perles-noire

[perles-noire]

grahamxsahi​:

The fall from the tightrope wasn’t unlike falling in a dream. The sensation of stability slipping beneath the feet. A weightless suspension in space, almost supernatural. Before gravity knotted around the stomach to drag the unfortunate back to earth. And then the suspense of the landing. The alarm, the terror clawing its way up, clambering under the skin and reaching out for a white-knuckled grip on the heart. Time stretched like taffy, extenuated by a free fall lasting seconds too long, waiting for the cold-to-the-bone impact of hitting the ground. 

There were no safety nets in his dream. They always ended badly. The one he landed in bounced beneath and gave with a spring. A cocoon of latticed rope around the duke caught him and kept a nightly inevitable from happening. In a sense, he found it pleasant. A reprieve from the horrors. A chance, maybe, to override the next one, if the memory overwrote the sabotage of his night terrors? Perhaps. 

Reckless act or not, he was safe. 

He remained there looking up, contemplating the riddle of how fear and excitement tangled deep inside. A drive to immediately seek another high like the one he had just experienced. His gaze caught Dominique’s own curious leap– not a free fall nor a swan dive. But on purpose. 

The height of the wire was memorized as was the peak of the tent above. Because he didn’t expect to ever be up there again. The beauty of attempting the idiotic and living to tell about it. The ritual of never wanting to repeat what had already been accomplished.

What the hell was that. Dominique came to his side. Dark brows knit together as they often did for the duke, a deceitful look of annoyance even when he wasn’t bothered. Except this time he was. “I told you, specifically…” Several times over and yet either unheard or ignored by the marksman. 

They did not possess the skill to be up on the rope, and a five second lecture of instructions in Portuguese was not at all sufficient either. Of fucking course he was going to fall– what else could be expected?

But it was difficult to go on with fingertips cautious and delicate skating along the outline of his jaw. With a concern he had not anticipated and a kiss which dissipated as quickly as smoke. 

Followed by a… fuck you. 

Graham could not help but laugh. Short, breathless, clipped but amused. “Fuck you too.” His brows relaxed and he grinned. Brown eyes looked her over, as much as he could see with Dominique in her hover, kneeling into the net. “You are not hurt…? Why did you jump?” 

Because he was perfectly capable of accepting the inevitability of his own graceful plummet. Predictable in his own mind. If he hadn’t understood the loose directives of how to cross an impossibly narrow rope, at least Graham had paid attention to the way the acrobats landed. As well as the subsequent hand placement and flair of the somersault out of the net to then take their bows. Graham was a little disappointed he received a fuck you instead of applause.

His neck remained unbroken, which was all he could ask, especially at Vauxhall. Chalked up to plenty of drinks prior, leaving him less likely to tense in a final bid for safety. Graham finally pushed himself up to sit, fighting against the small wave of motion the movement caused under them. “Does the fear stay with you now?” 

A look up and then to her. The entire point of the exercise was Dom essentially tossing herself off a cliff to battle a fear. Drastic, yes. Typical of a season in which everyone was running scared for various reasons, sure. But commendable nonetheless. “Of heights.” 

.

There was a calmness that overtook the duke, despite her evident concerns. He laid there as if he had just awoken from a dream, eyes coming to life as if being stirred from a curious slumber. Graham’s handsome features had contorted, a protest slipping off his tongue which made her want to smile, yet she didn’t. It was reassuring that anger had fueled him all the same. An abnormal reaction to an odd chain of events. He had a dark undertone to it, his ganache eyes solidifying as he spoke in protest. “I told you, specifically…” his voice had started, at which she normally would have snapped back in retorsion at the first chance she got. But a calmness has waved through her initial fiery remark, almost as if his frosted reaction had cooled the both of them. They found warmth in each other, his eyes softening, as did her accusatory, hardened gaze. Dominique couldn’t help it while looking at Graham sometimes — he felt safe, not in a safe way but in a manner that grounded her. 

Steam nearly erupted as their warm lips touched, her exhaling palpable words that shouldn’t ever be uttered to a duke, and his hardened ganache eyes melting underneath her. The heat worked its way throughout his face, his features coming undone, retreating into a grin that she matched. Like a secret shared between just the two of them, they both laughed as they untangled from each other, her palm leaving a heated, lingering kiss against his jawline she had once held. “You’re the first —” a pause, catching her breath as she leaned back onto her calves. Her braids followed like water, fluid as they slunk over her breasts, some falling off her shoulders, collecting into a waterfall behind her. “The first to say it back to me. And here I thought you were just a Duke,” her smokey alto mused, her Arabic accent betraying her as she spoke. In moments of passion it doubled down in thickness, becoming like a heavy spiced fog rather than a slight after scent of a burnt-out candle. 

As she recovered her posture, a shiver of pain echoed from her ankle, a familiar invitation she had grown accustomed to as a runner. Perhaps her face had betrayed her, his question lingering between them as it sat. Dominique wetted her lips at the question, her grin retreating in a contemplated pout. It came natural to her, following after him, as if an innate second nature. Whether it was because of him, she didn’t know, but one thing was certain. Graham had fallen because of her, and she couldn’t let him slip away — disappear. Not like her father had to her, or anything good for that matter. They all left Dominique, and now she sat in her house alone most days. A wall of artillery the only thing to greet her aside from her hired hands. Answering him was easier than she thought, replying with a small smile, one that hid the melancholy of her memories. “Because, Sussex would fall if another Duke had passed. And I would rather go down with him than have to climb down that latter again.” 

Graham’s body extended like that of a swan, rising as he sat up with an effortless elegance that few could accomplish. His hair dipped past his shoulders as his chin rose to the sky, a subtle moment so intoxicating that she had to swallow, tearing her eyes away. For a moment his words were miles apart, even with their thighs brushed against one another. “Does the fear stay with you now?” Her gaze had wandered past him admirably, into the background. 

Couples danced, stumbling outside of the tent with popcorn in hand and laughter. She once was a girl like that, courted by a prince in a place far different from here. There was a smile that graced her face then, a laughter light as warmed honey. She was gilded by his side — until she wasn’t. Dominique had sunk into the floors which the duo danced upon, laughed upon, sinking into someone she didn’t know. It was Allah reminding her of her priorities. 

That a girl like her wasn’t meant for love. That smiles such as the prince’s were full of juniper, and that anyone close to her would eventually leave unless she did first. 

If she hadn’t clawed her way out of the sinkhole, no one would have been there to grasp her hand and tug her out. Princes weren’t real — and neither was what was around them. The lights cast a romantic glow over everything, highlighting Graham perfectly as she tore back, finding his eyes suddenly on her. “Of heights,” he clarified, as if it was needed. “No, I do not believe so.” There was a finality to her words, heavy as she attempted to rise. Her leg wobbled a bit underneath her, betraying her once more, not that she paid it any mind. A confidence resurfaced within the tall woman, defiant in the depression's face that lurked within her mind. “It seems I’ve lost our wager,” she confessed, asking in a coy manner. “Desire to claim your prize?” A prized answer to her fears, or whatever, if anything else, he had in store. 

[perles-noire]

@lions-seong too!~💞✨

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🌸 Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Enjoy!

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Anon or not, send me   ‘ 📖 ‘   and I will explain a situation / setting I’ve wanted to place my muse into, but haven’t had the chance to yet.

[perles-noire]

@lions-seong too!~✨💞

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🌸 Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Enjoy!

—

send as many symbols as you want for each kind of headcanon!

☁ for a random headcanon about our muses  ✦ for a sexcanon about our muses ✿ for a confession from my muse to yours ✎ for a headcanon about our muses domestic life ❆ for a headcanon about how our muses deal with disagreements ♡ for a drabble about what made my muse realize they’re in love with yours ❦ for something my muse has always wanted to say to yours ♟ send your own request

[perles-noire]

herr-herzog​:

Johann tilted his head back in an exaggerated motion, rolling his eyes. “Again, the dramatics. You have not even finished your glass yet, and already, you are picking a fight.”

His own glass he sipped. On second thought, he downed the lot. Glass clinked against the metal of the table as he set it down, decisive.

“The fight is not, how do you say? Not the point.” A smile. “Some fights turn into wars. We have strict rules not to fight if not necessary. And these here…”

A languid hand waved at the assorted von Beckers and nameless, faceless attendants. One misinterpreted (correctly interpreted?) the motion to refill the glass.

“…They make it always not necessary.” Johann frowned under his mask. “Never necessary? Scheisse, what a language.”

He waved the attendant back. 

“We do not seek anything here. Boring, dull place full of boring, dull people.” A glance over to the side, at the masked woman out of the corner of his eye. 

“As interesting as a fight with you might be, we must decline. Too easy to be trapped into marriage in this verdammtes country. So many fussy, fussy traditions, most of which lead to marriage.”

His voice turned sing-song, mocking.

“Touch a woman’s feathered hat: marriage! Sit at the same table as a woman: marriage! Offer to help a woman over a puddle: marriage!” 

A pause as he considered the contents of his glass. 

“Although, you are the first we have seen attempt marriage by combat.”

.

There was a certain theatrical quality to the masked man. The way he tilted his head back as if everyone watching hung on his every word, the musical quality to his voice, each word tangoing on the high wire of intriguing and insulting. Men of his gravitas had always irritated Dominique, yet she admired it one and the same. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he downed the glass while her cat eye eyes watched him cautiously. Although she was toying with him in her own way, there was a hesitancy to her words, yet he readily pushed back despite her clear cautions against. 

Nevertheless, a confident smile held firm on his full lips, reassuring her almost. Perhaps she had been going too harshly on the man. He spoke of how the fight wasn’t the point, of war in a manner of which she wasn’t sure she could grasp. Finishing her glass as she listened, the servant had leaned her way, refilling it with grace. Catching his glance, she couldn’t help but grin his way. “Why leave then? What brought you here, if not the carnival?” They were two strangers, both from lands different from the blight fog of London, yet somehow found one another on this night of all. 

His rambles grew in forte, earning a snicker his way, which grew into a laugh and an eye roll as he spoke. Dominique couldn’t determine him, nor was she sure should she care. His demeanor fit that of the carnival — ridiculous in nature and probably to be forgotten by morning come. Her smokey drawl hinged on her words as she found her voice, shaking her head. “I do not know what is more absurd — that you believe a potential marriage match may be found in a carnival of all places or if this is your low standard of combat.”

Sipping her wine, she sat it on the table and tilted her head, braids cascading down in the subtle motion. “I’m a marksman and huntress. My preferred mode of combat is with bullets, but you strike me as too delicate for that.” Surveying the man once more, she pressed on. “And what of you?” A direct question, one that most likely would be met with an indirect response. 

[perles-noire]

Imaan Hammam Covers Vogue Paris, June/July 2021

[perles-noire]

halestcrm​:

Victoria instinctively leaned in as Dominique did, eager to receive another conspiratorial whisper. She did long for anything out of the ordinary when it came to the season. Their meeting seemed somewhat fateful, as their tea could have been interrupted and their new partner could have been some awful, stuck up lady bitter at the world for having an ugly daughter, or worse, either of them could have ended up having to entertain said ugly daughter.

“A gun?” Victoria asked, her voice barely audible–mostly, just mouthing the words. Then her lips remained parted and her expression went blank as she tried to recall. “No. Never.”

There were very few things Victoria feared, but she was not sure how she felt about guns. She supposed her uncle and cousins hunted from time to time. She never came along, as she wasn’t allowed to do anything like handle a gun.

Her gaze narrowed for a moment, taking in Miss Dyer with more attention than before. “I would like to fire a gun, I think.” Victoria nodded, deciding it was so. She had no plans to make that happen, but her uncle was too ill to care if she got into his rifle cabinet. Probably.

“I know very little of hunting. I do not wish to bore you with questions… And, in any case, I find myself rather uncomfortable with the idea of harming animals for sport.” Victoria frowned as she looked down and took an iced biscuit, taking a bite of it. “Would you say men find you intimidating since you know how to handle a gun?” Victoria smirked with a small shrug of her shoulders. She didn’t care if the question was uncouth. “I only ask because for all of their talk of bravery, in my experience, men are easily spooked.”

.

The blonde before her leaned over as they spoke, voices hushed as if their tongues spilt secrets that would prove ammunition to the ton. It was a natural habit that many of the other women in the room followed in their own dance. There was a smile reflected between the two knowing theirs laid in gunpowder and oil, scents deemed unrefined yet welcomed by one another. There was a mystified air to her words, hesitant yet enticed. “I would like to fire a gun, I think.” It was decided ultimately. 

As she leaned back, choosing her next target and bit into the sweet, Dominique found herself wondering more about the woman before her. What had Victoria’s time in the ton been before she had arrived, and if she were content oddly. A smirk invited the marksman to believe there was more to be desired. Contemplating her next words briefly with a pause, Dominique then spoke, eyes fleeing to her book, momentarily in thought. “Men fear what they cannot comprehend,” she decisively stated, voice gentle as if dipping her toes into a lake before disappearing whole. “But guns? There isn’t anything more simple than that.” 

The initial faces that met her when she marched into the ton’s gun club never left her, nor did the smile she wore as she fired the first shot on the green lawns. How the men stepped aside from her, how they spoke in gruff undertones of annoyance. It was as if they saw an anomaly. Eventually their glares and sneers calmed with each passing visit, but for some the flame grew.

Dominique couldn’t speak of the sunken requests from isolated rooms, the fear some held as their words faltered for some safety, perhaps only she could ensure. Ones Whistledown had perhaps heard from the other room, not that she had followed up on them. “Most are, and rightfully so. I want them to be afraid, I need them to be for my sake” because the ton would eat any woman alive unaccompanied by anyone. She would be thrown to the waters and she wouldn’t drown for their enjoyment. Sizing her up, she opened her book and slid her a spare calling card, offering with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Meet me after the carnival. It’s about time for the ladies of the ton to have some fun over something other than tea, men or dresses. What do you say, Miss. Hale?”

[perles-noire]

herr-herzog​:

Johann’s eyes flickered. Bit the inside of his cheek at the kick. Had he reacted the fun would be over before it had begun. The assigned servants would have had their own orders from Basti. This was simply petty, childish behavior, paired with the type of posturing usually expected from… the male courtiers. Her sex and her clear ignorance were the only two points keeping this interesting. 

“Du blöde stinkfotze. What a charming greeting for the host. Another strange English custom, ja?” 

The footmen were English and equally ignorant. Von Becker, hovering off to the side, had stiffened in alarm. 

“Ah, but you are not English. Whose little custom is this? Do you kick higher if offered a different drink? Dance if offered champagne?”

But this could be entertaining. Johann leaned forward. “If this is not a custom, we will have to assume this is a deliberate insult. And some insults require payment in blood.” 

Johann savored the dramatic irony for a moment. Should he unmask? Thought again. Still too early in this game. Also he was not sure what Cadeby House had available in terms of imprisonment. No fun if this jumped-up Schlampe ended up languishing in some dirty English jail instead. 

The gaze he held for a moment. Then he leaned back, smiling broadly. “We hear the English here have outlawed dueling. How silly. How else are die Adligen, the nobles, settling their differences?” 

.

The horned individual before her came to life with each passing moment, his jaw flexing with the lightest prodding of her shoe. Even in playful jest, it felt as if their conversation and exchange thus far had been a joust, if anything. There was a darkness that framed his lips, that glazed over his eyes as he retorted back — it was an intensity that felt both magnetizing yet incendiary. Despite his words that flicked tartness her way, her smile persisted. Perhaps she should feel afraid based on the way the servant by his side had stiffened noticeably as the host spoke, yet this didn’t phase Dominique. She was well acquainted with the men that live in the glasshouses of their ego. She was tempted to toy with him more on his obsession with the English, yet instead inquired, “do you want me to kick higher? Don’t be so needy, it betrays you.” 

For a man who seemingly chose his words with caution, she felt as if he had a wound coil within his chest, one that could snap at any notice. At this he leaned forward, closing the distance to which she followed suit, the Cheshire grin hovering as she mirrored his every move. She had better things to do, but something about frustrating a man had always been a secret delight for her. There was an adoration to be had once discovering what strings to pluck to drive another mad, and he made it all too easy. This may just be interesting, even if he openly wasn’t. 

He spoke of blood, eyes staring her down challengingly, as if they were coaxing another to draw their own first. And then, as fleeting as that was, he leant back, to which she laughed lightly at his confident smile. Following suite, she resumed her original position, setting her glass down in favor of twirling a braid in her fingers. “Only a naïve man would assume that men abide by laws. They are far too prideful” Pausing, her eyes traced his frame before reverting back to him, clearly speaking of the stranger in her next words. “Is that what you’ve come to seek here in London? Your pride — a fight? Or have you come to flaunt what you cannot at home?”

[perles-noire]

lordxfrederick​:

“Always.” He grinned then. Masquerades often drew out the boldness of otherwise tame personalities. Whether it was simply the free flowing beverages - speaking of, he really needed to talk to someone about debuting his refreshment toward, and what better place than the pleasure gardens - or if it was the anonymity provided by a hidden face.

“But you should know, madame, that I am an officer. Not a soldier. As you can see by my coat and honours, I am a captain. In his majesty’s royal navy no less.”

Frederick pushed himself up, off the steps. Dusted off the front of his cousin’s coat. Preened a bit, and then wondered silently how long this hunt would take. Didn’t matter much as long as he made it back in time to stop in at the minstrel show. They should’ve had plenty of time. The shows were meant to last well into the early morning hours.

“I will follow your lead. What are we hunting this evening?”

A bottle of good vintage, perhaps.

.

There were moments in life that people waited for — ones that they hoped could by so only then could they shed their skin and step into a new light even just for a night. For some partaking in the season, a masquerade was just what they needed for them to flourish. To step out of the roles cast onto themselves, whether it be by foreign hands or their own, unknowingly. But for Dominique, she never needed to wait for such an excuse, nor did it seem that her latest companion needed to, either. The masked man held himself with a reassured aroma, his words suave like the waters of the sea on an idyllic summer’s eve. Her eyes watched him as he rose, fingers reaching out and stroking the adornments on his naval jacket. A small hum accompanied by the cock of her head, she murmured, “a captain of the Royal Navy you say, curious. Who knew the ton was blessed with two?” 

Allowing the pendent she had been examining to thump back against his chest, the corner of her lip turned up in a grin at the thought of the awkward man she had met at the gun range. She noticed how he preened at his appearance, quickly adjusting the area her fingers had just graced. It could have been him, but the hair didn’t match, nor his height. This man had been on par with her own in comparison, his voice like velvet in confidence, a rare trait of the other man. Her alto dripped like lazed honey into tea, languid and sultry in approach as she took a calculated step back. Tossing her braids over her shoulder as she looked down the corridor past him, her gaze flickered back to him. “There has been an odd individual lurking around this carnival — Charles de Atan. He is our target for the night. That is, unless something more interesting has caught your eyes, dear captain.” 

[perles-noire]

End.

grahamxsahi​:

Keep reading

[perles-noire]

grahamxsahi​:

In their brief time together, they could not seem to resist going to toe to toe in every moment. The woman from Morocco shoved him, and in turn the duke pushed. Provoked into prodding harder each time until hands were ringed around each other’s throats. Not violently, and not in a menacing way. Almost as if their own balancing act on the ground had been designed to see deeper into the other, find out what reality might lie beneath the matched sarcasm and sexual attraction. 

An opportunity did appear. Death of a parent was not unusual for two to share either. Same as he said about his fears. Nothing special. The gravitational force of anything more than a silent acknowledgment of each other felt too great then. So… back to the regularly scheduled playful taunts.

“From our last meeting I though you would realize I do put up a fight.” But he might not, Graham wasn’t so sure admitting a fear could be a prize to someone else. 

He began to climb up the ladder. A few pauses, a few glances cast down to see her follow. Once at the top he waited and heard the start of his name, soft as the braids of hair hanging down her back. The duke did not share a fear of heights. However, the sensation of vertigo, the sense of being precariously off the ground, was more than familiar. Graham did not offer a hand to a woman too proud to do more than slap it away. “I am right here. You have arrived. Step up on the platform, Dominique.” 

She finally did. An acrobat waited and offered instructions he really could not hear in the middle of a storm he had allowed himself to be drawn into. Flummoxed by a demonstration of the performer using their arms for balance as one foot easily followed the other halfway across before nimbly returning back. And yet Grahm was diving head first, willingly but hopefully it would not be literal.

As much as he enjoyed trying new (and often perilous) things, the one they were in the middle of required talent. Concentration. And other points of control that Graham simply did not have the patience for. His boots were removed– someone would have the foresight to carry them carefully down for him. They were too expensive to be tossed recklessly to the ground. 

Dominique grinned. So did he. A bit more bright-eyed than usual, with the walk ahead instantly sobering him. “I would not be so bold to think I can do what these acrobats here have trained a lifetime for. But. I will go first.” 

Graham exhaled and stepped onto the tightrope. The sooner the lunacy was embraced, the sooner he could down another drink on the ground. The ones he had prior were merely liquid courage. More of a detriment than anything.

Not far into the slow walk, his focus narrowed to his base, to his legs. The acrobat shouted an instruction. Braços! Levante os braços! Unfortunately, Graham did not find it helpful. 

With every step he felt the a wiggle and give of the rope. Near the midpoint of the journey a too-quick and overconfident step caused him to freeze. Knees bent, one arm out, one arm reaching to find the balance to ride out a tidal sway of the rope. What damn good were his arms then if not for grabbing towards anything other than the air?

But he saved himself. Only to take a few more steps forward. Another shaky footstep forced him to overcompensate by leaning too far, and Graham lost his footing.

.

There were moments that Dominique clung to ardently, for people were not reliable. Like the brief gusts of wind they blow into her life, unrestrained and alluring in the way they pick up sand or petals in their path. They flutter in the wind, twisting in a waltz that left her speechless, enamored by the thrill of it all. And yet, as soon as they come, the wind bids her farewell, leaving her in disarray to brush the sand off her tiled pathways, shoving petals into a dustpan to dip into the trash or let them wilt and return to nature. That was what people like Graham were to her — limitless and finite all the same. Limitless in their approach, bringing her to new heights, but they all tired of her — they all left her. Some had left her before she could even admit their presence, and those that staid were an illusion to her. She could pass her fingers through them and they would filter through like silk. Eventually she grew tired of these exchanges, tired of feeling both limitless and finite all at once, so she did what she knew best — she fought, pushed away. 

She moved against the current that these gales provided, refusing to get caught up in them anymore; Dominique was a force in her own right, not one to cling to rocks through a storm, but to take it in full stride. It wasn’t the smartest approach, her governess warned her what a path shall lead to, but she didn’t care. It was a test, and anyone who couldn’t pass her trials simply wasn’t worth her time. If they couldn’t stay through her storm, why should she partake in their games? The ending was always the same anyway. But then, there was a shift of sorts, at least in the recent weeks since her time had dipped into London’s earl grey. Through gun smoke and fodder, it was in a forest that she met her match. One whose gaze didn’t waver from her steeled vision, one who shoved her just as hard. Graham challenged her, and for that she appreciated his presence, so long as it will last. 

Their struck matches of lust and admiration had led them to this tent of all places tonight, with her grabbing iron rods and ascending to heights unimagined to her. It was another game of the many they played, each seeking where the other would bend, but both were stubborn creatures in their own right. Perhaps it is something both of their fathers left them to figure out. The chill of the metal centered her as much as it could. Her throat constricted, eyes squeezing shut with a tight swallow as she halted. His name slipped out to ground her, worried the sweat from her palms would lead her to an early grave marked by careless ambition. She stared ahead, past the tent and through the bars as she called for him momentarily, hoping the sound of his name would guide her away from wanting to look down. And surprisingly, he answered her call. He didn’t leave her standing there alone. 

Her coffee coated eyes fled upwards, meeting his voice. He didn’t offer a hand, and even if he had they both knew how she would have responded. It was a small gesture, one that made her smile — one that made her feel less alone. Graham had a habit of doing that, one that left her feeling frustrated and confused, rare for a woman who always knew what she wanted. His words coaxed her forward, soothing her anxiety away. And once she reached the top, it took her everything not to exhale and collapse forward. Instead she remained level headed, grinned as if it were an easy feat, as if the next task were less perilous than the one they just conquered. He seemed to fit in this new plane, tenderly removing boots and setting them aside. Graham’s gaze and words held a different approach than she had known, one that suited the man. Then he stepped forward, and the world seemed to crumble. 

Instructions were called to him, in a way that seemed to weather the man’s determination. Dominique didn’t bother shouting at him, not wanting to distract, hugging herself to not think of what laid below. Graham seemed to have faired well, until like her something changed at the halfway point. And then, he fell. 

In that moment, Dominique didn’t have time to dwell on the fear that pulsed through her, didn’t have time to call for his name like she attempted before. Her hands shoved the instructor aside and with forceful steps she launched herself forward. It felt like an eternity to reach the bottom, and once she did her heart slammed into herself, landing on her side. Horn wedging itself in the net, she stayed there for a beat, breath rocky and body locking up on instinct. If he could see her eyes then, he would know pure fear burned in her. But if anything, anger fueled her more. With a jolt she freed herself from the netting, stumbling to her feet as she shakily and hastily made her way to him. Something felt wrong in her ankle, a slight stinging feeling which was evident in her gait. 

Collapsing to her knees once at his side, her braids cascaded down her shoulder, offering a thin veil for them. Her palm tapped the side of his face for a reaction initially before it cupped his jawline, commanding his attention yet oddly tender in touch; almost like he could break underneath her touch. “What the hell was that” she grumbled finally after watching him momentarily before continuing. The party raged on around them, as if no one noticed the incident but the instructors who made their way down the ladders. Thumb caressing his jaw, she leaned forward and lightly captured his lips in hers. It was feather light, starkly different than their prior heated moments. And once they parted, her panted breath warmed the two, muttering against him. “Fuck you Duke of Sussex.” It was a loaded phrase, one that spoke of this moment in both humor and frustration, yet one that spoke for their moments leading up to this. He wasn’t supposed to make her worry, hell, she didn’t expect herself to either. But in his words, Sussex would have her head if another duke of theirs had died, and she couldn’t forgive herself if something had happened to him because of her. 

[perles-noire]

I’m on hiatus but you know what it do babes🤪😘

@lions-seong

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🌸 Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Enjoy!

—

Honesty Hour: Send 💌 + any question and my muse will have to answer with complete honesty.

[perles-noire]

🎀 Who would my muse sleep with if nobody ever had to know?

she would absolutely hate fuck: @lordxfrederick @herr-herzog and potentially @sebastianofprussia 

[perles-noire]

🌟 What is my muse’s sexual/romantic orientation?

sorry gays, Dominique is heterosexual 😔

[perles-noire]

🍸 + what are your thoughts on getting married?

“Anyone would be out of their fucking mind to marry me. I’m not a safe option. I won’t readily spread my legs to pop a kid out or two. Hell, I don’t even think I have a maternal bone in my body. Kids like me, but more like that aunt they go to, to avoid their own parents.” 

takes long swing, completely depleting her whiskey and pouring a large glass

“Besides, anyone who knows the real me doesn’t like me afterward. And I can’t blame them. So the last thing I need is someone getting down on one knee to save me because they pity me.” 

another swing, cue frustrated laughter with running her hair out of her face, speaks in a low tone mostly to herself

“I’m so fucking exhausted of people pitying me, lying to me. I entered this world alone, and I will exit it the same.” fairytales aren’t for girls like me, they never were

[perles-noire]

@lions-seong

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🌸 Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Enjoy!

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Send me a symbol. Please note that some answers may be NSFW.

🌟 What is my muse’s sexual/romantic orientation? 💦 At what age did my muse lose their virginity? 😘 Would my muse have sex on the first date? 😊 Would my muse ever ask someone on a date? 👍 Does my muse prefer to be asked on a date, or would they rather do the asking? 😉 What are my muse’s kinks? 💬 When did my muse go on their first date? 💯 What is my muse’s ideal date? 💗 Has my muse ever been in love? 👠 What was my muse’s last serious relationship like? 👰 Would my muse ever get married? 🌼 Would my muse prefer a big wedding or a small wedding? 🍬 Is my muse a sub, dom, or switch? 🏩 What was my muse’s first time like? 🎆 Is my muse into monogamy? 💕 Would my muse ever be in a polyamorous relationship? 🔥 Would my muse ever be up for a threesome? 👮 Has my muse ever had sex in public? 💔 What was my muse’s first heartbreak? 💑 What are my muse’s requirements for a potential partner? 💋 How many people has my muse slept with? 👀 Is my muse the type to sleep around? 👎 Would my muse ever cheat on their partner? 😳 What was my muse’s worst romantic/sexual relationship? 💲Would my muse ever date/marry/sleep with someone because they were rich? 👓 Would my muse ever lie for sex? 🎀 Who would my muse sleep with if nobody ever had to know? 💍 Has my muse ever had a one-night stand? 💝 Does my muse like Valentine’s Day? 💘 What are the ways my muse says ‘I love you’ without actually saying it?

[perles-noire]

@lions-seong

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🌸 Each Friday (usually), we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Enjoy!

—

Send 🍸+ a question and my muse will answer while drunk.

[perles-noire]

grahamxsahi​:

She ate everything he doled out greedily, a broad grin pulling at her full lips hungrily, head dipping back into the velvet sheets as she cried out. His groans fueled her, fully aware of how she appeared; aware of the affect he had on her body. Like a knot and an experienced sailor, he knew where to pull and push her to unwind. She stole glimpses of him, the flush of his skin and slight sweat dappling his hairline made her bite her lips, lust burning all throughout her piercing gaze and neck. Lightening crackled in the background as he pulled back, earning a gasp that made her head swirl. All she saw was him in that moment, all she wanted was to feel him. Her hips rubbed against the fabric as they met each other, moving in tandem with him. 

Dominique didn’t dare look away from him, almost challenging him to look away first before he dove back into her, hissing in response as her back continued to arch. He pushed her further and further, driving her wild with every press of his fingers into her flesh. And just as she wrapped around him, he demandingly tugged her closer, both of them waging war on one another. Their surroundings melted like a paint under heat, melding into one as she climbed closer and closer. Rain water and her scent blended into one, and in that moment she wanted to replace it with his instead. Body tensed as she arched, his tongue slowed causing her to hiss in frustration. Hot air of his panting breath caused her to shiver, shooting him a glare as he stood up, her sitting up. Eyeing his body as he stripped, she met his wolfish grin with commanding words. “Who the hell told you to stop?” Graham would have to work a lot harder for her to beg, even though she was inching towards it earlier — no, she wouldn’t reward him just yet. 

As he shoved her legs over his shoulders, her hand reached down and pushed back his hair before roughly tugging it. It was as if a switch flipped, meeting her demands, causing her to curse in Arabic, crying out loudly. He didn’t need to know what she was saying, he could assume they weren’t kind. Then with a sudden jolt, her hand retreated, clinging onto his arm, digging into him as he did with her earlier whilst the other squeezed the bedding for support as if it could ground her. His name escaped her lips in a deep groan, tone unheard of before, hips shuddering under his touch as that knot in her stomach unwound. The room spun as she sharply sat up, her hand on his arm pulling him up as she crawled back onto the bed so he no longer had to kneel on the icy floor. Her left hand cupped his sweat mixed jawline, tasting herself on his lips with evident delight. 

Dominique didn’t believe in love, but fuck she loved the way he made her feel. 

Her hand slid down his forearm, nails dragging against his skin before her hand reached her destination. His length pulsed under her palm as she stroked it, lips wandering as she delivered kisses onto his neck. Leg hooking around his hips, she fell back against the bed fully, directing him into her. Face still against the nook of his neck, she pressed into his skin as she took him in, delivering a tender bite on his collar to stifle a loud groan. She didn’t bother being quiet, wanting him to have no doubt of the effect he had on her, despite her sharp words and glances. It was then he took control, shifting their positions to however he wanted as if she were just a doll. He made her feel small and delicate, despite being nearly the same height and anything but delicate. Beads of sweat met her roaming hands, thighs quivering under him as she sighed and cursed at him in various languages happily. Whenever she bit at him, he would meet her words ten times over, desperately trying to make her fold. He didn’t have to work so hard, as they continued her folding easier and more vocal each time. Damned whoever had the privilege of hearing them through her open balcony doors as rainwater drowned them out. 

His name became her prayer, it being no question who was in charge. She stopped attempting to flip him over whenever he commanded her, pinning her wrist behind or above at times to prevent her from doing so. The only time she did eventually was when she untangled herself from him, sensing when he was about to reach his peak. With worshipping licks her lips wrapped around his hardness, drinking every droplet obediently. Then with a toss of her curls and rock of her hips, she slunk forward once they were both spent, feeling his arms welcome her as she curled up to him. They were strangers hours earlier, and to some extent they still were despite him knowing the canvas of her body and the markings they inflicted on one another. The heavens cried furiously, their musk dissipating and eventually being replaced with the fresh aromas of baklava and other dishes her servants had prepared. Fingers dancing over his skin as her burnt honey eyes met his, she declared. “Next time, you’ll show me what games you like to play. Deal?”