tragic_mask | Le Masquerade

[ooc: please go first to the Through the Door thread. Thanks.]

ETA: As of this thread, all new threads in the masquerade are now after midnight [the links below are now re-linked to after-midnight sub-threads]. React at your leisure.

The ballroom itself is a burst of dazzling light. Hanging from the vaulted ceiling are two gold-wrought chandeliers, both of which glow brightly over the occasion, and tall lanterns shine throughout the room.

The grand staircase descends with a flourish and opens onto the main ballroom. A balcony, which providing a clear view of the goings-on below, runs all the way around the edge of the room. It can be reached via any of the four spiral staircases in each corner of the ballroom.

Below, the wooden dance floor flickers gently in the light from above, and musicians in the side room play soft, classical music. Meg Giry, the dance mistress for tonight, is on the floor with a microphone in hand.

A low, wooden bar in the corner provides hors d’oeuvres and drinks to revelers; small tables for two sprinkle the area.

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She tilts her head, expression somewhere between contentment and blithe curiosity.

a killer but not really a killer because he's never looked death in the face look me in the face bound and bleeding on white sheets y-incision I bet he likes that one what bright eyes you have and should I let you keep them?

"Something funny, sweet thing?"

A pause, licking his lips.

(Unlock and divide the body into sections like a puzzle box, laces into knots that cause lewd bruises on delicate wrists with a delicious shock to the nervous system that makes her bite her red lips and shudder and there are bells--)

"The song has changed."

She laughs (like bells).

bruises on her throat and collarbone either healed or hidden her scar his name carved above her breast and hidden by a delicate ruffle of red red red best to work with it quickly before it dries the trick is to start at the joints

"They do that, you know."

She leans forward and drags her tongue across his lower lip.

The heat of his strained expression reaches his eyes, ferverent.

He bites on her tongue before she draw away yet, cupping a gloved hand behind her head. Fingers through her hair, pulling.

(Catch her and pin her, a beautiful specimen pinned to a velvet board behind clean glass and varnished wood, preserved perfectly because he should collect and she could be a butterfly.)

She gasps, but fights against the pull of his hand, crushing their lips together with her tongue bloody in between.

(is it right, butterfly? they like you better framed and dried)

Long fingered (clever knife wielding) hands clutch at his hips, nails digging in through well-tailored fabric.

Pressing the length of his body against hers, sucking in her breath while he (devours) kisses, his tongue slick against hers and he tastes metal (blood).

(the thin sting of the first cut, the pressure of a knife)

His hand slides from her waist, fingers splaying over her side, counting her ribs.

(Right here. But--he thinks-- she'll give as good as she gets./i>)

Her hands slide up beneath the jacket to trace out the waistcoat.

beautiful killer

One hand in the small of his back to (find the sweet spot fourth lumbar down abdomnial aorta) pull him closer.

(tool shopping doesn't stop at the restaurant supply house. may also visit a hardware store for supplies.)

Patrick twists her lower lip between his teeth, breaking their kiss, whispering sweet nothings, his escaping internal monologue. "... a pair of pruning shears, four forks, and fifty sewing needles. Sweetheart, foreplay shouldn't involve a trip to the infirmary, but I don't see it any other way."

The lady bites back, teeth tearing a gash in his lower lip.

"Honey, you're sick," she murmurs, tone almost affectionate.

"Has nobody ever showed you what your own blood looks like?"

He licks away the blood beading on his lip, and the skull tilts to the side. A wide smile. It pulls at the tear on his lip, stings. "Narcissistic," he whispers, "psychopathic, sadistic. Do you know what that means, darling?"

"It means," she replies softly,

"we may well tear each other apart before we get to anything fun."

"Exactly." he hisses, lips brushing her cheek. "Sweetheart, I will not let anyone bring so much as a paperclip within a half-inch of my skin because I want to be the highest authority with whomever I might fuck."

She pouts.

"Then I'm afriad we might not get along as well as I had hoped. I don't do submissive well (with you), darling."

An observation, a compliment, "A royal bitch. It is a lost (lucky girl) cause." His hands withdraw.

As do hers, slowly.

"Just another pair of bar-crossed lovers, I guess."

pity

bet I could have made him scream

(I need a cold cold shower, he thinks)

The skull smiles, "Thank you for the dance." and offers the most subtle suggestion of a bow. Straightens up, turns elegantly, and departs the dance floor.

"Thank you."

She curtseys before joining the others mingling around the room.

Le Masquerade

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