Work Text:
Annabel
Annabel’s fingers pinched tight against the hem of the kid leather gloves. They were well kept, not a seam frayed and the leather still a pristine white, only the single button at the wrist showing even the slightest bit of wear. Prospero valued his gloves, this she knew, and that was exactly why she held it limp between two fingers as though it were a piece of scrap or a fallen napkin in the dining hall. As though they were worth nothing.
A mischievous glint filled her eye as she met Prospero's chestnut gaze, he knew what she was getting at, and she knew she need only play the brazen minx a few moments more before she would have everything she desired.
He took a step forward, his tall dignified form filling the closet, trapping her back against the walls, exactly the move she expected of him. His bare hand came up, grasping and she jerked the glove out of reach of his grip, presuming a need to threaten to drop it on the dusty floor of the abandoned closet. But she’d miscalculated. The softest of gasps feathered between her lips as his bare hand met the skin of her wrist, unimaginable warmth flooding her senses.
She damn near dropped the glove in shock, but managed to grasp it close to her chest, using every part of her to keep from letting it meet a dusty demise.
“Now Annabel, my queen, surely you can presume I know you better than that. You played that exact move just yesterday when you snatched my book from me. Are you growing predictable?”
His words bore into her soul in a deep growl, a fine husk in his voice that did unspeakable things to her composure. In her haste to get what she wanted, had she miscalculated? Was she going soft on him? The thought caught her in a furrowed expression, gaze slipping to the wall as she doubted herself, giving Prospero just the opening to snake an arm around her waist and pull her close against him.
“Ahh! Now Prospero, your hand, it’s in a most improper place,” she feigned complaint, comfortable with his large but gentle hand spread across the small of her back. “If only the other students could see what a scoundrel you are, my dear,”
A low chuckle filled the room “A scoundrel you say?” She hardly noticed as his glove was snatched from her hand, only noting the lack of warmth as the electric current of skin on skin contact was broken.
“Quite the scoundrel~” she gave a girlish giggle, unable to suppress it in his presence, “accosting a lady, in a dark closet?” Her voice dropped to a low hum “ with no chaperone?~ ”
“I dare not imagine the thought”
Annabel’s lips parted, the very tip of her tongue darting out to wet them as Prospero closed in, his body caging her in against the closet. She let her eyes flutter shut as his lips met hers, only for them to dart open at the sudden wrongness .
His other hand came up to cup her neck, warm sweaty flesh meeting as she froze, realising it had all gone too far. Blonde lashes tangled as she scrunched up her face and pushed through. His lips were steady against hers, moving methodically, maybe not as romantic as she’d dreamed but with a firm enough pressure to bruise her own lips.
Despite the wrongness pooling in her gut, she kissed back with as much passion as she could muster. Her skirt was wrinkling from the way she was pressed against him and her torso was frozen, reliant on his steady hand to keep her upright. His hand on her neck mussed her curl’s slightly, pushing them into place to accommodate the curved way it cupped against the base of her skull.
His lips parted slightly as she pulled away the slightest bit to take in a heady breath of air. His presence smelt of soap and parfum, any warmth and humanity absent but a strong gust of spices rushing into the lingering scent, enough to leave her nearly lightheaded if she focused on it too long. So she ignored the smell and surged back into the kiss, forcing a fervor she couldn’t help but feel oddly reluctant about.
Despite his sturdiness he provided as one of her hands found his shoulder, keeping her upright as her mind clouded, carnal pleasure overtaking her reluctance. The air around her grew humid and stuffy as warmth filled her, cheeks growing rosy from the sheer warmth, his body was close to hers, body heat mingling as the kiss grew more, well, intense was not the right word, but deeper, more involved.
She broke the kiss with a sudden jolt, panting softly as she looked up at his hardened caramel gaze, shedding her blazer and fanning herself with one hand, the garment falling to the dusty floor, her boot landing on it as she shifted to smooth her skirt.
“My, it’s getting warm in here darling,” she paused, pursing her lips as she looked up at him, casting all doubt from her mind as she took in his figure, his shoulders were steady, broad without being overbearing. His composure was steady, back straight even still as his gloved hands hung there, empty now that her body wasn’t there to fill them. She knew her role, to fit perfectly in the opening his outstretched hands created, to giggle when she teased him and to give in to his affections.
Her eyes caught on his hair, the single coil he left untucked from his smooth, groomed ‘do. She took a step forward, reaching up with a delicate hand to wrap the curl around a single finger, twirling the digit as the hair wound off, falling back against his forehead with a gentle bounce. If this had any effect on him he didn’t show it, his expression remaining the same stern grimace he always wore. With the slightest pout she went to do it again before his hand caught her wrist once more, sleeve bunching in his grip.
“My dove, please don’t,”
Her heart throbbed as he fixed her with a glare, eyes hardening like molten amber. Fingers tightened around her wrist slightly, and she feared her bones would snap before his grip released and she drew it back to her chest, shifting the ring she wore on that finger as she tried to mask her concern for her well being. There was an unspoken conversation in his eyes, a window into how he was just like her, playing a part, falling into place like pieces in a chess board, set out for a match.
Words wouldn’t come to her so she didn’t let them, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling herself in close, falling into a kiss as she stood on tiptoes, pressing up into him yearning for control.
Control.
She nearly froze at the thought. Why did she yearn for it, what possessed her to attempt to step from her role, to push against him when she was already doing him some sort of disservice by dragging him into this filthy closet. Her role demanded giving in, to let him have the control, it was the way of things, the exchange between woman and man.
So she pushed her thoughts back and conceded against him, firm kiss fading at the slightest resistance, melting into him, his hands determining where her body went, his lips deciding the intensity of the kiss. It was simply what she must do, relinquish control and blink back the vision of slimmer shoulders and blue eyes that appeared in her thoughts before she slipped away to dreams at night.
The kiss grew sloppier as they both fell into it, open mouths and lips grasping at each other, searching for more, a breathy gasp escaped Annabel as she kissed deeper and arched her tongue into his, a new sensation grasping her around the ribcage, her whole body suffocating. She renewed her efforts with an increased fervor, chasing the novelty of the feeling, ignoring the way her neck ached from the angle she held it at, the firm grasp of Prospero's hand preventing anything different from occurring in her posture.
And maybe, just maybe, she let herself fall into the briefest of delusions that he was not Prospero at all, but Lenore.
Prospero
Prospero connected their lips before he let himself think about it, taking a quick breath in before doing so. Annabel’s lips were soft, warm where she had wet them, yet still, hardly did he feel anything special about them. .
Prospero used his free hand to lead up and around her neck, brushing the curls aside to allow their skin to meet underneath all of her hair. The glove he had hastily pulled back over his fingers had not been completely tucked into his sleeve, and part of his wrist felt the warmth of Annabel’s skin, covering his own in chills.
He had pulled her closer slightly- hand still resting on her back. She hadn’t resisted- but he certainly did, if only for a moment. He had shut his eyes the moments their lips had met, trying to ignore the very idea of kissing. But what else was there to think about? Perhaps the glove he had taken from her grasp, not completely tucked back into his sleeve, a slight sliver of bare skin exposed to the stuffy air of the closet. What good did it do to keep him clean anyways? A true gentleman would’ve removed his gloves entirely for a moment as intimate as this- Prospero knew he should, but the idea of touching someone had always disgusted him, and he had not bothered to ask why.
Was he afraid of asking? Or did he simply fear the answer?
Prospero was met with a new sensation as he felt Annabel drape one of her arms around his shoulder, bringing herself so close to him that he could nearly feel warmth radiating off of her, seeping through the many layers of his uniform.
His hand started to feel cold around her neck, the tips of his fingers tingled and ached before he pressed them against her neck, tracing the light hairs that covered it. He tried to ignore the touch, the crawling sensation he felt on his hands as her curled hair tickled the back of his hand, almost tempting him to pull away.
Annabel pulled away, and though grateful for a moment Prospero quickly replaced it with guilt for feeling so. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes to take a brief moment to recover from the touch that he still had not grown used to.
Annabel had escaped his grasp, leaving his arms limp at his side, no longer wrapped around her.
Prospero opened his eyes, half expecting to see white tainted with crimson. Annabel's eyes met his, her long eyelashes curtaining her pink eyes, as she removed her blazer and threw it to the floor, stirring up the dust. Prospero in any normal circumstance would have reached out to catch it, especially if it was his own. But perhaps people like Annabel were not bothered as much by the idea of dust.
Still, it almost picked at him, the same way he remembered his hand being tickled by her hair, their skin touching, the way his fingers felt tense like thousands of needles pricking the tip of them. The way the raw skin was tight and needed pressure. Oftentimes he wished there was no blood in his hands to feel these things at all. He dug his thumb into the fingers on the same hand, gnawing through the leather, as an attempt to scrub the feeling away. The tension had almost stopped, but they’re was still an itch underneath his skin, begging to be cut out.
“My, it’s getting warm in here darling,” Annabel almost seemed to peer behind his eyes before distracting herself with smoothing out her skirt, if only briefly.
Prospero didn’t respond to this. He hardly even nodded. He almost felt too tired to do so. Truthfully, it was hot, far too hot. The closet, sour with must and dirtied with dust, stuck to what bare skin he left exposed and left him wishing to cleanse himself of all remnants of the space.
Annabel had brought her closer to him again, but rather than fall into his grasp, she looked up at him, as if inspecting his face. She still kept a smile, before raising a hand up to the curl that was brushing against his forehead. Twisting it around her finger, pulling it down straight before releasing, the hair springing back up.
Had it been anyone else, he likely wouldn’t have even allowed them to bring their hand so close without at least trying to prevent it from doing so. Though it had still slightly bothered him, it was certainly not worse than the dirty closet around them, and Annabel certainly wasn’t insanitary.
She pouted at his lack of a response, once again lifting up her hand, and now expecting it, this time he caught it, his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist.
“My dove, please don’t,”
Rather than a playful pout, she simply looked up at him, expressing a mix of surprise and what he guessed was worry.
He kept their eyes locked, hoping she’d understand. Perhaps she did, and by tossing herself over his shoulders and dragging them close together, lips quickly connecting, maybe she had hoped he’d understand too.
Far nearer than before- their bodies had lacked no space in between them, her exposed white blouse pressed and wrinkling against his blazer as she somehow managed to press against him closer.
Prospero quickly brought his hands to her waist, steadying them both from the near loss of balance from the sudden touch. He let his hands slide down a bit further than her waist, wrapping them around the height of her hips to pull her close and lean down into the kiss.
The once intense kiss seemed to soften as she eased further into his arms, falling into his grasp and leaving him to decide what to do.
A true gentleman should surely like the touch of a lady such as Annabel, letting his thoughts wander to her hands grasping and tracing around his shoulders. But Prospero hadn’t- barely had he longed for the touch of any woman. Often he wondered if maybe no one had touched him right, or maybe that he wasn’t responding right. After so many years of asking, the question had grown tedious, so much so that he stopped asking it at all. But now, in the closet, it had ached for an answer again. Prospero dreaded the fact he didn’t know the answer. Or maybe he dreaded that there was no answer. Not one for him to get the chance to learn.
Nevermore was a second chance. It always had been. Perhaps it was a romantic notion, redeeming yourself through someone else’s touch- someone else’s lips against your own. He should like it. He should want it. Sometimes he felt as if he should need it. But he never did, rather every touch only left him feeling dirty again, as if there was no redemption to be earned from it at all.
Redemption from what?
There was always another question, begging to be answered. Prospero simply held Annabel closer, as if it would do any good to stop the incessant questions.
Though fortunate enough to be provided a distraction from his thoughts, the second her tongue met his, Prospero nearly gagged at the sudden movement in his mouth, as if it would fall down his throat. He wanted to choke, to rid his lungs of the inhuman air that had filled them. Once again they felt tight- the familiar pain that he hadn’t yet fully remembered where it came from, or why it hurt so badly.
Annabel slightly exhaled through her nose as they remained close, he felt the quick breath against his own skin . Yet, he could not. Breathing had always been hard, but now- especially now, it had almost felt wrong. Was there not enough air to, or did he just not allow himself? Did he have to earn the air he so badly wanted to breathe?
He tried to wish that he was enjoying this, that he desired these things everyone else seemed to feel so easily. But her saliva felt like blood in his mouth, once again staining his teeth and threatening to spill over his lips.
And still, he kept it inside, the blood filling his mouth and rotting him from the inside out. As if his lungs would turn to ash if he breathed too deeply, or at all. The ugly decay, the red ruining so many once-pure, once clean things.
Yet he held her closer, tighter, even despite the atmosphere that felt as if it would smother him, and maybe even her as well. After so many years of pretending, he had learnt to hold his breath. Maybe he never learned to breathe at all. And the worst part of it all, was how when he was given the opportunity to do so, it felt unnatural, like he wasn’t meant to, and how Prospero knew moments later he’d be hand-over-mouth, a white cloth clutched between his fingers, coughing and choking on his own blood, never to be able to truly breathe at all. Knowing the next deep breath he’d take would only bring up more of the gore that had ruined his lungs. And much like that, kissing Annabel had simply felt unnatural, stifling, as if he was drowning.
Perhaps that's why he hated it so much.