Cursed Place - unused snippets

#1 - a cleaned-up snippet I drafted back when Amadeus was the second RO. Featuring his demon contractor ahem demon cat - Yael.

Though from the outside, the building is dilapidated and overgrown by moss, the interior is luxurious beyond measure. Not only that, but the rooms are incredibly well-maintained, which is peculiar if you consider the absolute lack of servants.

The point stands, the manor is tended to quite regularly, but you can’t imagine Amadeus doing the chores himself. That’d leave Yael... Honestly, it’s more believable to say that his pet doubles as a cleaning service. More logically, though, the staff has to come through the servant corridors, and you just never caught a glimpse of them.

But cleaning is one thing, decor is another. The floor is spotless, the tapestries dusted, the fireplaces forever burning. And yet it’s the freshly cut flowers that give you a pause, being changed every day without a failure.

Despite the overall neatness, you’ve noticed at least two spiders in the living room - their webs hidden by the massive wooden furniture - but no other insects or animals, even those you’d expect to see this deep in the wilderness.

When you ask about it in passing, Amadeus only shrugs noncommittally. It doesn’t surprise you: he’s not one to offer information willingly.

Briefly, you consider inquiring about the servants as well. You don’t; it would be against your upbringing to be that impolite towards your host. Besides, it’s none of your business how Amadeus decides to run his household. With a quick look at the feast laid on the cocktail table, you can attest that he manages it quite successfully.

Amidst the lavish dishes, in the middle of the small circular desk, lies a black fuzzy cat. She was asleep when you came in, but she roused when you sat down. Her single green eye blinks at you mischievously, though she doesn’t make a move to touch your plate.

Sitting by the opposite end, Amadeus flips through the newspaper with undying indifference. His brow doesn’t even arch as he reads the recollection of the gruesome murder that brought a grimace even to your own face - really, the detailed drawing was far from necessary given the magnitude of the carnage. Some things, after all, are best left to one’s imagination.

Either annoyed into responding or simply having enough of your attention, Amadeus looks up. He has to misunderstand your intention - or perhaps he interprets it all too well - because without prompting he says, “Not this time.”

For a third party, the segue would be nonsensical at best, but you know what he means. You nod.

There’s no reason for him to lie, especially not to you. Reckoning the circumstances of your firs— ah, second meeting when he mauled a man for you, that specific peculiarity of his is far from a secret. If the article depicted one of his victims, he would have been upfront about it. Or, as upfront as he ever is.

[if mc_background: general]

Amadeus has been informed of who you are - how, and by whom, you have no idea - and yet he lets you stay here.

Likewise, you know who he is and what he does. Maybe if you were a better person, it would have bothered you. It doesn’t.

[else:]

Amadeus is aware of your background, and of the fact that your character prevents you from overly caring for others - whether you like it or not, you can’t afford to. Perhaps that’s why he hadn't disposed of you when he had the chance.

It soothes your conscience, though, that he’s not mauling the innocent.

You have an accord, and you found that the situation suits you just fine. There’s just something in the way he looks at you, like he could swallow you whole. Unnerving.

Or maybe it’s just his default expression. His placid, dull amber eyes, stern but handsome face, and lips always on the verge of twisting into a smile but never moving one way or the other. He’s stiff but languid. Simultaneously prim, though not exactly proper. With a rough edge to him.

“Pass me the steak,” he states after a while, returning to his morning lecture. His tone carries an undertone of steel you immediately associate with a person used to being heard and obeyed. It’s different from his usual closed-off way of carrying himself. His mien slips when he’s distracted - like he’s forgetting himself. Like you used to.

Like you do. “You have hands.”

His head shots up at the same moment your mouth closes with a zip. The puzzled frown that begins to build up on his brow dissipates as quickly as it grows.

There’s a tense second, so tense that Yael seems to sense it. Her short tail swishes left-to-right as though in anticipation. Then, Amadeus laughs - a short, if melodious sound - and the cat seems startled by it. Almost as much as you.

For all the mysteries that are still left between you, there’s no need for words at that moment. It’s like he recognizes himself in you. Like you recognize yourself in him. Your past is different but interwoven.

As if attaining the same conclusion, the corner of Amadeus’ mouth twitches in what you understand is amusement. Rare sight, that.

Holding your gaze captive, he places the newspaper on the table. Then, deliberately slow, he rises from his seat. His tall posture, even in a fitted gown, makes him appear overbearing as he towers over you. When he leans forward to get hold of the plate that sits by your elbow, you get a good whiff of his scent - tobacco he chews to stay awake longer, the outdoors. Nothing artificial.

His gloved fingers brush against your skin, making you break into goosebumps. You swallow involuntarily, hoping he doesn’t notice, and knowing full well that he wouldn’t let it slip either way. You know danger when you see it, but you can’t tell, with all honesty, if that’s what to blame for your reaction. It would be easier if it was.

Without breaking eye contact, he sits back down to slice a large piece of the nearly raw steak and elegantly puts it into his mouth. He chews it about thirty times, then licks the remnants of blood from his lips.

A beat passes. He places the plate with the rest of the steak - cut into neat cubes - in front of you. “Eat.” His voice is... warm. Tender. Suddenly, all the words elude you.

After a pre-breakfast snack, you’re hardly hungry. Amadeus’ stomach is bottomless, however. He eats, so neatly it’s easy to overlook, but on a bad day, he can clean the dinner table on his lonesome. Now, he’s sharing his meal with you.

“What about you?” you ask, just to break the silence. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Considering your question with more care than it warrants, he lightly tilts his head to the side. He takes a deep breath of what you assume is the aroma of various dishes, and his eyelids curl into half-mast. “I am.” And there’s the flash of canines, a little too long and sharp to be considered average, to certify his words.

The cat huffs a loud breath, jumping off the table and strutting away. If she were a human, you’d call the outburst glee. She is a cat, though, it would be foolish to think she means anything by it.

“Eat,” Amadeus repeats once you’re alone. Intent, almost cooing.

You reach for the fork.

#2 - a short Amadeus’ POV

For years, his life was stagnant. Not that he minded personally. It’s only that he notices the difference. The outlandishness of finding himself at the point where the fresh air tastes pungent. Lacking. When the blood on his tongue is tart instead of sweet.

It reminds him of masquerade, of the plays the nobles indulge in. But there’s something more exciting in it, more primal.

He shifts. Seconds pass, and before he realizes it he’s back home, led there as though on a leash. The comparison isn’t off-putting, on the contrary, it’s quite welcome.

With great impatience, of which he didn’t think himself capable, he pushes the door open and— something warm and heavy settles in his ribs, flowing like liquid honey, pooling in the pit of his stomach, making his chest vibrate.

Every wall, every tapestry, every inch of the manor is saturated in that smell. He ought to find it troubling: having barely gotten accustomed to the stench of death coming from Yael in waves, with another person in his den, he thought he’d find it unbearable.

Withal, his little sibling’s toy *is* a bit special.

Ah, there’s something sour in that thought. It amazes him a bit, so he runs the sentence in his head. Dissects it.

It’s fast work. He’s not dense, but it does take him by surprise. The implication of it. It’s the ‘his sibling's’ part that rubs him the wrong way. He’s never minded letting that child get away with everything, but this time he feels his hackles rise, and he’s not even shifted anymore.

Well, there’s a flash of guilt, as rare an emotion as it might be, but he shrugs it off. How did the saying go... ‘Finders keepers?’ Yes, that.

As he walks down the hallway, it’s with ease he hasn’t felt in years, to the beat of a heart. His own slows down to match it.

#3 - an unused scene with MC and Modesto/a

As every morning during the summer, Modesto/a lounges on the settee by the window, sunbathing in the safety of the insect-free manor.

His/Her eyes twinkle when he/she sees you enter through the door he/she’s left ajar. Undoubtedly, there’s an accompanying jibe prepared, already rolling off the tip of his/her tongue. Thus, it’s in your best interest to interrupt it before it gets out of hand.

“Snacks,” you say, belatedly remembering to add, “My Lord/Lady.”

When he/she opens his/her mouth, that’s just what you’re waiting for. You pop the largest grape you can find between his/her teeth, and with the other hand, you jerk his/her jaw up.

The scrunched-up expression forces you to break into a fit of laughter, but both outbursts last but a second.

Modesto/a stares at you with eyes wide, swallowing thickly the unchewed piece of fruit just to clear his/her mouth to speak. But when he/she’s done, not a sound comes out. The genuine admiration clams you up like his/her over-the-top flirting never does. The attention is hard to handle.

Perhaps that’s why you’re so yielding when he/she takes a grape and parrots your earlier action. The taste is syrupy and a bit tart. Cloyingly so, instead of refreshing. But maybe that’s just the flavor of your emotions talking.

A lord/lady feeding his/her servant... What did the world come to, huh? At least Modesto/a finds the novel idea interesting, as he/she does it again.

This time, he/she retrieves his/her hand a bit too slowly, and your tongue grazes his/her fingertips. You both freeze.

[] Then, you reel away.

Then, you reel away, as if burned. His/Her skin is hot enough to scald, slightly wet with the droplets left on the fruit after you gave the bunch a rinse.

In the small eternity that follows, you prepare yourself inwardly for anything he/she might throw your way: for him/her to come to his/her senses, to chase you out.

Something contrary happens instead. Eyes all pupils, he/she licks his/her lips, as if chasing the taste. Vinegar, you mind supplies, but he/she doesn’t even squint.

You don’t know what kind of expression you’re making, but it can’t be anything good, seeing as the smile that appears on Modesto/a’s face turns downright predatory. “Thank you for the snack.”

It’s a different side of him/her you’re not used to yet. It startles you enough that you forget to remark about his new-found manners.

“You—”

Trying for indignant, you fail miserably. Your expression schools into a perfect mask, and your voice doesn’t even tremble. And yet it’s as though Modesto/a knows what you’re trying to hide. Like he/she can sense it in a way that’s beyond your understanding.

In the same way, you suppose, you know that if you didn’t like it, he/she would never touch you. There aren’t many things you are certain of, but this. This you can bet on.

Modesto/a is careless but perceptive. You noticed it when he/she was entertaining his/her guests. He/She’s unlike anyone you've ever met. A walking, talking - yammering - contradiction. Your extended tutelage didn’t prepare you for the likes of him/her. What an oversight.

“Yes?” You answer after he/she calls your name. “What is it?”

With a smile that’s as wicked as it is angelic, and a minute - though deliberate - glance at your hand, he/she asks, “Can I have a second helping?”

“Second and third,” you mumble, shoving the plate into his/her chest, spilling the fruit and thus forcing him/her to catch it. “Enjoy your meal.”

He/She squeaks at the mess, but the noise soon turns into giggles. “Oh, I will!”

Though Modesto/a lets you go without a fuss, you can feel the heat of his/her stare on the back of your neck. Pointed enough to make you shiver.

[] You move first.

You move first as if hypnotized. The slack-jawed expression on that usually cocky face sets your sense of propriety and reason aflame.

You can’t explain it in any logical way that would leave you with some semblance of dignity. It’s just a need that has you reaching for another grape. The pattern repeats, only now you can’t stop yourself from pushing your thumb alongside the fruit, pressing it against Modesto/a’s waiting tongue.

He/She looks starving. A thirst that isn’t quenched by the fruit he/she bites in half, teasing the edges of his/her teeth over your knuckles, pulling your finger deeper.

When you pull away, he/she all but whines, a pitifully needy sound that forces you to slide your hand downwards from where it paused around his/her lips. Then lower still, to feel his/her throat move as he/she gulps the fruit down.

From the tips of your fingers, a trail of wetness meanders the smooth line of his/her neck, over his/her collarbone only to disappear in the slip of his/her shirt. You want to follow its trail with your mouth.

The forwardness of your own thinking has you stepping away in a hurry. Much to Modesto/a’s apparent dissatisfaction. He/She rises after you, as though in a daze, and in the brightness of the sun, you could swear his/her eyes flash red.

It’s captivating more than alarming, but in your reverie, the plate slips from your grasp, crashing on the floor with a noise that sobers you up instantly. “Pardon me—”

“Leave it,” Modesto/a interrupts, not even glancing at the mess. He/She steps over the shards, crushing some under the heel of his/her knee-high boots like it’s dirt rather than priceless china.

“My Lord/My Lady—”

“I said, leave it.”

You consider it for a split second, but whatever spell he/she’s pulled you under is over now, and your head clouds with doubts, ‘what-ifs’ and ‘shouldn’ts’.

“I’ll bring a maid.”

“No, yo—” Modesto/a halts. Breathing heavily, he/she shakes his/her head as if to clear it. “No need,” he/she says in the end, tone small but sharp. “Dismissed.”

You don’t need to be told twice, but that’s not to say you don’t hesitate. You retreat, though, catching Modesto/a’s expression as it changes. Of all things, you didn’t expect there to be guilt.

It’s almost enough to make you backtrack, but the door slams closed behind you, leaving you bereft.

***

Modesto/a: I’m so cool, I’m so suave, a real hottie, a heartbreak—

MC: laughs and smiles

Modesto/a, having a heart attack: holy shit holy shit holy sh—

Also Modesto/a: gets teased once, almost outs self as a shifter 🤭