Prompt Post: ROUND FOUR
ROUND FOUR IS CLOSED
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Flat view.
Updates Post (WIPs only)
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damalur's firstclasskink on Delicious.
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<< ROUND THREE | ALL ROUNDS | ROUND FIVE >>
Rules post.
Posting Guidelines.
Flat view.
Updates Post (WIPs only)
Fills Post (completed Fills only)
damalur's firstclasskink on Delicious.
Volunteers always welcome.
There is a delay on comments appearing when there is a URL in the message body. This is due to an LJ anti-spam ( Read more... )
By the time they drift into a little club just about midnight, Charlotte's feet aching from wandering about the city, and Raven's red lips bright with her smile, she's almost managed to forget the hazy feeling plaguing her thoughts.
Until, at least, they enter the crowd around the bar. Charlotte's French is passable, picked up less from her nannies and more from a gardener who'd treated the rose bushes to regular-and colourful-diatribes and 'Magda' benefits from this. She loses track of Raven in the crowd, catching the odd sight of red hair here and there, and finds the absence of her presence frustrating. More accurately, however, it's the constant craning to see her that frustrates.
She's worried and it's ludicrous as Raven is more than capable of seeing to herself, but Charlotte worries nonetheless. In part because, for as much as she complains, Raven seems to revel in Charlotte's concern and Charlotte would rather sever a limb than deprive her of anything she treasures.
Taking her drink from the bartender, she smiles at him, all brilliance and charm, then turns to face the crowd. She gets the barest sense of a presence through the self-imposed haze, but too late to change her trajectory in any way. Hands land at her waist, long-fingered and elegant, but they too are useless, as her hands go up and her drink splashes down on them both.
The cold liquid is a shock against the skin of her chest and Charlotte yelps, hearing a similar, more masculine sound from the person holding her. She pushes her hair out of her face, grimacing when the alcohol on her hand comes in contact with her face, and catches sight of the man she's so unceremoniously doused.
"Oh my god," she says, when she catches her breath and stops gaping at him like some sort of ninny. "I am so sorry!" Mercifully, she doesn't stumble over the French when she speaks, but that's about all she preserves. With her blouse soaked through and reeking of alcohol, she's sure she makes quite a sight indeed.
If, however, she does, he makes no apparent notice of it. "No, I'm the one who should be apologizing." In comparison to her gardener-taught French, his is smooth, elegant and his accent betrays nothing to her. Damnation. He takes the empty glass from her hand, setting it on the table behind her, and the brief touch of his skin against hers has Charlotte's head swimming more than any drink might have hoped to manage. "You couldn't have seen me in this crowd and now-" he smiles, his gaze flicking down to the twin spots on their shirts.
She follows the look and realizes, with some embarrassment, that her shirt is clinging to her undergarments, creating quite a silhouette. Rather a good turn, then, that she can't sense a thing of the thoughts around her. Charlotte suspects they would be quite florid indeed.
Equally a mercy is the fact she is, for the night, Magda and not Charlotte. Where Charlotte would blush a deep scarlet, Magda merely mutters one of the gardener's more inventive phrases and earns a laugh from him.
"Yes, precisely," he agrees, shrugging out of his coat. "Allow me."
His coat seems to swallow her and Charlotte presses her lips together, annoyed by the way her body responds to the stimulus. It is a coat, hardly anything to grow excited over, and yet her body tenses eagerly. She murmurs her thanks and he smiles, raising a hand to order another drink.
"It's the least I can do," he says when she protests. "Miss-"
"Magda," she says, the alias falling from her tongue easily at this point. She's been practising throughout the day, trying to make it sound natural and familiar to the people around her.
"Just Magda?" he asks, amusement tipping his lips up. She follows the action with more interest than is strictly necessary and shivers when his hands come up to adjust the coat on her shoulders. "Quite mysterious of you."
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"Wizards and witches to be sure," he agrees, letting his hands fall away, sliding down her shoulders to hang at his sides. "Perhaps ready to bewitch you and steal you away in the dark."
Quite an appealing idea at the moment. His eyes are certainly the most beguiling shade she's seen in a while and, yes, she is absolutely taking leave of her senses and can't seem to care in the least.
Whether it's the man's natural appeal, of which he has plenty, or the now-intoxicating feeling of not-knowing. She has no idea what the man might be thinking, planning, and there's something altogether delicious about that. Charlotte has never known a feeling like this, but it is Magda's normal and she tries to remind herself of that even as she rides the high that is a stranger's flirtation.
"And you?" she asks. "What shall I call you?"
Their drinks arrive, brought by a familiar redhead, and Charlotte almost feels guilty at the way neither of them spare Raven more than a glance as she hands the drinks over. Her mystery companion at least manages to offer her a generous tip before holding his glass in salute. "Magnus," he says with a grin that suggests it might be a lie.
Oh, this is quite likely the most irresponsible thing she's ever done and yet, looking at him, all Charlotte can imagine is how it will feel to have this man between her thighs.
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[inarticulate high-pitched squeal of joy]
Please may we have some more? <3 ?
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Plus, I'm listening to Dusty Springfield, and it fits this all too well.
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