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id say im sorry but im laughing too hard

#where it all begaann #ps transparent homos for ur dash

We take quick reprieve by the embankment during hot, musky nights to steal heavy falling fruit off summer trees and kisses off sticky palms where pretty petals have stuck like lacecap hearts.

#writing #moe dragon beans btw

dear vale:

i saw this shitty bee pun and i thought of you

u can bee my honey bee

my les-bee-n lover

happy friday

Tempered, taxed, tight talks she silenced society all solemn death and smoke-smocked Marina swaths, puckish stars, take your time, Pallas ma'am, know that they make tragedies telling your lamentable lot.

Make no mistake Pythian Apollo, the tender tot, tentatively picks the poem, dusty sleeve and ancient-pocked He thinks therefore, sorrow-wrought how spiteful, despite it all, that sun and moon will never cross.

#writing #actually my favorite this week

dear vale, today you get a bunch of wearable items on neopets:

now u too can be a true lolita and mimic the dozens of pinterest reposts in tumblrs nabokov tag

apple mitts, for when the aux pommes's loins get too hot to handle

a daisy crown for daisy buchanan (4 lumps of sugar pls)

did u pluck ur wings from heaven, or did u sew them urself

#in b4 u fluster #most of these were under 40 np

I'd build a temple for you, you say as I curl on top of you on the old leather armchair in your spanning library, your aching voice full of heavy reverence from a subject to his queen, as you kiss the flat hillock of my bare breast.

I'll build a temple with you, I say as you lay me down gently on the over-sized bed that makes you feel far too lonely during those frigid nights without company, as I kiss your jaw surely in a sweet paired return, my trepidant king.

#writing

Monday is brick red: like carmine stone outside the café and dried up blood on your shirt, the way he seethes and punches and waits for you, inexplicably.

Tuesday is bright jade: stone of lions, flashing and enraged; a foreign man dressed to nines lets you choose a colored stone "--green," your voice breaks immediately.

Wednesday is sky blue: and you hide behind dark glasses as the sun dapples through the clouds (They crush awkwardly on your bridge when he tackles you to the dirt.)

Thursday is ruby and lust: you hate the way oxygen burns when he grabs you rough by shirt-front and that you'd rather punch him than see him worry for you.

Friday is gunmetal gray: he confesses like a curse rage and vulnerability And you lie through gritted teeth, "I can't return your feelings."

Saturday is amber: the bottom of a shot glass with just a sliver of drink Your throat sears when you fumble Ezra's slurred name on your tongue.

Sunday is ivory white: like these bedsheets that aren't yours And you look too disappointed that he's standing in the doorway and not sleeping next to you.

#seven day anniversary countdown!#writing

Learning To Let Go: Oran/Reli/Pav/Tuile (Finished)

“Eh, could’ve done better. And I was shocked you could make that puck go so high on the strongman game! Or… that you could knock down a coconut.”

The two girls chat to and compliment and brag about their prizes to the other, walking around in the less crowded area of the downstairs lounge after their conquest over the games. Tuile’s hands each carry a sizable plush toy, while Pavlova carried an assortment of glow sticks and bracelets, plastic weapons, and a single large plush toy (likely from trading in many smaller prizes).

Suddenly a familiar face catches Tuile’s eye. “Hey, look!” she alerts the redhead next to her, pointing at whom she sees. “It’s Oranais! And it looks like he has a new friend, too! We should go talk to them!”

Pavlova’s eye squint at her, doubting. “I dunno… we didn’t really conclude our relationship so well. It might be better if we don’t—”

Practically ignoring her words, Tuile moves the plush toy to the other hand, grabs Pavlova’s, and starts heading toward Oranais and Religieuse, waving to them both. “Hi there, Oranais!” she greets them both amicably. Pavlova had given up on avoiding them, now stepping back a few steps and withdrawing herself from the mood. The giddy noblegirl continues, “It’s really great to see you here having fun—and with a new friend, even! —oh, sorry, um! My name’s Tuile! And you are?”

Oh, well, coming to this party wasn’t so bad. It was rather entertaining actually. He didn’t know why he felt such hesitation to come before. Religieuse was pleasant company; her patience for him was truly incredible. And though he certainly wasn’t blessed with the gift of gab, openly speaking had become easier over the course of the night. (He still stumbled over his words occasionally, but that was a thing he was accustomed to.)

Yes, this wasn’t bad at all, but—

ohhh… oh. Was that — it certainly looks like it.

Castrate him with his sword, Pavlova and Lady Tuile.

Irrational nervousness begins to bubble up inside him as he stops in his place. He shouldn’t be feeling so apprehensive. Lady Tuile was his friend and Pavlova… well, they had actually not left on good terms… But to see both the people he had failed, together, so suddenly, he almost felt the urge to bolt and hope they hadn’t seen him. The thought lingers at the corner of his mind, but he know he can’t succumb to it. He had resolved to be a better person. He couldn’t run, he…

His hand darts out to Religieuse’s to stop her from walking further.

“Um! I’m sorry, but… over there. That girl with red hair. She is… the one I had talked to you about— that I asked for advice on. I… should speak to her, I think.” The boy’s words imply that he’ll leave to talk to said girl. But he doesn’t move from his place. A moment of hesitation, and he continues, “I am… not sure if I can handle this successfully.”

The night wears on, but Religieuse is unaware of the passing hours. All sense of time is lost, swept up in the current of the evening’s festivities and carried downstream, out of sight, out of mind. She has settled into a comfortable calm despite the throngs of boisterous people and fervent activity. It marks a rare occasion indeed, considering her typically reticent behavior when lost in a crowd as rambunctious as this one. It certainly has not hurt that she is accompanied by a familiar face, a kindred soul among a sea of strangers.

As the pair wander through the impressive labyrinth of expansive rooms and lengthy corridors, the young girl is able to gradually glean more and more information pertaining to her acquaintance. She gathers each scrap up and stores it away deep in the back of her mind for safe keeping. A warmth spreads through her; she is getting to know the boy better, and she finds that fact comforting.

They are walking alongside each other at a leisurely pace when Oranais instantly freezes in his tracks, hand shooting out to grab hold of Religieuse’s and forcing her to come to a halt as well. She shoots him a questioning look, and he answers her in a murmur, a breath — that’s her, that’s them. Bright green eyes follow the direction of his faint gestures, and Religieuse is met with the sight of two girls who appear to be around her age conversing spiritedly, currently unaware of both her and her companion’s presence.

The angel turns back to the knight to inquire further, but an abrupt cry of greeting cuts her off before she can open her mouth. Her head snaps around to see that the girls had caught sight of them and were now steadily approaching. Religieuse remains rooted in place, as does Oranais. Her mellow mood gains an edge of unease as she wonders how this situation will possibly proceed.

One of the girls, with soft brown hair and bright eyes, is quick to introduce herself as Tuile. The other retreats a few steps backwards, far less enthusiastic about this turn of events than her friend. Religieuse is put on the spot when Tuile asks for her name, and the tawny-haired young girl quickly finds herself adjusting her behavior to return to well-practiced formalities.

“My… name is Religieuse, ma’am,” she introduces herself, shyness creeping into her voice and demeanor. Her mind is so preoccupied that she has forgotten that Oranais’s hand is still in hers; even when she gives a respectful bow in greeting, she neglects to notice. “I-it is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Tuile.”

Oranais jolts at the same time Religieuse’s head turns. He gets the sinking, drowning feeling of unpreparedness as Tuile and Pavlova approaches them. He forces back the heat rising to his face (habits, habits), and is brisk to turn and face the two girls. As his night’s company slips into formalities, he does the same. He tries to bow quickly, but as he moves to lay his arm across his chest as usual, he feels an un-usual, slight tug.

Oranais blinks, looks down, and realizes his hand is still grasping Religieuse’s. With comic-worthy promptness, he releases her. (The boy is slightly surprised he didn’t manage to budge her, despite her delicate-looking demeanor, but he sees the battle-blazing rumors weren’t for naught.) Oranais coughs lightly, trying to brush away the embarrassment of his neglect, of what that may have seemed like, and for a second time he attempts a bow.

“G… good evening, Lady Tuile,” he almost starts to stumble over himself again, but he takes a breath, exhales, and shows the noblegirl a warm smile. “It is a pleasure to see you here as well. You both look very nice tonight.”

And at the hinting mention — you both — Oranais looks over at Pavlova and tries to keep the warmth of his expression, to not allow his nervousness to show. (He only fails slightly.) “Um. Pavlova, good… good evening.”

The chestnut-haired girl’s countenance swells with enthusiasm as her extroverted self (unintentionally) absorbs the introverts’ energy. She handwaves at their responses. “Oh no, please—you don’t have to be so formal! And you don’t have to call me ma’am or miss—” and then she remembers why Oranais calls her Lady Tuile “—but if you’re uncomfortable addressing me by just my first name, you can call me Lady Tuile.” She smiles to help ease any tightened nerves. “I’m glad to see you’re both having fun! Your costumes both look great—a knight and an angel~”

Meanwhile, the redhead doesn’t fare as well; she’s backed up to almost behind Tuile like an unsociable six-year-old hiding behind her mother from a stranger. Her ears perk when Oranais mentions and addresses her, earning him a quick wave. The older companion gently nudges her in the side, and she’s prompted to at least introduce herself. “…I’m Pav… lova. Nice to meet you, I guess.”

Tuile pouts a little at the lackluster greeting. She whispers, “Pav, don’t be so gloomy. He’s trying, and you should, too!”

Pavlova takes a few steps forward, no longer hiding behind Tuile, yet her face remains just as unsociable and awkward. Slightly frustrated at her friend’s attitude, the brunette sighs softly and explains, “…sorry. She’s usually more outgoing than this, believe it or not! So, um… you said your name is Religieuse, right? Are you the one I hear rumors about—the one who fights like a magical girl? Looking at you now, I can see it, since you look so… ladylike!”

Once the green-eyed girl adjusts her demeanor to more formal mannerisms, her companion is quick to follow. As he moves to give his company a polite bow, Religieuse feels a light tug on her arm. Her breath catches in her throat when she glances over and realizes that she has forgotten to let go of his hand. He’s quick to notice, however, and releases her swiftly. Religieuse feels the tips of her ears heat up, and she clasps her hands in front of her, fighting down embarrassment.

Tuile, with her sprightly aura, easily assures the tawny-haired girl that formalities are unnecessary, though Religieuse ultimately agrees on the title of Lady Tuile. She flushes at the compliments directed towards her and spares a momentary glance at the marbled floor, a flattered smile gracing her lips. “Thank you very much,” she replies lightly, fingers gently tracing over a pattern in the embroidery of her own dress.

Her gaze lifts once more as the redhead takes a tiny step forward and introduces herself as Pavlova. Religieuse gives a polite nod in return and quickly follows the gesture up with a bow in greeting. “It is nice to meet you as well, Pavlova, ma’am,” she says, but does not attempt to press for further conversation; she shall let her new acquaintance choose to talk in her own time.

It’s not long before Tuile is chatting with the mint-eyed girl again, and Religieuse blinks in surprise when her military reputation is brought up. “O-oh,” she stutters, “yes, that is indeed me… I am a little shocked — I-I didn’t think knowledge of my… battle tactic would leave the confines of the military, honestly…” And when the compliment follows, she quickly flushes. Her lips curl into a genuine grin as she quietly responds with, “Thank you, I’m… quite flattered… Y-you look rather regal yourself.”

“Th… thank you, Lady Tuile, your compliments are appreciated,” Oranais returns with a light flush, and he almost bows again out of habit. But he self-consciously disguises the slight downward jerk of his head by placing a hand on the back of his neck and looking away momentarily. He means to look back, but Pavlova’s lackluster response does little to prompt him; he looks down instead.

Oranais watches as Religieuse and Tuile exchange their small talk and pleasantries. He’s relieved that they seem to be getting along well. Slowly, their conversation begins to lessen the tension he felt, dampens the fuse he thought had been untimely lit. He chances another glance at Pavlova’s unsociable stance and braces himself.

He doesn’t know when the best time would be, but he knows that he’ll run away from it if he leaves himself the opening. So he can’t. He needs optimism (but it’s strength he doesn’t have, he needs to borrow it, how useless of him—)

— Oranais clears his throat, hand nervously clutched. “Um. Pardon, but… would it be acceptable… if I left the two of you to continue your conversation, Lady Tuile, Miss Religieuse? I have something I should… I need to discuss, with Pavlova.”

Although noticing their slight movements, the way they release their hands, Tuile says nothing. She doesn’t want to do anything that might provoke the pair into more reserved moods, and so she continues to smile, compensating for Pavlova’s less than pleasant mood with her warmth. Meanwhile Pavlova simply tells Religieuse she needn’t address her as ma’am and then continues to remain silent like before. The golden-eyed girl sighs internally at her friend, but she concludes to not force her to speak.

Pavlova gives Oranais the occasional glance, pondering whether or not she should talk to him. They hadn’t made up well after he returned home, and this party provided the perfect place to resolve their feelings. Her doubt rises above her, however, and she decides she can try again at a different time and place.

While her companion stays quiet, Tuile continues on with her conversation. “Oh, well,” she replies, “I’m not sure about leaving the confines of the military, seeing as I’m a military nurse. I’ve overheard some of my patients talking about it a few times… I just thought it was really neat! Maybe someday I can watch you spar—

“—hm?” Tuile rings, stopping her dialogue to listen to Oranais’ request, and answers right away, “Oh, that’s alright with me!” She looks back to Religieuse and awaits her confirmation.

On the other side of the coin, Pavlova feels her stomach drop to her feet, but in the end she nods, resigning to his wishes. Oranais didn’t show initiative too often, so she didn’t really oppose him when he did.

Religieuse has always had a knack for maintaining a consistently calm and easygoing countenance, but there was something about parties that seemed to make her far more reticent than usual. Nevertheless, she makes an effort to socialize with Tuile. Said brunette emanates enough cheeriness to fill the void left by Pavlova’s lack of enthusiasm without dampening her own demeanor. (Religieuse feels faintly impressed.)

The conversation flows onward, but not without a brief interruption by Oranais. Tuile gives her consent to his request, faster than an instant’s passing. It takes a few seconds longer for tonight’s angel to react, but she quickly gives a subtle nod and replies, “Of course.” She looks away from him and back to Tuile, polite as always, allowing him to have a moment’s privacy with Pavlova without her stare boring into his back.

“Ah, where were we—” Religieuse begins, focusing once more on the conversational topic at hand. “—Oh, right! You are a military nurse, you say? I am a little surprised I haven’t met you before, but… then again, I don’t recall having to take many trips to the infirmary in the past… But perhaps I can visit you in the future, then, now that I know!” She pauses a moment, allows her clasped hands to relax and drop to her sides, her timidity slowly starting to fade, before continuing, “I usually practice my magic and generally train… at home… but if there comes a time when I happen to be sparring on the training grounds, then you are very welcome to stop by — if it doesn’t inconvenience you, of course.”

(oops style switch because lazy)

[ She followed without so much as saying a word to him. She didn’t know what to say to him. She still didn’t know how to approach him after what had happened at his house, and even if she told herself she’d talk to him here, she didn’t really commit to it. She didn’t want to see him here, but Tuile sort of… forced her into it. ]

“…so… whaddya wanna talk about?”

“About… about our last conversation. I’m. —we didn’t leave on good terms… I apologize for that. Um.” [He hesitates, fumbling for what to say, always, always.] “—I, I misunderstood you, you said. But I could say the same: I never thought of you as heartless nor callous.”

[She continues to look down, playing with her dress as he talks, too awkward to even look at him in the eyes.] “…why are you so nice to me? No one else has cared about this.”

[He blinks; his answer alludes him for a second. It’s so obvious that he almost doesn’t know how to reply.] “Because… because I care for you. I’m not… what others do does not concern me.” [Her words take a toll though, and he looks away in self-consciousness.] “…should I not have drawn this up again?”

[She pauses and looks at him after he gives his answer, when he looks away. Her face expresses honest-to-God surprise. She finally releases her dress hem from her clutch. She almost doesn’t know what to say.] “…nah, actually— thanks. For… —ugh, I sound so uncool right now— …it’s just… hard to believe I have people lookin’ out for me. Well, besides Chiff. And— I don’t know, I guess Alex?— but it’s. I dunno.” [She visibly shrugs and looks off again. Now she really can’t look him in the eyes without feeling awkward— without blushing.]

[He looks back at her now, brows shooting up slightly — he’s so easy to read.] “You are… you are welcome.” [His lips quirk up in a hint of a warm smile, arms folded behind him. He thinks he understands the extent of his misunderstanding now. Oranais clears his throat once, softly.]

“Ah— um.” [The feeling of bashfulness contaminates him as well.]

“…Pavlova. I will always extend my kindness to you, if needed. But. I had thought you hadn’t needed it — for my sake, you said before. I had thought your offer of friendship was meant as pity. I… I don’t want to burden. And I don’t want to force others to care for me. But if… if you would like to stay friends, not purely for my own sake, I… I would like that.”

[She peeks back at him— just once— and instantly her bashfulness rushes straight to her face. Her hands reach to cover her face, her fingers spread just enough for her eyes to peek back up at him, and she hunches a little in embarrassment.]

“…s… sure. I guess— it’s less awkward than just avoiding each other, anyway. I—”

[She decides to uncover her face in front of him to clearly illustrate her embarrassment. Feelings are hard for her.] “Can we please talk about something else now!?”

[Sure, she said. They’ve settled it without much issue at all. He can feel a slight sense of elation, an appreciation for the optimism he’s borrowed and the words exchanged.]

“S… sure— anything. We’ll talk about anything you’d like.” [The boy smiles again, obligingly, trying not to look too amused by Pavlova’s sudden embarrassment. (Strange how a poor habit on him seems much more endearing on someone else.)]

[She turns her head to the side, way embarrassed. Still, it was… nice. To see him smile. Since he’s always got that same unconfident look on his face.]

“…so… How’s it been? I’ve been gone for, I guess a month.”

“Uh…” [He replies, as he always does when the same type of question is addressed to him. A moment to think; nothing of his is very interesting. He lives a boring life for one who should don shining armor.]

“…good. Fairly… uneventful though. Um, you though? How was your trip?”

[She’s not surprised at his reply. At least she tried.]

“Uhhh, it was cool. I mean, we were mostly working and doing a lot of physical labor, so it wasn’t like it was a fun trip. I’ll probably just spend the next few days relaxing…”

[He nods, attempting to continue their interaction, at least show that she had his attention. Socializing had never been his forte.]

“I… see. Um, I hope you have a pleasant break, then.” [A pause, a hesitant after-thought.] “…I imagine I’ll be free as well. If— if you need me.”

[Her lips curls into a sly smile.] “Well, I did consider going to a spa. Maybe you could by my masseu…” [She starts giggling. She couldn’t help making that comment.] “Haha, I kid, I kid! But yeah, thanks. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

[In the blink of an eye, half a second, the tables are turned and Oranais is the one left flushing. He resists the urge to slap a hand over his eyes in embarrassment, managing a simple, tight nod. He’s glad she seems to have returned to her usual self, even if it’s at his dignity’s expense.]

“A-alright then. Please do.” [A pause, and he forcefully smooths out his expression into something more genial.] “Shall… we return to Lady Tuile and Miss Religieuse then?”

[She shrugs at his comment, but her expression is back to normal.] “Sure, why not? And uh.” [She floats to match his height, gets a little bit closer to him, and cups her hand around the rim of her mouth.]

“And by the way… don’t tell anyone what happened before. I gotta rep’ to keep, y’know.”

[He straightens at this, somehow simultaneously folding into himself, and blinks like an owl.] “It’s between us alone,” [he promises without hesitation.]

#archive

Oranais/Religieuse (Unfinished)

And Oranais knows he won’t melt well in that crowd.

Despite his shining armor tonight, Oranais thinks he may be more of a dull bronze — bending under stress, imperfect and lackluster. Wandering around aimlessly, he feels the same as a child who has stumbled into a place he doesn’t belong. Perhaps he’d feel less self-conscious if he had found his company. Or at least if he weren’t alone as he searched. But his vague acquaintances, Master Alexandertorte and his friends, would surely not want to be disturbed by him. He shouldn’t intrude on their fun. He’d doubt his own friends, few as they are, would seek him out either.

Mainly because he scorns them so easily, like he had Pavlova, like he would do again, it was a problem he could not fix—

Oh… No, he had to stop that. He could resolve his conflict with Pavlova. Right. He needed to have optimism about the situation, like she had.

Speaking of… he’d not seen her all night, although they’d made plans to keep each the other company for a party neither would be comfortable attending. (If misery loves company, timidity must as well.) Despite the feeling of awkwardness that pricks at him as he wanders without destination in mind, he needs to keep looking. He has to uphold his words. With that as his resolve, he passes lounges and couches and fancy hotel fixtures without regard, sight fixed on the specks of people below and searching for a bright lone star.

The night has come alive with vibrant colors and people on the hunt for entertainment. Over the buzz of conversation and thump of the music stands a girl in the corner, separated from the sea of eye-catching costumes and joyous attendees. Her mint-hued eyes scan timidly over the crowd, searching, seeking out the one person who had promised to keep her company through the duration of the festival. With her simple white dress and subdued demeanor, she is innocuous, hardly noticeable, sans the pair of feathery angel wings attached to her back. And that is perfectly fine; she is not one to seek out the limelight, anyway.

Religieuse stands on tiptoe and sweeps her gaze over the masses once more to ensure she had not missed him. After a few moments, she is confident in the fact that he is not present. She blinks and sinks farther back into her corner. It has been a while since she had first settled in this spot to wait for him; she wonders if he was unable to come after all. Religieuse drops her gaze to the floor and fiddles with the fabric of her skirt, a habit she has yet to break. She deliberates on how to proceed, and finally decides to see if she can find him herself. With one final glance over the crowd, she slips into the crowd and heads for the hallway, wings bouncing ever so slightly with each step.

The young girl weaves her way through the throngs of people loitering in the corridors, seeking out a promising area. To no avail. Religieuse is not disheartened, however, and continues on. Surely he must be here somewhere, she tells herself. Her new friend does not seem to be the type to abandon plans without warning, after all; she must simply continue searching.

The hallway cuts short abruptly, and the girl suddenly finds herself thrust into an enormous room filled to the brim with party-goers who give off the air of elegance and prestige. At once, she feels out of place. She is not of their class; she should be mingling with those of her own kind, commoner that she is. Religieuse bows her head ever so slightly and begins to navigate the labyrinth of people.

It does not take her long to realize that her friend is not present in this place, either. There is no sign of the tawny-haired boy among the ranks of impeccably-dressed notables. She drops her head in resignation and prepares to resume her search in another area of the expansive hotel.

It is merely by chance that as she is glancing up, the balcony catches her eye. Religieuse pauses mid-step and sweeps her observant gaze over the people watching the crowd below. And then - oh, is that him? A brown-haired boy in knight’s armor leans awkwardly over the railing as his eyes dart over the swirling ocean of color below. Yes, that must be him, she thinks, and she is quick to wave her arms in the air in an attempt to grab his attention.

“Oranais!” Religieuse calls out, as loudly as her gentle voice can muster.

No, not in the east wing either. Oranais sighs, feeling small and secluded where he stands. Boisterous noise and activity swallows the masses as they shift, swirl, an ever moving mass of glamor and light. His eyes catch neither hide nor hair of Religieuse, and he shies from the sight, disheartened. If he had known the night would force its hand to make them star-crossed, he would have shown up at her door instead. Hindsight was always so self-effacing.

He turns, seeking to check the opposite wing of this grandiose hotel next, when the call of his own name reaches his ears, soft as it is. Attention caught, he leans over the balcony railing again, searching for the source. It’s only half a moment before he finds her. Waving her arms in such a manner causes her wings to bounce, and Oranais can’t help but brighten like the sun and laugh lightly at the sight.

“Miss Religieuse!” he calls back, forcing his voice past its usually timorous volume. The noise catches the gaze of a few eyes, which causes him to shrink slightly, but their company is not what he’s been searching for. “Please wait right there!” Oranais bids hurriedly, already quickly starting for the staircase. He flits his attention from her, to the path ahead of him, back to her constantly, both trying to watch his step and keep his eyes on her as much he can.

A few rapid apologies to those he’s had to sidestep as he bounds down the stairs, but he reaches his destination without collision or embarrassment. Bowing quickly, he greets, “Good evening, Miss Religieuse. I… I apologize, were you looking long for me?”

Oranais, Oranais. Religieuse repeats his name again and again, making an effort to be heard above the incessant sound of laughter and excited chattering. Her heart skips a beat when he turns away - oh, no, she had failed - but resumes its steady rhythm in her chest when he suddenly returns to the railing, sweeping his golden gaze over the ocean of colors below, seeking, searching. The expression on her face brightens, glows warmly, when he catches sight of her and calls out to her. She obediently stands in place as Oranais hurriedly makes his way to the staircase, a feeling of relief and happiness washing over her.

A gentle smile finds its way to Religieuse’s lips as he reaches her side at last. “Ah, please don’t feel the need to bow! Save the formalities for someone of more worth than me,” she tells him gingerly as he bends forward in courtesy. “I admit I had waited in one room for you for a short while, but I realized that considering the expansive size of this hotel, it wasn’t the best course of action to take. If I hadn’t decided to move, who knows how long it would have taken you to find me; please, don’t worry about it.”

The young girl lapses into a momentary silence as she glances at the elaborate costumes sweeping and swirling around them as they stand, two constants in a sea of perpetual motion. In an instant, a wave of shyness overtakes Religieuse, and she glances down at her own dress, a simplistic white piece composed of cloth sewn in a subtle floral pattern. “I had no idea the costumes were going to be so extravagant,” she murmurs. “Otherwise, I would have dressed in something more elaborate. Oh well.” Her lips quirk into a hint of a smile.

Soon enough, however, she returns to fiddling with the cloth of her skirt, rolling the fabric between her fingers as she says, “…I hadn’t made any plans prior to arriving.” A faint flush of embarrassment tints her cheeks as she continues. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do anything in particular, or what… Ah, I’m sorry.”

The squire straightens just as quickly when Religieuse gently refuses his over-formalities. Still, his words are honest when he replies, “There… is not one, in this room, who is more worth my regard tonight. You are my company, afterall.” He clears his throat, a little uncertainly, after he speaks. It’s a bad habit — him talking that is. Or rather, the wrong words pouring from his inarticulate mouth. The feeling of unease quells when he reminds himself that this is not the time. Miss Religieuse has been looking forward to this party, and so had he, admittedly. He knows his past mistakes and is determined not to make them again. Not tonight. He’ll be a person worth her presence.

Still, habits, personality traits are difficult to break. He has no words when Religieuse lapses into silence as well, and he joins her in observing the myriad of colors and costumes gracing the ballroom floor. Unlike him, they all wear them well, like a second skin. Oranais turns to his companion when he hears her soft murmur and is swift (and clumsy) in his reply.

“I think… I think your costume suits you though. It’s quite nice.” He ducks his head down after that. Habits, habits. As the girl fidgets with her skirt, he brings his arms to his back and clasps his hands together. It’s something to do, so they aren’t hanging uselessly at his sides. “Ah… no, your apologies are not necessary. I… I have not made plans for tonight either. In fact, I am… not sure, really. What… one typically does. At parties.”

Oh… that sounded rather dumb, didn’t it.

A rosy blush dusts itself across the jade-eyed girl’s cheeks as Oranais affirms that she is worthy company and compliments her costume; she is flattered, and tells him so. Religieuse counts herself fortunate to have befriended such a kind boy. Not merely kind, however, but relatable as well. She feels a faint hint of confidence bubble up from deep within her, brought to the surface by Oranais’s presence.

Silence once again overtakes the pair after the boy - a knight, at the moment - admits he has arrived at the party without a plan as well. Religieuse stares thoughtfully at the swirled patterns embedded in the marble beneath her feet as she considers how to proceed. She feels a hint of guilt tug at the back of her mind and wonders if he would have been more comfortable if she had let him stay home tonight.

“It’s fine!” she says at last, a reassuring smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t frequent parties myself. There are plenty of options here to choose from, though; the party organizers definitely outdid themselves. But…” Religieuse’s voice trails off, and a pale blush creeps its way back onto her face, and she can’t help but let a bashful giggle escape her lips. “If… you don’t want to do any of those things, then I am perfectly content with simply strolling down the hallways and conversing with you.” Her gentle eyes glance up into his golden irises, show him her sincerity, then return to the floor.

For a moment, Oranais worries that he may have already soured the night with his blundering words. (Softness is comforting, but silence is gnawing.) Fortunately, the girl’s comforting smile does it’s job; he receives reassurance from her words and his shoulders fall lax.

“Yes, they… they certainly have done an excellent job tonight. Though I am not sure… how much I dare to try.” The casino tables seem near carnal, he’s gathered, from what hoots and hollers he’s heard tonight. The dance floor doesn’t beckon him either; he would be completely inept at dancing indeliberately, spontaneously. He isn’t even that confident in his trained dance. Still, should he suggest something more lively? It’s a party afterall, he doesn’t want to bore her, he is so boring—

The veracity in her eyes pull him out of his anxiety this time. He blinks. And her giggle manages to draw out a breathless chuckle of his own.

“If… it will not disinterest you, I would be content with simply conversing as well.” That decided, he begins leading the two of them out of the ever moving cluster of party-goers, carefully keeping step with her. As he does, he notices her dress again. He remembers their last meeting and grasps at the chance to start conversation, though stumbles at the starting line.

“Um—! Your dress… it’s very nice. Did you make this one yourself as well?”

The boy is a timid species, a skittish creature with downcast eyes and fidgeting fingers, softspoken. Religieuse is blessed with a saint’s patience, however, and she aims to gradually coax him out of his hiding place and allow him to enjoy himself without distraction, at least for a few hours.

“It’s quite alright,” she reassures him gingerly, extending a petite hand to pat his back. “I’ve never considered myself to be particularly adept at carnival games, and I h-hardly ever dance.” Never danced with another person, that is, though I’ve taught myself routines, she starts to add, but catches herself in the nick of time and saves herself from what would have been certain humiliation.

She trots after him when he starts off, weaving through streams of gorgeous color and impressive grandiosity. Her steps falter ever so briefly as she takes a momentary pause to glance down at her dress when he inquires about it. “Ah, only partially,” Religieuse answers, resuming her pace behind him. “I bought the dress plain, but I embroidered some faint patterns into the fabric myself. I thought it would look prettier.”

There’s a quick beat, before she manages, “Did you raid the battle equipment storage closet for your costume?” The joke is lighthearted and airy, and it is apparent in her tone that she means no ill will by it; it’s a mere attempt to dispel his tension.

At her answer, the boy directs his gaze to the fluttering of her dress, observing before speaking. He can see the embroidery she mentioned, delicate blossoms, spiraling, sylvan. He has no knowledge of the craft, but even he can appreciate aesthetics. Oranais replies, “Did you? The… it looks beautiful. Your work is lovely.”

They reach the end of the room and are released from the sea and storm of color. The throng of revelry behind them, the hall beckons them forward, muted and unassuming. Music still reverberates in the air, but it’s softer, more modest. Oranais finds that comforting.

He glances over, caught unawares when Religieuse makes her jab — but it’s purposefully light, not enough to dent the armor he keeps donned. Oranais laughs, a bit embarrassedly. “Ah, no — simply my father’s closet, to be frank. It… it isn’t often I go to buy things, such as costumes…” He settles his nerves again, and pushed forward by the flow of conversation, tries to jest in return, a riposte, raddoppio.

“And you— did you pluck your wings from heaven?”

He pauses,

recalls hearing Alexandertorte make flirtations along the lines of his words

and backtracks comically.

“—ah, I mean. That is not to say, that you fell from heaven. Um, but also not to say that you don’t have the personality deserving of— um. That is. I’m… I’m sorry. That sounded very forward, didn’t it.”

Her companion’s compliments cause her to flush, genuinely flattered. “Thank you,” the green-eyed girl replies for what seems to be the hundredth time tonight; it’s the least she can do to show her appreciation for Oranais’s kind words. Gradually, her shyness is ebbing away, shrinking back from her shore and returning to the foaming sea. She’s found relatable company, and that alone gives her the confidence boost she needs.

As they leave the tumultuous din of costumed party-goers and upbeat music behind, Religieuse feels herself relieved for the reprieve, regaining her more familiar mellow attitude. Her lips quirk upward when the boy replies to her jest, and she reaches out to pat his forearm gingerly. “Understandable,” she chirps, and trails off into another moment of relaxed quietness.

It’s when he attempts to return her joke that she is taken by surprise. Religieuse can tell his intentions are clearly benign, but the phrasing catches her off guard. He quickly attempts to rectify his statement as a deep blush blooms across his friend’s peachy cheeks, but his words only succeed in flustering her further. The girl’s mint-green gaze quickly darts to the floor, and she clasps her hands in front of her.

“Oh, no, I — I understand what you meant! It’s quite alright. No harm done. I know you didn’t” — her blush deepens to a rich crimson as she chances a glance into his golden eyes — “mean it the way it sounded—!” On instinct, she lifts a hand to cup her burning cheek in an attempt to appear less flushed than she actually is.

It’s always one step forward, two steps back and foot into a messy ditch. His clumsy words only succeed in worsening the situation, flustering them both. She clasps her hands demurely, and he humbly places one of his own on the back of his neck. Oranais attempts to apologize again, gaping awkwardly, but words don’t come to him. Religieuse speaks instead, attempting to alleviate the anxiety.

She understands — he’d never been more relieved to hear that phrase. There’s still the prick of embarrassment needling his mind, but he tunes it out. No, it’s fine, she said it was fine. He chances a look at the girl’s face—

But their eyes meet at the same time.

Oranais jolts and snaps his head away quickly. Blood rushes to his cheeks; his neck and ears feel far too warm. An embarrassed habit, his hand flies up to half-cover his eyes. The knight ducks his head down, and after a moment, peeks an eye through the gaps of his fingers to find Religieuse flushed as red as he must be. Oranais starts again, “I-I’m sor…”

There’s a lengthy pause as his apology trails off. Slowly, he takes a step back from this situation, a step back out of that ditch — and accepts the burning red of his cheeks. He says carefully, contemplatively, “I think… that we must seem quite the duo, at the moment. To an outsider’s perspective.”

Her eyes are trained on the boy as he flusters and flushes, flailing for a proper answer and finding none. He eventually resigns himself to his predicament, cheeks and ears taking on the hue of a ripe summer tomato. Religieuse looks away as his hands fly up to cover his face, extending him a courtesy that he will hopefully appreciate. It’s not too long before she’s tentatively glancing back at him, however, checking to see if he needs some words of reassurance. His golden eyes peep out from the cracks between his fingers, and despite their mutual embarrassment, the girl cannot help but smile in mild amusement at the sight.

Oranais opens his mouth to begin yet another unneeded apology, but halts mid-sentence, lets his words fade into the muted din of conversation between their fellow guests. He seems to decide against finishing his statement and instead comments on how they must look in the eyes of one of the countless strangers at the moment. Religieuse starts, drooping head instantly snapping up to scan the masses for any potential spectators. She finds none, and allows the hand cupping her cheek to drop listlessly to her side.

Nevertheless, the heat in her face remains, and even the light cotton fabric of her dress begins to feel like an oppressively thick blanket. “I—I…” she murmurs, fingers moving on their own accord to fidget with her skirt. “Yes, w-we probably do… I hope you’re not too uncomfortable…” A timid, apologetic smile finds its way to her lips as she stares down at his feet.

Even the sweltering heat of summer doesn’t burn his skin to this extent. His words are a noose, but she allows the rope to slowly loosen. It’s not as mortifying, he thinks, when his company does not fluster erratically as he does; it allows him the time to breathe, to reason. He watches Religieuse’s nimble fingers fret and fuss with her skirt, as shy and demure young ladies would. If he tilts his head and cranes down an inch — and he does — he can see her lips quirk up in unwarranted apology. The girl’s eyes are focused on the ground, but Oranais returns her smile regardless.

“No, I think… I think this situation may be a bit humorous. In hindsight.” The knight for this night straightens, and directs his golden gaze away for a moment, dims the spotlight on her. The last thing he needs after this situation is to give the impression he’s staring. “And… I think I am used to it. To some extent. I… often mis-phrase my words. When I do not invest time before speaking.”

He falls back into platonic amiability. But Oranais recalls himself suddenly, a small jolt. “But I… I didn’t make you overly uncomfortable, did I?” he asks worriedly, and he can’t help himself, he directs his eyes to her expression again, searching.

Tracing the black-and-white swirled pattern of the marbled floor with her gaze is enough to distract her from her embarrassment. Her burning skin gradually sheds away its heat, granting her a reprieve and returning her to a more comfortable state. Oranais’s reassuring words soon follow, seeking to diffuse the situation. She feels his gaze fall away from her, and slowly, she straightens her posture and lifts her eyes from the floor.

“Ah—” Religieuse begins, but her voice is noticeably squeakier than normal. She hurriedly brings a hand to her mouth and clears her throat before trying once more. ”Sorry. Um… I-it’s fine, honestly. I understand what you are saying… But please, don’t feel obligated to think through your words around me. I’m very patient.”

Oranais’s nerves seem soothed for a moment, and the pair fall into another cycle of silence. He seems to recall something, however, and looks to her suddenly, questioning. The girl blinks at his inquiry. “Oh, no, of course not. I was not uncomfortable at all,” she responds easily, waving her hand at him. “You are… very amicable and calming company, in all honesty. Please do not worry about it.” A light giggle escapes her lips at the end of the final sentence and rings through the air, chiming like tiny bells. Don’t worry about it.

#archive

Roulette Roleplay (Unfinished)

She’s a woman on a mission, her eyes locked on her target. The roulette table beckons, and, always the risk-taker, she is weak to its call. She intends to hit the jackpot tonight, and nothing shall stop her from reaching that goal. The crowds part for her like the waters of the Red Sea as she makes her way to an empty seat at the table. She grins, self-assured and intimidating, as she plops down on the stool.

“Let’s fuckin’ play!” she calls out to the dealer, plopping her purse on the tabletop and withdrawing her payment. A few nearby cheers rise from the masses loitering around the table. The dealer takes her offering without a word and spins the wheel.

The ball passes her number. Undeterred, Candy shovels another hefty sum at the dealer and places her chances on another number.

A miss, again. And again. And again.

The game wears on. Those who were watching begin to lose interest and melt back into the crowd. Candy chews her lip and stares hard at the last few bills in her hand. After a moment’s pause, she hands the remainder of her money over and shouts out a final bet.

Another miss.

“Ah, how unfortunate,” the dealer says, giving his best effort to sound sympathetic as Candy stares in deep disappointment at the roulette wheel. “Please enjoy the rest of your night, miss-“

“I’m not done yet,” Candy interrupts, her expression slipping back into that of familiar confidence.

“Pardon? You have no money left, ma’am…” “I’ll get back to you on that,” she replies, standing from her seat. She removes her feather boa from around her neck and waves it high in the air as she turns to the crowd. “Hey~! Anyone want to buy this from me?”

There is a pause as all eyes turn on her.

“I will!” a particularly drunken-looking man suddenly volunteers, stumbling through the masses to hand Candy a wad of cash. She snatches it from him and hands him his prize in return. She turns to the dealer with an impish grin.

“I’ll bet on number 23.”

She loses her wager once more, but is quick to sell off her bracelets to try again. Her necklaces go next, then her earrings. By the time she removes the very rings from her fingers, a commotion has risen in the crowd. Considerable interest is now invested in the woman selling the very outfit off her back in order to secure a win at the roulette table. People swarm around her, crane their necks to witness the spectacle. They mutter to each other, make predictions.

“Do you think she’s going to sell off all her clothes?”

“I’unno, wouldn’t mind seeing that happen though, ha.”

Candy licks her lips and grins like a predator as she hands over her money to the dealer.

She’s going to hit the jackpot, even if she has to strip for it.

God damn, he’s always loved a good crowd. Words rising, blood thumping — he deals in attention and incitement, makes currency of loud words and bold remarks. He needs that bit of excitement. It’s how he intends to live, to breathe, and without a doubt, it’s what draws out his gleaming fangs and wolfish grin.

So when he sees a commotion, oh, he can’t help but steal the show with a hunter’s delight. The limelight beckons, and he’s all too eager to pounce.

“Bet on number 12!” Alex hollers over the mutter of the crowd and strides to the front, all blazing confidence and a gangster’s swagger. Without preamble, he pulls out a wad of bills from inside his jacket and slams it onto the table, leans his weight onto the edge carelessly. With a flick of his finger, he props his fedora from his eyes and takes a good look at the lady gathering the crowd. He barks a laugh when he recognizes her katana-sharp eyes.

“If it ain’t Granny Candy! You fish out your vintage bloomers for this special occasion?”

The spin of the roulette wheel has become hypnotizing. Candy leans in, eyes narrowed, staring intently at the tiny white ball as it travels around and around its designated path. It slows, wobbles, passes over her number, and drops into the pocket adjacent to it. She smacks her hand against the tabletop in frustration and slumps back in her chair, ready to slip off another item of clothing and offer it to the buzzing crowd.

A rival bet makes her pause. Who the hell is trying to steal her thunder? She rests her sharp gaze on the perpetrator. She is quick to recognize him, however, and snorts loudly at his greeting.

“Says the midget. What the hell do you think you’re doing anyway?” Her bright pink eyes glint with mischief. “Trying to steal my jackpot?”

She leans down to slip her heels off her feet and is quick to trade them off to an enthusiastic buyer for a fresh fistful of money. She performs the now-familiar handoff with the dealer and shouts out her number.

“Sorry kid, but this game is mine, and you can be damned sure I’ll do whatever it takes to win it.”

“Let’s just say I’m trying to give you a little incentive,” Alex hisses the last word like a caress, grin widening. His gaze follows her figure as she leans down to slip off her heels (maybe he can get a good peek at her cleavage). When she straightens, his eyes pull up — conspicuously. He meets her glinting eyes, pink and gold clashing like swords.

“You sound pretty damn confident,” he notes, then curls his lips tauntingly. “But ‘scuse me if I spoil your night. I don’t back down from a challenge,” he finishes, tone sleek, unapologetic, and arrogant.

Pushing his pile of notes further onto the table, he commands with a bared smirk, “Spin it, dealer!”

Candy had forgotten how cheeky this kid was. She smirks, pulls her lips back, enough to display her canines. “You sure you can keep up, little boy?” she laughs, wiggling her toes, now free from the confines of a shoe. “I hope Daddy can appreciate his precious son blowing all his money at the roulette table.”

The dealer spins the wheel; it’s become a routine action. The ball falls into a pocket that holds no bets. Luck, it seems, is neither on Candy’s nor Alex’s side.

“What’re you going to do when you run out of cash?” Candy jests. “Because if you start stripping, that little shitty ball spinning around that damned wheel is gonna get replaced by you.”

She stares down at him as she rises from her seat yet again. She brings a gloved hand to her mouth, snags a piece of cloth on the fingertip between her teeth, and tugs the glove off.

A bidder lays claim to her offer before she’s even finished removing her second glove. She laughs at the man’s rashness and happily accepts his money.

“Hn, that’s the last of the accessories,” she comments as she returns to her seat. “If I don’t win this bet, then the dress is going next.”

The boy laughs, throws his head back with abandon as she matches him blow for blow. Not too bad for a senior citizen. “Well, the old man doesn’t need to find out, does he?” he shoots off easily, revealing his fangs to match hers, two predators looking to intimidate.

Alex directs his gaze back to the roulette as the dealer spins, watching the ball fall into a neglected slot. He exhales from the corner of his mouth. Damn.

“You’re damn lucky I’m not gonna strip. The crowd would be all over me,” he peeks back at Candy as she removes her gloves, tongue brushing over canines as he shoots her an amused look. “And we want this game to stay classy, don’t we?”

Slamming another handful of bills on the table, Alex grins at the roulette as Candy makes a casual comment about her next stripping venture to his side. “Ask the crowd to pray for ya; no one wants to see your wrinkled old ass. Dealer, number 6!”

Candy purses her lips. “At the rate you’re going you should have asked him for a credit card,” she clucks. “You’re gonna make a dent in the family fortune sooner or later.”

She shrugs his other comments off, water rolling off a duck’s back, all in good spirits. With a flourish of her arm, she calls out to place her bet on 37, whatever that slot is, carelessly sliding forward the money she had earned in exchange for her fine pair of satin gloves. A bark of laughter escapes her lips as they both, once again, end their turn with nothing.

“You’d think that there would be enough luck between the two of us to help us out somehow. Guess you’re just as shitty at this as I am,” she snorts, slapping his back heartily.

The dealer, now looking fairly uncomfortable, asks, “A-are you sure you wish to continue, miss…?” The faintest hint of nervousness is detectable in his voice.

“Oh, please,” comes the lightning-fast reply, “this is where it actually gets interesting.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Candy turns to the crowd and slips easily out of her dress. A cheer rises up from the masses as she waves the article of clothing above her head and quickly sells it off.

She settles back down onto her stool shamelessly; all that is left on her body is her undergarments and a pair of stockings, but she holds herself with as much confidence as before.

“Number 3,” she says, self-assured, forking over her profit.

“Thanks for the concern, Mom, I think I can handle my own finances,” Alex replies with a lackadaisical wave of his hand. The dealer spins and he watches as their money disappears into fruitless ventures again. The corner of his lips twitches up as he clicks his tongue and Candy barks a laugh beside him, slapping his back. He almost lurches forward at the momentum (damn, strong lady).

“Off night I guess. Usually I get luckier than that,” he grins, putting the emphasis on his words. He couldn’t miss pulling off such an easy double entendre when it was handed to him like that. Alex leans his weight on the table, taking ease in the dealer’s obvious discomfort. “Hey, didn’t ya hear the lady? She’s in it to win.”

And she definitely makes good with her words — off comes the dress. Alex blows two loud, piercing wolf whistles in the midst of the hollering crowd, whooping along with them; oh, it’s all in the spirit of the game. He pulls out a few more bills from his (admittedly thinning) stack of cash and hands over his bet as well.

“Number 29.”

“Oh, pardon me. I didn’t know you were so sensitive about your independence being questioned,” comes Candy’s swift retort. She gives him a mockingly condescending look and refocuses on the game.

Her eyes fix on the roulette wheel as she assesses her position. She’s running low on clothing articles to fuel the fire; if she doesn’t win soon, she’s going to end up broke and naked. Candy chews her lip and steels her resolve. Goddamn it, she’s going to win, no question about it.

She snaps her head back to Alex as he finishes off a classic teenage innuendo and laughs at his cheekiness. “Good luck telling that fib, kid,” she comments, waving a dismissive hand.

Candy lets out a discontented sigh as another chunk of her earnings is lost to her bet and swept up by the dealer. She has lost count of how much money she had shoveled over during the course of the game, but it’s pretty damn obvious the jackpot is swelling from the influx of incessant betting.

There is a moment of quiet in the hordes of spectators as they await the decision of the sharp-tongued woman, their new celebrity.

Another jubilant whoop rises up as Candy leans back in her chair and slams her feet up against the corner of the table, slipping off her stockings without a second thought. She doesn’t even turn around as she swaps them off for a wrinkled stack of money.

“Hm, 19. Why not,” she hums as she waves the bills at the dealer.

He casually sneers at her retort, eyes still fixed on the red and black wheel in front of them. “Bet I still get more ass than you, Grandma,” he claims, puckish grin unfurled. It isn’t even fazed when he snorts in resignation as Lady Luck scorns them yet again. Another miss. Alex watches the dealer collect their bets before turning to eye Candy sitting regal, audacious, and nearly half-naked next to him. (You can’t blame a healthy teenage boy for appreciating the sights.)

Hails rise again when the woman slams her feet onto the table, makes it fucking shake. And Alex roars with the spectators, giving the table a good thump with his palm as he cheers on the insanity. “Gettin’ close to bankrupt, aren’t we?” he baits before reaching into his jacket again, pulling out some more bills, a learned action now.

“Two more to go,” he reminds her in a taunting hum before pushing his bet forward and calling, “Number 15!”

His comment earns him a malicious grin. “I’m sure you’re the fucking love guru,” Candy shoots back, playful sarcasm heavy in her words. “Women swoon for men who are several inches shorter than them, even when standing on tiptoe.”

Her eyes stare ahead, carefully trained; the drone of the crowd is background noise to her theatrical production. She feels the gazes on her back, on her very skin. A taunt from Alex drifts up to her ears as she watches the dealer set the wheel in motion. She feels faintly dizzy as the ball whirls around its circular path and slows to a halt in a pocket far out of the range of her number.

A wave of disappointed murmurs rises up from the spectators.

“Shit,” Candy mutters, but quickly regains her momentum. “Can’t be helped, then, can it?”

She straightens up, rises from her seat, and gradually, teasingly turns to face her viewers. Her fingers find the clasp of her bra and unhook it; she sweeps it off of her body in one motion and holds it up high. All that is left on her body is her panties.

A roar, the loudest yet, shatters the air. Her lips curl into a devilish grin.

“Any takers?”

“It’s all about packin’ the inches where it counts,” Alex fires back immediately, brows wagging with his innuendo, not even a beat of hesitance in his reply. He watches the ball set in motion, almost expects it to— and yep, there it goes, into an empty pocket again. He exhales with a short snort, withdrawing bills from his inner pocket once again. But the murmur of the crowd catches his attention, and he halts his movements to watch the spectacle unfold like a perfectly practiced act. He can see her fingers deftly unhook her bra before lifting it into the air like a goddamn trophy.

And for all his swaggering talk and airs, he can feel his jaw drop with her movements before he’s whooping it up with the roar of the audience. So when she offers it up to the masses, he manages to tear his eyes from her chest, find her fox-like smile, and raise his own serpentine grin in return.

“Taker right here,” he calls, shoving his money at her rather than the dealer. “Better make it count — one more to go!” And with a mischievous look he hollers loudly and riles the crowd with his chant:

One more to go! One more to go!

One more to go, one more to go.

Candy feels nary a shred of embarrassment as she presents herself, chest bared, to the crowd. If anything, the wild cheers and chanting encourage her; she basks in the praise they give her, takes pride in whipping them into a frenzy. She waves her bra like a flag, beckoning for a bidder.

There is a quick claim to her side, and when she faces the speaker, it is none other than Alex leering up at her. Her smirk splits as she lets loose a bark of entertained laughter; God, this kid is perfect. She obediently hands over his spoils of war and snatches the money from his hands.

“Okay!” she yells to the skittish dealer over the buzz of excitement, slamming the bills onto the table and leaning in heavily. “18! I want 18! Give the wheel as strong of a spin as you’ve got in you!”

The man obeys without so much as a word in reply and puts as much force as he can muster into starting the roulette wheel’s whirling. He sets the ball rolling in the opposite direction with Candy’s money resting on the chance that the two opposing forces will catapult her to victory.

The room falls deathly silent. Everyone waits with baited breath, leaning in, craning their necks to watch the spectacle unfolding at the table. They press in all around her, closer and closer still, united with her in suspense.

The ball slows, begins to wobble, come to a halt —

and drops into slot number 18 with finality.

A cheer explodes from the crowd, which grows to a tumultuous clamor, deafening in volume. “Jackpot!” Candy exclaims, throwing her arms up in exuberance. In her joyousness, she instinctively reaches over and pulls Alex into a hearty embrace, knocking off his fedora and ruffling his hair like an old friend.

“Told ya!” she says smugly. “You can bet that I won’t ever walk away from something as a loser.”

Moelleuse, a woman of petty nobility, had attended many a social gathering and party all for the sake of bolstering her own near-dead au Chocolat family name. She knew the atmosphere, the people, all of the seemingly insignificant habits that could make or break a first impression from the genuine noble families. Not to say she was uncomfortable among a party crowded with those of all social standings, but this wasn’t an occasion she needed to tighten her mannerisms around.

Nevertheless, her motto is that appearances are everything, and slacking a fraction isn’t even a remote possibility for her, regardless what her husband and son do. Although she was flipping over cards revealing faces matching her own aristocratic visage for the sake of hopefully doubling her initial bet, she made sure to always project her class rank in her attitude—and appearance. The long skirt accent behaved as her own regal cape, complementing the sweet, albeit frosty voice that spoke with the confidence of a queen.

Soon she tires of the black jack tables, however, and a particular roulette table has been accumulating quite a crowd. Her curiosity is piqued; she must witness this herself. Waving goodbye to the card dealer, Moelleuse weaves through the crowd, but soon she finds that the further in she pushes through, the more… peculiar things become. A feather boa brushes by her side, irritating her face, and soon partygoers adorned with jewelry pass her by.

An eyebrow raises. She cuts through closer to the less crowded sides, but by the time she arrives the bidder has already hit jackpot. Both of her eyebrows jet straight up at the sight: a 30-something-year-old woman with the cunning of a fox and an audacity outmatching one, bare save her underwear, cheering and hollering and stirring the crowd surrounding her. Accompanying her is a young man, no more than 18 years old, bearing her bra as a trophy and riling the crowd alongside her. To say she was appalled would be a severe understatement. Moelleuse takes one deep breath and magnifies her voice.

“…well. I know this is supposed to be a party, but I didn’t know whores were allowed on the premises to cause such a ruckus among decent people.”

He exchanges a stack of bills for one eye-catchingly pink bra — a wise investment, if he does say so himself. He figures he can decide how to put his prize on display later (though he briefly wonders how much of a riot he could cause slinging it over his neck like a damn towel). There’s more pressing matters to concern himself with, frankly, and that’s the future of his vendor’s panties and the roulette table.

The cheers slowly rumble to a stop as the dealer spins, the pressure mounts, tension rises as the audience waits with baited breath. The ball slows, totters like hesitant prey into a trap, then—

Eighteen. A winner.

Alex jumps up with the crowd, the air filled with deafening noise and roars and palpable elation. He pumps a fist up in celebration, his own cheers drowned out by the dozens around them, but then stumbles when Candy catches him like a hawk would a fish.

Not that he minds. Damn, what self-respecting man would complain with their face literal inches from a lady’s bare breasts.

He laughs jubilantly as the woman mussing up his hair crows to him her victories, nods as best he can in her half-naked embrace. “I’m pretty sure everyone here’s a winner tonight,” he jests in celebration, and chances laying his hand on her… yes… maybe… yes. He’s grabbed a butt. The spoils from this night are plenty.

But a voice cuts over the whooping crowd, slicing through the merrymaking like a blade. Craning his neck from where Candy has him in a headlock, Alex scans the faces for the bold newcomer, and stares in surprise. From her hair to figure, the resemblance is uncanny; he can’t help but blurt out, “Chiff?”

He shuts his mouth quickly; obviously, this isn’t her. Though he can’t help but be a little unnerved by her appearance. (It’s as if someone took Chiff to a food processor and then froze her overnight, what an ice queen.) Raising a brow at this woman’s words, Alex glances at Candy, then back.

And then wonders if it’s too late to start demanding payment for admission to the cat fight.

Candy’s paid her dues for the night. She may have had to sell off most of the clothing on her back, but the reward was well worth the effort. She’ll be walking home with a healthy stack of bills tonight, sans a top and hardly a pair of panties. Candy feels a sense of pride, nevertheless, a sense of triumph over the odds and the thrill of recklessness.

She giggles like schoolgirl in her elation. Alex’s hand finds her derriere, a classic adolescent boy’s move; in her jubilation, however, his actions do not register in her mind, and she allows him to evade consequences for them.

But soon, all too soon, her celebration is interrupted. A woman’s voice rings out, clear and cold, above the continuous din of the spectators. As soon as the word whore reaches her ears, Candy clicks her tongue. Oh, no no no, this cannot do.

Pink eyes narrow in amusement and Candy’s trademark smirk curls into an intimidating sneer. It’s been quite a while since she’s had such a golden chance to rip into the flesh of an interloper. She releases Alex, who only now does she realize she’s still hugging, and easily props her elbow on the table, resting her cheek on her hand.

“Oh? Well pardon me, I didn’t know you ran the place,” Candy replies, unnervingly calm, words dripping with poisoned honey. “Have you been here the whole time? Do you even know what the hell is going on here? No? Then step down from the goddamn judge’s bench. It’ll save the rest of us from getting a headache and keep you from looking like a complete jackass.” A few laughs scattered throughout the crowd follow her statement.

“But then again,” she continues, “you’ve done that on your own already, haven’t ya?”

Oh no, she does not just hear this petulant boy address her by that name. Moving only her ice cold gaze—now a burning, piercing glare—in Alex’s direction, she states, “My name is Moelleuse, Lady au Chocolat… so don’t call me that again.”

Her attention refocuses on the woman directly in front of her, her eyes returning to their original state, composure completely unfazed by insulting words. Some members of the crowd start betting with each other over who would win in the almost-insured cat fight preparing to take place next. Moelleuse remains silent for a moment; intimidation does not necessarily lie in the battle of the claws, but rather the psychological duel.

“…I know quite enough what has been going on here, and—should I say the same for yourself?—because I don’t know how you can’t realize you’re the one making a jackass out of yourself. How you still possess the gall to point out fault in others when you yourself have pawned your clothing and dignity to gamble for money and to garner attention for the sole, childish purpose of bolstering your own ego as you bask in short-lived cheers and hooting… I cannot fathom in the least. Quite honestly it disgusts me.”

Halfway through her tirade, Moelleuse begins to unbutton her jacket, wolf whistles from the crowd following. Her shapely body now simply accentuated by near knee-length tube dress, her arm extends to offer the scantily clad Candy the jacket and detachable shirt in her hands at the end of her tirade. “I’ll implore nicely only once: please go home. Because I don’t want you to walk around so exposed, wear these. Save yourself future humiliation.”

“My apologies, Lady au Chocolat,” Alex arches a brow, speaking primly, affectedly, mockingly. He stands straight with all the elegance and pride that’s been pummeled in him as a fellow noble — it’s all dripping in sarcasm heavy as lead. “You see, your lovely looks quite reminded me of my friend, if age caused her to sag like a wet grocery bag.”

With his body released from Candy’s spontaneous embrace, he kicks his fallen fedora into his hand and places it back onto his head. The boy has half a mind to do something more offensive, outraging to display the bra he’s won, but ultimately decides against it. He knows when he wants the spotlight, and he knows when to step down from the draw of stares and performance. This time is one of the latter.

This isn’t his battle.

He watches as Candy shows her fangs, and he’s reminded of a huntress. His lips quirk up in amusement at her audacious words, followed quickly by Moelleuse’s undaunted counter. He resists the urge to wolf-whistle along with the spectators when she removes her jacket (it wouldn’t do to contradict his earlier words, though he allows a half-appreciative snort) and offers it to Candy. But Alex can already tell how this is gonna end, despite having only met the brazen lady twice now.

That jacket’s going anywhere but on her body.

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