izarding
izarding
Realm
Realm
It's summertime in Scotland; the weather has begun to clear, and the flowers are in full bloom! Now is a time for bonfires, stargazing and long nights spent with friends and family! Welcome to Wizarding Realm- an AU Harry Potter role play set in current day hogwarts!
WR
 
Add Reply
New Topic
New Poll

 Breakfast at Myshonok's, Tine! c:
Lila · 17 · Seventh Year · · Pureblood · 5'9
Slytherin
Offline
2894
28
Awards:
Awards: 2

Feb 5 2018, 11:46 PM   Link Quote
--trigger warning: mental issues seen near the end of the post--


It was a beautiful morning today.

The early morning sun hung high in a light blue sky, shining with the exuberant white light of a new day dawning like a polished silver sickle dangled high above Hogwarts. Its light refracted through the grand windows of the dining hall and sent silverware, plates, and glasses glimmering as it bounced off their surfaces. A wonderful shade of robin's egg blue had taken over a cloudless sky that day. It was just that peculiar shade of blue that seemed to zap a fresh life into everyone. That odd and strange minty feel that came with a perfect morning.

A freshness permeated through every room of the castle all through breakfast time, making the morning seem endless as student's chatted and munched on that day's breakfast of fruit and golden crispy pumpkin pasties topped with a cool whipped cream and just a hint of a drizzle of honey. Everyone was happy. It was just one of those days were everyone seemed to get up on the right side of the bed. This uplift in mood had even managed to carry itself down into the Slytherin dorm, where the near constant hum of water outside their walls and the dim green light from it in their common room was enough to, ironically, drown anyone in a serene gloom. Now that dim emerald glow had gained a watery shade of white and blue, breathing fresh air into the stale lungs of Slytherin house.

Most of the students had long since left to fill their stomachs and prepare for classes, a pip in their step as they had walked out with books tucked under their arms. Only a handful were left in the dorms, most of which had hidden away in their rooms to finish last minute schoolwork. Among the few left was none other than Myshonok Nevolin, who this morning seemed so chipper, it would've surprised no one if he'd burst out into song. He'd awoken this morning feeling like cool air had replaced his blood and a tangle of excitement tingling in his chest. Today was a day for wonderful things! Yes, many wonderful things, but most importantly, the most wonderful thing! As soon as his eyes had opened he all but jumped out of his covers to get ready. He'd fluttered about with a jovial tune in his steps, snapping his fingers and bobbing his head in time to some jazzy beat as he made his bed and put his living space into perfect order. Even his bottles of cologne had been perfectly aligned in a row and turned so their rich and expensive labels faced out just right on his nightstand. By the time he was done organizing and cleaning, half his roommates had left for breakfast, but Mysh had not been bothered by this. He'd only tapped his foot and hummed a happy "Ba ba pa ba da pa ba ba~!" and tied his slytherin green tie as the last half of his roommates said their goodbyes and left.

It was only now, when breakfast was nearing its tail end, that Myshonok buttoned the last ebony button on his jacket and straightened its collars and sleeves with a bright flick of his wrists, that the boy had finished getting ready for the wonderful thing he had to do today. With a final look in the mirror that hung on his wall and a quick styling of his neatly messy hair, he turned on his heel and left his room with a lively sway in his step, only stopping to grab two special gifts off his nightstand before continuing on his way.

He walked through the dormitory as if he was on a morning stroll. His steps popped with a fresh pep, hands tucked in his pants pockets in a relaxed manner, and the magic fog that always obscured his face seemed more like a morning mist. Mysh thought about the many things that made today absolutely wonderful as he made his way to his goal.

1. The musty air in the castle was cool and light for once.
2. Today, that freshness of morning had sunk into the fabric of his clothes and had added some sophisticated edge to them that he was absolutely living for right now.
3. The nightmares had come last night. They froze him to his bed and he tried to sleep through them, but every time he closed his eyes he saw the burning cracks and their black little hands slipping through to pry them open. He hadn't slept.
4. He knew he was going to the right place. The dorm bathrooms were mainly empty during mealtimes, since most students preferred going to the bathrooms nearby the dining hall or their classes instead.
5. Time had left him as he laid in his bed. Eyes wide open behind the veil of an obsessive amount of obscuring charms and jinxes. Past and future had mixed together and trapped him in some terrifying dimension of fabricated memories. He'd stared at the same memories over and over again, watching as reels of different versions of them passed by and tangled with each other until they knotted and ripped. Lies. Fake. Unreal. None of it could be trusted. All of it was made up. Just images on thin sheets of paper his fingers tore as he tried to touch them.
6. He was angry.
7. He was sad.
8. He was on the verge of panic.
9. He wanted to tear at his skin and see if he was made of that same paper.
10. Who was he? Stop it. You are Myshonok. But who's Myshonok? You can't use circular logic like that. It doesn't work. Oh god. The cracks were back. He could seem them whenever he blinked. Oh god. Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod-

An arched door blocked his way and Myshonok stopped right as the toes of his shoes were about to touch it. He stared at the old wood of the door and blinked. Perfectly black. Solid black behind his eyes. Like clockwork, something clicked in his mind and a sly charisma melted onto his slim and elegant frame. With a small raise of his wand, the door quietly swung open and he stepped inside the abandoned slytherin dorm's bathroom. A natural feline grace entered his steps and he moved across the tile floor without a sound. He paused as he reached an aisle of stalls. They were all open, save for one. He angled his head and grinned behind smoke as he caught site of rich and expensive shoes. Right on time.

A slow raise of his wand and the open stall doors quietly and quite politely shut themselves, giving the appearance of a fully occupied bathroom. The little mouse drifted on soundless rubber soles to the sink and tapped the tip of his wand to a recently placed tube of toothpaste and toothbrush, vanishing them back to the drawer he knew they came from. Impatience bubbled in his heart, but little details had to be taken care of. It would make everything so much more enjoyable. Make everything feel so much better.

With that taken care of, the coal haired boy turned his attention to his target with a laser focus. A giddy heart thumped in his chest as he began to approach it in full stealth, that cheery and perky spring still in his step as he did so. He reached it and paused where he knew his sneaky little feet in their shined black shoes wouldn't be seen. Then he listened with glee to his knew favorite tune. A tune of misery and grief featuring low self-worth as the lead vocals and a truly inspiring solo by denial playing as the bass line and keeping time.

And right as he heard the climax of the song coming, he raised a pale paw and politely tapped his knuckles against the stall door in a trip of a jovial three-beat rhythm. It was followed by his grinning and friendly voice, sounding cheerfully courteous as it slipped past the barrier between him and his target and disturbed his private world with a rude and relentless shock.

"Pardonnez-moi Monsieur Deschamps, but will you be finished soon? It seems all the other stalls are occupied, and those rude souls inside them refuse to leave."

@Florentin Deschamps
|clothes|
Tine · 17 · 7th · Neutral · Pureblood · 6'2
Banned
Offline
1954
973
Awards:
Awards: 79

Feb 6 2018, 07:24 AM   Link Quote
No day ever started perfectly when one was Florentin Deschamps, fragile rose uprooted and placed in a garden where the soil would never quite fit his special needs. If there was any difference in the mornings he woke up to, it was whether they were just questionable or downright miserable. Today, it was the latter rather than the former, and he had woken up from a night of debatable rest, mostly spent wide awake behind the curtains of his bed and staring into the darkness until he was sure he could see specks and flashes of light in the colour of soot that surrounded him. Beauxbatons had been better in every single way, even in the way the beds had been located in the dorms. Although Florentin was aware he was looking back to his days in France through rose-tinted glasses, sugarcoating reality until it matched his needs. He was craving perfection in everything - and most of it all in himself - therefore he had chosen to paint his past at the French school in the prettiest colours just to make Hogwarts look even worse than it already did by itself - with its dark, moist walls and hallways that looked like they could lead straight into the underworld. It wouldn’t have surprised Florentin at all to find himself lost in the dungeons one day, facing a closet full of skeletons of former students. And he? He would become one of them, lost and forgotten like the cobwebs in every corner.

He had not been born to live in a all-year Haunted House, but for what was it worth? His family was not going to move the business back to France, as they had put too much effort into it already, and he would have to graduate here or not at all. The latter was not an option, he knew that much. Not only because he was too ambitious, yet he knew that Giles Deschamps was never going to let him leave school before graduation. Apparently, Florentin had failed his father enough already, otherwise he would not have to deal with his new and utterly unwanted brother after all. But in all fairness, none of these thoughts were plaguing the young man as he got up and decided to get dressed, even considering to make it to the breakfast table on time. He had a duty, after all: keeping good places there for him and his best friend, even though Sigurd woke up way later than Florentin. Or maybe that was the reason why he had to be there first, making sure no one took the seat beside him that was reserved for a single person and no one else.

Safe to say that Florentin never even made it to the Great Hall, undressing calmly once most of his dorm mates were gone before choosing to replace breakfast by eating the last three macarons that were left from the small parcel his mother had sent two days ago - greetings from his grandparents, as the letter had stated. The regret came immediately, hitting him like a fist in the stomach and making the tall snake retreat to the bathroom. The sight of the toilet pan had become an all too familiar one, paired with the cold feeling of the lavatory seat underneath his elbows - silver-green tie loosened and sleeves rolled up to expose his pale forearms with the blueish-purple veins all too visible underneath his skin. It was dry heaving and coughing, every single organ protesting against the treatment until Florentin leaned with his back against the stall wall - knees bent while his backside never touched the ground in fear of whatever bacteria were lingering there. Most teenage boys were savages, and while he did not trust them to wash their hands after peeing, he also did not trust them to sit down while doing so.

For a moment, Florentin buried his pale face in his hands - fingers too cold and cheeks too heated, his heart beating at an unnatural rate. He was getting worse, and he could feel it - but still he lived in denial in his perfect little world, hoping no one would notice how he was fading away in his search for physical perfection. It was then when the familiar voice cut through the bathroom, echoing from the tiles and proving the boy’s words lies. The other stalls were not occupied, Florentin knew as much. Had they been, he wouldn’t be here after all. His body went rigid as he listened. What did Nevolin want from him, and why? He knew. It was the second time this week that the realisation hit him, and he hated it.

Decisions were made rather quickly as he pushed himself upright, flushing the toilet and fingering one of the violet pastilles in his pocket out, letting it drop on his tongue. Slender, bony fingers ran through his hair for a moment before he opened the door towards the stall with a certain violence that seemed to rock his whole body, his wand immediately raised and pointed at the other snake in the room. His thumb ran over the rose that was carved into the handle, soothing himself while his facial expression was unreadable in this moment. “What do you want?”

There was no time for his usual saccharine-sweet tone as pale eyes settled on Myoshonok’s face, the wand not shaking while its tip pointed at the boy.

@Myshonok Nevolin
(clothes)

--------------------

user posted image
user posted image
Lila · 17 · Seventh Year · · Pureblood · 5'9
Slytherin
Offline
2894
28
Awards:
Awards: 2

Feb 6 2018, 02:50 PM   Link Quote
The stall door swung open and a strange twist spun in his chest.

Myshonok caught the way that frail body swayed from the force of his reveal, drifting in a way gossamer moved in the gentlest of breezes. That hair. Rich and dark gold like honey, standing stark against sickly porcelain skin and framing gently a jaw that was beginning to get too sharp. Piercing eyes like blue stained windows set on hollowing cheeks. A thin arm raised to point a wand at his chest, and Mysh almost laughed that he couldn't tell where the wand ended and those stick-like fingers began. Here in front of him was Rapunzel's beautiful ivory tower, still proud even as it crumbled in on itself, held together only by vines and cracked mortar. Something about this beautiful decay curled in his heart and framed it, giving it the support to beat without a trip even as it splintered and fractured. The cracks he could see in the weak Deschamps covered his own.

Without so much as a flinch the snake stared down Florentin's wand with a casual air. Layers of floating mist hid his face,but the way he angled his head made it obvious that he was staring at the others wrist. Poor boy had forgotten to roll his sleeves down. Blue veins were still on display for the mouse to see, and even more damning were the red patches on his elbows from where they had been pressed to the toilet seat. His head straightened back with a quick and startling snap and he tilted his chin up at the boy with an amiable chuckle. "Ah, no need to get so up and up with me, Florentin! I just thought you would enjoy some company for breakfast this morning. How was it, by the way? I'm afraid I ended up missing it." Mysh spoke with the tone of a polite acquaintance. A smile could be heard in his voice, even though it couldn't be seen. "Oh well. Suppose I can't do much about it now. It's a shame, really." With a happy flick of his fingers he reached inside his coat pocket and brought out the gifts he'd brought with him.

A travel-sized black tube of Marvis toothpaste in the flavor classic mint and a surprisingly stylish and new black toothbrush of the same brand.

The snake's shoulders raised in a way that showed his smile had grown. "Toothpaste? You should always brush your teeth after breakfast. It seems someone stole yours." Or rather simply vanished it. Mysh had put too much thought into the little details, honestly, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the pay off. Now Flo was left with the choice of going through his day with the stench of bile and misery on his breath, or to kindly accept Mysh's gracious gift. He knew which one the boy would pick.

So he followed Florentin to the sinks, hands clasped behind his back and a noticeable skip in his step as he hovered behind the other. It was unsettling. His aura was kind, but the way his reflection stood so still over Flo's shoulder, faceless, head turned to stare right into the french boy's reflection, it held that sinister focus the Nevolin's were known for. Mysh waited politely as the other cleaned up, only moving once he rinsed to pull a silk handkerchief from his inner coat pocket, offering it to Flo with a dip of his head. It was his personal handkerchief. An M in an art deco font was monogrammed on its corner. There was even a little pastel green heart embroidered next to it, done with love and care by his dear mother.

"Now, my dear friend, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I've noticed that you've been looking a bit...gray, recently." Concern mixed with a teasing edge lined his voice like velvet. He was dragging this on further than needed, but he liked how it pumped his heart with impatient glee and others with frustration and anger. "So I hope you don't mind when I say that I've notified your professors that you've caught a cold. They won't be expecting you in class today. Oh, and I've already arranged to have someone take notes and bring any assignments to your dorm. Today's all about rest for you." With a clap of his hands, the mouse raised himself to the balls of his feet in a sort of excited half-hop. Smooth and languidly, he turned to the bathroom's exit and raised a hand to hover just over the thin curve of the small of Florentin's back, a persuasive gesture to coax the other into following him out of the room. The way his body stood confident and eager suggested the golden-haired boy had no other choice.

"Of course," Three steps towards the door. Mysh felt his heart pound. He could feel the frail tremble of Flo's body through the air and shirt between his palm and the other. It was still recovering from his purge. "Knowing that you're in such a state, I can't just leave you on your own." two steps further and it traveled up his arm. He felt that tremble in his chest, a hollow pain settling in his stomach as his own body adopted and shared the others suffering as if it was his own. His fingers twitched. "So I've decided to care for you today. Help get you back on your feet. All good as new, as they say!" There was hunger. Deep in his stomach there was a need to devour. Like static the skin on his shoulders tingled and sparked. The wooden door of the bathroom blocked his way. Once again he stopped just before his toes kissed its surface.

He blinked. Deep fissures fragmented his vision. These were different. Not the sharp turns and bends of dead branches. Curvy. Twisting. Like vines. Circular shatters from hard impacts dotted them like flowers. Roses. Slender marble fingers curled around the door's handle and the Russian snake turned to his French friend. "The best way to do that is with fresh-air, my friend! Come. Let's take a walk and talk about what has been bothering you." Old wood creaked and the door swung open with a certain violence that seemed to rock his whole body.

"After you."

@Florentin Deschamps
Tine · 17 · 7th · Neutral · Pureblood · 6'2
Banned
Offline
1954
973
Awards:
Awards: 79

Feb 7 2018, 08:10 AM   Link Quote
Hold your breath and count to ten, fall apart and start again. Florentin remembered that back in the days, his mother had tried to calm him down after he had passed out – mostly after having travelled by floo or after physical exercise – by taking his small hands in her own, holding them lightly while telling him to focus on his breath and the way it went through his lungs. It was a technique he also used when he was done turning his body upside down bent over the lavatory seat, breathing through the mouth and exhaling through his nose as the other way around was never quite as enjoyable in situations like these. But unfortunately, he could not breathe the presence of Myshonok Nevolin away, as the other snake seemed to be quite set on making him feel even more miserable than he did, unbothered by the wand that was pointed at him. It was infuriating, yet what could Florentin do while he needed the posts of the stall walls to keep himself upright in that moment? Breakfast. It was the last hint he needed to confirm that his dorm mate knew exactly what he had been doing in the bathroom stall.

Being naturally manipulative himself, Florentin should have known better than to fall for the smaller boy’s tricks, yet he was in no position to object, slowly lowering his wand rather than keeping it viciously pointed at Myshonok. He swallowed, the violet drop on his tongue not quite erasing the bitter scent that had spread in the cavity of his mouth. “What...,” he muttered, looking at the sink where his toothpaste and toothbrush had been placed before. The French boy knew his rituals, the small motions that kept him going: water splashed in his face, teeth brushed, mouth rinsed, hair fixed – repeat if necessary. This was different, as he had never done it with a spectator – a spectator who was too close for his liking, Nevolin’s presence bothering him more than he could let show as he tugged the wand away in his pocket, only now noticing that the Russian had been staring at his arms. There was nothing to see, just skin so pale it seemed translucent at times, the webbing of veins – and the slightest imprint of desperate pressure applied to cool ceramic by his elbows. He could not remember when he had last felt so caught, forcing himself to breathe.

He had not been aware he really needed reminders to breathe calmly, yet there he was, not replying to any of the sweet and play-pretend caring words thrown at him while his slender fingers snatched both the toothbrush and the toothpaste from Myshonok. It was a different brand than he usually used, but it did not matter as he walked towards the closest sink with as much grace as possible in his current situation. Honey-coloured strands were carefully tugged behind his ears before he went through the motions of brushing his teeth, closing his eyes for a moment while he was trying to ignore the lingering presence behind him, the shadow of winter casted on a rose that was already withering under a layer of frost. Once he was done, Florentin stood up straight again, azure eyes staring at the other snake and the handkerchief that was offered to him. It was a kind gesture, one the French boy had executed before as well – but his own handkerchiefs held his initials embroidered in pastel blue thread, with two crossed roses on them as well; one blue and one light pink. There was an odd sense of commitment by taking and giving handkerchiefs away, therefore he did not reach for it and just listened, eyes widening at the revelations.

Florentin Deschamps had never been a patient person, and while he was treading carefully – almost as if Myshonok was a literal and not only a metaphorical snake in the bathroom, one easily provoked by a wrong movement or words – he could feel the anger and frustration swell up in his chest, threatening to suffocate him if he did not let it out already. “You did what now?” he hissed, brows furrowed. He could not start missing classes because he was feeling unwell, nor did he want anyone to bring him his homework. It would mean that he was admitting weakness, and that was not going to happen – not over his trembling, slowly fading body.

The hand hovering over the small of his back was eventually the last straw slipping from his hands, making him tale a very determined step back. Inhale, exhale. He crossed his arms, trying to process the endless stream of politeness and care thrown his way by someone he would with ease consider a total stranger. Florentin was not going to be played and strung up like a puppet on a string, especially not by someone like Myshonok Nevolin. People like him always had an agenda, and he wouldn’t know what the boy had possibly in mind for him. “I am not going anywhere with you, and I am for sure not talking to you about anything. Who do you think you are?” he asked accusingly, the slight lightheadedness and nausea still tugging on his fragile frame and the edges of his mind.

@Myshonok Nevolin

--------------------

user posted image
user posted image
Lila · 17 · Seventh Year · · Pureblood · 5'9
Slytherin
Offline
2894
28
Awards:
Awards: 2

Feb 8 2018, 02:18 AM   Link Quote
--Trigger warning: some violent memories towards the end of the post--


The cracks snapped and twisted out behind his eyes.

Like a spider, Mysh had worked to create the web to catch the Deschamps boy in. Selecting the perfect place to hang his trap, intricately connecting each rung with a joyful delicacy, and making sure the web was just springy enough to jostle him but sturdy enough to resist ripping from his struggle. When the fragile translucent butterfly wings of his prey tangled in the web, thinking it a safe perch, he'd jumped and forced his fangs in with a malicious bite. Then he simply sat back and watched as the venom ran its course. Little holes burning into those sweet wings, a pitiful flutter of pain twitching them.

So he smiled as he quietly observed Florentin. Grinned behind his veil as he took note of his struggle to breathe. Counted with him the seconds between breaths. Ten in total. Just focusing on watching brick after brick of a once proud ivory tower crumble to dust as he went through the motions of mundane life. He could see that defiant denial so clearly in the french boy, each graceful step desperately clinging to a hollow lie. Even the way he held his head high and chin up and shoulders perfectly squared when brushing his teeth held some pitiful depression to it that made Mysh inwardly squirm with glee. The mouse had been so happy with this show that he hadn't even taken offense to the refusal of his offered handkerchief, only tucking it neatly away after it hung in the air for a few empty seconds. Then he'd moved on, eager to crawl across his web on twisted legs and reap the feast of his clever trap.

He couldn't wait. There was a burning in his finger tips telling him to get on with it. Worm his way into that cozy little honey-colored head and crawl into the tiny spaces in his mind. Excited to search for the cages that held all the monsters the fragile boy was afraid of and pick their locks open, watching as those snickering things slid out and lead him to the weakest parts of him with beckoning hands. Then he'd finally see those cracks. Swaying and tangling like vines. He'd reach out and dig his nails between them, slowly prying and pulling, widening them until his fingers could curl through the cracks and be seen by whatever was hiding beneath. Like the nightmares that haunted Mysh everyday with their crooked little fingers, he couldn't wait to become the nightmare in Florentin's skull. Prying his mind open so that he could escape into it, ultimately using him as a shield against his own monsters. Another layer for them to dig through. His own had been too weak to hold them back. Made of that same filmy papery stuff his memories were.

It was the thought of safety that excited him. Cruelty was just a bonus.

Because of this, Myshonok had watched Flo through the haze against his face with an intense focus as the boy snapped at him. His hidden eyes flicked down to his chest. Every tenth second he blinked and saw a new shattered rose bloom on the vines behind his eyes, petals spreading out wit the exhale of Flo's breath. The boy stepped out of his guiding hand, but Mysh had kept moving forward to the door, confident that Flo would see he had no choice but to follow. He had opened the door with a content sway of his body and turned to patiently wait for his friend to stop his pointless tantrum. Of course he'd stopped listening to the boy awhile ago, finding that his words were much less interesting than the frailty resonating through every aspect of him.

Ears muted, he watched the tail end of the rant. Dark eyebrows furrowed, making his face look more pointed and striking than before. Golden hair coming loose in wispy strands from behind his ears. Body still trembling from its earlier purge and a surge of offended anger. Shoulders weighing down tiredly. Lips, still wet from rinsing after brushing, rounding into a bright "O" shape and-

"Who do you think you are?"

Silence.

A soft creak as the door Mysh had been holding slowly swung shut.

His shoulders dropped out of their happy perk. His heels, which had been touched together like an excited child's, shifted to shoulder width apart. A transfer of his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels gave his body a terrifying stalk. The friendly aura of that morning that had flowed off him keeled over and died. Now a cruel anger permeated the room, and he was the root of it.

With slow steps, he strode up to Flo, swaying like a cobra ready to bite. Intent was heavy in his posture. "Now Florentin, it's rude to ask someone that." Warning bells rang in the distance in a harmonic cacophony. His voice still held that sweet and caring tone. None of it was matching with how he moved. One of his hands moved and with a tender touch, gently coaxed one of Flo's arms free from where they were crossed. Like he was handling a scared animal, he moved his hand and the arm where Flo could see them and ran the soft pads of his fingers down his arms. "But we are friends, so I'll let it slide." The tingle of terror hung in the air. It was like a pendulum with a razor's edge slowly swinging over head, slowly dropping down as you were forced to watch it, tormented with waiting for its inevitable slice into you. Myshonok looked down at that pale forearm under his hand. It was the color of white marble. Like Klara's had been. Just as delicate as hers was, too.

"Though it would be rude of me not to answer you."

Suddenly the aura hanging off of him went black. Hatred radiated off of him in a suffocating crush. Memories of his childhood rushed to Myshonok's mind as he tried desperately to find an answer for Flo's question, desperately clawing for a shred of truth within any of it. At the same time his hand snapped onto the french snake's wrist and squeezed with a cruel fury he'd only ever subjected Klara to. This was one of the ways he'd get his vengeance whenever she'd angered him. Grab her wrist and squeeze until she bit her lip to hide a yelp. Slowly roll the joint until tears pricked her eyes and she whimpered as she tried to pull away. He remembered the sadistic enjoyment he got out of that. He only let go when a tear had rolled down her cheek.

But that hadn't been him. It had been his father. Whatever he thought he'd felt for Klara had just been an illusion. He'd only been a puppet to his father's whim, an extension of him and nothing more. He hadn't enjoyed hurting Klara. Yet he had at the same time. It was all twisted together and he couldn't sort any of it where it was supposed to go, heck, he didn't even know where any of it was supposed to go in the first place! The itch in his skin was back. Cracks like dead branches fading back into view, panic sinking its claws into his chest until he bled fury. Who was he? Who was he? Who was he?

Who was he?

Click.

His body froze. For a few moments he became a statue. Then, like clockwork, his body began to rewind itself. Mysh's hand released Flo's wrist, his heels clicked back together, shoulders perked up, and any and all forms of anger vanished from him as a sly joy settled back into his slim frame. "Oh, sorry about that. Seems I forgot what I was going to say." A bell-like laugh left him and he waved it off as if nothing had occurred, like the past tense minute hadn't even registered to him. The russian mouse spun on his heel and strode back to the door with a casual shrug. "Happens to the best of us, I suppose. Now come! The morning's only going to last so long and afternoon air is far too lazy and warm to make you feel any better."

This time, there was a soft thud as he reached the door and swung it open. He'd misplaced a half-step. The toes of his left shoe had jabbed into the wood.

@Florentin Deschamps
Tine · 17 · 7th · Neutral · Pureblood · 6'2
Banned
Offline
1954
973
Awards:
Awards: 79

Feb 8 2018, 11:19 AM   Link Quote
Ever since Florentin had been born, guiding hands had shaped and molded him into what he was today, although somewhere along the way, something had gone terribly wrong. He had not become the perfect son his father had wanted, and there had never been a chance he would turn into the daughter his mother had desperately asked for. Instead, both wishes had mingled, and the result was a boy who knew how to survive in the pureblood society while at the same time showed a fragility that almost seemed otherworldly at times. How much of it all came from himself and how much had been indoctrinated, Florentin could not tell any more, yet he was trying to keep a firm grasp on his own personality and the traits he liked in himself - not that there was much to like, in his humble opinion. Either way, he was feeling trapped: much like those wizards and witches abducted by his father and his minions, one of the trademark Deschamps horses bought in exchange for a perfectly executed murder. This might not be the basement of their mansion, yet he felt like the air between him and Myshonok was getting thinner with every moment. He wished he had not stored his wand away yet, missing the familiar wood between his fingers.

He had thought that all those controlling strings were cut the moment his father presented the replacement heir to the family, but it seemed like they were still attached to his arms and legs and even his head; still all too visible and taunting everyone to pick them up and pull the puppet’s strings as they pleased. Maybe he would not only have to ritualize the purging, yet also shed his skin in order to become what he truly wanted to be: a product of perfection, ruled by no one as he liked to think he only truly belonged to himself. Too much weakness had been displayed ever since Florentin had become aware of the other boy’s presence, and now his only goal was to keep himself from falling apart in front of Myshonok’s eyes. He was not allowed to see, not even for a moment - yet the cracks were already all too obvious, hairline fissures in the face of a discarded porcelain doll, much alike to the one that was still resting in the French boy’s suitcase in case he needed sudden comfort that could not be provided by a human being.

The Russian was apparently underestimating his ability to display utter disobedience, striding towards the door without a moment of hesitation. Eventually, he was used to people doing as he pleased, given he had shown quite a confident and manipulative stance while talking to Florentin in the bathroom. A simpler mind might get easily tangled in the thinly veiled traps the smaller snake had laid out for him to get caught in, but as fragile as his body might be, Florentin was not a clueless deer on shaky legs - at least he tried not to be, even though there was something alike to anxiety rising in his chest as he was trying to find a way to just run without actually running. He had not expected the situation to get even more tense. In fact, he had hoped the Nevolin boy would retreat and leave him alone so he could continue minding his own business rather than figuring out escape tactics.

His accusing question was met with unexpected silence and Florentin blinked, long lashes fluttering before he winced at the admittedly quietly sound of the door closing again. Trapped. He hated the feeling of being captured, caught in this situation he had never asked for. For once, he wished one of his dorm mates would emerge and save him, as they seemed to have a talent for drawing attention to them - be it by being overly righteous or simply rude. It took all of the tall young man’s willpower not to take a step away as Myshonok approached, his breathing pattern changing lightly as he kept his pale gaze settled on the other snake. “You are the last person to lecture me about being rude after what you just did in there,” he hissed back, nodding towards the bathroom for a moment. Would he be able to take his wand out fast enough? Likely, given he had always been skilled at dueling.

But while Florentin had expected an act of violence - no matter if magical or physical - he had not expected the sudden gentleness, although his body reacted the same either way: it tensed up, every muscle and nerve fibre alert while slender fingers shaped a fist the moment Myshonok was pulling on his arm. He did not like the sudden, forced intimacy, nor did he like the feeling of warm fingers against his own, cold skin. “We are no friends,” he replied, a mere breath because Florentin was scared all of the sudden. Still he kept his breath and even his movements under control, a perfect doll in the hands of someone who seemed to consider dropping it to the floor and watching it shatter in a hundred pieces. Myshonok Nevolin was a danger the boy had never calculated, and it scared him.

There it was, the smallest wince and a sound of pain leaving those pouty, rosewood-coloured lips as fingers tightened around his wrist, squeezing uncomfortably - even more so as he was trying to pull his arm away from the bear trap Myshonok’s grip had turned into. He reached out, his free hand shoving against the other’s chest. But the moment had already passed and he was free again, stumbling back two steps while clutching his wrist to his chest. Slowly, Florentin lowered his gaze and stared at the red imprints on his pale skin that started to darken already, as he had always been prone to bruise all too easily. It hurt, and as it was with a bleeding wound, seeing the bruises shaping only increased the pain. The snake in front of him changed his moods so fast that he could barely catch a breath, yet there was no way he was going to leave the dorm with him - not after the all too threatening moment.

Still holding onto his wrist, Florentin shook his head, loose strands tickling his cheeks in the process. “I am not going anywhere with you.”

@Myshonok Nevolin

--------------------

user posted image
user posted image
Lila · 17 · Seventh Year · · Pureblood · 5'9
Slytherin
Offline
2894
28
Awards:
Awards: 2

Feb 12 2018, 01:29 AM   Link Quote
Strings were familiar to Myshonok.

Having his limbs tugged by some invisible commander, cords pulling to march him along a path he could not turn from, the will of his controller and his own having no distinction from one another. On this he could sympathize with Florentin. It was a horrible fate to be subject to, and his own controller had not been kind to him. He'd moved Mysh along without care, raising the strings on his legs and dropping them, not minding when the delicate wood of his puppet feet cracked as they hit the ground. Tugs that came too quick had jerked his arms and rattled them around in chaotic swings, setting them flailing and knocking into his own body. Cruelest of all had been the way he'd moved the poor puppet's head. Swung it in twitching wide arcs, never caring how it landed on his skinny neck, didn't stop when the sharp yanks on his arms brought his hands to his head in quick slams, and never bothered to fix it when a sharp turn would have his head facing backwards on his body. It was awful, but Mysh could not protest. He could only adopt the fury in his chords as they pulled him around. Let it sink in to the beaten wood of his body until one day there was a great swift yank on his chords and they snapped. Then he'd been left there. A lonely little marionette with broken joints and chipped paint, the wood of his hands and feet worn smooth and uneven from constant collision, all tangled up in his strings as he lay in a useless heap of crumpled fabric. In the middle of it all, his head, the paint of his eyes fading to nothing, a great fracture webbing across his face from his temple where it had hit the ground.
It had been a shame. Marionettes were beautiful things, meant to be loved and cared for. Treasured. Yet there he was, broken and abandoned.
He'd laid there a long time. Rotting in the black velvet of a dusty suit, strings all that was left to hold him together, fading until his body disappeared and he became a pair of lonely pale hands. They were beautiful hands. Slender with gentleness in the curves of caring fingers and a kindness in their palms. Yet, they were empty. Lost without the weight of a puppet to guide them.

Perhaps all this was why he'd been so drawn to Florentin.

Mysh had seen those familiar cracks in his face and felt pulled to his broken beauty. Saw his vulnerability and ached to grab hold of his strings, to raise the French marionette to his feet with a subtle lift of his wrist. Use slim fingers to play his strings like a harp, affection in each gentle tug. Melancholic sweetness in each cord as he moved him in a blue ballet, using his puppet to give life to the pain and misery in his guiding hands. It was the only way they could let their sorrow out. The only way to get rid of the anger and confusion. His only regret was that it would ruin the puppet. Gentleness could keep them beautiful on the outside, but his fury seeped into their wood and ate them on the inside. It was cruel. But it was all his hands knew how to do.

The fingers holding the edge of the door squeezed the wood before letting go and the Russian mouse turned to Flo with a fluid step. "Alright then. We'll just talk here then, since you don't feel up to walking." All too casually, he slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned against the now closed door with a hum. He let a few beats pass in silence, acting like a polite host giving his guest the opportunity to talk first before he began. "Do you know something, Florentin? You remind me of my marionettes." A hand slid out of its pocket and wiggled its fingers like it was pulling strings. "Darling little things. Very beautiful. Though I might be biased in saying that, considering I'm the one that made them." He chuckled warmly and pushed off the door, looking quite relaxed as he began to walk around the room without aim. "Ah, but I do love them dearly. It's a special thing to craft one. All the affection that goes into it, the care it takes to mold the soft dip of the cupid's bow on their lip, the curve of their brow, and then seeing that pretty little face when it's done and set to the body is like falling in love. I don't think I've ever cared for anything more in my life." He paused and looked to Flo with a shrug.

"But there's a sadness in it. They're empty. Only able to move when I pull their strings. To come to life, they need the will of someone else to follow. They might be pretty, but they're only beautiful when they're moving. That's where you remind me of them, Florentin."

On quiet feet he walked back to the other and turned his head down to look at the purple bloom on his wrist. He bruised so easily. “You’re like a marionette, but someone’s let go of your strings. You’re struggling to stand again.” There was a sudden squeeze of his heart as he looked at that delicate wrist so much like a doll’s. Pity and regret ached his chest as he thought of his own marionettes with such an injury. There were times he’d lost his temper with them and had snapped a string or cracked their joints, and each time he felt his heartbreak as he realized what he’d done. Without hesitation he pulled his wand out and reached out to take Flo’s wrist again. This time his grip was soft and sad, fingers avoiding the injury and curling around his hand in an apologetic touch as he extended the arm and pressed the tip of his wand to it. “Pellis sancuro.” At the whispered spell, the black tip of his wand emitted a warm yellow glow. A tingling sensation could be felt as the light faded away, revealing that the bruise beneath the wand’s tip was beginning to fade as it slowly mended itself. Mysh brushed a thumb over the healing mark and turned to look at Flo.

“The nature of a marionette is an obedient one. They will never belong to themselves, and they don’t have the strength to stand on their own. To be alive, they need a puppeteer. There is simply no other way.”

Mysh placed his wand back on his belt and brought his hand up to Flo’s cheek. Dulcet fingers pressed against his skin, a pure tenderness in the snake’s palm as he cupped Florentin’s jaw with a soft serenity. It was the same touch he used when handling any of his marionettes or other creations. They were the only things he was sure of in this world, the only things whose existence and affection for them he did not doubt. He cared for them. Truly and honestly.

The pad of a pale finger brushed against the subtle curve of a cheek.

“Laisse-moi jouer avec tes cordes, marionette jolie.”

@Florentin Deschamps
Tine · 17 · 7th · Neutral · Pureblood · 6'2
Banned
Offline
1954
973
Awards:
Awards: 79

Feb 12 2018, 10:28 AM   Link Quote
Never before had Florentin been compared to a doll in a literal sense, by speaking those words that were condemning and flattering at the same time. Yet even his closest friends had treated him with a certain care and consideration, handling him as if he were made of glass or porcelain like those two dolls he used to love so much - his constant companions during a childhood that was shadowed by the family’s business and the fainting spells no healer gave a suitable explanation for. There were other things as well; events linked to the sound of waves brushing over the beach, explanations towards why the young man was so irrationally scared of deep, dark waters. He did not want to think about, not while Myshonok Nevolin was already absorbing what little attention span he had been left with. In a perfect world, he would have left the bathroom with no traces of his doings visible, clothes and hair fixed and his face prepared for the rest of the world with a thin layer of different beauty products and several beauty charms that gave him the glow he needed to display rather than looking grey, as the other snake had put it. Florentin wished that Myshonok would leave him alone, yet it seemed like the chances for such a move were rather low in this moment.

He did not know why the smaller boy saw it fit to approach him in such intruding ways, crushing rose petals underneath his boots like a giant who had gotten lost in a rose garden. The Russian appeared to have little of a concept of private space, otherwise he would not come too close - apparently not repelled by the imaginary thorns Florentin usually displayed towards those he either did not know or did not care about. But all those happenings of the past moments had turned the proud rose in a meek daisy, and all he could wish for was not to be trampled down any further, not to be crushed underneath the soles of a boot or in between those slim fingers that were now wiggled at him - a promise, a thread. He could not quite tell, tilting his head at Myshonok. You remind me of my marionettes.

It would have been amusing in any other context, as Florentin remembered he used to be disturbed by a marionette’s play witnessed at some market during a fair. The memory was too blurry to place it, yet he remembered the eerie movements of a marionette, the slapping of small and wooden feet on a makeshift stage, the strings that were meant to be invisible and yet were guiding each of the movements - the slumped shoulders, the spidery limbs, the emotionless faces. The French boy had never been as good as disguising his true emotions, although a soft, fake smile on pouty lips did wonders to hide the chaos he kept at times. Either way, he had loved his dolls, but marionettes were different: they were inanimate objects brought to life, and such was one of the many things muggle psychiatrists had long since marked a natural fear of human beings; something that caused them to recoil because it was utterly disgusting.

But did he not find himself disgusting at times when looking at the mirror? Florentin’s disgust and dislike for the other snake in this room only grew as he listened, nerves and muscles so tense his body was starting to hurt. In between the vines of beautiful metaphors, there were thinly veiled accusations of being empty and lifeless - nothing left behind the pretty face, nothing there to see. It hurt, much like his throat hurt from the abuse, like his wrist was hurting where bruises blossomed like spilled ink of creamy white paper. The fragile boy flinched as Myshonok reached for his arm again, rigid even while the touch was tender this time. Florentin did not trust it, watching him closely as the wand was drawn and pressed onto to bruise. He could feel the warmth spreading, together with the tingling of skin - much like a feather being brushed over his arm. Nothing about the gesture was soothing, and he swallowed down the fear that threatened to drown him.

All those lessons Giles Deschamps had taught him about keeping a straight face and about not backing off even when he wanted to run were put to good use in this moment, lifting his chin stubbornly as the words continued and a hand was placed on his cheek. Too intimate, too close. He hated every moment of it, pale eyes glaring at Myshonok. Eventually, the muttered French luring was the last straw as Florentin’s pale fingers cut through the air and collided with Myshonok’s face, the slapping sound almost echoing from the walls as he took a step back, reaching for his wand again and pointing it at the Russian. “I belong to no one and you have no right to make any claims,” he hissed, his voice more steady than he had expected it to be.

Even if he were nothing but a marionette, Myshonok Nevolin was not going to be the one to pull his strings.

@Myshonok Nevolin

--------------------

user posted image
user posted image
1 User(s) are reading this topic (1 Guests and 0 Anonymous Users)
0 Members:

Topic Options
Add Reply
New Topic
New Poll


 


 



ADMIN MOD