a little kink [the It's Curtains kink meme]

[stagemanagers]

shamelessly ripped from the Dangan Roleplay kink meme

GUIDELINES/RULES:

• All requests- smut, fluff, gen, or otherwise (alternate murders, anyone?)- are welcome so long as it's about It's Curtains. Fic and art fills are all good.

• This is for all rounds of It's Curtains. Intermingled cast requests ("what if so-so and so-so from this and that round met?") are acceptable.

• Stay anon because it's funner that way.

• Use proper trigger/content warnings for sensitive and/or offensive subjects, just like you would in a game proper. If you don't, it will be deleted.

• This is a judge free zone; however, be mindful of character ages, esp. in regards to the younger characters.

• If you do not want your character to be involved with the smut or things that make you uncomfortable please contact me. A list is being prepared to remind everyone.
• Respect player wishes if they ask to not have their character be in smut, or anything out of their comfort zone. Again, comments in violation will be deleted.

Have fun, darlings! If any rules are violated please don't hesitate to to PM this account or alert one of the mods.

 

 

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

For a while after the Opera, life is a whirlwind of activity. Cosette has been beside herself, and though Valjean has plenty of proof, the story of his extended absence is a difficult one to swallow. Perhaps, he thinks, she's just unused to hearing the full truth from him. And then there's the move - he has no desire to clutter his daughter and son-in-law's lives when Eliza has so graciously opened her home to him, but even with the Balladeer's assistance, transoceanic relocations are a lot of work.

The Inspector has joined them as well. It's a testament to their time in the Opera that no one has really questioned this.

It's several months until the next time Valjean has a quiet morning alone in the house. Eliza has gone to speak to some old friends of her husband's, and Javert is seeing to some lingering business in his own version of Paris. Valjean and Eliza were cautious with him once, but by now they both trust that he shall return. Of course, Valjean enjoys both their company very much, but this quiet is something to savor as well. It’s a lovely morning, the crisp beginnings of March, and in the yard the pale green of new leaves speckle the trees. He puts a kettle on to boil. Is it too cold still to take his breakfast outside?

There is a knock at the door.

Valjean opens it and stiffens. The Leading Player’s face is turned away, as if studying the vines starting to crawl along their doorstep, but she thrusts a hand out towards him as soon as he appears. She's holding his candlestick, the one he gave her right before she ended the show. To light her way back home, even if someone as powerful as her might not need it. "Here,” she says briskly. “No room for this with my troupe's props, thought you might want it back."

He takes it, and wordlessly she turns and starts to walk away, heels clicking on the cobblestones. The sound jolts him back into action. "My deepest apologies – “ he calls, starting down the front steps after her. “ - you startled me. Would you like to come in?"

The look she turns on him is suspicious. "Come in?"

"Yes. I'm making tea. If you like, you can have a cup."

The Player stands for a moment on the street. It's still that quiet hour of morning when the world is still, before the wheels of the town have thought to click into motion. She stands out in the pale spring like ink spilled over empty canvas, still dressed all in black, the angle of her bare shoulders sharp. He thinks she must be cold.

"...you and him did that, didn't you?"

Valjean knows who she means. "Yes, we did. A few times a week, at least, before Jezebel."

Her head drops, and she nods. A second passes. She turns on her heel, making her way up the steps and inside without looking at him. "Fine. Let's see what was so special about it."

Really, he doubts the tea made that great a difference. She should talk to D-ne, perhaps; she was always closest with the Balladeer. But he keeps that thought to himself and ushers her to take a seat in the kitchen. She doesn't speak, and he's content to prepare the tea in silence. "Would you care for a muffin?" he asks finally, breaking the quiet as he fills her cup.

"Sure." She's distracted, looking out the window, drumming the elegantly-shaped nails of one hand against the table. "So, what do we do now?"

Valjean takes the seat across from her. "We drink and eat, and make conversation."

The Leading Player scoffs lightly. "We've got nothing to talk about. What do you know about what I do?"

"Not much," he concedes. "Will you tell me about it?"

She fixes him with an appraising stare. “…okay. Me and the troupe are looking for a new place to set up shop. We’ve always done Pippin before, when there’s nothing special going on. Like your show.” Valjean can’t tell if it’s meant to be a compliment or insult, so he just nods. “But I don’t feel like going through all that bullshit again. It usually turns out the same way…”

He nods, taking a sip of his tea. That wasn’t especially enlightening, but he’s listened to the Balladeer talk about shows before, enough to understand the main points. “And you’re worried that you’ll lose the audience, if you don’t do something?”

“Exactly!” She gestures sharply, then takes a bite of her muffin. “I’m just trying to give the people what they want! It’s not my fault they keep changing their damn minds!”

“That must be frustrating.” Valjean can’t speak to the particulars of this audience. It’s all a little beyond him. But he knows what the Balladeer has said about roles – how she’s being what she was created to be, on their behalf. How terrible, to try and please someone over and over, only to fail at every turn. “Perhaps you could do something small and simple, for the moment? I don’t know about your crew, but all of us are taking quite a bit of time to recover after the…events of our show.” That is outrageous, comparing their suffering to whatever toll inflicting it may have taken on her and her crew. Valjean would have never said such a thing if any of the others were here; even he can't really support it. But they are not, and he hasn't let her into his home for some sort of suffering competition. “I have never been a theatre-goer, but maybe Shakespeare? That seems reliable enough.”

“Shakespeare.” The Player snorts and turns to look out the window again, expression unreadable. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“A comedy, even, if you’re really looking for something different.” Valjean follows her gaze thoughtfully. There’s a couple of birds on the tree outside, forming what looks like the start of a nest in its branches. “Or you could take a break entirely. Do something else, or do nothing at all. Enjoy each other's company."

She frowns at him, a line creasing her perfect brows. "What, just like that?"

"Just like that."

"I've never done that with them. I guess maybe - " The Player goes abruptly silent, taking a long draw of tea. It must still be quite hot; Valjean winces a little. "Well, whatever. Nice talk, I guess."

She sounds vaguely uncertain, but there's no hesitation as she stands to leave. The muffin is still mostly uneaten before her, and she’s only taken half her tea. Oh, that was an exposed nerve, wasn't it? Valjean rises to see her out, though really she's barely been here. "It was good to see you again," he tells her as he opens the door, and it isn't entirely a lie. He has wondered what became her since they all escaped that place. He's glad to have an answer. "If you like, you could come back the same time next week? I am usually alone in the mornings for a while."

“Seriously?” She looks down her nose at him, somehow, though he is the taller one. It should be intimidating. But Valjean is intimidated by very little – he shares his home with Inspector Javert, what can touch him now? More than that, he remembers the way her grand act fizzled out before them, and the sharp grimace with which she’d packed everything up and hurried off, avoiding the Balladeer’s eyes. She said that she was erasing herself from the narrative. What does that mean when a narrator says it?

He holds her gaze, until finally she gives him a jagged little smile and looks away. “Huh. Okay, sure, why not. You know – I know who you’re supposed to be, Jean Valjean, but you oughta learn that you can take this mercy thing too far.”

“I have been told that,” he replies with a smile. “Next week, then.” The Leading Player shakes her head and walks away, vanishing into thin air before she’s even left his sight.

[(Anonymous)]

still flawless, anon <3 I'm so glad I tracked this whole damn post because this is great! LP narrating Shakespeare, now that I'd love to see