a consequence of my foolish little words. So here I give you in no particular order; Wedding day planning. Stag party drunken naughtiness, and in general the excitement of the big day. Hope it meets the mark-

TW: m receiving oral, PIV , dirty talk, clit slapping, much flirting, naughty ren-dez-vous, little dirty in places I mean, c’mon now, it’s Paul x Tsarevna. Don’t be expecting saintly behavior from them (or me) now.

The Palace shimmers. These snake pit halls and cloaking walls, that will never really be home to you, are teaming with bliss. Air full of it. Perched on the precipice of your marital joy.

A royal wedding in December. Anticipation hangs heavy indeed. Heavier than the clouds above distended with snow.

You’ll be married in that snow, Catherine says. Bedecked in white and silver. Because that’s the way things were done here; most babes here learned to keep warm before they learned how to walk.

Lavish affair like no other. It will be ripe with nobility. Snow studded, crept with frost. How appropriate-

The great ballroom is packed with flowers. Crammed to choking. Quite literally. Stuffing the space with pollen and nectar. Outside the trees are thinned brittle with cold. Basked in snow. Icicles on the windows. Inside it’s like there’s been a second sunny waft of spring.

Catherine wanted silver and white inside here. Everything wearing ice. Staining these great baroque halls. A nice occasion that will perhaps wipe through the rusted blood smears, and gloss over her treachery for daring to rob this heaving sow of a country from a man.

Dark walls hung with garlands of scented white flowers, tender tendrils of creamy sweet peas, tulips, and roses. Strung with thick cream ribbons. The best silverware being polished by the servants to a high shine. Flowers wait in vases. The glassware winks like far off stars from the ice smooth linen tables.

You walk obediently alongside her, when she tuts and snaps her fingers at a maid and shoved a poorly polished candlestick back at her, to have it done again.

Her predator eyes on the prowl, nasty tongue in step with it; she never missed a single thing. Countess and you, by her side.

“Do it again. And get it right, or I will have you whipped.” She cuts low. It’s terrifying how calm she is with wintry rage.

Fuck the frost. Catherine’s demeanour bit more than frost could ever dare.

You’re too busy marvelling at the flowers. You’ve never seen the like. Not in the scrappy leaky roofed Manor House you call home in Rostov. This whole environment was groaning with imperial snobbery at a whole new gilded level. Bloated with pomp and circumstance.

Every touch is artful. The flowers, the candles, the feast that’s been planned. Four boozy fruit cakes with hand crafted marzipan icing. Eight types of wine. Shipped from Portugal and France. Vodka unloaded by the barrel full - naturally.

Roast pigs turned on the spits for main, with marjoram, apple and cognac sauce. Haunches of deeply red venison with stewed blackberries and rosemary. The kitchens are fired up night and day for this. The maids on a strict rotation to clean and ready the halls to a gleaming spectacle.

Your dress, Paul’s robes. One of a kind and being worked on by no less than ten dressmakers and tailors, each. It’s all truly beautiful, and mad. And you are struggling to believe - to comprehend - these efforts are being ground to the bone, to satisfy the tune of your own wedding day.

Eyes turned to the ceiling where the flowers are being strung up. Five strands meeting in the gathered centre of the ballroom. Floors being soapy scrubbed and polished to a mirror shine. Every step reflected back. Observed.

This circus court would be watching keenly in attendance. Which makes you want to gouge your eyes out with one of those very spotless fish knives, or a bouillon spoon. Whatever’s closer.

The wedding that is but two precious angst filled days away.

You’ll cease to be a Voronsky. From now on, you’re to be known as the Tsarevna. You turned your nose up when someone tried to call you princess. They quickly found better words in odes to your sharp displeasure.

Call me that again and I will cut your tongue off.

Yes, Tsarevna.

Catherine turns her attention back to you, as you wander along the tables. Drinking in the madness and the beauty.

The Countess is with you and she’s nattering guest lists of who’ve confirmed attendance, at you.

Royal protocol and what that dictates for the drowning numbers of nobles and the statute of those invited to your ceremony.

People will travel in from all over Europe for this. Brave the snow. Nobility came flocking from every corner to pick at the nuptials. Faff over the bride. Congratulate the groom. Throw toasts and hurl wishes. Gorge on the finery.

Then the Countess suddenly sucks air through her teeth seeing a certain princely name appear on her page.

“That will prove tricky-“ She remarks like a vixen, when she comes to the certain name of a royal Swede.

The one who left here jilted, several weeks back.

Catherine is not amused.

“I’m not dancing on eggshells for the ego of one swede. Let the prick come see her happiness. Be done with it.”

You smuggle a secret smile to yourself as you drape your fingertips over the petal of a dainty sweet pea in one of the table arrangements. Fragrance of it so sickly.

“He’s recently engaged, so I’m told. That flame is well and truly doused, I assure you.” You tell.

It never even began to flicker, you think.

“On your side, it may.” Catherine suggests with a pithy smirk. She saw how taken the boy was with you.

“My eyes wander to no other.” You smile at your Empress in law. “And the Countess tells me he was quite struck with that Petrovka girl.”

“Cuntstruck I said. Petrovka had her legs behind her ears since the day she joined court. And she’s sawdust for brains” The Countess took sordid detail in revealing.

Catherine sneered. “Better he found his easy prize. Left us with our Russian gem.” She walks up to you and lays her hand softly on your arm.

You’re not stupid. You know Catherine had her hand on the rudder of your early courtship for far longer than she pretended too.

And well, there’s certainly a great deal more than sawdust between your ears. There’s blade angles of femininity, blazing gunpowder wit, deep unending pools of ideas and intelligence in swathes. Cunning too, some diplomacy, and fistful upon fistfuls of hardy bravery.

“I’m very proud to see you take all this on. My dear. Many would envy you. But do not forget that the task placed ahead is a great one.” Empress reminds you.

“Must run in the family. Rising to greatness.” You answer. Petting her hand with your own. Her draconic red smile widens. Eyes wrinkle pinched at the corners in glee.

“I do enjoy you so.” She chuckles as she pats your hand like you’re one of her little perching obedient dogs. “How do you like the flowers?”

“Divine.” You remark as you wander your eyes around the huge room.

“We can have no less than. Cause people will fucking talk and bitch. They do nothing else when they come to a royal wedding. They want their flawless show of it all and they’ll pick pick pick at it like starved crows.” She comments. Inspecting a polished wine glass.

“You must recall your own.” You ask her as you dance your fingers over a place setting. Gold leaf on the China. Sapphire leaf accents.

“Short, swift. Painless. Much the same to be said for the wedding night.” She mocked. The countess cackled.

Charming.

“Do we need to give you any instruction on the matter?” The Countess winked at you. Dry chuckle as she attended her lists.

“I think I’ve gleaned enough by now. My new lady in waiting, is most vivacious in her manner of stories.” You concede. Lady Dimitrova was as unstinting to talking about sex, as she was formidable. Both were high measures indeed.

“One dare say they contain a prick of truth.” You add in a way that makes them both leer laughter.

“The veritable picture of a modest blushing bride.” The Countess remarks. Preening in delight at you.

“I heartily concur.” Interjects a voice you know all too well.

You turn your head and see none other than your beautiful intended drawing near,

Four male figures darken the golden horizon of this grand room. Paul and his usual party of scurrying sycophants and paper-pushing bureaucrats. Pillars by his side. Minister Panin, stout General Abramov, and a weedy bespectacled civil servant by the name of Berensky.

Paul wanders over to greet you with his party in tow. His arms clasped behind his back. Draped today in his glass green coat, accented with carmine-red. The clack of his boots joins in the wedding hubbub rioting noisily around you.

The red slash of a royal order dangling jewels and honour around his neck and the sea blue silk of his sash running from shoulder to hip. You like it when he’s all shiny and preening in ceremonial garb. Coiffed soldier. Sword swinging at his side all golden. He looks so pristine.

Only you grin because this was the same shiny and polished prince, who had spat in your cunt this very morning, and fucked you as if he were a beast. He went hard. It was bliss.

Handprints blazing their sting on your ass. Bruises on your thighs. Getting you dopey and all cock drunk before you had to scurry on back to your chambers.

Sustaining the false illusion that you’d spent the night there, and not sat on his cock, sobbing his name to kingdom come - as you then did.

Every slam of his hips into you was a fiery agony cracking across your skin - and oh, how it made the pleasure burn that much sweeter.

It’s so decadent a memory it’s got you wet at the mere sight of him. The glide of your chemise and dress on your raw ass cheeks has been a tender and delicious reminder all morning.

And no one needs to know that the cute silky lilac ribbon tied around your neck, dainty sweet, is actually there concealing fingertip bruises, churning to the colour of ripe mulberries.

“How well your bride looks. Does she not? Tsarevich?” The Countess beams at Paul. “All this wedding joy has cast such a lovely glow to her expression.”

“It has indeed. May I please request that you impart even more of it onto her. It becomes her quite dearly.” Paul charms.

“Radiant and pretty as ever.” He added. Overloading you with sickly sugar words. Churning honey off his silver tongue.

He’d said that this morning too. How pretty you look. Especially with his hand viced around your throat, til eyes fluttered, and you nearly passed out.

Catherine looks like she wants to roll her eyes back in her head and come back when this conversation has shifted elsewhere.

“I was warned by my mother that flattery was the infantry of negotiation.” You narrow your eyes playfully. Nothing slips you by. You’re too sharp to let it.

“As a military man, I do have much appreciation for such a diplomatic resource. Gets us out a lot of scrapes.” He explains.

“What cheek.” You surmise.

“Paul.” Catherine bites in her usual tone she reserved for him.

“I would make my goodbyes to your fiancée were I you. For soon we’re going to steal her away and lock her out your sight, until you’re walking to that altar.”

“And I believe, the men of court have planned a similar merry making event in your bachelor celebration.” She tilts her head and rakes her sherry eyes over Minister Panin. In the way she does that drags and curdles blood if anyone dares disagree.

The Minister leaps to words. “Of course. Empress.”

“Get to it. We have the dressmakers final fitting in half an hour, petal.” Catherine waves her hands at you. A warning.

She drifts away as does the Countess. Just enough edge to her sandpaper words to incite action.

Paul strides closer. Plucks a white sweet pea from out the table arrangement vases, and hands it over to you in offering.

“To match that bloom in your cheeks. Though it can seldom be rivalled by anything sweeter.” He smiles. Perhaps giddy. Totally enraptured by you, that was for sure.

Like he’s some stupid peasant boy gifting the girl he’s wooing, a simple picked flower. It’s actually quite fucking sweet of him. Simple things sometimes.

You pluck it out his hand, lift it up to inhale the sickle sweetness off its giving petals.

“You quote a sonnet at me, my love, I will have to go and be sick in the closest corner.” You warn with flirt traced on your lips.

He smiles back. It’s all doe eyed flirt. “Shall I compare thee to a summers day?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” You threaten nicely.

“Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under.” He decided instead.

“Much more me, you have to concede.” You state.

You step closer and lean across to peck a sweet kiss on his cheek. Such paltry stuffy affection, but it’s all you can show at present.

His chest bounces with a sudden intake of air. That darkly lustful hunger seizing his eyes. You’re the same. One whiff of his shaving foam cologne and the gut clenching nearness, and you feel slick as ever between your legs.

“I shall see you at the altar then.” You decide when you pull back. Twiddling the flower between your fingertips. Swirling the petals.

Oh no you fucking won’t.

You imperceptibly jerk your head to the doors leading back to the royal chambers. Your eyes flick across and then back to him so suavely it’s like butter wouldn’t even dare melt on your tongue.

“You will.” He answers. Following your gesture.

“Good day. Gentleman.” You say loudly. Turning to his companions. Inclining your head to them. And then him.

“Tsarevich.” You smirk. Running the flower petals across your lips. Saying his full title like a sultry purr like some empty headed courtesan. All wide open legs and easiness.

You twirl on your heel and crossing away to another part of the room.

He watches the delicious drag of your blue skirts sweep the polished floors. All those silken vines laid on cobalt, crowded with plump pink roses on your bodice. The teasing slip of your perfume leaving notes of peaches and orchid musk in your wake. The way your coiled hair lays down the back of your neck. Bounces when you glide away.

“Darya.” You call out to your maid.

She stands to attention with a nodded bob of her linen clothed head. Hands folded serenely behind her back. Walnut eyes whip to you.

“Perhaps some tea in my rooms before the dressmaker comes.” You request.

“Yes my Lady.” And she scurries away to do your bidding. You walk across the room and busy yourself talking to another group of maidens about the flowers.

Paul turns and drifts back to the men accompanying him. Minister Panin says how well you look with the upcoming joy of the nuptials. You sparkle with it. Paul agrees.

They walk along and discuss more treaties and the current state of the affairs in Kyrol.

You watch from the corners of your eyes as him and his entourage leave the room. You smirk.

Leaving it a few moments as you gaze at said buckets of flowers before you decide to depart the room also. Darya returns from laying the tray of tea in your chambers.

“Please inform the Empress I will be on time for the dressmaker.” You beam as you sway to the doors.

She steps to scamper after you. You call back without turning around.

“Unaccompanied, Darya. Go and have some cake or something.” Waft of your hand. You instruct her. Knowing full well you just left her floundering in what to do next.

She notices there’s definitely a sway in your step as you stride away, and out along the echoing gilded halls. She goes and finds something else to do. Keep busy.

You step one foot through the doors leading to the royal chambers. And suddenly arms are snatching you around the waist.

Tugged out the doorway and off path into the snug concealed by the edge of the doors.

“Oh you fucker-“ Is the gasped outburst he’s torn from you in surprise. You told him to go wait for you. You didn’t know he was going to pounce.

“Such an elegant mouth.” He croons. Before kissing you like he’s not taken any single ounce of air since he saw you last.

He walks you back in quick step, shoves your hips painfully up against a table. Clatters the candlesticks stood on it. Hands on your bodice. Smoothing your silk back. Plump lips sweet and hot, seeking yours.

Smothered to him in a hungry slamming kiss. Messy sloppy. When you break away with a moan and the parting sound of wet meeting lips.

“I have a dagger in my garter, careful sneaking up on me, or else I’ll use it.” You threaten with a silky purr.

He paws your ass over your blue skirts crudely to make you squeak.

“I am more than aware of your dangerous inclinations. Should you like to plunge it into my back or my heart, beloved?“ He offers. Eyeing up your lush mouth again. The long doe flick of those carob colour lashes. Fuck, he’s pretty.

You smirk, sharp like rose thorns, all angles and gleaming. You’re so terrifyingly beautiful. So Russian in that regard. You like when others think you dangerous - it means they have grasped the right impression of you.

“Throat. Dear heart. I always, always, go for the throat.” You whisper all flirtily as you lean in and kiss the corner of his pouting mouth.

He finds your mouth again with his. It didn’t take more than a nudge and he’s on you. You whine into his mouth. You wrap your hand around his back. The table scrapes against the floor with a loud scuff. His hips rut to yours.

“Any chance we’ll be caught? What of your guards?” You ask. Desperately gulping for air as he kisses your neck and makes your toes curl in your beautiful shoes.

“Dismissed.” He sighs into a kiss under your ear.

“So you have a few moments?” You seek.

“Yes. Why?” He grunts.

“Because you’re going to spend them inside me.” You fist the front of his jacket and medals bite your palm. You snag your lower lip between your teeth in a positively filthy grin.

You yank him, stumble him in his shiny boots, to an even more discreet corner. Hidden by large waterfalls of draperies. Shadows drawn in baroque arches from the side of a great branching candelabra.

You claw your your skirts into gathered silk fistfuls. Bunched in your hands. Face the grazing threads of the tapestry clad wall. Arch your back. Jut your hips. Pussy just throbbing for the bliss of his touch.

He pasted his body to you, enclosed, and his hand snuck under your skirts. Lips perched at the shell of your ear. He hums all pleased when he finds you sticky wet. Silky and slipping over his fingers. Plump lips grazed between his fingertips.

“Are you still sore from our session last night?” He cooed all low. Cupping you crudely, and enjoying the way you tipped your head back. Pushing into his hand for more.

Your hair catching in his lips. He kisses your neck so sweetly. It belies the way he’s grabbing at your cunt like you’re some common street wench he’d pay pennies for.

That little split of pain - you’re such a drooling whore for it and he certainly knows how to give it. Knows when to knock his hips rougher and truly start to rearrange your guts. Knows when his words need to come out nastier, when he needs to grab and spank, and when to still his hand.

Paul rips at the falls of his own breeches. Messed up all those neat gold buttons. Theres your good toy soldier.

There’s the wonderful sting where he palms your ass as he crushes right up to you. His cock finding purchase to slide into your cunt with one breaching snap of his hips. You whine. He sighs. Your fingernails dig into the threaded wall. Snag on the fabric.

God, your pussy is gorgeous. Like wet velvet or warm satin. Or silky creamy peaches and butter sunshine. All good glorious things when he pushes deep into you.

“Fuck, my love, you’re incredible. You feel incredible. Holy god.”

“Don’t let the Patriarch hear you. He’ll have you in that chapel on your knees til you’re black and blue.” You sigh smartly.

Your hand reaches between you to rub slow pressing circles on your swelling clit. It makes his thrusts come harder because you’re throbbing tighter, fist tight, around the girthy drive of him.

“I can’t wait two days. Can’t fucking wait that long to have you again.” He babbles. Cuntstruck by you already.

You huff a laugh. “Mmm. Give me that over a dry sonnet any day.” You plead.

“I can’t go long without you. I walk through my day listening to treatises and proclamations. Yet all I can concentrate on is how you taste, and kiss, and, ugh fuck, how I just want to pin you to the bed with your ankles behind your ears...” He growls with a particularly knocking thrust that makes stars skip on your skin and your belly.

His praise and need cracked a heat over your throbbing hard nipples. Nestled in your stays, swaying and chafing when he fucks.

He tore a shocked gasp right out your mouth when he starts even harder punching thrusts and then bites your neck. Hard.

“More marks a ribbon can’t hide, hmm?” You remark archly. Turning your head to the side. Coaxing out that spit of spoilt fire you adore.

He pulls back and sees the purple-red of blood rushing into the crescents of his teeth marks, welted deep in your skin.

“They’ll look beautiful on our wedding day.” He huffs against your ear.

“Fucker-“ you grin and tip your head back and a loud, a too loud, moan, slid out your throat before you could stop it. Ran away from you.

It haunts the room. Haunts you. Echoing. Humiliating you with mocking. He makes you produce noises like an unbidden harlot.

Paul slams a hand over your mouth. Wet lips kissing your ear as he speaks. “Keep rubbing your cunt. I may not have the time I want to fuck you endlessly. But you will cum over my cock and be thankful for it. Do you hear me?”

Oh you could kiss him.

You nod like a demon is gripping your glass bones and you’ll shatter with it soon.

He felt how those words made you clutch down on him. Pussy choking his cock. Like you never wanted to let him leave.

Swallow him up and keep going til you have all of him. Sinking. Despair. A man whose love struck and who cannot ignore the ocean even as it’s drowning him alive. You are too knotted in everything. Tangled and twisted up inside him with that vital string.

He takes you fast and hard and he doesn’t let up for even a damn second. Perfect boy, he knows exactly what you needed.

Your little gasping cries. His grunts. The smack of hips and skin. The clutch of his palm on your handful hip. The dainty clack of your shoes on the floors. Unable to think about anything but chasing that fiery gut punch of pleasure.

“You like it when I give you orders…hmm” He huffs out suddenly. A statement as opposed to a question. Spoilt mouth at your jawbone. He takes his hand from your mouth to require an answer.

“Only sometimes.” You reply. Mouth slipping into an oval shape. Browns drawn. Searing liquid heat slaps and sloshes low in your gut. Spilling from you and dripping along his cock.

He pierced you so deep it’s like he’s prodding at the back of your throat. Prick of tears is looming in your eyes from this feral fuck.

“You love it when I say nasty filth as I fuck you deep? About how I want to to tie your hands to my bedposts, like a tamed wild thing, keep you edged for hours til you beg to finally cum. To rut you like I loathe you.”

As he whispers to you, his hand drifts and joins yours over your clit. He urges your hand out the way and gives your soaking pussy an open handed tap, that leaves you reeling. Clit stinging.

Your animalistic moan eats into his palm all slippery. Your eyes flutter in your head.

“Or is it you prefer my sweetness? How I would drag you to the edge of the bed, and feast on your cunt for days? Lick you so slow and tender, digging my tongue in you, call you by loving names, hold your thighs open and eat, until you flood my mouth.”

Another moan of yours sinks into his hand. It’s over your mouth once more. It sounds suspiciously like the warbled shape of his name. He tempers you with another little slap that makes you lurch.

He hums against your neck as pleasure begins to bend, and dip, and take him too. Drawing the same opium daze out of him. The ludicrously loud wet squelch of your cunt is signifying your climax is bearing down fast, also.

He buries his mouth in your shoulder as his strokes get harder and faster. Crumpling your body into the wall before you both. Strands of thread plucking under your nails. White knuckles. Drooling in his hand.

He’s cursing, spewing out filthy whispers and groans, because you get so crushing tight when you’re about to cum. Doesn’t relinquish his hand clamped on your mouth. Nor your clit. He’s pinching it and rolling under fingertips and you’re going mindless. Brain wiping out.

“Yes my love. That’s it. That’s it- fuck.” He pants as he feels you spasm and snap down on him.

Scream bitten in his palm. Spurt of your release slicking his cock, rolling down the tight sac of his balls too. He pounds even harder to chase his own release, and tears bite the corner of your eyes. Cock piercing somewhere so deep inside you it’s fiery bliss. Punching a spot that just makes your whole gut melt.

He sinks deep and thrusts hard. Fucking the hard beast of his orgasm so far inside you. You’re held up, back pasted to his chest as you’re licked entirely in sweat and sagging to the wall with a blissed out sigh. Muggy wet across his palm. Cries melt into his skin.

Your nails bite into his coated arm. The other snagging the tapestry. He takes his hand away and his lips retrace your ear. Indulging himself in the last few spasms of your climax as it fizzes away. Slowly dripping the evidence of the encounter down the insides of your thighs, and his.

“Fuck me-“ You rasp out. Voice still laced with pleasure. Airy and dancing on a laugh too. An unbelievable one. He loves it when you go all gooey and soft. It’s so unlike your usual hard as steel state.

“There’s not going to be a room in this palace we’re going to leave unsullied is there?” He asks you.

“I highly doubt it.” You preen. Lower lip caught between your teeth as he finished petting gentle circles around your clit. Cupping your whole peachy shape in his hand. The short fuzz of your curls nestling against the arc of his palm.

“Now I really feel like I should be in church. On my knees. Praying our shared sins away to the Patriarch.” He said. Ghosting his plump lips down your ear.

“You’ll need to be on your knees for eternity for marrying the likes of me.”

“I don’t plan on atoning for anything regarding you. Tsarevna.” He insists as he scoops you in.

Kisses you once before he pulls back. You fight to right your clothes. Feeling him slip further and further down your legs. You fix your skirts. He rights his breeches. And hastily does up all those buttons.

“Enjoy your stag merrymaking.” You offer with a sly grin. “Try not to get carried away with your rutting in those remaining hours of singledom.” You tease, with flirt skated on your voice.

You thumb the corner of his mouth where he’s all spit wet. Looking at you like you’re every sort of devilish temptation he’s been warned to resist.

“Although if you share this gorgeous cock with any of those painted whores. I will have to punish you.” You sharpen your already pointed eyes at him.

“I think my sore head tomorrow will be punishment enough.” He skims his hands over your back. Settling in the slope of you there.

“Good boy.” You wrinkle his coat where you grab it in a fist and drag him in for a kiss. Devouring and sloppy kiss that makes sparks shoot to your knees and throb your veins.

When you’re done with him you rudely pull away and he stumbles. Kiss drunk. It makes you grin.

You slink away. A long straight walk along the corridor, aiming in the direction of your rooms. Best you snap to action before his mother sends someone to root you out.

He watches every step as you leave him aching, heart pounding war drums in his chest for more, blood fired. He wants you again as he admires the sway of your hips that was definitely deliberate.

“I do so enjoy the length of these hallways.” He calls in flirt after you.

You cross your hands behind your back and turn over your shoulder and smoulder at him.

“Careful. Tsarevich. I’m a taken woman.” You purr at him. Laughing as you glide away. Biting your lip.

“So I’ve heard.” He calls at your retreat.

He’s so drunk. He’s so beyond drunk he doesn’t think he’s ever felt a sensation like this before. Such a loss of faculties and control.

His head is swimming. A whirling drag that doesn’t keep up where he moves. When he turns his eyes it’s all blurred distortion.

Gorky kept pressing drinks to his hands. Abramov made rousing toast after toast which ended in all the men breaking into jeers, and slamming their emptied vodka glasses on the floor to the tune of his name.

The room is spinning endlessly. There’s bawdy chorus singing of a lewd folk song. The painted whores and their shrill laughter raising to brush the gold ceiling. He watched Count Orlov across the room perch one on his knee. Her dress was petal pink. Undone at the low bodice. Lips cherry red. He stuffed his hand up her skirts as she nibbled on his ear.

They kept smirking at him all night. The ladies. Some of them draped themselves across his lap. He shuffled away and the men roared laughter.

“Saving yourself for that firecracker of a Voronsky you’ve won?” Lord Petrova asks, slurring.

Paul won’t say that actually, yes, it’s something along those lines. He drinks til there’s nothing left in his glass.

“Enjoy the warm cunt of that plump Italian whore before you’re shackled to that fiesty bitch.” He barks out. Paul eyes him tiredly.

“Fetch me another drink, why don’t you.” Paul requested. Shoving his glass at the foul mouthed lord.

“That thing between your Tsarevna’s legs probably bites.” The man claps his shoulder and cackles as he walks away. Stopping to place an open handed slap on the ass of a whore stood drinking with his fellow nobles.

Paul glares. He gets this jagged feeling of protectiveness in his gut. Wants to stroppily tell him to fuck off and that your cunt is heaven and a fat oaf like him could never be so lucky.

Some are dancing to the sharp chirp of music. The air sways with songs. All of the men are as gone on drink as he is. It’s a riot of Russian revelry.

Lord Dymov stumbled up, smirked and clasped Paul’s very unsteady hand as he poured a great shaking glug of vodka into it. Spilled half over his lap and hand.

He tips it down his neck. Warmth fizzes low in his belly. His limbs feel too small and slick and he’s aching for sleep.

And you- he does so ache after thoughts of you. He’s laying back staring at the swirled gilding on the ceiling. How it fractures into patterns; into jewels and precious swirling white and gold. Like gem studded crowns and butter yellow autumn leaves twirling off the trees.

He doesn’t realise he’s speaking, a stream of words just dribbling out his mouth of how lucky he feels, how he’s going to be married. He’s going to have a wife. He’s going to have make heirs and spares, and all of this terrifying icy Russia will be writ into his future. Just like his father before him.

Gorky comes and hauls him up. “Come on my friend. I’d say you need your bed.”

“I need my wife.” Paul slurred with a thick and fat feeling tongue.

“She’s not your wife yet.” Gorky told him. Paul slurred something, snuffled, into his shoulder Gorky didn’t catch it.

He tries to stand. It’s like a newborn deer - knock kneed and incredibly ungainly - in his nice shiny soled boots over glass shards that crunch and crack under his weight. The floor is littered with broken glass from all the toasts.

It’s early by their standards. The party will continue on without its Prince. Slings an arm around his shoulder and dips to lever him off the chaise he’s sprawled on. Wig askew. Coat all rumpled. Vodka stained hands and mouth. They trip and stagger out the hall and along to the Tsarevich’s rooms.

Gorky hauls him through the doors and clumsily drops him on the bed. Discards the wig. Yanks off his boots. Off with the coat too. Leaves him sprawled on the mattress in his shirt and breeches.

“Sweet dreams, dear groom.” He sing-songs as he slipped out the pocket doors. Paul thinks he raised his hand to wave. He can’t be sure. His arms won’t follow his brains directions anymore. There’s fluffy-stuffy cotton where his limbs once were.

He sinks into the bed. The warm, lushness of his luxury bed. Stares at the heavy drape of canopy. It’s crushing sapphire blue weighing down his vision. Drowning him like the sea would. A sea of vodka. That sounded nice. That sounded like his salty, entirely alcohol laced bloodstream at the moment.

A slow knock rams against the inside of his very muzzy head.

He tells the door to go away.

“I don’t want to be disturbed.” Comes melting out his mouth off his tongue with the slowness of hot sticky honey.

The door opens anyway. It closes. He struggled to sit up on his elbows. Slanting vision tipping all over the place shows him the stretch of the door.

And you-

Stood there in a swathing lilac dressing gown. Hair loose. Silk ribbon tied around your neck. You’re stood there looking like some sainted angel whose walked right out a stained glass window in the church.

Botticelli’s Venus climbing out her shell and the waves. Skin stroked in candlelight like a glowing Raphael. La fornarina. La velata.

Paul finds his woolly tongue. “Tsarevna.” He nods his head. Belly erupting into a tangled hot jungle of his feelings for you. The drink seems to have amplified their intensity. His heart could crawl up these very walls it crashes so loud like waves in the cage of his chest.

You look at him with a mild expression of amusement. But there’s warmth there, too. A stunning amount.

“I take it your evening was pleasant?” You ask.

He nods. Taking in the state of your gown.

“Shouldn’t you have….more on?” He asks disguising a drunken hiccup in the middle of his sentence. His voice dips with it.

When he thinks about you walking through the palace for the guards to see you like that, he wants to go and have their eyes put out with a poker.

You smirk. He watches it curl up one side of your mouth. He thinks he hears harps.

“I was just thinking about all that bachelor fun you’d be having tonight.” You say as you reach for the sides of your gown. And slowly open them. Dropping your one item of clothing to the floor.

Paul’s eyes don’t know where to rest on your entirely naked body that you’re offering up to him.

Your nipples are hard. He watches the quake of your plump thighs where you move. The c-bout of your hip to waist.

You’re walking, padding slow, big cat slow, towards the end of the bed. Predator hunger glimmers sharp in your eyes.

“I wanted to make sure that you didn’t spend all night writhing under a painted whore. When you could spend all night under me instead.” You beam brightly.

“Did I make you envious?” He asks in sheer alarm in those big brown eyes. Like he’s looking for the matching puzzle pieces.

You narrow your eyes. Tilt your head. “Maybe a little. I told you. I’m a bitch and I don’t care for sharing my husband-to-be.”

“I didn’t go near them.” He insists boldly.

“Aren’t you sweet.” You coo.

Paul’s certain his tongue has shrivelled to dust. It’s taken his brain with it. And every drop of blood in his body rushed, beating to somewhere entirely south of his head.

You stand right between his legs. Kneeling yourself onto the floor. Soft antique rug catching your knees. Trailing fingers up his thighs.

You rip open his breeches. He squirms. His lungs cease to function. It’s like he’s breathing in claggy sand.

“May I suck your cock, my darling?” You ask with a genuine panthers grin.

He actually shivers when you ruck the clothing down his hips. Freeing that gorgeous cock laying flushed with blood up against his thigh. Head already leaking for you - shiny even in the dozy gold low light.

His mouth falls open when you suck him deep into your mouth. You twirl your tongue around around the swollen pink tip like the taste of him is your favourite thing in the world. It is. You moan at the heat of him. At that taste.

You suck him deep. An obscene gargle where he jams into your mouth. You’re flushed with pride when he bucks off the bed. He cant control himself. He’s humming and squirming from that strong hungry suction.

You pull off him. Lap the head with kitten licks. Then swallow him again. Tears prick your eyes when you relax enough to nudge him right down.

You flick your eyes up at him through your lashes. Lips glossy red. Eyes vibrant and watering with each slide and glug that comes so lewdly out your mouth. Your nose brushing against the short sweat-damp curls of his groin.

He’s jammed his fingers into your pretty hair. He can’t contain himself. He’s a mess.

Laying back on this bed and just sloppily fucking his hips up into your face. Calling for god in every way he knows how. Praying and stumbling, cursing.

“Oh my love. Your mouth, you’re so- better than any whore- even better cause you’re all mine. Christ.”

You pull back off him with a pop before he can spill into you. He follows your pull back with a thrust of his hips. Looking at you with shining puppy puddles for eyes.

You grip him by the base and lick a hot stripe right up him. Collecting one last taste.

You climb onto him and straddle his waist. Run your nails right up his chest. Digging in just a little - for fun.

“I did think you might want to fuck a Voronsky. One last time.” You purr. Sitting on his thighs. Your eyes gleam, it looks wicked. Snake eyes sharp. Sly smile.

He’s definitely fucked.

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lorei-writes · 9 months

Text

Liquid Inferno

Clavis Lelouch Gen Fic Angst-adjacent (?) Word count estimate: 500

My entry for One Suitor, One Prompt CCC by @violettduchess. Something, something, fire water and what not -- on Clavis & sense of inferiority.

Content Warnings: alcohol

Poison, poison, burns my throat, Mommy says I’m still too small. His arm thrown over the shoulder of an elderly servant, Clavis dragged his legs, talon-like fingers grasping his wrist to steady him. His foot nearly slipped off the step. Again. He lifted his lead heavy head, drowsy eyes hurting at each glimpse of the sharply soft light swarmed around the candlestick carried by a maid. The staircase swayed, some wayward sea rocking the palace even as it stood on the solid ground. His stomach churned.

Poison, poison, burns my throat, Mommy says I’m still too small.

His arm thrown over the shoulder of an elderly servant, Clavis dragged his legs, talon-like fingers grasping his wrist to steady him. His foot nearly slipped off the step. Again. He lifted his lead heavy head, drowsy eyes hurting at each glimpse of the sharply soft light swarmed around the candlestick carried by a maid. The staircase swayed, some wayward sea rocking the palace even as it stood on the solid ground. His stomach churned.

“Ada, open the door to His Highness’s room.” Storm broke the calm, waves of his very own, very cold sweat washing over Clavis and pulling him under at once.

“No need,” he slurred, voice firm as he struggled to outshout non-existent thunderclaps.

They’d let him go, left him alone. Just as they should have, just as they could have, as anybody would. Molten yet unchanged, key bent in his hand when pressed into the lock. It turned, however, together with his entire world. Clavis tumbled forward.

Poison, poison, I can drink, burns don’t burn when I don’t think.

Cork slid out of the bottle with an audible pop. White foam climbed the glass neck, perhaps mimicking the boiling concerns trapped in Clavis’ throat; however, only one of them would erupt and thus be voiced. Golden gaze faltered, meek when in presence of effervescent beige. The champagne cooled his fingers, wetted his desk.

Clavis swallowed thickly, threatened by the plink of glass. Neck against rim, the twitch of his arm the falling axe – liquid swirled once inside the cup, its vortex a promise, a siren’s song… A banshee’s cry. Wilfully deaf, Clavis drank.

Practice makes perfect, or so he thought.

Poison, poison, I have drunk, Mommy calls, so it’s good- bye.

His gaze swept over the ballroom from above the rim of his glass. Clavis smiled to himself, his accomplice – grape juice tactfully poured in place of wine – returning the gesture with care. Not that anybody could realise, not from that far away. He sipped it, sweetness gaining a ferrous edge as the high tide began.

Waves of nobles surged, carried forth a fleet of inquiries and requests, perhaps praying for a lighthouse to appear and guide their way. Clavis stifled a laugh. The moonlight they all sought despite most sincere fright would be their demise, its very source the one who’d cast rocks into the shallows in the first place. He merely watched, first pieces of wreckage floating up to the surface, crushed against hard words. His older brother lifted a glass to his lips, displeased ice freezing the coast.

Clavis shook his head. He did not need to watch to know they’d be pulled by the moon, regardless of casualties that might occur… He did not need to, want to, watch for his own sake. His grape juice tasted stale, phantom fire scorching his throat and tongue. Even so, not even liquid inferno would burn as much as the shame of being inferior yet again.

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#clavis lelouch #ikepri clavis #ikemen prince clavis #ikepri #ikemen prince #ikemen series

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lucathycoded · 17 days

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Princess Athanasia's

15th birthday |♡|

Masquerade ball

A huge number of people gathered at the ball for the celebration of Princess Athanasia's 15th birthday party held at the Emerald Palace.

The recipients of the invitation were all noblemen and young ladies of similar age to Princess Athanasia, and the attendance rate for the masquerade ball that day was nearly 100. There was a rumor going around of a feud between Emperor Claude and the princess and one day the Emperor's Chamber, which was said to be looking for the missing princess was spread throughout the country, so it was natural for people's curiosity to soar endlessly.

After some time, Princess Athanasia and Emperor Claude showed their close relationship again at an official event, so the rumors of discord between the two quickly died down, but they still watched their relationship with a suspicious eye (suspicion)

There were people out and about. Meanwhile, Princess Athanasia was said to be holding a party at the Emerald Palace to celebrate her 15th birthday, so it was natural that the invitees decided to attend to confirm the truth of the rumor.

“Those who do not have a mask ready, please let us know before entering.”

Moreover, unusually, at Princess Athanasia's ball, all attendees had to wear masks.

“If you are not wearing a mask, you will not be permitted to enter the ball.”

There were ladies and noblemen who had prepared masks in advance as instructed in the invitation, but those who did not, got masks handed to them one by one by the attendant waiting in the front as soon as the carriage door was opened. Since they were all children of nobles who had recently debuted in the social world, their experience of attending a ball was extremely rare.

Moreover, it was my first time entering a ball like this with my face covered by a mask, so I felt embarrassed and intrigued at the same time.

As I entered the palace with my face covered, I noticed attendees wearing masks of different shapes. Everyone seemed unfamiliar with the current situation. Because each person had their face covered, they could not easily move around to find someone they knew, so the attendees squirmed in place, only moving their curious gazes here and there.

Suddenly, the lights in the chandelier went out all at once.

“Huh?”

“What is happening all of a sudden?”

In an instant, the murmur in the descendend darkness spread into the ballroom. It was at that moment that an echoing louder (sonorous) voice rang in my ears.

“Thank you everyone for being here today.”

It was clear that it was Princess Athanasia, the host of the ball. Spreading in all directions, everyone listened to that outgoing voice

"As explained in the invitation, today’s masquerade ball is a secret ball where you hide your faces from each other and dance. Depending on your personal preference, you may change the mask provided in the ballroom room several times, and feel free to use a pseudonym¹.”

(A stage name instead of their actual one)

But no matter how much I concentrated, I couldn't figure out where the sound was coming from. Also, the lights in the chandelier turned off all at once. Could it be magic? The rumor that Princess Athanasia had awakened the power of a powerful wizard, following Emperor Claude, was a very interesting topic of gossip among people.

“It is a rule to only take off your mask at the end of the ball, and it is against the rules to forcibly remove someone's mask or force them to do so in anyway. In this case, you may be expelled from the ball, so please be careful.”

Anyway, Princess Athanasia quickly succeeded in grabbing people's attention.

“Then, I would like to thank Abamama² for organizing this event for my 15th birthday.” (A term of address used by a royal child for their father.)

A faint smile was mixed in the clear voice that echoed throughout the ballroom. “I hope you all have a good time today.”

And the next moment, the chandeliers and candlesticks placed throughout the ballroom lit up.

The exclamations of people here and there rang in my ears. As the sound of music spread throughout the venue, servants waiting around began offering drinks to attendees.

“Wow, it’s a strange ballroom.”

"I know, right. But, um, it seems a little interesting......"

“I think this is my first time seeing you today. Would you like to go over there and talk for a moment?”

"I'd love to."

At first, the ladies and gentlemen were a little hesitant, but as they talked while hiding their identities according to the ballroom's policy, they felt a strange sense of freedom and fun that they had never felt before. It was quite interesting to guess who the other person was through conversation and actions. Soon they were immersed in a unique ball.

.......That was my scenario. And it seemed like my scenario was a success! Yes as planned!

I was relieved to see the young boys and girls huddled together in groups of twos and threes, having fun as if they had never seen the day before. Maybe I was worried for no reason that my birthday party today might be a disaster. Yes, yes. This is the magic of the masquerade ball. You know the freedom of anonymity? As I walked around the ballroom, I saw people playing a game of guessing each other's identities on one side. I also changed my voice and slipped in.

“Well, let me guess. Seeing your red hair like roses and skin as white as a shimmering lily....."

drum rolls! Your name is!

"The young lady....."

This is Marquis Irene’s Lily Girl!!

“I think it might be Miss Lorena, the rose of the Count of Florence.”

But it wouldn't be fun if we revealed it now, so let's make it even more confusing. I've seen the Lily girl up close often, so I knew her identity right away, but it's probably unclear to others. Moreover, she was wearing a wig on her head, as if she had made up her mind for the masquerade ball today. Of course, even on a day like this, it looks like Lily couldn't give up what it was.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Oh, I see that you stutter, so isn’t that correct?”

“Now that I think about it, I’ve seen Ms. Lorena from afar before. They really look alike…”

I quietly left the place, just like when I first got in between them, leaving behind the people who were starting to make a fuss.

The party was in full swing. People who were uncomfortable at first because they didn't know each other's identities began to hang out with each other without hesitation as time passed. Perhaps because it was a gathering of only boys and girls of the same age, it was inevitable that we would get along well.

Well, okay. If we have fun today, the rumors of discord between Claude and me will become less frequent than they are now. Well, since there was no way the emperor would allow a birthday party for a hated princess, I thought that holding a masquerade ball today would make most of the noise go away.

After a while, I sneaked out from the crowd of people enjoying the dance.

————— | ♡ | —————

(aaa This part.)

“huaa³.” sigh

When I got outside, I was finally able to breathe a little. To be honest, I didn't really feel like hanging out with the crowd today, but I think it was a good idea to choose a masked ball as the theme. Otherwise, it would have been impossible for me, the star of the party, to get out like this.

Also, I got a message from Duke Alpheus in the morning that Ijekiel and Jennette couldn't attend my birthday ball today due to circumstances. I was a little curious about the reason. Jennette's face, which I saw on the last day of the National Foundation Festival, at Duke Alpheus' residence was also bothering me, and the luck at my birthday party

Izekiel, whom I met in the province, was also a little troubled......

After thinking about it, I leaned against the terrace railing. Even though there was no reason for it, my mind became a little complicated.

"Isn't this your birthday party?"

Of course, that didn't last long because of the voice that came from beside me

"Why are you out alone and brooding over your loneliness?"

"Ah, loneliness is your specialty, right?"

I smirked and looked towards Lucas sitting on the terrace and giggled.

That's right, isn't it? No matter how lonely I am, I can not defeat you, the lonely black wolf! But what was Lucas' face when he heard me........

"Hey, that look is a bit too much....."

It was so blatantly saying, "What bullshit?" Uh huh⁴ ( urgh, groan)

It was obviously such a blatant expression

"As expected, I should've eliminated the first person who started talking about this nonsense."

"Eek⁵, Lily girl!" 앗-An exclamation uttered when startled.

"Hoo, Lily girl?"

Oops! I unknowingly blew up who bestowed the title of 'Lone Black Wolf' on Lucas! Above, it's dangerous!

"Wow, wow look over there. Lucas! stars in the night sky!"

Luckily, Lucas only looked at me like he knew, but he didn't dig into Lily girl's identity any further. Maybe he's only letting it slide for now because it's my birthday ball! Urgh, I hope not. Please don't ask me anything more. I'm supposed to protect the Lily girl! Oh, come to think of it, that Lily girl is inside the very ballroom today, right? If I make a mistake, could I accidentally turn my ball into a bloodbath tonight?

"I'm giving you a special favor since today is your birthday party."

Oh, that's a relief.

"Looking at it today, It seems like even if I don't ask you directly, you might spill it out of your mouth again, later anyway."

What? I'm not like that!

"Well, I guess I won't be in a bad mood today. I already gave you a birthday present, but here is something special for the princess."

Without even realizing what that meant, Lucas lightly swung his hand left and right in the air once. And at that very moment, something literally magical happened before my eyes

"Wow!”

Soft petals and twinkling starlight began to flutter and scatter in the night sky at the same time. It was as if the flowers and stars that had been gathering in the sky overflowed to the ground and formed a waterfall. I heard a loud cheer and turned my head to see that the same thing was happening in the ballroom. I watched people in awe as they were hit by the glittering petals pouring down from the ceiling and then turned my head forward again.

"Pretty."

Lucas dangled his legs over the railing indifferently, as if he had never cast a spell like this for me.

"thank you."

I whispered under my breath as I watched the beautiful scene in front of me. The voice that was mixed in the night air was small, almost a whisper, but Lucas must have heard it.

My little late 1 5th birthday party was coming to an end just like that.

————— | ♡ | —————

Mesmerizing, wasn't it?

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intothewestwing · 4 months

Text

ch 4- If I Can't Love Her

After exiting the dungeons, Beast and Belle found the man of wax waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. With Lumiere following in tow, The Beast led the eternal guest through the winding halls of the castle. With almost no light to guide their way, it was easy to get lost in a place like this. The decor was dated, but Belle recognized it as a baroque style, with gothic inspiration. She'd read about this type of architecture before, but had never seen it in person. The castle was unlike anything she'd ever seen. And though it was dated, everything still seemed maintained somehow. There wasn't a speck of dust to be found.

Who was in charge of the upkeep? She thought. It certainly wasn't the monster before her. And the candlestick Person? Behind them didn't seem to have hands...

Though Belle admired the haunting beauty of the castle, she felt as if she was being watched. Even the smallest sconces lining the walls had faces carved into them. It was almost unsettling.

What was most definitely unsettling, though, was the hall of armor, where as she walked, the heads of the statuesque knights seemed to turn and follow her. No, not seemed. They were definitely watching her.

When The Beast spoke, she jumped. His husk voice nearly matched the decorum that surrounded them, she thought. Luckily, the person of wax was close enough to catch her in case she tripped. She felt almost comforted by the soft touch of bronze that supported her back. At least they didn't have claws...

"I- Uh..." The Beast stammered as he realized he'd frightened her. Again. "The Castle is your home now, so you're free to wander where you'd like. The kitchens, the ballrooms, the study, even the gardens." He found himself listing the places he knew off the top of his head, though he realized his memory of the palace wasn't quite what it used to be. It'd been so long since he'd really left his quarters...

"Everywhere except the West Wing."

Belle wasn't fully paying attention to his words, but more of the occasional lisp that formed when the creature spoke.

"Why?" She asked casually. "What's in the West Wing?"

"It is none of your concern." The Beast's voice was stern and defensive.

"Is it dangerous?" Belle had noticed the occasional cracks in the walls, as if the very foundation of the place was struggling. Every speck of dust was swept away, but there was no hiding that.

"No, but-"

"Then why is it-" She knew better than to have pushed him to tell her why, but Belle was just as stubborn as he was. And as far as she knew, he didn't have a good answer as to why.

The Beast turned and faced her, looming over her small frame.

"It is forbidden. You are never to set foot there. Do you understand?"

Her voice caught in her throat. He was definitely getting defensive. And just like an animal, defense meant violence.

"Do you understand?" He stepped closer to her, so they were only mere inches from each other. Only inches from ripping her apart, she thought.

"Yes!" She cried before he could lay a hand on her.

The Beast looked up to meet the disapproving gaze of the waxed figure behind her. Lumiere was shaking his head, reminding him that he was supposed to woo her- not scare her into submission.

With an annoyed huff, The Beast spun back around and led his new guest up the stairs, into the East wing. Luckily, Lumiere had spread the word of the girl, and the entire east wing was spruced up just for her. It had been the Queen's wing when the prince was merely a boy, and was completely untouched. Until today.

Somber memories of his mother danced around the group as they entered this part of the castle. What seemed to be men, women, and children built of wax lined the halls, their candles all lit. It seemed Lumiere pulled out all the stops when it came to preparing this wing for her, Beast thought. It looked completely different from the rest of the gloomy castle.

Once the group arrived at the Queen's suite, The Beast hesitated before opening the door for his guest. Much to his surprise, the double doors opened on their own, revealing a bedroom glittering in gold details and the finest furnishings on this side of the globe.

The sight was all too familiar.

"This," He stuttered once more. "This is your suite. If you need anything, anything at all, my servants with attend to you. All you need to do is ask."

Belle couldn't believe her eyes. All of this hidden beauty and wealth, just sitting stagnant in the woods outside her village... It took her breath away. She stepped into the room (though she could hardly call it a bedroom- it was the size of her father's cottage) and ogled at the furnishings. The fireplace. The wardrobe. The bed... The bed. It was twice, no, three times the size of hers at home.

She'd read a story before, about two poor friends who were offered a mansion of their own. The girls were given all the food they could eat, elegant clothes, enough for them to never worry about money again. But in the end, it was a trap, set by an evil sorceress.

That is what Belle felt now.

It was all so beautiful, but she wasn't here of her own choice. She was a prisoner in a beautiful, golden cage. Her eyes filled with tears as she kept her back to her captor, who menacingly filled the doorframe. How long before she was his servant? His meal? Were the candle people his prisoners too? How long before her skin became wax as well?

The Beast watched as she admired the suite. She stuck out from it all. Not because of her simple clothing or her disheveled hair, but something else. He couldn't quite understand what is was though, nor would he have time to figure it out, before a nagging voice whispered to him.

"Dinner," It said. "Invite the girl to dinner." Lumiere nudged his master from below, suggestively motioning toward their new guest.

Beast cleared his throat. "One more thing. Each night, you will join me for dinner."

This demand was enough to enrage Belle. Finally, an excuse to let out her frustrations. All her fears of what he'd do to her as his prisoner were gone. He'd taken everything from her in a matter of seconds. What more could he do to torment her?

"Dinner?" She scoffed as she faced him. "You've taken me as your prisoner and you want to have dinner with me?"

The Beast was not expecting a response.

"What if I refuse?" She challenged him. "Hm?"

The thought of him mauling her was more pleasant than dining with him. The sheer audacity for him to ask this of her, on top of everything, made her laugh.

But this mocking laughter only angered him more. How was he supposed to fall in love with her? Or worse, her fall in love with him?

She saw him as an animal, a monster. That was clear. So perhaps he needed to play the part. On all fours, he leapt toward her and stopped directly in front of her, his fangs mere inches away from her face.

"You will join me for dinner." He snarled in a hushed voice. "That is not a request!"

She had no rebuttal for him. No argument. No challenging one-liners. She was clearly out of her depth, and though she'd volunteered to stay, she wished more than anything that she was back home. Safe. Actually, she'd prefer the forest wolves. At least they'd kill her quick instead of dining with her first.

Frozen in fear, she had no choice but to meet his icy gaze. Once he was satisfied with her silence, The Beast raised back onto his feet and left the room, slamming the double doors behind him. He left his servants behind as he made his way toward the West Wing. Just as the East was a different atmosphere, the West was as well- though in a much more horrific way. The tapestries that lined the hallways were shredded and torn, the paintings ripped apart, the mirrors smashed. The typical few side table and plinths that once held vases and busts of previous kings were smashed to pieces, their faces and wooden limbs broken and scattered onto the cold floor.

As The Beast entered his suite, the furnishings here were in a similar state. As the furnishings in the East seemed alive, the ones here were no more. They unfortunately had fallen victim to the Beast's anger in the early days of his curse. And, of course, looming over everything was the painted portrait of his past self. Claw marks stretched over the painting, leaving nothing but a mangled face in their wake.

The only light that illuminated in the shadows of the West Wing was the ominous light of the enchanted rose, hidden under a bell jar. This is where The Beast spent his mornings, his days, and his nights. And this is where he would remain on this very evening, he'd decided. That rose, the symbol of his deterioration, the object that took his life from him... How ironic it was that the most beautiful thing in this room, was the thing slowly killing him. With every fallen petal came a world of pain, and a small part of the once-prince died. Luckily, he had some time before another one would fall.

His eyes fell to the mirror, another "gift" of his curse. With this enchanted mirror, he could see anything he desired. Whether that was memories from his past, or a peek into the village. He could even see what his life would've been like if he hadn't been cursed. That was the cruelest vision of all. He was able to see exactly how he would have aged. And just how much he would've looked like his father...

Instead, The Beast picked up the mirror, and shut his eyes before he could see his current reflection. "Show me the girl."

The mirror obeyed, and illuminated with an image of Belle. She sat on the bed, and was cleaning the blood from her leg. Even through the mirror, he could hear the shrill voice of the wardrobe behind her, consoling her and offering rags to wrap her wound with.

They'd only met for a few moments before he'd hurt her. How awful was that? Finally, a chance to break free from the curse, and he'd blown it. And he'd be stuck with her. Forever. He could let her go free, but that would just be embarrassing. Emasculating. To make such a fuss only to let her go in the end? The Beast watched and admired the beauty of his prisoner, before he felt a cold chill run down his spine.

"She is beautiful, isn't she?" The voice of The Enchantress echoed from behind him. He could hear the sly smile in her voice as she taunted him.

The Enchantress, Feya, often made her visits after a petal has fallen. In her words, she enjoyed "tracking his progress" on breaking her spell. But from his perspective, he believed she enjoyed his suffering.

"Feya..." He sighed, already annoyed by her presence. She stepped around him and held her finger under his chin, taunting him to look up at her.

"What, my beast? Do you not enjoy the gift I brought you?" Her voice was filled with glee. "That poor old man, he would have perished out in the cold. What a blessing it was he found your silly castle." She stroked the hair on his face before snatching the mirror from his claws and walking with it.

Of course. She'd led them here.

"And how convenient. His only daughter? Sacrificing herself to rescue him?"

"Stop it." Beast held his head in his hands.

"What, Beastie? No 'thank you'?" She cackled. "I did you a favor!" Feya slammed down the mirror in front of him. "She's even your type! Small, beautiful, and foolish enough to agree to an eternity with you!"

"Feya, please stop this." The Beast's voice was shaky as he plead with her. Finding the strength to make eye contact, he begged once more. "Please..."

The Enchantress tilted her head and stroked his misshapen face. "You should have married me when you had the chance." Though they were simple, her words were bitter and cold.

"Beg."

"Feya-"

"Beg for my forgiveness, Beast."

With the flick of her wrist, her magic grabbed Beast by his throat and suspended him in the air. Her taunting grin twisted into a vengeful frown of disapproval. As he struggled to breathe, she continued to demand he beg for mercy, to which he complied.

"Forgive...me..."

She motioned once more, and her magic dropped his limp body onto the floor, with a loud thud echoing as he landed. He gasped for air, and fell into a coughing fit. The Enchantress knelt down and lifted his sorry chin once more.

"That's more like it." She grinned.

"I'll see you in two weeks."

#beauty and the beast #beauty and the beast retelling #beautyandthebeast #fairytale retelling #beautyandthebeast fanfic #batb au #batb disney #beauty and the beast fic #batb #belle x beast #belle x adam #beast x enchantress #batb 1991 #batb 91

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larryrickard · 27 days

Note

For the Ghosts ask: 8, 11, 14 :)

thank u! :') 08. What lines never fail to make you laugh? ok, i'm limiting myself to 10 (+1 bc 11 is my fave number)✦ "*captain laughing like a bee* ... NECK!" ✦ any ben noises tbh ✦ "i thought this was a candlestick?" "that's just the candle" "but it's in the shape of a stick" ✦ "but she had YOUR head!" ".... what" "'kay." ✦ "c'mon, i'm a very busy man, i've got chickenstofeed!" ✦ "i'll take you down to chinatown, bitch!" ✦ the way the captain says "nonsense" after robin complains about there not being zumba today. ✦ "that BITCH!" (+ "BITCH" + "Biiiiiitch") ✦ "something 'bout flowers, or wine, or girls, or something" ✦ "it's not as if you've KILLED anyone." "......... yeah :)))" ✦ "SQUIRREL! AAAAAaaaaaaa *doppler effect*" 11. What is your favourite thing about the show in general? i'm always bad at answering these kinds of questions bc i'm never all that good at taking thoughts/feelings from my head and putting them into words, so i don't know EXACTLY. but! it's the six idiots, so i'm already gonna be feeling good about it. the characters are all so different but also kind of the same. their work is just so incredibly rewatchable to me. them there are good at the "this is so stupid it shouldn't be funny but it's really fucking hilarious" bits but also the "ben willbond i will punch you in the face for making me sob like a baby and then send you the bill to cover the cost of fixing my broken hand" moments. you know? lol 14. What is your favourite part of Button House / West Horsley Place? seeing as i work in a library, i think saying "the library" is a bit predictable. however, i'll give myself a little library, as a treat: i really like the one off the ballroom. i also LOVE the kitchen with that big table. BUT.... the common room. i love it so much. [ bbc ghosts ask game ]

#the quotes section took me way too long bc i immediately forgot everything lol #them there #bbc ghosts #ask game #bbc ghosts ask game #ask #dreamingofdinos

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dad-zac · 2 months

Text

The Library - Isaac

London felt very much like a fancy cage. Far from the rolling seas and creaking wooden boats that had become his home, the Countess’ lavish estate and even more decadent ball felt uncomfortably foreign.

Isaac silently bemoaned his mother’s intrusive attempts to introduce him to each and every eligible debutante, finding he couldn’t care less about them or their interests, and ducked out of the party at the first opportunity. The estate was more maze than home and after exploring several empty rooms he came to the refuge of the Countess’ home library.

Long and calloused fingers danced over the thick leather spines of history and politics and war before his dark eyes settled on the smaller section of poetry in the farthest corner from the crackling fireplace. English poets, the language itself, lacked the raw passion of his native tongue but poetry itself was a language he’d always loved. Isaac stood in the darkened corner, turning withered yellow pages in the oldest book he could find when the heavy library door creaked open.

She hadn’t noticed him, he deduced, watching her look around the darkened room. The fireplace glow illuminated the deep green of her skirts and danced over the dark strands of her perfectly placed hair. He cleared his throat, a gentle reminder, and watched her spin toward him.

It was her eyes he noticed first. Full of wary distrust and the hard set to her soft jaw before his eyes drifted down to the silver candlestick she brandished like a finely crafted sword. A small smile overtook his shadowed features. He offered a polite apology for startling the young Miss then smiled again at her snappy reply, laden with disdain and distrust. He knew what the gentlemen of the ton talked about when they thought no one was listening and wasn’t at all surprised to find her bristled and jumpy after sneaking away from the ball.

Her eyes struck him as hard as if she’d decided to whack him with her candlestick and he couldn’t help the steps he took closer. Deep green, somewhere between spring fields and bright emeralds, matched her dress and her jewels. Even the suspicious way they narrowed had a tightness building in his chest. They’d only just met but a part of him despaired at the idea of their inevitable parting. He needed to know her name.

De Lyons, his mind repeated after her offering. De Lyons. His amusement at her demeanor faded into awe as the candlelight between them flickered to life. Her eyes were more stunning in the firelight. She had the most beautiful features and stood taller, stronger than most of the wilting flowers of women in the ballroom far beyond them. The urge to touch her, to take liberties that were not his to take was stronger than he felt comfortable with and stepped back to give her space. Although his body screamed in protest at the distance.

His chivalry was louder and he excused himself to leave her with her peaceful seclusion, the small poetry book still tucked under his arm. The pounding in his chest, the singing in his blood, lit some sort of fire from within. If he hadn’t known beyond all certainty that he would come face to face with Lady De Lyons very soon he might not have had the strength to leave at all.

“It’s quite alright,” he offered to her protest, smiling at what he could only call fate. “I seem to have found what I was looking for.”

Isaac shut the door behind him gently and went to find his mother.

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regency-oc-au · 2 months

Text

the library

Lady Maisy de Lyons slipped away from the crowded ballroom and into the recessed shadows of the great house. It was another stunningly over-the-top affair by the Countess and while Maisy had thus far enjoyed the music and the sparkling candlelight and dainty cups of lemonade and wine, she could easily do without the roaming hands of one too many brazen lords.

Really. What was the world coming too when they took such liberties. And at the ripening age of two and twenty, Maisy was hardly a blushing debutant.

Perhaps that was the problem. They thought her too worldly, too opinionated, too much of anything for a woman.

Her head was starting to pound from the copious amount of pins that held her thick, dark waves against her head and she reached out a gloved hand to push open the first heavy panelled door she came across, breathing a sigh of relief when she found the room to be lit by a warmly crackling fireplace and rows of books adorning every wall.

A library. The perfect space to find solitude and to catch her breath.

She closed the door quietly behind her, pausing for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness before padding across the plush Oriental rug. A heavy, ornate desk by the window was illuminated by the moonlight, large and imposing and it reminded her of her father’s desk, his own library not much different to this one, from her youth.

It was the subtle clearing of a throat that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up and her heart start to race.

She wasn’t alone.

Without a thought, she snatched up the first object within her reach - a solid, silver candlestick that felt reassuringly weighty in her palm - and spun on her heel to peer into the library darkness. The only light aside from the moon was the glow of the fireplace and it silhouetted the form of a man.

A gasp escaped her and she lifted the candlestick to brandish it in front of her like a sword.

“My apologies, my lady,” the dark figure said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to come in here.”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone else in here either,” Maisy snapped, her tone sharp with fright. “What are you doing in here, skulking about in the shadows? Are you looking for mischief? Have I stumbled across a tete-a-tete waiting to happen?”

He held something up in his hand. A book, she realized. “Nothing quite so salacious, I’m afraid. It seems we are both seeking refuge from the chaos of the ball."

There was a hint of an accent clinging to his words. Not too noticeable but soft roll of his r’s sent a prickle of awareness down her spine. She liked it.

He stepped closer and Maisy took a halting step backwards into the desk, bumping her skirts. A small cup rattled and the sound felt loud in the quiet room.

“Are you planning to whack me with that?” he asked, but his tone was mild. “I assure you, I mean no harm. I had no intention to cause alarm, Lady….”

Maisy's grip on the candlestick tightened reflexively as she regarded him, her eyes narrowing slightly. Despite the tension that had initially gripped her, she sensed a disarming sincerity in his demeanour.

Maisy hesitated for a moment, weighing her options before deciding to extend a cautious olive branch.

“De Lyons. Lady Maisy de Lyons,” she informed him primly.

He seemed to be studying her in the darkness.

“May I?”

Maisy blinked, unsure what he was asking. A low chuckle escaped him again. "The candlestick," he clarified, his voice gentle yet commanding.

Maisy was grateful for the darkness to hide the heat in her cheeks. “Oh. Yes. I-“

Warmth brushed her hands as he took the candlestick from her. He was close enough now she caught the scent of him - a heady mix of musk and mystery that left her breathless. Before she could think to step back further or at the very least interject some space between them, a small flame appeared and the candle flickered to light. It illuminated his face for the first time and Maisy inhaled sharply at his features. Dark hair, dark eyes, straight backed and broad shouldered. He was eye to eye with her but she could see a wariness in his gaze. And his clothes… he wore a uniform, not one she recognized but looked vaguely like a military unit before remembrance came and she recalled one of the other ladies discussing the fine young captain that would be in attendance tonight.

"I was only looking for something to read," he explained, his words breaking through the haze of her thoughts. "The Countess has quite the collection."

For a long moment, Maisy’s mind was filled with white noise. She stared into dark eyes and admired the play of the firelight over his features. He’s handsome, younger than the doddering old fools out in the ballroom, foreign and his proximity was far too close for her to be so unchaperoned. If anyone should walk in on them now at this moment, what would it look like?

His thoughts seemed to travel along the same path as hers and he stepped back. His eyes darted past her towards the door.

“You are a lady, unchaperoned with me in this room. I should leave-“

“No!”

Maisy forced herself to draw in a breath, her resolve firm as she schooled her features into a mask of cool composure.

"No," she repeated, her tone measured and ladylike. "You were here first. I shall be the one to leave. It's not fair that you abandon your seclusion because of me."

The thought of him leaving filled her with dismay despite knowing the precariousness of the situation. She shouldn’t have come in here. She should have left the moment she realised she wasn’t alone.

She caught his dark eyes again and something passed between them she couldn’t explain. She only knew she wasn’t ready for this to moment to be over.

“It’s quite alright,” he answered as he offered her a devastating smile. Her hands twitched, wanting to reach for him and suddenly she was aware of every atom of distance between them. She wanted to reach out to him as he walked away, something inside her straining towards him.

At the door, he stopped and paused to look at her one last time.

“I seem to have found what I was looking for.”

#** not actually a thing this is just an experiment #forgive the awful writing im still trying to find a voice that fits this au #and failing so far alksdjals

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descendantofthesparrow · 1 year

Text

Scrapped OUAD plots/ideas

-originally, i was going to have (y/n) and Walter/Harrison reunite after she regained her memories, and she was going to be reintroduced as lady Deville at the rehearsal dinner in a blood-red dress fit for the lady. but i scrapped this due to me being unable to figure out what the fuck was gonna happen after since i wanted to continue with the wedding stuff.

-one of the versions of the final battle-had Viktoria somehow getting the necklace and destroying it, basically abruptly ending the spell (y/n) had enacted and turning everyone back into a human(lucy, Viktoria, Walter/Harrison, and evie) since Walter/Harry was dead by the time he became a vamp-unlike the girls who died upon the turn-Walter/Harry seemed to have died-in which ended the contract for the families. this basically brought everything to a halt and made Viktoria realize how much she fucked up-more in a way that made her irrationally angry and try to attack (y/n) again, only for the somehow alive Walter/Harry to get her with the candlestick that had been in his chest-the spell being broken had not killed him-it had brought him back to his human life(idk how to explain it, i had a lot of ideas for this fic) but yeah this lil tidbit had some more angst and (y/n) grieving for her thought to be dead husband who she barley got a chance to be with. (this version would have (y/n) staying in the shadows, not revealing anything to Evie to make everything more believe able/Walter didn't know she came back/the two butlers got (y/n) out themselves)

-(y/n) was going to regain her memory with Walter/Harry present, either in her room or his-and they just would've been talking-this is heavily inspired by Anastasia of course-and (y/n) remembers his scent, sharp metal and a grand forest- and reminisces about it "i used to steal your blanket and lie with it for hours, oh and how i missed you when you went away...when we were teens" and Harry/Walter then sees (y/n)s necklace for the first time, (in this version (y/n) keeps it under her shirt/doesn't reveal it to him until this moment, just to keep that sense of mystery) and soon gives her the pocket watch/music box-(y/n) regaining her memory of them upon hearing the flow of the music. "soon you'll be, home with me. once upon a December"

-(y/n) finding the castle and having visions of the past (written out)

-during the cocktail party; Walter was just gonna grab (y/n) for a dance straight away instead of taking evie first, and he was gonna do the whole dance i had them do in the next part cuz cinderella has a fuckign chokehold on me

-originally; the original carfax abbey/Godkin castle, was an abandoned west wing of the manor, where the grand ballroom, (y/n) and Walter/harry's bedroom, and a portrait of (y/n) rested. but i realized if i wanted Walter/harry and (y/n) to be far before the contract/the three families, i couldn't use the manor since-how would the alexanders-who found the manor for Walter-not know about the west wing/(y/n)? so the west wing was scrapped for the castle

i think i had more ideas for this fic but i cant think of em rn so if they come back to em ill add em but for now-enjoy these ideas that never came to fruition~

@sessediz

#once upon a december #the invitation 2022 #walter deville x reader #ouad #scrapped ideas and plots #here have more content~

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missielynne · 1 year

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Headcaons for the bbc ghosts watching Disney’s beauty and the beast?

-Kitty would love the big ballroom dance scene and Belle's dress

Robin would find it very interesting (and possibly encouraging) that the Beast gets a love match because it could mean hope for him. (possibly).

Kitty would like all the talking furniture and things but I could totally see Cap and Fanny trying to convince her that talking clocks and candlesticks are ridiculous.

I can see (at least for a couple of seconds on the first viewing) Julian relating to Gaston until Alison (who of course is watching it with them) tells him that Gaston is bad and he shouldn't like him.

I would also love to see what Cap would think about the battle against the villagers at the end. I could see him being proud of everyone's efforts and their win.

I could also see Pat watching Cogsworth and Lumiere and maybe thinking they're like him and Cap and like, shouting at Cogsworth and the Beast about how they should be more hospitable or something.

#bbc ghosts #missielynne's awesome anon

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 2 years

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Trinkets, 53: Interesting baubles, semi magical objects and items touched by mystery.

A large crate containing a candlestick, a lead pipe, a dagger, a hand crossbow, a rope tied into a noose, and a wrench. The box also contains a set of blueprints of a mansion which details the kitchen, hall, ballroom, conservatory, dining room, cellar, billiard room, library, lounge and a study along with a number of secret passages connecting many of the rooms to each other.

A reasonably difficult puzzle box bedecked with amber. Within it is a woman’s handkerchief wrapped around a small vial of perfume.

A stuffed dog doll that nuzzles into you when you hug it

A leather pouch labelled “interesting rocks”. While the more or less random assortment of rocks have no particular trade value, in the previous owner’s defense, they are pretty neat to look at.

An unornamented box of roughly-hewn oak. Inside lies an unmounted saber blade of impeccable craftsmanship, with a single thin line of amber metal running the length of the blade.

A map of the local kingdom, with several locations circled, and sequentially numbered. At the bottom of the map reads: "Alice isn't dead. Resume tracking."

A garland of well-crafted ceramic flowers of multiple colours and styles. The air around it always smells pleasant, of open meadows and wildflowers.

A leather wallet containing a full set of certified identification papers denoting that the bearer is a member of the guild that oversees those who work with Random Artisan’s Toolkit. The section containing the member's physical description (Height, weight, sex, race, eye, skin and hair color) is completely blank and could be filled in by anyone with half decent handwriting.

A small box of chocolate crackers rendered in a frighteningly perfect likeness of gibbering mouthers.

A small pouch of stone coins used as chips. According to the markings, the chips are worth 4d4 gold pieces in value but can only be redeemed at the gambling den known as The Dragon’s Hoard, which is located in a nearby city.

—Click Here to be directed to the Hotlinks To All Tables post, which provides (As you might have guessed) convenient links to all of the loot and resource tables this blog has.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A reasonably difficult puzzle box bedecked with amber. Within it is a woman’s handkerchief wrapped around a small vial of perfume.

A stuffed dog doll that nuzzles into you when you hug it

A leather pouch labelled “interesting rocks”. While the more or less random assortment of rocks have no particular trade value, in the previous owner’s defense, they are pretty neat to look at.

An unornamented box of roughly-hewn oak. Inside lies an unmounted saber blade of impeccable craftsmanship, with a single thin line of amber metal running the length of the blade.

A map of the local kingdom, with several locations circled, and sequentially numbered. At the bottom of the map reads: "Alice isn't dead. Resume tracking."

A garland of well-crafted ceramic flowers of multiple colours and styles. The air around it always smells pleasant, of open meadows and wildflowers.

A small box of chocolate crackers rendered in a frighteningly perfect likeness of gibbering mouthers.

A child's doll of a dragon, woven from leather cords.

A giant's tooth engraved with the image of an elven warrior.

A dried, severed chicken's foot attached to a leather cord. It clucks nervously when its bearing is wielding a hatchet.

A small iron key with a frayed blue and gold cord tied to it.

A pair of matching earrings each with a large dark red ruby, surrounded by a dark silver that takes shape of a dragon head and neck as it travels up the outer ear.

A sealed bottle of twisted glass labelled “Devil's Embrace Cider”, filled with a glowing orange liquid that looks too good to ignore. When the drinker swallows the sour watery cider, they cannot help but smile. One hour after a drink, various changes are made to the drinker’s anatomy. The first glass causes the skin to darken to red. The second drink causes a pair of small horns to sprout above the eyes on the forehead. The third mouthful causes a wispy long tail to sprout from the drinker’s back side. A fourth drink causes nails to elongate and harden. A fifth glass causes the skin to feel itchy as small transparent scales grow in various places on the body. The effects caused by this drink wear off a few hours after they appear.

A wooden shortsword inscribed with the name of a gladiator that won their freedom.

An iron apple painted to look like the real thing.

An unassuming pebble that appears to momentarily duplicate itself in your hand, or to vanish altogether for a few seconds at a time.

A folded parchment containing an intricate diagram of a complex machine of unknown origin and purpose.

A smooth stone with a single Random Humanoid name chiseled into it

A hilt of an ancient sword bearing the elvish words: “Dawn rises before death’s fall”

A complex and delicately made, marble maze puzzle.

A torn piece of cloth once used to wipe down a famous hero’s iconic sword.

A side-view map, depicting the relative depths of various underground cities on the continent.

A wooden gear the size of a dinner plate.

A fine white and blue porcelain jar with a cork stopper in the top. Inside is a sweet smelling gooey, golden substance that tastes delicious.

A hand spindle of rosewood set with black iron knotwork. The spindle appears grown, not carved.

A tied up black linen scarf containing six serpentine dice with lapis pips.

A scribe's work-set consisting of a water bowl, inkstone, inkwell, pens and pen case all of translucent, milky amber.

A hand sized sarcophagus and fitted lid, carved from a single block of rose-red quartzite and sporting scenes of battle and the hunt on all four sides.

A bronze diptych and stylus, its leaves still filled with reddish wax.

A finely tailored bodice made from the softest, most supple leather taken from yearling lambs. The bodice is lined with samite and trimmed with beaded lace.

An octagonal plate of flesh-hued soapstone set with eight basilisk teeth surrounding a hinged container of copper recessed in the stone. The cover can be removed to reveal the preserved eye of a basilisk.

A macabre shrunken head fetish created by desiccating the remains of a Random Humanoid’s head, peeling it, curing the skull, and then shrinking it to the size of a fist.

A brass pocket watch whose dial is rimmed with glyphs and has four hour hands and four minute hands. The body of the clock is carved with images of alien environments and unusual otherworldly creatures.

An alabaster stage mask carved to look like death’s head. Its carved flesh stretched taut over the bones of the lurid and hungry grin of the skull beneath. There is a black coif that attaches by small silver clasps to the back of the mask, covering the performer’s entire head.

A warhorn that appears to be made of tarnished brass metal, looking as if it were partially made from a piece of charcoal. It can be worn slung over the shoulder on a leather thong.

A pair of silver flutes inscribed with a peculiar spiral design around their length. These flutes are tuned to different pitches so that they harmonize with each other.

A blue green tabard embroidered with crossed tridents at its center.

A shiny golden coin inscribed with numerous glyphs, none of which correspond to typical kingdom or city-state currency. It doesn't seem to dirty or rust.

A smoked glass saltshaker shaped like a wizard's tower.

A sprite's skull covered in ink fingerprints.

A metal bracelet that displays the number of steps the bearer has taken since he last slept.

A collection of baby teeth in a tiny wooden box.

A comb made from the skeleton of a piranha.

A small whistle shaped liked a bat. It produces a high-pitched noise when blown only audible to certain animals.

A dried yellow musk flower that still smells sickly sweet.

A fist-sized turtle shell plate with a sun carved on it.

A lifelike stone statue of a tiny Random Humanoid wearing a smooth mask with wild hair.

A black, one-gallon keg with the name “The Nine Hells” scrawled on top in red paint. Knowledgeable PC’s will have heard of this foul mixture as a staple “cocktail” in seedy taverns and dive bars. Traditionally nine shots of different hard liquors (None of which complement one another) are mixed into a tankard at once. This keg seems to follow the custom and large amounts of nine different spirits are contained within. True to its namesake it tastes like hell.

A bowl made of an unidentified blackish-red wood and carved with intricate patterns. Its origins remain a mystery.

A small, tightly wound piece of parchment covered in curved, flowing script. The scroll contains a divine spell of Sanctuary.

A heavy lead lined chest with a good latch. It contains an uneven chunk of dark stone the size of a big fist. It is very heavy, and very cold. Some kind of “power” leaks from it, flooding out in thrilling waves; invisible, yet irresistible. It can only be touched by someone with Devil's Blood running in their veins.

A deep cauldron, sculpted out of a single slab of rough hewn basalt. When first found it is filled with ashes.

A hand mirror, belonging and possessed by a woman of ultimate vanity.

An innocuous looking sea chest, large enough to hold most of a person’s valued possessions. It is extremely well-constructed and is able to resist being fully submerged in water, keeping its contents dry and safe. There are many oft-told tales of a ship sinking with the only remains found being a sea chest floating on the waves, still holding a doomed sailor’s most prized possessions.

A wreath of raven and buzzard feathers meant to be hung on a wall or door. It has a small compartment in the back where a house key is hidden.

A satchel full of various dried herbs, natural potions, tonics, and remedies (Herbalism kit).

The tooth of an unidentifiable beast. It's stained black by an ichor-like substance.

A set of tarnished, bronze bells.

A tallow candle infused with scented oils. It smells delightful.

A stone carving of a hand, smaller than life-sized.

A silver filigree box filled with iridescent beetle wings.

A wool shawl, embroidered with scenes of pastures.

A bloodstone from Carnir Peak. A pulse seems to flow through it.

A carving of a harpy, made from serpentine. It looks like it used to be bolted to a door.

A sealed bottle of wine of good vintage known as Marsember Blush. Exported from Marsember its a popular and widely consumed wine that tastes of a fruit blend and spices with a fragrance of dew-flowers. The unique and popular flavor of the wine comes from the firm grapes of Marsember vineyards that carries the region's fragrant salty air of the Sea of Fallen Stars.

A small glass bottle of oil for maintaining leather.

A map of the surrounding area indicating the locations of various badger dens.

A Randomly Colored, linen tunic that smells like fresh herbs and soil.

An old quill made from a vibrant feather of an exotic bird, obviously imported at great expense.

A box of chocolates, each shaped like a human head wearing an expression of immense torment.

A holy symbol made of blessed ice of a deity of winter.

A winter themed board game that has extremely vague rules.

A brightly colored apron containing a set of toymaker's tools.

A large bronze anklet with golden runes for “Friendship”, “Hope” and “Regrowth”.

A small silver cage holding a dead songbird.

A crude map of the local area inscribed on a tattered canvas scroll, that bears an “X” marking an area near where the map was found. There is a list of instructions in the bottom corner of the map: Find the hangman's scaffold, then go south-east for 3-4 miles until you find the road marker pointing west. From there, go east for 2-3 miles, until you find the minaret, then go east for 1-2 miles and you'll find broken remains of a watchtower. The holy altar inside is guarded by spirits. ---Note: It is up to the DM whether or not if the instructions can be followed (The “landmarks” might be a code, riddle or simply not exist for example) and if there is anything at the end. The map could easily be a prank, trap, confidence scheme, ambush or the area could already have been stripped of any value by other adventurers.

A silver efreeti figurine with glowing eyes.

A bright metal cube. When pressed, a flame lights on a random side.

A sealed clear glass bottle containing two immortal fireflies that chase each other endlessly.

A glass fan depicting a griffon with flaming wings.

A set of wind chimes made from fish bones.

An elegant dress with rich black silk back and sides and a deep purple velvet insert in the front creating a striking combination of fabrics. The solid half-sleeves have a beautiful floral pattern, tree-cornered lace that falls into a point of silver-thread piping.

A small glass sculpture shaped like a sea vessel.

A skeleton of a songbird held together by thing wire.

A flag depicting a mountain above the clouds.

A fist-sized metal ball that screams if thrown.

A wooden apple. Occasionally, an animated wooden worm will poke its head out of the side and wiggle around.

A sealed five gallon barrel filled with ground salt of impressive quality.

A protective case containing a bolt (50 square yards) of undyed canvas.

A set of jadeite bangles with silver clasps, meant to be worn on the wrist.

A pair of glass lensed spectacles that makes the world appear black and white when looked through.

A polished looking-glass made from a thin-slab of pyrite the size of one's hand. The back is etched with a sort of symbolic nonsense that resists decipherment. It weighs four pounds.

An oaken hairbrush inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

A one gallon oak keg filled an alcoholic beverage known as Old Smoke. Knowledgeable PC’s know that the drink is a favorite ale among connoisseurs around the Sea of Fallen Stars brewed at Gunderman Brewery.

A blood-stained dress which, despite being found in a not particularly clean area, is still pristine (Aside from the blood stains) and a vibrant, stunning shade of blue.

A clockwork timer with a dial that can be twisted to slowly click back to its origin, whereupon it emits a loud ringing noise. It can be set for as little as one minute or as long as an hour.

A black violin case with a red inner lining. The shape of the inside lining is that of a violin, but if another musical instrument is placed inside and the case is closed, it then conforms to that object’s shape instead.

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limerental · 2 years

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ficletober day 16 - steddie future fic

(but finished late and it's already on ao3 here and it's for a fandom i'm not in for a media i haven't really watched i was possessed ok i'm normal) It's ten years later. Steve's a hospice nurse. Eddie's got the virus. It's kind of weird and sad and strange and inevitable. Or something. And not as sad as it sounds. we interrupt our regular programming for whatever the hell this is. content warning for hospitals and death but no MCD beyond ruminating about it. also, disordered eating, illness, yuckiness, and grossness. explicit blowjobs and glow in the dark condoms. etc

One of Steve Harrington's patients dies on a Wednesday morning.

Which isn't unexpected, given he's a nurse at a hospice facility, you know, they're all bound to croak at some point. His job's about making it a little easier, a little quieter. Not saving anybody or saving the world, just easing the pain. It's not like he's head over heels for the job, but it beats his other options. College flunkee who doesn't dare give his rich asshole father the time of day, no matter what job opportunities making nice with him could buy.

Would rather change catheters and wipe old people's diarrhea his whole life than resort to that.

It's hospice. They don't get better. Sometimes they go home a while and come back, but they all die. Losing patients is a breath of relief. Their suffering finally over. His job– making dying seem easy –complete.

So, its not unexpected when he walks in on Wednesday and reads the night shift's notes. That the Turner kid's probably on his way out.

It's not a surprise at all. The guy's been lingering for a week now, barely conscious. He's an AIDs patient, riding the last wave of compounding infections and failed drug cocktails.

Palliative care is a strange sort of thing, like compassionate neglect. It's not a kindness to pump a failing body full of fluids as their organs shutter out one by one. Fluids restricted, no feeding tube, nothing but pain meds and the hush of the ward. Let them die of dehydration instead of drowning.

What's unexpected is walking into Turner's room and finding Eddie fucking Munson sitting in there with him, gripping Turner's hand.

"Munson?" Steve blurts. It's been years. It's been a damn decade, but the guy looks almost the same. Steve's living and working a few towns over from Hawkins and most anyone who meant anything to him there has moved away anyhow, so he's out of the loop in a way that feels nice but also means he's lost track of a lot of people. It's just weird that Munson's still kicking around here when Steve had pegged him for one of those who'd ditch the whole state the second he could.

His hair's a bit different, more mullet than shag and he's got something of a mustache going, but he looks the damn same. A touch of grey at his temples maybe. A wrinkle at the corners of his mouth.

"Jesus," says Munson, looking at him all bug-eyed. "Is that Steve fucking Harrington? In baby blue scrubs? In a hospice ward? In bumfuck Indiana? With a buzzcut?"

"Colonel Mustard in the ballroom with a candlestick," jokes Steve, and Munson keeps gaping at him. Maybe because he just made a dumb joke at his friend's deathbed.

"Geez, I never thought– you a doctor?"

"Nurse."

"Geez," he says again. "You're a sight for sore eyes. I can be here, can't I? They told me he's… you know."

"Yeah, sometimes it takes a while though," Steve says, but by the looks of things as he flips through the chart, scribbling down vitals, it's any time now.

What happens next is what always happens. Not that everybody's death here is the same, but that every patient he's ever had does it eventually.

Die.

Sometimes in a huddle of family, sometimes alone, but usually quietly, slowly, and suddenly. The dying man breathes and breathes and then doesn't.

None of it takes very long in this case.

Munson is sitting with both hands held over one of the Turner kid's when it happen, watching him die with all the somber sort of silence moments like this demand from anyone. He's sitting there more still than Steve ever remembers him being, but then again, it's been a decade. Maybe his theatrics have mellowed out. Maybe he has some normal, adult job now like. In finances.

Steve looks again at Munson, tattooed up his whole neck and wearing a jacket held together by safety pins.

Ok. Maybe a normal, adult job at a biker bar.

"Were you two close?" Steve asks in the quiet as he turns off the noise of the machines.

"No, he– I didn't know him. But there's this support group I'm in, and one of us tries to be there when– well. It was my turn. Or not my turn, my turn, you know, not like it was his turn but it will be. Someday."

"You–" It's like something big and cumbersome gums up inside his chest.

"Yeah," says Munson, shrugging. "Me."

"Shit, man," says Steve, because he's great with handling the dying and increasingly worse with the living, let alone the living dead.

"Yeah, very sad. Woe is me. You wanna swing by my place after your shift and drink some beer about it?"

And they aren't friends exactly, really never were, but Steve figures it's kinda just polite to accept an invitation from somebody you used to know who just roundabout confessed to being riddled with deadly disease. Or something.

And there's a part of him that remembers being eighteen and studying Eddie Munson like an unsolvable puzzle, thinking about him and his knobby weird wrists and long tangle of hair and the ridge of his Adam's apple and his tar-black eyes, sometimes at times he shouldn't have, at times he really really shouldn't have, and then burying all that and doing nothing about it and then a whole decade passing in a blur.

His teenaged self feels very, very far away, and now he knows intimately what happens to people who don't take that leap and be brave and cling to the shit that matters while they still can.

They die alone. Or with strangers sitting next to them, measuring their last vitals.

"Yeah, sure," says Steve.

Can't hurt, he thinks.

Famous last words.

Munson still lives in Hawkins in the same trailer park, but he's prettied his uncle's old trailer up some, a strangely grandma kitsch aesthetic for a man who has several visible gory skull tattoos, one with curled goat horns stamped high on his throat.

He's got a mosquito plant growing in an old sherbert container and a listing aloe. There's tomatoes and jalapenos in buckets and kitty litter containers. A half dozen bamboo windchimes and dangling bells cluster in the rafters of the old porch, and a painted rocking chair sits beside a six foot cactus, its reaching branches segmented into flat, spineless pads hung with leftover tinsel from Christmas, its pot used as a heaping ashtray.

"This is Henry," says Munson. "He's my roommate."

"The cactus?"

"Yeah, man, he's decent company. "

He pats the plant a bit too hard, and a piece falls off. Without comment, he fishes it off the porch and shoves it into a yogurt cup of dirt sitting beside a dozen others.

"I give these suckers away like candy," he says. "Everybody and their grandma loves a free cactus."

"Sure," says Steve, who is fairly certain even a cactus would die a miserable death in his care if he looked at it wrong.

There's a white plastic chair fallen on its side in the overgrown yard, greyed with mildew spots, and Munson tugs it up from the grip of the grass growing through the spokes of its backrest and plops it down beside the rocker on the porch. He swipes off the spider webs and dirt and gestures with spread arms to the shitty chair, bowing like it's a throne.

It's over the top. It's weirdly familiar. Everything else has marched on, has changed, has aged or whatever, but Munson's the same fucking weirdo he was ten years ago.

"Sit down, buddy, stay a while. Though I can't say I'm the greatest host. Don't get paid until Friday, so it's just cheez whiz keeping me goin' mostly. Hell, half of this place might be held together by cheez whiz."

Steve thinks it's probably a joke, that all he's eating is processed cheese, but he wouldn't be surprised. Munson looks sallow and skinny. Not a lick of muscle on him, and he's wearing a pit-stained wifebeater and little denim shorts. Anywhere his skin's not sickly green with fading tattoos, he's so pale it's almost blinding and purple-veined under his red-rimmed eyes, and Steve's not stupid. He does this for a living, watching people hollow down to nothing and then snuff out, and he can see pretty clearly when someone's one foot in the grave. It's not even the virus that does it usually, it's the compounding trauma of it all, the drugs, the loss, the slow starvation both literal and spiritual.

He doesn't even like Munson much, doesn't know him too well and barely did back then, but it's--it's sad. It's heart-breaking.

He wonders if one of Munson's support group is already lined up to sit beside him at the end.

Steve's looking at him rocking in the rocker beside Henry the six foot cactus, little tinsel pieces blowing cheerily in the breeze, and can't even fucking think about it.

"Sit, Harrington, sit, sit," he insists when the silence stretches, and Steve's still standing on the stairs. "You're giving me the willies just staring at me all puppy-dog eyed. I'm not going to keel over tonight. Sit down! Sit!"

Steve sits. The plastic chair groans ominously.

"You've got a lot of plants," he says for want of something to say.

"This? Naw, this ain't anyhing. You should see what I have growing over the ridge in that cornfield."

He's high right now, Steve notices, hard to tell how wide his pupils are with eyes that dark, but he's got this molasses slurred energy to his movement that is unmistakable. Steve gets drug tested too often at work to smoke much these days, and it feels a little desperate to do alone anyway, like an admission that his life's shit enough to need to get high to escape. He thinks like, what do people do when they hang out anymore? What do people say?

"I like your… bell things," says Steve.

"Ah, they're handmade."

"Cool, cool. How's um… life?"

Munson laughs at him. More like cackles, rocking back and forth in the chair slapping his knees.

"I live in my dead uncle's falling down trailer," he wheezes. "I'm thirty whole years old and work washing dishes and have two bucks to my name. I sell coke to high schoolers out of a van. My best friend is a cactus. I'm dying of the virus one day at a time. You know man, it's peachy. How's your life, then? Successful, I bet, Mr. Bigshot. Fancy medical career. Cute little family. Picket fence."

It's Steve's turn to laugh, feeling the surreality of how off base Munson is.

"Naw man," he says shaking his head. "None of that. Life's just…" He shakes his head some more, runs his hand along his buzzed scalp. It still feels weird to skim his hands along soft peachfuzz. "It's lonely, I guess."

Munson makes a face, watching his hands.

"Why'd you buzz it?" he asks, and Steve grins, knowing he'll get a kick out if it.

"Started going bald."

"No shit!"

"Yeah, no shit."

Not too badly yet, but it had felt a little pathetic, watching his hair thin in the mirror and clinging to it as some kind of. Immutable piece of his identity. Some kind of symbol. What it symbolized, he's got no clue, but it's in the past now, it's over and done.

"Your mullet is really showing me up, Munson," Steve says and gets an eyebrow waggle and a dramatic shake of his hair in return.

"Read it and weep, Baldy."

Munson waves at a neighbor walking her dog, and she waves back cheerily. There's a mockingbird yelling out repeating bird calls from somewhere nearby, a pair of wasps flitting about in the eaves of the trailer, and a big, ugly thunderhead cruising the summer sky. The air smells like ozone and cut grass and the tar cooking in the asphalt, and Steve's realizing he doesn't really know how to talk to someone who's dying but not actively.

Not that it's always a death sentence. The virus.

There's plenty of treatments now, experimental and otherwise. No cure yet but maybe soon. Steve's seen it enough times to know the virus doesn't really discriminate either. It takes gay and straight the same way in the end.

He wonders about Munson. Is he–? But then, it's none of his business really. Still, he remembers being eighteen and thinking he'd like to bite down on the white pudge of Eddie Munson's inner thigh and chew on the taut tendon there like a chicken wing. And yeah, he thinks that's still as messed up as it was then. And he still wants to, probably.

"You heard from the kids lately?" Munson asks. It surprises him.

"Hardly kids anymore," says Steve. "You haven't?"

"Not really," he says, nabbing a Zippo from one of Henry's branches to light a cigarette. "Not in a while."

It surprises him. He figured, out of all of them, Munson had the biggest chance of keeping up with at least some of them. Half because he always acted like he'd stay a kid forever himself. Peter Pan to their lost boys.

"They're OK, I think," he says. "Moved on. It's been a while for me too."

Munson looks at him, and his big eyes are all sad and wet. Or he's just really high.

Steve doesn't know what he's doing here, not really. It feels like a fragment of another life. One where he's Eddie Munson's old buddy, catching up after years apart, and it's a Wednesdsy in July with evening creeping in and he's got most of his shit together and knows what he's doing with his life.

"You want me to go pick us up some food?" Steve asks, clearing his throat, and doesn't ask you been eating, man?

"If you're paying, I'll pick it up."

"You're trashed."

"Driven worse," Munson shrugs, and he's up, keys slinging around his fingers before Steve can protest. "I'll go to Skeeter's down the road. Gimme your wallet."

He makes grabby hands, and Steve, the idiot, slaps his worn wallet into his waiting palm.

"Just as easy as that?" he says, guffawing. "Give the broke, ailing druggie trailer trash your credit card?"

Steve just kinda figures Munson's decent. It's been a while, but he can't have changed too drastically and he seemed decent back then too. Steve thinks of Munson sitting quietly beside a dying stranger this morning and thinks maybe that's not something someone would do if they were a bad person, but hell, he could be wrong.

Maybe stealing someone's credit card when you're flat broke with some very expensive drugs the only thing keeping you alive has nothing to do with being a good or bad person. Maybe Steve's just kind of an idiot.

"Get a lava cake too," he says. "My treat."

"You're a decent guy, Nurse Harrington," says Munson. "Not too bright, but you're decent."

"I could be waiting to rob you blind."

"Oh," he coos like one would at a pig-tailed toddler. He taps with a long finger against Steve's forehead. "Lights are all on but no one's home. Good luck scrounging anything up in there. Like I said. Cheese whiz."

The beat up van squeals away into the settling evening.

The mosquitos have stormed out in force as dusk sets in, Munson's scrawny little plant not quite enough to hold back the hordes, so Steve lets himself into the trailer, hoping maybe because Munson said that stuff about scrounging around that he's not overstepping a boundary.

Munson wasn't lying about the cheese whiz.

Not that it's being used like glue to hold together bits of crumbling infrastructure or caulked along the baseboards or whatever but that a siingular can of the stuff, plus some assorted condiments and a weirdly fuzzy pickle floating in a half empty jar of brine, are the only things in the fridge. Plus, a handful of Budweisers in the door.

The trailer otherwise is atrociously cluttered, a loose spill of eclectic detritus. Dirty laundry and crusty dishes and a whole lot of loose cassette tapes and dog-eared books with wizards and unicorns on the covers. Prayer flags strung across the ceiling and posters slathered on the walls. A privacy bead curtain to the back bedroom. Some illicit drug paraphernalia intermingling with pill bottles.

He picks one up to read the label and recognizes it, then starts picking out all the little bottles from the clutter and setting them together on top of the magazines on the coffee table.

He's got most of the full ones arranged together when Munson busts through the door with a doggy bag.

"If you want some real fun drugs, I've got some in the back," he says. "Those aren't really any good to snort."

"Sorry, sorry," says Steve, pulling his hands away.

"No, you're fine. I do have a system but it's a bit. Chaotic. Probably would make a good little nurse like you cringe."

"Some of these are expired," says Steve. "Are you taking them? What's your viral load?"

"Buy a fella a drink first, golly!" Munson presses his hand to his chest in mock offense. "You don't have to mother hen me. I'm a big boy. I've had this thing for years, and it hasn't got me yet."

"Sorry," Steve says again.

They go back out onto the porch with dinner and some cold beers. Two dozen wings and a thing of large fries. Munson plugs in an electric bug zapper, immediately glowing and crackling with vanquished mosquitoes and moths and craneflies.

Skeeter's is a dive bar, but their wings are still as damn good as Steve remembers. Eating wings is messy as shit, and Munson forgot napkins but drags out some bandanas from some musty drawer in his trailer. After a while, they both get tired of playing polite and wipe their mouths with the back of their hands and gnaw shamelessly on the gristle of spent bones they drop to the weathered porch.

It's full night and it's summer and it doesn't quite feel like real life. Munson lights a cigarette, and the ember of it hovers like a glowing eye in the crook of his fingers, pulsating.

The flickering orange of the streetlight doesn't quite reach onto the shadow of the porch, and Steve looks at Munson leaning in the rocker with his legs sprawled out and thinks about his unrealized boyhood fantasy. Of slumping on his knees between the guy's legs and–

It's not hard to imagine that maybe it's still '86, and Steve's burning up with energy that has nowhere to go, untethered from whoever he used to be with no real way forward. Still pretty sure there is a way forward, a tomorrow, a next chapter where something good happens. Something not awful at least. No more monsters, no more bloodshed, just– a life. Love. Something fulfilling and peaceful enough and–

He slips down off the shitty chair and onto his knees on the porch. It hurts like a punch up through his joints. He's not even thirty, and he's old as shit and not even happy and well-adjusted. He wants to whine about it, scream about it. Munson's thirty, and he might not make thirty-five. He wants to scream. He wants to–

"Munson," he says, because the guy's got his head tipped sideways with the cigarette dangling on his lips, looking at him like he's insane. "Muns– Eddie," he says. "Eddie, is it chill if I– I don't know. I've always wanted to– Can I– you got condoms?"

"Steve," says Eddie and touches his buzzed head with his fingertips like he's checking if he's real. "Steve, did you really just ask if it's chill to suck my dick?"

"Yeah. I guess."

It's weird. It's like a dream. Eddie gets a condom and shimmies his shorts down his bony, weird legs and drops back in the rocking chair. Steve's been sitting there on his heels the whole time he scrounged through his trailer. Like a pet, waiting.

"Are you even gay?" Eddie asks.

"Are you?"

"I've got the virus, Steve-o."

"So? Lots of people do. It's not a gay disease. It's not the act of a vengeful God. There's nothing wrong with being gay. There's nothing wrong with either of us."

He kisses Eddie on the inside of his thigh just past his knee when he says it and the skin is so soft under the firm touch of his lips that he regrets how bad his fresh shave is going to burn.

"That's very sweet, Steve. Real cute. But you're sucking some random guy's dick in a trailer park, and I'm high enough that I'm feeling kinda nervous with Henry watching. There are a few things wrong with us."

"Don't be nervous," Steve says and smooths both palms down his bare legs.

"Sweet as sugar, I'm telling you."

The hair on his legs is fine, barely there, but Eddie's pubic hair is coarse and thick and Steve's not too sure he's showered recently. Which should be gross really, should be a lot of things, but it mostly makes Steve want to pick him up by the scruff of his neck like a kitten and wash him off under the trickle of the kitchen sink.

He hasn't really sucked a dick before, just thought about it a lot and he's watched a few pornos. It seems straight-forward enough. Eddie's penis is right there and not really that hard yet, nestled snug against his balls in coarse hair. He's uncut, a little shine of fluid hanging at the blunt tip pushing beneath the hood of his foreskin, and it seems like it would fit pretty decent against the roof of his mouth. It's cute even. A little tough to see in the faint light, so Steve plants his palms on Eddie's knees and spreads him wider to look.

He bends close enough that Eddie must feel his breath. In his old fantasies, he lapped at him in slow licks like a dog, savoring the taste.

Eddie flicks him in the center of the forehead.

"Condom, you ding-dong."

"Right, yeah, right."

Munson pulls at himself, a harsh, weird tugging in a way that hardens him up fast. Steve skirts his fingers along the back of Eddie's knuckles as he does it. It's fast enough that the condom goes on smooth in no time, and then Steve's fingers curl to take his place. Latex shifts under his grip, dulls the heat but not the weight of it, and Eddie sighs and shifts up and the rocker tips back.

Steve puts his mouth over his covered erection and tastes rubber, mostly. It doesn't fit as nice in his mouth as it would have flaccid, but he rubs the head back and forth against the ridge behind his teeth and a little further. Real careful.

"What's gotten into you anyway? Jesus."

Maybe Munson's sobering up. Steve looks up at him through his lashes, and Eddie swears a colorful string of really made up cursewords and then bites his own fingers to keep quiet.

It's barely 10PM. There's kids living nearby probably. Little old ladies. Or maybe there's worse stuff someone could hear past dark in a neighborhood like this one.

Steve takes Eddie's dick most of the way down his throat.

"You into death, Harrington?" Eddie gasps. "You into like. Dying people. You never looked once at me before. You into finishing the job? Because you are literally killing me right now."

Steve pulls off.

"It's not like that," he says. "I looked at you all the time. Before this. I wanted to do all kinds of stuff."

"Oh," says Eddie. "Like what stuff?"

"Like this."

Steve leans past his stiff dick into the shadow of his gaunt pelvis and presses his mouth against the crook of his thigh. It's as doughy and soft as he imagined, probably fish-belly white too beyond the wiry hair, and Steve opens his mouth and bites. Eddie rocks up, the tendon in his teeth flexing into a taut cord and his cock jumps hard against Steve's cheek.

"Holy Christ, you're a fucking weirdo," Eddie chokes out.

It makes Steve feel a little dizzy, like he's seeing double vision. His decade old fantasy of biting at some vital, thrumming, secret part of wild-eyed, crazy-haired, full of life Eddie Munson blurring with the Eddie who's cast in shadow on a warped porch, pantsless, bare ass on his rocker, sauce-stained wife beater shrugged up his little pudge of a belly, bright yellow condom glowing in the dark.

"I don't know why I wanted to do that so bad," Steve says, muffled as he kisses up Eddie's twitching belly. He twists his fingers around the base of his dick and rubs up and down a few times just to watch Munson arch his back against the chair. "Hey, the condom glows in the dark."

"You just noticed?"

"Looks a little radioactive."

"That's only how it looks in movies."

"You sure?"

"This place is not a place of honor," Eddie gasps, rolling his hips up against Steve's hand.

"Huh?"

"It's… nevermind. You're a weirdo, Steve Harrington. You're a real weirdo."

"Is this what dirty talk for losers is like?"

Eddie skims his buzzed hair with both hands. He holds them there and tugs his head up, looking. The orange streetlight glow catches in his black eyes and hides the dark bags under them, accentuates the groove of wrinkles at the frown of his lips. He's damn pretty. Steve wants to lap him clean and chew on him some more.

"Guys like me are shunned for a reason, you know. I'm worse than a freak now. I'm a ticking time bomb. I could take anyone who gets close enough to love me down with them."

"Oh I love you now?" Steve jokes, and Eddie doesn't laugh. He's sober.

"It's dangerous, Steve. You should stop."

"Are you telling me to stop?"

"No. I'm saying you should want to."

"I don't want to."

He wraps his lips back around Eddie's dick.

With his eyes open, he can blurrily watch the bright yellow glow of the condom dim and brighten as he moves. The light looks sickly against Eddie's soft belly and thighs. Steve thinks danger.

He wants to ask if he knows who gave it to him, but knows that's rude and also not very sexy. They're probably dead now. It's not a very sexy thought at all, but Steve pushes the heel of his hand against the front of his jeans and rocks into it. He's not sure what comes next in his old fantasy. Suckle at Eddie Munson's inner thigh and then– And then, he–

Like all his dreams, they evaporate into thin air before the end. He still doesn't know what he wants to do with his life. He still can't get a handle on what he even likes. Does he like nursing people through the very end of their lives? Is it just a thing he fell into by chance and keeps doing because he doesn't have any clue what else there is?

If he'd been braver ten years ago and actually got to sucking Eddie's dick when his knees still worked perfectly and nobody was sick, what would have happened? Would it have been just once, a quickie, a satisfying good time but that's it, that's that? Would they have have had some gross whirlwind romance, caught up in each other, acting like lovebirds, overflowing, sticky-sweet and disgusting? Would they have been lovers, calling each other baby and sweetheart and pookie, standing against a world that goddamn hated them like nothing else, but all of it a little more tolerable and meaningful together, maybe? Would they have crashed and burned, Steve too indecisive and scattered, Eddie too wild child and unstable and hungry for the whole world, for fame and sex and drugs and all of it boiling up and ending quick and bright and permanent?

None of that would have passed his mind back then. He'd only seen people die blood and messy and sudden, not slow and inevitable with a little breath of relief.

"Steve," sighs Eddie, fingers digging into his scalp like he's trying to grip at his hair. "Steve, Steve, Steve."

Steve hollows his cheeks and tries to make it good for him. He really hopes it's good for him even it never happens again. Not like. For truly morbid reasons, but he supposes that's always possible too. That Eddie just dies. That he conks out and snuffs it.

It sucks. It makes him pull harder with suction at the dick in his mouth, moving his tongue with more determined purpose, laving along the latex-covered condom. He imagines the yellow glow staining his cheeks and tongue and hands. He wants it to. It's silly.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," swears Eddie and bucks his hips and goes taut, riding out the wave of an orgasm. Steve feels it as a warm weight pulsing against the skin of the condom held against his tongue. It's weird not to taste it, feel it. He rubs his palm against his own cock trapped in his jeans, and it only takes a second before he's coming off too. Maybe it's been a while. He leans his forehead against Eddie's bare thigh and gasps his way through it.

Eddie pushes him back and pinches the condom off and ties it, flinging it away somewhere out into the grass. Steve wonders how safe or sanitary that is but doesn't comment. He doesn't think wandering stray dogs or raccoons can get HIV. Probably. It's maybe just as gross as anything else about Eddie's life.

"You good?" Eddie asks and cradles his head in his hand. His dick's gone limp and small and spent against his pale thigh.

"Lava cake," says Steve. His lips feel dry from the latex and the lava cake is still sitting at the bottom of the doggy bag and the porch is covered in scattered chicken bones and Steve's knees hurt something awful.

"It'll be cold. Just a big brownie."

"Still chocolate," he says. "I don't care."

"You're really weird," says Eddie. "If I haven't said it before."

"Life's weird," he says. Eddie Munson's eyes shine.

"Yeah," says Eddie, fishing the bag of lava cake off the porch, still pantsless and sweaty. "Yeah, you're damn right about that.

They eat chocolate cake together with the bugzapper zinging overhead and a dog barking somewhere over the horizon and the streetlight glow haloing their bent heads. They lick chocolate from their fingers and then each other's fingers.

It's July. It's past midnight in a nowhere trailer park in bumfuck Indiana. It's ten years ago and it's the future.

Maybe five years on, Steve's holding Eddie Munson's hand while he finally dies after weeks, months, years of wasting away to nothing.

Or maybe not.

#steddie #i didn't like. intend to write this the image of thigh chewing just gripped me so tight i couldn't... not #i still don't know what stranger things is about #i did enough of a deep dive to get the character voices down #sowwy #also someone was already rude to me on ao3 about this fic it's a new record #i waltz into a fandom late with starbucks and get booed out #i'm not tagging this too intensely either it's embarrassing someone should feel embarrassed for me #my fic #ficletober 2022 #sort of

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