in search of lost time,

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well, YES!!!! 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

levi, even with his general off-putting demeanor, is actually quite a passionate lover. he's subservient in a way that betrays his condition of unpleasantness, ardor seeping from the distance between his teeth like an open wound. it is one, really: a gash, one that's stubborn and persistently refuses to scab over regardless of his best efforts. ( she received deliberate confirmation of the fact from his caustic mouth when it touched her in all the spots he'd like to leave to the imagination. ) he knows his place in the world, though; he's a fleeting dream of broken daybreak and empty promises, the cautionary tale women get warned about when they descend upon the intricacies of the world. what he wants from her, he doesn't dare think of asking for; what she wants from him, however, is something she's more than welcomed to take if she wants it. it isn't a matter of permission — because he's deeply submissive despite himself and would probably let her take it anyway — but it's a matter of whether or not it's enough to sustain her. he definitely doesn't want to know, but if asked, he'd say he thinks it's not good enough. for now, he's going to have to make the attempt no matter what he might think.

❛❛ Earl grey is fine, thank you, ❜❜ is what she manages, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips as she gives a small nod. Levi looks at her so sweetly, and for a moment, she feels ... lost. As if she had suddenly lost her footing and was falling with no end in sight, the world having melted away to make way for the performance of a lifetime. Oh, but she was so ill-prepared! What role was she to play? What lines could she say to ease the fluttering in her stomach and the warmth in her chest? What would make the inevitable crash back to reality hurt less in the end? It's a strange thing, for an actress to allow herself to breathe, to draw in a breath of air and plant her feet down and live as a person rather than an automaton or puppet. Marguerite has tried, desperately; all her life was an endless revolving door of people, each having already decided what role she would play, and how she could satisfy whatever desires their hearts had conjured. Years would pass, and she would continuously try to bury herself, leaving it to rot in an unmarked grave on a hill in the back of her mind. Who is to say that she is not more corpse than girl — or perhaps a being that has been crudely stitched together, having never been allowed personhood in her own right? Perhaps with Levi, she can finally exhume herself. Perhaps she can finally, truly live.

" don't you miss it? acting, i mean... " it's an impertinent question, she knows. but wine has made her bold - and it's hardly her first glass of the evening... around them, the masquerade whirls on, a rush of color and heat and music. she supposes she wasn't meant to recognize the woman beside her - but who would not recognize the famous lady blakeney? she certainly would... rosie could not deny that she'd become more than a touch fascinated by her... a fellow actress, now the glittering jewel of london society... she did not share that ambition, exactly - but she felt a strange touch of pride that one of their own had so broken free of the restraints that came with this life. still - she could not help but wonder if it was as rewarding as it was glamorous. " do you never regret leaving the stage? " i believe i would, is the rest of the sentiment left unspoken.

❛❛ It's ... Well, ❜❜ her lips press thin, and for a moment, she feels short on words, feeling them lodged in her throat, desperate to spill out all at once. What could she tell her that could properly express her feelings? Improvisation had never been her forte, and to dig deep within her self meant that she would inevitably uncover the demons she had tried to keep buried, along with the secret that the entirety of her marriage now hinged on. Rosamund wants the truth, and Marguerite cannot deny her that, but what can she say that will manage to lessen the blow?

𓆩 ♔ 𓆪 @vivrez ( 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒖𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 ) . . . the stages of intimacy ↳ accepting

in all his endless years, it would seem there had already been firsts for everything . . . yet there comes a night when the wizard king in all his otherworldly grace and peculiarity shows up unannounced to a parisian theatre and — for the first time — finds himself shoved into a dressing room. commanded to remain silent here like a dog or an errant lover. despite his proclivity for the contrary, koschei kept motionless and quiet for a time. acutely tuned to marguerite's voice just outside the door, how it strained thin with politeness, obviously trying to end a conversation without inviting suspicion.

had it been a demanding patron or admiring fan who had crept backstage and nearly caught her with the strange character? koschei had little opportunity to discern — he only knew they were dragging on intolerably out there. forcing him to become all too aware of just how absurdly small the room was in here. with its ceiling nearly grazing the crown of his head, the potpourri of dresses flanked around him brushing his shoulders no matter how he shifted, it felt to him as though he'd just been swallowed alive by some frill-bellied beast. he hated it— the impression of confinement, that is. such a severely feminine enclosure might have been better welcomed if not for that.

surely enough, when left to suffocate between costumes for long, koschei had little choice but to pace through the short depth of the room, trying to take note of anything but the walls. amid the vanity was nothing more pleasant to look at. there were wigs hanging on severed heads; jars of rouge glinting thickly in the plum-red of bullet holes; neck ribbons hanging limply from half-open drawers; and worst of all small notes and post cards tucked around the painted frame of the mirror, all seemly written by the same fawning hand. he'd ignored the urge to read through the latter out of respect— or more likely spite, as any respectful consideration was evidently lost to him the moment he noticed a modern ensemble draped over marguerite's chair. nothing so dusty and musk-scented as the rest of the venue's lot, but well-loved and sweetly familiar. ( recalling the very dress she'd worn when she'd first fallen into his world . . . and then abruptly left it. )

with a dragon's incurable fascination for beautiful things, he is possessed to reach for it. admire the delicate neckline. feel the vibrant silk between his fingers. that's where he finds a set of laced garters and misty-delicate stockings prudently layered beneath her dress, though he knows she must have taken them off last. the thought kindles slowly in his imagination, sparks in his stomach to a point where he could scarcely imagine anything else happening in this room. until marguerite finally steps back into it, flushed from the performance she'd been forced to put on the spot, if not the sight of koschei rummaging about where he shouldn't be. before the embarrassment could settle, his grip dismisses the dress— as if it were a paltry thing of insignificance, hardly a cause for either one of them to get heated about.

It had taken a considerable amount of convincing to finally push the gentleman to take his leave, his hollow proclamations of love and his insistence on an outing for tea becoming particularly grating the more time passed. Yet, the actual performance paled in comparison to the sight that awaited her inside her dressing room: Koschei with his hand on her dress, the fabric wrinkling beneath his fingers, and the delicate ivory stockings and garters peaking out from beneath. Her cheeks flushed with a vivid rosy hue, and the cant of her head makes her perplexity known, quirking an eyebrow as he quickly shifts back. Had any onlooker managed to catch a glimpse inside, it would have certainly become a scandal, the next sensational gossip that would spread throughout the city for the next week before dying down and quickly being forgotten. But an actress' life was built upon scandal, the very occupation carrying a certain weight that no other did. Over the past few years, Marguerite had learned to embrace it, and thus, it would not be long before her initial perplexity would quickly dissipate and turn into amusement.

❛❛ Last I checked, courteous guests don't typically rummage through a lady's belongings, ❜❜ lightly jesting and not quite chastising, she is quick to push past him, the corners of her mouth tugging up into a coquettish smile. The front of her dressing gown loosens, and the low neckline of her chemise manages to peak out, her dark curls — slightly frizzed from being kept underneath the wig nearby — cascading down her back and framing her face as she fetches the nearby teapot and cups.

VERSE² ... THE METAMORPHOSIS : Modern — current arc.

Drawing inspiration from: the original Scarlet Pimpernel novel by Baroness Orczy, the works of Angela Carter (but specifically The Bloody Chamber), the story of Bluebeard, Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente, Kunihiko Ikuhara's Revolutionary Girl Utena, film noir, the gothic and mystery genres, the wider superhero genre, and more.

Claudia Rankine, Don’t Let Me Be Lonely: An American Lyric

Nicola Yoon, Everything, Everything

Frank Bidart, The War of Vaslav Nijinsky

J. D. Salinger, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters & Seymour: An Introduction

Ian McEwan, Atonement

Johnny Cash, Hurt (written by Trent Reznor)