calvinbox | open post | 3

[ Once a month, Monsieur Phillipe Grantaire would have a rather sizable allowance sent through La Banque de France to his lethargic swill of a son, living in a flat half the size of what he should, in theory, be able to afford. It was expected, by the man who barely kept the boy in his line of sight, that his son would use that money on the basic essentials of life in their crust of society. That is, above the general merchant class and directly below that of the aristocracy. They did well in Toulouse, and to be an artist was a respectable profession for their boy, so they left him in the hands of Paris and the Salon of Monsieur Gros without much of a second thought.

Perhaps that is where the problem began, with a lack of supervision that began when Grantaire was still a boy. Now a man, after the money needed to remain a student is spent he has long since forgone the idea of comfort. All the comfort he needed was a full bottle and a tab at each cafe he frequented. No better living, no fine clothes, and no doctors visits. Alcohol would always be nature's way of cleaning all wounds, internal and external alike.

That was, of course, where Joly came in. To have no Doctor at all would be simply unacceptable to a hypochondriac like Joly, and so as easily as they had become friends, they became unofficial doctor and patient as well. The check-ups were all rather forced on Grantaire's part, but he stood relatively still with a minor amount of complaining, so long as he had a bottle in hand.

This particular bottle is beginning to run low, he notes, as Joly's long fingers prod at the skin of his neck. He sucks his cheek and tilts his head away from Joly's prying hands, bottle resting for the moment between his hands, between his splayed legs. ]

For all the fretting you do, mon ami, that mistress of yours must have strikingly intimate knowledge of those frigid fingers of yours in the oddest of places. I would almost be appalled if I cared much at all about the state of those fingers in every single tiny crevice they could find. Or if I were not insanely jealous.

Assuming I could muster jealousy.

[ It's a typical Capitol party: wigs tottering as high as the pyramids of glasses filled with coloured drinks, pounding music, flashing lights, a room full of people who've never had an original thought in their lives. Johanna's bored already -- she only came because Finnick insisted they should, for appearances' sake. She's not sure why she let him convince her. Today was the last day of training before the Quell, and she can't be bothered to keep up pretenses any more. What's the point, really? The Gamemakers have made their move, and the rebellion is in the process of making theirs. Things are in motion. Nothing she does will change that. ]

[ An Avox slips past her, and she snatches a shot glass off his tray and knocks it back, because why not. The one thing that she really appreciates about the Capitol: good liquor. Although it takes far more than that to get her tipsy. She'll leave in five minutes, she decides, kick Finnick's ass later for wasting her time, and -- oh, look who's here. Johanna narrows her eyes, calculating. ]

Look who's here.

[ It seems that every time Peeta finds himself in the capitol, he's in some sort of awful disadvantage. Sure, he could talk his way around most of situations where Katniss couldn't, and sure he had charm down pat, but more often than not he felt like a mouse surrounded by cats. Cats who were tossing him around before killing him, having a great time watching him try to defend himself with nothing but his squeaks when the rest were rats with sharp teeth and sharper claws. They were all seasoned killers around him, even the Capitol folk who had never raised a weapon to anyone in their lives, and there's no delusion about it: he's the softest of the bunch, with a target on his back.

It's a combination of fear and the knowledge that he needs to play it cool that had him drinking at all, but the drinks are sweeter than any alcohol they have in 12, and doesn't smell like it could possibly be disinfecting your insides. It's misleading, tricky, and he had far too much. He had only meant to drink enough to get a grip, but now he could barely keep one on the wall. He tries to steady himself against it, glass in hand, eyes focusing and unfocusing. ]

[ Oh, this is priceless. The love interest of the Capitol's favourite romance, wasted out of his mind. Someone should have warned him; Haymitch has been slacking as usual. ]

[ The people around them haven't noticed yet -- they're all too wasted themselves -- but they will soon. Might throw a wrench in his angelic image. But they'll probably find a way to put a useful spin on it: he was just drowning his sorrows! Overcome with grief for the doomed girlfriend and pathetic unborn fetus. Et cetera. The audience will eat that right up. This isn't her mess to deal with. ]

[ Then again...there's no reason why she shouldn't have some fun, since it's right in front of her. She moves in close to him, angling her body so she's partially blocking the crowd's view of them. ]

Didn't your mother teach you not to bite off more than you can chew?

[ Many in his kingdom believe that after the death of his wife not long after the birth of his only son, the Elvenking never again took a lover. He could love no other and could not draw himself from his own sour demeanor. No one would arouse his heart nor his loins who did not resemble his beloved.

And many were almost right. Almost.

It was respect for the father and the son that kept their dalliances from becoming common knowledge. Thranduil himself doesn't know what it was that had his one hundred year old child crawling onto his lap in the middle of the night and waking him up his own body. He doesn't ask. All he knows is that he can see Legolas' mother in his eyes, in his neck, in his back, even though his shoulders and the muscles that pool at the base of his hips are all from him, all strong and sharp from centuries of use. He can see her in him and he almost can't help but touch, biting down on the skin of his son's neck with an urgency. ]

[ At night Legolas lets his hair remain unbraided and unbound. He knows his father prefers it that way - he's seen the way his gaze lingers over the silvery locks - and in moments like these, Legolas is glad that he opted to do so. Unbound, the young prince feels wild. The songs of the Elves of Middle Earth remark on their stillness, like so many cold stars, but with the earthy scent of his father filling his nostrils Legolas feels like he might be burning. ]

Adar ...

[ And he knows his father needs this. Legolas is smooth and sleek on his lap, toned from training but unmarred from youth, and his hair slips from his shoulders to tumble down his back as he tilts his head to bare his throat. Strong thighs bracket Thranduil's hips as a hand dances up to card through his hair; ]

Let me please you.

[ His words are soft but determined, and his eyes are bottomless pools. Legolas tilts Thranduil's chin up to him to catch his lips in a slow and steaming kiss, his free hand stroking between them to map the elegant planes of his father's chest. ]

[ His fingers toy with Legolas' hair, falling loosely over his shoulders to hang between them. He pushes it back behind his son's ear before he returns mouth and teeth to smooth flesh, sucking marks onto his pallor that would heal rapidly and be gone by the morning. His hands slide down then, to grab Legolas' hips and pull him closer, and he rolls his upwards, cock rapidly hardening and pressing against the crevice of Legolas' bum.

You do please me he wants to say, but it comes out differently in between gentle nips. ]

Then please me.

[ He is... warm. It is a strange thought, unused as Osse is to physical forms of limbs and flesh and not of water. He cannot move, cannot see, and straining the very edges of his fea grnts him nothing. He does not know where he is or why he is here.

These thoughts flit through his mind, but they are all brought to a sudden stop as he bites his lip and tastes the distinct tang of salt upon his tongue.

He is dry as though the seething ocean waters within have been trapped away, instead of soaking his skin.

He bares his teeth in rage and snarls, thrashing like a dog chained at the bit, unable to move as he wished. ]

[ Two wargs growl in the dark corners of the enclosure that Gorthaur has prepared, their eyes shining and reflecting in the darkness. They can smell the heat that radiates from the ore holding Osse down, like a carcass cooking. Osse is not cooking, like a fish on a spit, but the links are of fine work, of which Gorthaur labored in his great fiery pit within Angband. Any water that Osse could control has evaporated, will continue to evaporate, from water into gas in the air and out the vent above.

He has thought this one through, and he is proud.

He speaks from the darkness when Osse awakes, hand steady on the head of one of his beasts. ]

And so he has awoken, the dry fish, so far from the water.

[ He can force the endless waters out from him, but it only touches his skin for a moment, like a taunt, before it is gone, leaving his skin just as dry as before. The only change is the way his skin glimmers with the salt left behind, that one mineral of earth that the heat of the air does not carry away with it, like a scattering of scales or tiny diamonds across his taut back and heaving shoulders. ]

Little jeweller, little smith.

[ The words are taunting, even for how trapped he is now, unable to see the way Gorthaur's bindings have brought him to a position that looks as though he kneels, utterly humbled. ]

Are you so jealous of me?

Edited (html failll) 2014-02-10 06:44 (UTC)

[ He darts out from the darkness like a snake and a lithe, bony hand grabs Osse's face. His fingers are hot as coals, heat emanating and scorching what will only heal back. There is a grin on his face, a curl of thin lips that shows the whites of his teeth, because for all of Osse's words it is Gorthaur who holds all of the power here. ]

Call me what you like fish, your names and your words mean nothing here. Welcome to A n g b a n d, you will find no water, no salvation here.

[ His voice is like a gleeful hiss behind those teeth, and nails as black as pitch dig into the skin beneath them. ]

[ He thrashes away from the touch, the burn sizzling across his skin foreign in all ways. He is water and salt and cool and wet, and the burns are anything but, even as they scar over and then heal so that only the faintest of traces remains. ]

Do you like it deep beneath the mountains, smith? Much like your former master, you remember.

[ He's grasping at straws, but the teeth of this cornered stray are still sharp, and he knows that such mockery will cut. But Osse also knows he cannot last indefinitely. ]

[ Before, Osse's words had been a threat to his new way of life. Osse stood, at that point, on equal ground to Mairon, but no more. Now they were in his court, with Melkor gone off to Utumno, and the gears of Mairon's mind had turned and twisted to create those steps to raise himself higher.

And so, instead of getting enraged, he merely smiles, hand remaining firm, with nails digging in for a grip. ]

Aule taught me many things, Osse, and for that he has my thanks. What our Lord Melkor has taught me though, is far greater. Do you know what that is? What I've learned?

[ He flinches, but finally stills, recognizing the fruitlessness of his actions. Still, he has one last jab to make. ]

To fail, and ultimately, to fall. The greatest of Melkor's grand achievements.

[ The moment he spits the words out he thinks he should regret them. No good will come of it. Part of the ocean in him wants to yield, to draw back as the tides draw bacl, to rush upward further, but he cannot do that as he is now, trapped and still, the ropes tightening, ever binding him tighter. ]

[ He can't help but sigh with relief when a familiar face comes into focus, blocking him somewhat from view. She fades in and out and his head is spinning, but he is glad. Maybe he's too drunk to be worried, she's their competition, she could sabotage him in a heartbeat, but anything is better than, at this moment, being harassed by capitol folk. ]

My mother taught me to bite off more than I could chew if it'll put you ahead but I try not to follow her advice.

[ It comes out as a slur without his permission, and he'll kick himself later about being so candid with information he so rarely volunteers. Crap. ]

Can you get me out of here? I'm...I think I'm really drunk.

[Abby should not have been flipping through those sketchbooks. And she certainly should have stopped when she saw Will. All of Will, really. But curiosity kept her going and she was so intent that she just.... Didn't realize she was no longer alone. Caught red-handed. With all the evidence. Oh dear.]

[Yavanna is on her knees.

It infuriates her, too. She is one of the Valar, after all, the Kementari, Queen of the Earth. And yet, she is trapped here, forced to her knees, kept as a pet and as a reminder.

Her heart aches when she thinks of her husband. Lord Aule would be furious to see her like this, bowed and broken before one of his own pupils. Her hope has not faded just yet, but to fight on her own has done her no good so far.

Still, there are lines that she will not allow to be crossed. Not if she can help it.]

[ Curiosity killed the cat, as the popular saying goes, but in truth it was Hannibal Lecter that had the honor. Curiosity was a dangerous game to play indeed, and he had gotten rid of his share of peeping felines. Miriam Lass, for example.

He comes upon her slightly, only making himself known by his hand on her shoulder. If he was going to kill her that hand would be covering her mouth, but Abigail is special. Abigail gets chances others could only dream of. ]

Going through others' things without permission isn't polite, Abigail.

Edited 2014-03-09 05:50 (UTC)

[She is a little surprised that he managed to sneak up on her; she is a hunter herself, after all. But she covers it with a smug smile, turning to him as though she planned this, when of course she did not.]

I'm sorry. I didn't realize that these sketches would be so.....private. Your art is beautiful and I was curious.

[She tries to look contrite but she is burning with curiosity. Is that really what Will would look like in a collar?]