#it's been 84 (3) years... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rosietrace · 3 months ago

Text

“Midnight Waltz”

| Malleus Draconia + Victoria Shard | 🐉 + 🪞 |

✎ᝰ. synopsis : Malleus held out his hand to her, his eyes glowing under the darkness of the hall. There was a strange tug in Victoria's system, somehow urging her — convincing her — to take that step closer and intertwine her hand with his.

✎ᝰ. content warnings : takes place post-glorious masquerade, Victoria's dress description is inaccurate to the event color scheme due to this being written pre-redesign, potentially ooc

✎ᝰ. genre : romance, canon divergence, oc + canon character

( ˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ ) a/n : I have so many drafts in my docs its almost EMBARRASSING ☠️ so I saw that this was already finished among them and decided, “why the hell not?” and boom. I've finally posted it. Good for me ig [ dividers belong to the amazing @cafekitsune !!! ]

✎ᝰ. : reblogs > likes

“And just where do you think you're going?”

Whatever mood Victoria was in prior, it had immediately soured. Malleus Draconia came into view at the turn of her head.

“I'm leaving.” It was an answer, simple as that. It didn't warrant any other explanation; the festivities of Noble Bell had come to a close, and no matter the fireworks, the glimmering lights, and the enthusiasm of their schoolmates— none of it mattered.

It would all become a distant memory, one way or another. Maybe it would be something she could look back on with fondness.

Or maybe she'd forget a moment such as this. Just like so many others that came before it.

Her response made Malleus appear all the more displeased than usual. “Already?”

“It's past midnight, Draconia.”

“And I thought the festivities would finally get you to loosen up, Shard.”

“What point would there be in doing so?” So you could hold it over my head and mock me? She sure as hell wouldn't allow that.

“It's rare for you to not be so… yourself.”

Malleus didn't know how else to phrase it, it seemed. Even the sound of his voice bothered Victoria, almost as much as looking at him and his emeralds for eyes.

“... You're not in your masquerade garb,” Victoria acknowledged. Now all the prince wore was his Diasomnia uniform— complete with the boots and, in Victoria's humble opinion, equally ridiculous hat.

“Is that a problem?” he inquired. His stance militaristic, arms behind his back, head held high like any awaiting king would.

Oh, how Victoria yearned to knock him off that pompous throne. To be the one wearing the crown and staring him down, watching as he groveled.

Well, Victoria, you can't have everything, she told herself in mild disappointment.

It was already late into the night, and the bell at the top of the tower had ceased its ringing when Midnight struck. They shouldn't have been here, near each other, looking at each other.

Malleus spoke again, the bastard. “And what of you?” His hand lazily motioned to her. And for the slightest moment Victoria wished there was one more garment she could wear as a barrier between him and her.

She refused to let that show. “What of me?”

His eyebrow arched. “So late into the night, when everyone is tucked safely into their sleeping quarters…”

“And yet here you are: all dressed in white like a bride left at the altar.”

“Like you're any better,” Victoria shot back with a sneer. “You fancy an unchaperoned midnight stroll, Draconia?”

“The stars are of better company than the likes of you, dearest Shard.”

“How flattering.”

“I should hope so. It's probably the only genuine compliment you could ever get.”

Her eyes narrowed down into slits, her lips pressing together before she said, “Do not challenge my patience, Draconia.” Patience that was hanging by a very thin, very fragile thread.

But Malleus Draconia was a prince not so easily deterred. His eyes wandered. To the large stained glass windows at his right, the moon illuminating them in a strange yet no less stunning disposition of color.

His eyes focused back on her, raking over her from head to toe. How irritating that he remained with an obscured and masked face. Perhaps that was a blessing, Victoria wanted to convince herself.

“Would you care for a dance?”

The question came in a matter of seconds. Straight-laced, firm, not sounding even the least hesitant.

The hesitancy she expected radiated off of her, instead. He chuckled at the baffled expression on her face, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile.

Naturally, Victoria wasn't quick to accept. She took a step back, one foot forward and the other backward, she folded her arms across her chest.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Then beg.”

“Don't play games with me, Draconia.”

“And what makes you think this is a game, Shard?”

“You don't have a reason to dance with me. Not willingly,” Victoria took another step, this time towards him. “Have you perhaps been spiked with some sort of hallucinating serum?”

Malleus scoffed. “Don't be daft…” yet he didn't say anything to what she'd said before that inquiry.

“Being daft is more in character for you,” Victoria said in a mockingly crooning tone, clasping her hands together and bringing them close to her cheeks, rocking slowly.

“You are crossing a line.”

“I've crossed many bridges, Draconia. All I've done after is watch them burn.”

“Do you only speak in metaphors?”

“Do you do nothing but annoy me for your entertainment?”

To which Malleus gritted out, “A dance is all I ask of you.” It seemed she'd done her job of tugging at his strings well enough.

Her lips curved. “And why do you think I'd agree to something like that?” They stared each other down, eyes blazing in intensity.

Malleus held out his hand to her, his eyes glowing under the darkness of the hall. There was a strange tug in Victoria's system, somehow urging her — convincing her — to take that step closer and intertwine her hand with his.

Malleus guided her to a vacant music room. It seemed to be lacking in actual use, all the inhabiting instruments covered in dust and stained with a spider's intricate cobweb.

Victoria sent him a look. He knew she was wondering how he'd come to discover this room, but he was better off ignoring the silent question for now.

Bringing forth a self-conducted orchestra was as easy as flicking Malleus' wrist. The instruments burst with life, floating mid-air and playing a tune for them to dance to.

With a turn of his heel, Malleus went back to facing her. Victoria, dressed like some ghostly bride, iridescent in a dress so white it bordered on blue.

He bowed, even if it struck a chord in his pride to do so. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, wasn't it?

He heard her release a huff. He kept his eyes to the ground, hand still extended to brush against hers when she finally gave in and reciprocated.

The ends of Malleus' lips ticked upwards as he pulled her close, his free arm snaking around her waist.

Victoria already held a deep scowl in her eyes. It only seemed to deepen in intensity once he'd made that gesture clear to her. “Draconia…”

“And what is it now, Shard?” said Malleus, far too smug for the better of others, or his own.

“Don't act sly,” Victoria sneered, synchronizing with his movements. “You don't look good when you're sly.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “So when I'm not, I do?”

She didn't say anything about that comment. When he felt a sting of pain in his foot, he knew that she stomped on it with her heel.

Malleus was more surprised about the lack of a puncture wound than the pain itself. With how sharp her heels were, he half-expected his foot to start bleeding.

But did that stop Malleus Draconia, prince of the Briar Valley abyss, to move forward and engage in a waltz with her? No. No, it did not.

There was little surprise in the way their movements synchronized; Victoria made for both a formidable academic opponent, so Malleus felt little shock with her formidability on the dance floor.

“You seemed to enjoy yourself,” stated Malleus, giving Victoria a twirl. “When the celebrations came, I mean.”

“Tsk.” Victoria's footsteps were hard against the floorboards of the music room. “What, did you expect me to rejoice when the crimson blossoms wreaked havoc?”

“With the kind of woman you present yourself as, I would hardly be surprised if you feigned outrage.”

“I don't need to feign it when all I have to do is look at you.”

“How flattering.” Malleus' eyes rolled heavenward. Why should he bother at this point? No matter what he did, Victoria Shard would not take kindly to him being… well, himself.

He jolted, his face grimacing with a sudden hiss of his teeth. Shard…

He looked down at her, at her sapphire-like eyes and the smug look on her face that dared feign ignorance.

“Shard.” Malleus glowered.

Victoria huffed, and he could've sworn she was trying desperately hard not to laugh in his face. “What, Draconia? Already so tired from our dance to forfeit?”

If this were a challenge, Malleus made the immature decision of stepping up to the challenge.

This woman— Malleus thought with gritted teeth after each hard, deliberate stomp Victoria performed directly on to his feet. More likely than not, he'd lost count at how many times she'd done it.

Perhaps at some point, Zenith would give him some sort of petty participation award. Preferably titled, Endured being repeatedly stomped in the feet by Victoria Shard.

“In all my centuries of walking this land, never have I encountered a woman as egregious as you.”

“Then I find myself lucky.”

“You simply can't help but make my blood boil, can you?”

“Oh, Draconia.” Victoria batted her eyelashes with a croon.

“It's my favorite pastime.”

How crude of her. Malleus felt his pride get struck by some arrow. Be it an arrow from Orion, or one by Eros, he could not tell the difference.

He wanted, so badly, to put her in her place. To set his foot down and speak sternly, warning her not to be so bold in any future interactions between them.

But it was difficult. Difficult having to deal with a woman so high on her horse that she's arrogant enough to try and kick him off his; Difficult to constantly maintain order when it became very clear that it was the very thing she didn't want out of him.

Difficult to know that— no matter what he did— he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

He dared stared longer than necessary; at her frame, the dress she wore, the choker around her neck, the color of her eyes.

Her lips.

Malleus came to an abrupt halt. In doing so, so did Victoria, as were the instruments that only played at his command.

Victoria nearly stumbled, but the arm around the small of her back kept its grasp secure to prevent her from truly falling, lest her pride be wounded even more after agreeing to this.

“Draconia?” She'd called out to him, with an arch of her brow and a honeyed edge to her voice that made him want to fall apart.

Malleus remained ever still, unsure of what to make of himself after thinking such accursed thoughts. He barely heard her.

“Draconia?” She could repeat his name a thousand times, for the rest of time, and the only thing it would ever do to him was make his heart melt because she was saying his name.

He wasn't staring at her. Not directly. Not at her eyes, or any of her accessories— but at her lips. His eyes locked on to them, his breath uneasily jagged.

A part of him wanted to let go. To give in. To finally reach out and indulge in something for his own sake, and not for the sake of his kingdom, no matter what consequences he may face in the long run.

But he didn't. Malleus was better than that— his pride was better than to stoop to the levels of some desperate loon.

Victoria grew restless, calling out to him once more. “Draconia, speak,” she demanded. “Say something, damn it. I don't care what you have to say, just say—”

A small yelp came out of her as Malleus pulled her closer, their noses brushing. Neither of the two tried to break the gazes they held— though in the case of Victoria, her eyes seemed wide in a manner that, to Malleus, appeared almost otherworldly.

The hand that intertwined with hers broke free of its own iron grip, soon making itself known by caressing her cheek. His thumb brushed over her lips, but this time his gaze never wavered while looking into her eyes.

That familiar, gorgeous ocean-like pool that he'd drown in, for as long as time would allow him to.

Seldom were the visions that plagued his mind. He shan't bring himself to indulge himself. For the good of his people, of his kingdom.

Of himself.

“Save your voice for after our waltz, my sweet villain.”

“... What the hell am I looking at?”

Miren rubbed his eyes a good three times, blinking all the while and even going as far as pinching himself. Anything to try and prove to him that what he was looking at was a dream.

Turns out it wasn't.

There he was, Malleus Draconia — prince of Briar Valley, ruler of the abyss — dancing with Victoria Shard.

“Well this just got interesting,” uttered Rosemi, lightly shoving Miren to the side so she too could take a peek through the barley open doorway.

Miren's eyes narrowed. “Rosemi.”

“Miren.” Rosemi’s voice remained perfectly pleasant, a tight-lipped smile on her face as she maintained her focus on the incredulous sight before her and not the glutton beside her.

“Oho, how scandalous, Miss Shard…”

Miren grimaced. Maybe it was the weird mumbling on Rosemi's part that was getting to him, but a part of him felt… bewildered? Regret? Whatever it was, Malleus and Victoria dancing was the source of it all.

But the moment looked — and felt — intimate. Peaceful. A calm before a storm that Miren didn't know when it could strike.

Yet Miren was no stranger to the obvious look in Malleus' eyes. His lips pursed, unsure of what to think.

Perhaps it was best to keep his thoughts to himself.

【 Taglist / Credits 】

↳ In order of Character appearances/mentions

Malleus Draconia

Victoria Shard — Me 😈

Zenith Devi — Also me 😈

Miren Lockhart — @authoruio

Rosemi Columbina — Also @/authoruio

31 notes · View notes

alister312 · 2 months ago

Text

Summary

His mutterings are little more than mindless white noise. The price Christophe pays for free healthcare, or perhaps the price Gregory pays for free labor.

•

Christophe returns from a job, injured, and Gregory is upset.

Read now on ao3 or below the cut!

“— can’t believe you. How does one even have this much blood in them, Christ alive—”

Another yank as Gregory pulls the bandages tighter, cursing at the way red continues to seep through to the outer layer. “A bloody Sisyphean nightmare is what you are, literally…”

He could go on and on, and he does, but his mutterings are little more than mindless white noise. The price Christophe pays for free healthcare, or perhaps the price Gregory pays for free labor.

Christophe runs his hand over the towels he’s sitting on. Cheap, scratchy things, swiped from motels, destined for getting bloodstained and burnt; Gregory’s too fond of the sheets to subject them to such a fate. Christophe’s suggested doing this in the kitchen instead for easy clean-up, but Gregory insists on the bedroom. More privacy, less chance of table scraps getting into his first aid kit. Not that there are scraps. It’s just always been the bedroom, back when it was the only place they knew as their own. This makes it sacred, ritual; Gregory loves to heap such significance on things that don’t have any.

While Gregory is preoccupied with one arm, Christophe’s other fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette and lighter. It’s one of the many one-handed skills he’s mastered. He’s quick at it, a practiced, fluid motion of retrieve and light but Gregory has always caught on quicker than Christophe can act.

“No, no, absolutely not!” He snatches it directly from Christophe’s lips and tosses it in a glass of water on the bedside table. “Christophe Germain DeLorne, how many times have I told you—”

“You know it helps with the pain,” Christophe spits.

“Of course, how could I forget, the pain,” Gregory laughs humorlessly. “What about the pain of lung cancer thirty years down the line? Or perhaps more like five years down the line for a chimney stack like you.”

“Fuck you Gregory, save your soapbox for the masses. And why the hell did you throw it in the water, what if I wanted to drink that?!”

“What, the tepid water that’s sat there undrunk for three days? You didn’t even put a coaster under it Christophe! If that wood is warped or stained I swear…”

“Pah, of course a pussy like you would care so much about his wood.”

“Excuse me for valuing my possessions and not wanting to see them destroyed by torpor.” It’s a word Christophe doesn’t recognize, which means Gregory wants the conversation over. Christophe shuts up but makes sure to squirm and pull away and glare through the rest of the inspection. Making Gregory’s job harder is hell on both of them but the thrill of petty delight Christophe feels watching the man’s prim facade twitch in annoyance is worth it.

•

“There.” Gregory stands and puts his hands on his hips with a sense of finality. Whether this is because he’s used up all the gauze on hand or because the blood now only seeps through in trickles, Christophe isn’t sure. He flexes, frustratingly familiar with the way it grips his skin.

“You’re going to want to keep pressure off that arm,” Gregory says, “and keep it clean.” Like Christophe isn’t intimately acquainted with wound care. Like he wasn’t spitting on scraped knees and ripping shirts to make tourniquets when he was eight years old. Not that Gregory would consider that proper treatment.

Gregory’s eyes follow him as Christophe stands, narrowing in confusion when he doesn’t go for the balcony. He’s broken ritual, casting aside his single chance to smoke.

“Tell me you’re joking,” moans Gregory as he sees what handle Christophe reaches for. He scrambles to his feet and lets out an indignant “Ugh!” when the taps turn on. “Christophe, that was the last of my supplies on hand! You cannot be getting it all wet and soggy!”

Christophe struggles to toe off his half unlaced boots. “You’re wet and soggy.”

“And you’re a child, apparently.”

“I’m just doing what you told me, bitch.” The boots come off, along with the socks, heels threadbare from how often he does this. “Keeping it clean.”

“You’re doing this to spite me,” Gregory hisses. “I know you are.”

“What, a man can’t come home from a day of digging and getting shot at and treat himself to a nice, hot bath? C’est tragique.”

“You hate baths!” That is true. Christophe doesn’t see the point in making a soup of himself, no matter how often Gregory insists it would melt away all the tension in his muscles. Mercenaries need that tension anyway. Gregory can don gloves before he gets dirty all he wants; Christophe loves the dirt beneath his fingernails, the grey grit he gets scraping sweaty hair out of his eyes.

Pants kicked off, he pulls his shirt over his head and Gregory’s scowl softens to a frown. He approaches slowly, fingers ghosting over a large bruise, purple and splotchy. Christophe turns away before he can flinch away instead.

“That’s new, isn’t it?” Underwear off. Tub nowhere near full yet but he sits anyway. “Christophe.”

“It’s fine.” Pain stabs as he shifts to grab the soap. “I’m fine.” Christophe must not be hiding his grimace well enough because Gregory sighs and takes the soap from his hands. Not like he fought him as soon as their hands touched. He’s fought enough for the day; Gregory understands.

•

The washcloth is nothing like the towels on the bed. It is gentle and thorough. The man who wields it insists on every nook and cranny, though he is careful to avoid the freshly bandaged area on Christophe’s arm. The bruise is also handled as delicately as a baby bird, patted softly. Dead skin and dirt cloud the water so Gregory insists on draining, then refilling.

“What’s that?” Christophe eyes the liquid pouring from a bottle in Gregory’s hands suspiciously.

“Lavender.” He caps the bottle. “It’s relaxing.”

“It’s bubble bath soap. Gregory you prissy little bitch, you are not about to make me take a fucking bubble bath.”

“It was a few drops! It’ll hardly make any bubbles.”

The top of the tub water looks like cappuccino foam and Christophe punishes Gregory’s lies with a foamy beard. Several beards, as Gregory keeps wiping them off when his hands aren’t preoccupied with scrubbing at Christophe’s disastrous mop of hair. It would be smart of him to cut it short, maybe even buzz it. He likes the way Gregory’s slender fingers feel running through it though as it gets cleaned, and the few days afterward when he doesn’t think it's an oily disaster. Gregory always smiles when he does it, which is an added bonus. Says it's nice to get it out of the way so he can see Christophe’s face.

Gregory takes him by the shoulders and lowers him into the water to rinse out the shampoo. Christophe’s certain he wasn’t handled with nearly this much care by whatever fuckhead priest baptized him. It was probably in a grand chapel, stained glass pouring in technicolor streams of light while his mother and godparents stood by in their Sunday best. Gregory is bathed in bathroom fluorescents and he’s rolled up his sleeves and pant legs but they’re soaked at the ends anyways. Stained, too, with Christophe’s blood from earlier.

“Shit. The bandage—”

“Shh. I’m sure I have more supplies lying around somewhere.”

•

He does. Of course he does. Gregory redresses the wound and presses a cold compress to the bruise, eliciting colorful language from Christophe in his native tongue. He doesn’t shy away though. He lays down carefully afterwards, shifting pressure to his good side; Gregory joins him. His fingers comb through Christophe’s hair and his eyes stare but they’re not scrutinizing, or even studying. It’s a lost in thought look, the slightest crease between his brows, lips parted a mere millimeter.

Christophe could be enraptured by it forever.

“Désolé,” he says instead.

The crease between Gregory’s brows deepens, curious, but he pairs it with a smile and his tone is nothing short of tender. “Whatever for?”

“Not putting a coaster down.”

Gregory tuts fondly, caressing Christophe’s cheek. He is forgiven.

As he always will be.

#its been 84 years dot jpeg #anyway. hi. im enjoying my time offline. come say hi to me at colossalcon east maybe we can be offline together 💕#south park #gregstophe #gregory of yardale #christophe delorne #sp gregory #sp christophe #sp ze mole #ze mole #sp fanfiction #hello dear tag readers <3 if i posted my ocs for a pilot script im working on would people be cool with that or what… u can decide :3

20 notes · View notes