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OC Kiss Prompts FMO 1/2 (Rez, Mirren, Lotár)
🕑 Added 2023-03-30 20:31:22 +0000 UTC*Set in the second year of Mastravisch’s reign. Can be canon compliant if it fits your gameplay. One scene, three branches. Prompts: dancing for Lotár and Mirren, food for Rez.
*edited, tysm <3
Having fought and won over all the allies needed to tip the scale of the conquest, Mastravisch doesn’t arrange parties or masquerades anymore, as it’s more prudent to spend the coin on research and equipment instead of frivolities. Still, once a royal, always a royal, and the necessary protocol of conduct is always respected, even if the list of official gatherings is shortened to the Death Celebration - a ghost equivalent of a birthday party. Birth counted as the day they perished, naturally.
After attending two of these, you've inevitably grown bored with the festivity, as nothing unplanned is allowed to interrupt what the Crown approved. Nowadays, there are hardly any new faces in attendance either. Since Mastravisch arrogated the throne, claiming [his/her] rightful position as the ruler of the wild, previously unclaimed wastes, there are no people left to be impressed. Other than the host, that is. Thus, the guests and servants know to be on their best behavior, more so than usual. Your every move, too, is carefully orchestrated.
Not everyone cares to abide by the farce, however. Despite belonging to a minority, there are still some who readily bend the unwritten rules: like Rez who left shortly after the greetings, citing training as the alibi, or Cassius who exempted themself early on in the guise of work.
#Rez
Only Lotár didn’t deign to excuse [him/herself] at all, sinking into shadows between the feast and the official opening of the belvedere. In consequence, the dubious pleasure of the first dance befallen you, as one of the few courtiers who are allowed to touch Mastravisch directly, bearer of the oath or not.
The tyrant’s mood is elated - as it often is in the days following the spectacular victory - to the point of overlooking the stiffness of your posture and your bland tone. Your hopes of being promptly released are shattered as Mastravisch doesn’t let go of you even once through the numerous songs fading in and out, inconveniencing you to partake in the next three dances before you’re relieved of duty and allowed to leave the hall, though only as far as the private balcony.
Curtsying, you speedily exit the ballroom. Your hand still stings from the force Mastravisch employed on you. Despite your attempts, your muscles only decompress when Mastravisch’s eyes leave your back, and you duck into an adjoined corridor, hoping to locate Cassius or one of their clones and have them cover for your further absence.
Extending the bounds of your cage past the balcony and the first hallway, you enter an area with a row of secluded built-in alcoves shrouded by thick black curtains. All of them, save for one, seem to be unoccupied. Their purpose is to provide a sheltered space for little tête-à-têtes, in theory. In practice, Mastravisch is too paranoid to let the guests wander where they aren’t seen, inadvertently keeping the party chaste and relatively scandal-free.
Therefore, it’s only logical for you to expect an encounter with one of Cassius’ clones. And yet, the hand that breaches past the fabric to encircle your wrist doesn’t belong to your mentor. The touch of rough, cold skin with sword-brought callouses holds your panic at bay.
“Gotcha,” Rez grins wolfishly, with way too many teeth, as always bearing the lineament of an inanimate weapon that had just gained a body but isn’t yet skillful in utilizing all of it.
Out of the battlefield, it’s charming rather than frightening. Especially now, paired with [his/her] wild hair slicked back to fit the elegant tux that inevitably ended up unbuttoned all the way to Rez’s navel, uncovering the lack of a shirt that should have been donned underneath. [His/Her] poor servants spent the entire afternoon trying to wrestle [him/her] into the sleek black garment, only for Rez to crumble it within an hour of the grand opening of the party.
“Took you long enough,” Rez points out, tone neutral. Pulling you into the alcove for privacy, Rez contradicts the attempt by forgetting to modulate [his/her] voice.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, when [he/she] draws the curtain, shrouding you in near-perfect darkness. With one of your senses out of commission, the scant distance between your bodies becomes stark. You notice the ruffle of Rez’s clothes, [his/her] every exhale.
The quiet intimacy of it isn’t new, but it’s different at a fundamental level. You’ve spent countless nights sharing a small tent, lying sleepless in the dark, too tired to move, arms brushing every time Rez inhaled a breath, and yet, the contact never felt quite so electric.
The newness of your encounter is accentuated by how alien Rez smells - perfumed fabric, and lavender soap. No death, no blood, no sweat. Even the kohl under [his/her] eye is immaculate, not yet smudged by wear and tear. If you had a habit of lying to yourself, you could blame the tension on unease.
“Kidnapping you,” Rez huffs, at last, the unvoiced ‘obviously’ evident. You can’t see much, as of yet, but you can bet [he/she]’s smiling. “Doing a great job of it, too.”
“Seeing as your victim isn’t struggling?” you say, immediately contradicting your words by halfheartedly shaking the arm which Rez is still holding by the wrist. “I thought you liked a challenge.”
Rez chuckles at that. Then, lightning-fast, [he/she] drags you forward, only to let go of you entirely. The abruptness of the motion forces you to flail against Rez’s chest, smooshing your face against it with a muffled ‘oof.’ “You’re challenging enough.”
From this close, the dull crimson of Rez’s eye seems molten. [His/Her] breath carries the aroma of champagne [he/she] downed liberally before [his/her] retreat, and sugar-glazed strawberries. There is a smudge of leftover cream on the corner of [his/her] mouth that you feel more than see when [his/her] jaw brushes against your face, shy of spreading the stickiness.
Free of restraint, you tilt back, and as your eyes grow used to the dark, you detect a shimmer of silver - a nearly empty dessert tray placed on the settee. It must have been taken from a passing-by servant and polished off thoroughly.
“Saved you one,” not sheepish at all, Rez boasts, noticing the direction of your stare.
“Out of, what, twenty?” you tease, brushing the cream with your thumb, least [he/she] actually succeeds in sullying you with it. By the scent and thickness of it, it belonged to a crème puff. A special recipe, like everything in the Beyond, digestible by ghosts but arduous to clean if it stains. “It’s a wonder you left the tableware intact, instead of inhaling all of it at once.”
Since Rez didn’t trouble [him/herself] stealing a cloth to go along with the dessert, the task of disposing of the evidence falls on you. Reaching towards your hidden pocket to retrieve a tissue, you’re stopped by Rez, or rather, [his/her] tongue. Cleaning you slightly too thoroughly, given [his/her] heedless character. Once done, Rez’s lips press to the pad of your finger, suckling on the remnants of the cream, before releasing you with a smack. It could be a kiss, if not for the lack of intent. It’d be grand for your brain to learn how not to overread the cues.
Leaning away, Rez doesn’t seem to have noticed your chest contorting with a held-back gasp. If [he/she] did, [he/she] doesn’t mention it, just as [he/she] made no comment on your closeness or impropriety of the situation - the secluded rendezvous alone would feed the court gossip for months.
“Want not, waste not,” [he/she] mumbles, audibly licking [his/her] lips. For some reason, you don’t dare to raise your head, instead watching Rez’s hands as they hold up the last pastry. “Hm?”
“No. No, all yours.”
Needing no convincing, Rez bites into the crème puff with gusto, spilling half of the cream on [his/her] fingers. It’s hard for you to tear your gaze away when [he/she] starts to clean it in a similar fashion as [he/she] did you, but it’s the correct course of action.
The feelings that blossom in you are inconvenient. You can’t quite puzzle out who of the two of you has more to lose if you slip. You’d rather not find out.
#Mirren
Though you’d expect Lotár to forego [his/her] duty, the snake surprises you by actually participating in the opening waltz, momentarily changing the blunt concept in the crowd’s gaze into reluctant admiration.
As notorious as Lotár is, nobody can deny [him/her] the skill, lest of all knowing it was Lotár from whom Mastravisch received the exhaustive tutelage. Perhaps the gratitude of a student well-taught is the reason Lotár is allowed far more freedom than the other courtiers. After all, the depth of Mastravisch’s favor can only be measured by one’s usefulness.
Nevertheless, you’re just glad you’ve managed to evade the ‘honor’ of being Mastravisch’s escort. Had Lotár escaped, you’d be expected to take [his/her] place, like you did last year. Back then, you thought that the next obvious candidate would be Mastravisch’s favorite dog, Mirren, but as far as the rumor goes, the sword is too stiff of a partner to be of any use on the dance floor. Given your dire situation, you’d failed to find that information amusing.
You’re reminded of the memory again, as soon as the first song ends and another begins. Mastravisch is, thankfully, occupied by Lotár, but everyone else is expected to dance at least once during the reception. Hence, you don’t think twice when a gloved hand enters your peripheral, willing to accept anyone daring enough to offer you a dance.
As it always happens with eagerness, you come to regret yours the moment you face your partner fully.
“Mirren,” you say, attempting to make the name sound more like a greeting than a growl. You don’t expect reciprocation, and you don’t get any, aside from a shallow nod.
Today, as well, Mirren is wearing [his/her] customary uniform. Nothing festive about it. Only [his/her] eye path is made of stained glass - perfect to reflect the discontent lingering on your face. It’s a cue to put your proverbial mask back on. There are too many wandering eyes for you to let your anger loose.
Three steps past the crowd and into the belvedere, it’s too late to pull back without causing a commotion, so you grit your teeth, looking past Mirren’s shoulder as [he/she] leads you to the middle of the hall. Similarly to Cassius, Mirren’s been absent from the majority of social events even before Mastravisch claimed the crown. You’ve never seen [him/her] dance, but despite the rumors, you know better than to expect Mirren not to excel at any given task.
[His/Her] bow is stiff but otherwise perfect. Though [he/she] seems unaware of the curious and admiring glances following [his/her] way, [he/she] has to notice them, as attuned to [his/her] surroundings as [he/she] is. If Mastravisch were to wave at [him/her] from the far corner of the belvedere, Mirren would have been already halfway there, you have no doubt about it.
Unfortunately for you, your dance is uninterrupted. Mirren’s arm is steady around your waist, verging on too tight, though by inexperience rather than intention, you're sure. Not as steady, however, as it was when you have just returned to the ‘living’ being nursed by [him/her] on the road for months on end. Similar enough to be... unpleasant upon further consideration. When your nerves pique at the memory, your body rushes to take the lead, to speed up and thus finish the dance faster, however nonsensical that idea might be.
Mirren reels you back in instantly, without even a blink. There’s no change in pace or expression, as if [he/she] expected your outburst, and has been prepared to intercept it. [He/She] doesn’t mention it, doesn’t reprimand you for nearly causing a scene. [His/Her] lack of a reaction, as always, leaves you bereft.
Resigning to your fate, you ease into the rhythm, hoping, but unable to settle your mind on anything other than the person in front of you. Mirren, similarly, is fully present, instead of having [his/her] mind adrift. By Mastravisch’s side, Mirren harbors this lofty, faraway look that makes it clear [he/she]’s contemplating the court matters rather than the current moment. Now—
However often you wonder if the importance of your existence can be compared to a short line on Mirren’s report, today you can’t claim to ask that question. The encumbering weight of Mirren’s full attention, bereft of the soft gentleness of a caretaker, is as unexpected as it is troubling.
Facing each other, you can't direct your gaze to the wall as you would have done under any other circumstance. Even staring past the broad shoulder, you can feel Mirren take you in, from the closest proximity you shared in two years. [His/Her] touch should be that of a stranger. It’s not.
It's unnerving how much you can tell from half-hearted touch alone - with your palm resting flatly on Mirren's arm. [He/She] lost weight, though not by much, and some muscle mass, which isn't visible either. Mirren never ate much, to begin with, the complete opposite of Rez. During your stay in the palace, you've noticed Mirren’s lack of appetite becoming progressively worse. Out of the two of you, people would think [he/she] is the ghost.
Your reverie is broken abruptly when you spot Mastravisch exiting the hall. It's covert, without the pomp - something must have happened. Given that Mirren doesn't immediately jump to follow, [he/she] must have known about it in advance, otherwise, you can’t imagine [he/she] would stay with you to finish the waltz.
Using the absence of your leash, you step onto Mirren's foot with all your might— Only to be lifted off the ground. The next spin suspends you in the air, then Mirren brings you back on the floor, seamlessly continuing the rest of the dance.
The landing has your chests brushing together. It’s just a split second, and yet, the moment of contact lengthens unimaginably. All sensations imprint in your mind to be replayed later, during the cold, lonely nights. The rapid thrum of Mirren’s heart, the scent of metal, the contraction of [his/her] lungs as [he/she] draws an abrupt gulp of air. A strand of [his/her] long hair brushes against your cheek, silk-soft.
You keep your face flat, though barely, and with more difficulty still when you refocus on Mirren only to see the corner of [his/her] mouth curled in a grimace you'd call a smirk on Rez. With [his/her] brow clear and unhefted, it strikes you more as quietly condescending than amused.
Clenching your jaw, you realize that the only reward brought by your feeble revenge is the heightened attention of the crowd. The courtiers, as they often are, look openly disapproving. It doesn't surprise you, there's no pleasing them. The guests are harder to gauge, but the gaggle of servants standing post by the door can't be described as anything other than starstruck.
Another spin - this time not airborne - interrupts your sightseeing. Mirren’s hum draws your eyes back to [him/her]. There’s no hint of liquor in [his/her] breath when [he/she] speaks, and yet, the quality of [his/her] voice is strangely indolent. “You're troubled.”
There's much you could say to that, starting from, ‘No shit,’ and ending on, ‘and whose fault is it?’ You don’t bother with pettiness, there’s no point. You'd never presume your words to have any effect on Mirren, least of all guilt. If [he/she] even knows the meaning of the emotion at all.
“And you’re blissfully carefree,” you parry, donning a faux smile with the same ease Mastravisch dons the crown. It’s perfect, your guise, you can see it reflected in the mirror Mirren's eye patch provides. Mirren opens [his/her] mouth, and a sound escapes, but you cut [him/her] off, having not yet been finished. “For a mutt who’s just abandoned its master.”
Mirren’s body stiffens, and [his/her] head swerves sharply to the side where Mastravisch stood just a moment ago. There’s a glimmer of surprise on Mirren’s face, but it disappears soon, hardening into a frown that matches yours.
What a fraud. It’s not like [he/she] didn’t know. What’s this farce for? For your sake, or the crowd’s? Perhaps there’s an assassin mixed in, and Mirren plays the part of a runaway knight, paving the way for the killer just to push them into a trap.
The corner of the belvedere is empty, the back door is left ajar, as in an invitation. Mirren spares it another glance, astonishing you further when [he/she] turns back from it, expression blasé. “It seems I am not a very good pet.”
“Ha!” Who’d have guessed? Humor, coming from Mirren. What’s next? The sun rising in the Overshadow? Maybe [he/she] was drinking, after all. “Not well taught.”
“Your guardianship would have yielded much better results, I take?”
“On the contrary.” The more amenable the conversation, the more it grates on you, so, of course, you have to put a stop to it. “I would never covet our [Lord/Lady]’s place. Nor do I want it.”
Whatever response Mirren has, save for that peculiar huff of [his/her], is drowned under the coda. The crowd begins to applaud, forcing the noise upon the last notes of the tune. With great strength, you make your body freeze, instead of yanking yourself forcefully from Mirren’s embrace. With less success, you dismiss the eyes sliding off Mirren and onto you. They never bode well.
Mirren seems to have all the time in the world. [He/She] makes no haste, taking [his/her] arm off you, slowly, too slowly. Or perhaps it only feels that way, seeing how eager you are to escape. Before unwinding your joined hand, Mirren brings it to [his/her] lips, pressing them to the sliver of your bare skin between the sleeve of your garment and the edge of your glove, just enough off the fabric of each to be indecent.
You know what the placement means, if chosen deliberately. You memorized too many books to be ignorant. Mirren is. [He/She] has to be. [He/She] wouldn’t have done it, if [he/she] knew, [his/her] loyalty to Mastravisch aside.
[He/She] looks at you blankly, as though waiting for something. When you don’t react, [his/her] shoulders drop. [He/She] says nothing. Just as there was no, ’May I?’ there’s no, ‘Thank you for the dance.’ Only this red, scorching eye bear into yours.
Unable to stomach it and having no will to, you curtsy, making your retreat. You don’t even know if Mirren bowed back, you’re out of the hall before the applause can dim.
#Lotár
And Lotár, whose absence you should have expected, especially after the pointed, “Sssee you at the party,” [he/she] regaled you with when you happened to pass each other by earlier. Who, if not [him/her] would make a grand display out of not showing up after already announcing [his/her] attendance?
Had Mastravisch been in any worse mood, heads would be already rolling like pumpkins on the harvest fête. None of them would belong to the snake, despite [him/her] being the instigator, but one can dream about justice, as unlikely as it is to be carried out in the palace. As it happens, the tyrant is content to simply overlook the transgression, exchanging one partner for another. Unfortunately, that reward is conferred on you.
It’s not that far-fetched of a selection - you’re skilled enough in any matter regarding the court to make an agreeable prop. However unwilling you might be, the jealousy of other courtiers is unavoidable. You’ll need to watch the contents of your cup with a watchful eye for the next following months.
As you stand by Mastravisch, bowing, dancing, etcetera, you wish you’d drunk more when you had the chance. The pleasure of Mastravisch’s company is hard to stand sober, though you’re sure glad for your empty stomach. The waltz is a terribly boring piece, easy to memorize, dilatory when the partner is less than ideal. To add to it, you’re babbled at incessantly, spun in circles until you’re dizzy from it.
Everything starts to annoy you. The sound of the orchestra is too loud, Mastravisch’s face is too close, the perfume too cloying. The fingers clutching your waist leave imprints beneath your clothes, as though the proverbial leash you have around your neck isn’t apparent enough.
When the instruments finally quieten, a standing ovation commences. Your trap within a trap tightens as Mastravisch doesn’t let go of your hand — until your arm is grasped by another, warmer one.
“Hogging a partner isss in poor tassste, don’t you think?” Lotár muses, greeting Mastravisch with a tilt of [his/her] head.
Though only an hour has passed since you met by chance, between breakfast and the party, Lotár changed [his/her] outfit and hairstyle again. Counting the number of tiny clasps and buckles, the reason for [his/her] tardiness is the white three-piece gown, half-lace, half-leather. The thigh-high shoes surely didn’t help the matter.
“Is it now?” Mastravisch’s self-indulgent smile freezes, dropping little by little the longer the pause stretches. The silence becomes pointed, offensive, but before the tyrant can truly frown, Lotár redirects [his/her] focus towards you, as if the remark was aimed at you to begin with.
“Darling, our [Lord/Lady] is busssy enough asss isss. Why don’t you let go?” Tutting the perfunctory reprimand, Lotár smoothly extracts your fingers from Mastravisch’s.
It only works because the tyrant flinches at Lotár’s touch, covering up for that slip-up by brushing a stray lock of hair that slipped past the ponytail to rest messily on the embroidered shoulder pad.
“Leave it to you, Lotár, to enforce proper manners. And here I thought you were too ill to come.”
“I wouldn’t misss your Death Day, Your Grace, illnesss or not.”
Their expression of that particular mock-amusement is nearly identical despite their diverse facial features. Their nearness highlights not only the similarities but the differences, too. The slight distrust in Mastravisch’s eyes, masked by the exaggerated cordiality. The condescending lilt of Lotár’s lips. Thousands of unspoken words are conveyed in that split-second exchange, none of which you can catch and translate.
“That’s commendable,” Mastravisch settles on, finally stepping away from you. The palpable tension in the hall dissipates, never truly waning. “Continue.” Gesturing at the orchestra, Mastravisch departs, crimson cape swishing on the floor. The sea of people parts, then encloses you once more.
Lotár snickers under [his/her] breath, eyeing the closest attendants that deliberately avoid [his/her] gaze, shuffling to the side to give the two of you a wide berth. With more gallantry than needed, Lotár presents you with a deep bow.
The music won’t start until you begin to dance, and a refusal to do so would be too blunt of an offense towards Mastravisch to be left unheeded. Perhaps that’s what the snake is counting on, wanting to add insult to injury with the use of another. [He/She] can dream on. You accept [his/her] hand.
From a practical standpoint, Lotár’s movements and figure are close to that of [his/her] student. [His/Her] grip is light, seemingly perfunctory, though no less entrapping. “Sssomething on your mind?” [he/she] probes, not in the habit of remaining silent when it’s not strictly necessary.
“You were gazing at each other so ardently, it’s a wonder you decided to pester— oops, I meant to honor little ol' me with this dance.”
Lotár smiles, wider still at your faux slip of the tongue. “It’sss rude to play favoritesss, but I can’t lie, I do have a sssoft ssspot for you.”
Your laughter, for once this night, is genuine. Lotár’s audacity never ceases to amuse you.
“You were sick?” you ask, choosing not to point out, or play along, with the obvious falsehood. It’s too weak of a jibe to indulge in, besides, and the complicated history between Mastravisch and Lotár interests you more, even if you don’t hope for the snake to spill anything of importance.
“Indigessstion,” Lotár shares in a stage whisper, the time of [his/her] answer deliberate as [he/she] twirls you to the side. A particular courtier on the left begins to cough so violently his face turns purple. At your quizzical expression, Lotár goes on, this time in a more private manner. “Truth serum.”
“You didn’t—”
“Of courssse not. Poor bassstard confusssed his cup with mine.” Lotár tsks, then promptly grimaces, still with undeniable traces of amusement coloring each passing expression. “I’ve learned more of hisss private affairsss than I cared to know.”
“More than you cared to know? That’s hard to believe.”
“I can ssshare all the sssordid detailsss, and you can decide for yourssself.”
“Is it good blackmail material?”
“Hardly.”
“Then maybe some other time.”
“Hm, a wissse choice. Too many earsss, too many eyesss.”
“Since when do you care for privacy?”
“Oh? Is there sssomething you want from me that requiresss ssseclussion?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Pity.”
“And the change of clothes?” you inquire, too curious by far to stop yourself. You're regretting it the second you see the glint in the snake’s eyes. “Never mind.”
“I’ll tell you later,” Lotár winks, slowly decreasing your tempo as the song comes to a close. “Ssshow you, even.” Before you can respectfully decline, Lotár covertly points at the back entrance with a shallow tilt of [his/her] chin, alerting you to a commotion. “I need to leave you now.”
“I think I’ll live,” you mumble offhandedly, occupied by the sight of Mastravisch covertly leaving the hall. “Assassins?”
Lotár hums. It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no. Any further questions on your part are blocked by the sound of applause that resounds about the hall. Lotár gives you [his/her] formal farewells that you promptly return, but [he/she] doesn’t stop with a bow.
Delivering a parting kiss to your cheek, Lotár makes a private mockery of the gesture’s meaning, exaggerating your friendship in the eye of the crowd. It paints a target on your back but also a shield. Nobody wants to cross the snake, not even by proxy.
Still, you wipe your face with the edge of your sleeve, cleaning off the trace of venom. A little more of this and you’ll build a natural resistance. An odd thought, better left for another day.
