Categories > Original > Fantasy > 131 Night End
Constantine Olivier slipped out of bed, feet falling to the carpet with grace. Word was that he had quit his drunken, debaucherous lifestyle, and gone straight and sober.
Sober was one thing, and straight was another. Sobriety was an easy enough pastime, but damn, was it dull! Besides, nobody understood that you couldn't just drop everything at once. Debauchery had to be watered down over a period of time. Straight debauchery on ice, if you please.
Bending down, Constantine retrieved a loose white men’s tunic. He knew for a fact that it wasn’t his, but as the saying went, finder’s keepers.
There was a groan behind him from the bed, and Constantine froze. The slow shuffle of sheets confirmed only a sleepy rollover, instead of a wakeup. Con slipped on the tunic, and went for a pair of pants that were possibly his.
“You’re up early.”
Constantine looked up, his blue eyes making contact with her dark brown ones.
“Well, baby-my-girl, I can’t stay, can I?” he responded, stepping into one of the pant legs.
She watched disinterestedly. “Those are his, not yours.”
“Mine now,” gasped Con, wiggling into them.
She tsked, looking over his appearance. “Those pants don’t suit you, my dear. I like them much better off.”
“Madame Karenina!” Constantine gasped in mock scandal. “The very nerve!”
“I know, darling, I know. What will my husband say?” she lamented, brushing a lock of frizzy black hair out of her eyes.
Constantine knelt on the edge of the bed, crawling to loom over her. “Hopefully, he’ll say zip nada,” he leaned in for a kiss.
Madame Karenina knotted her hands in the mop of Constantine’s blond hair. “Stay a little longer. I keep telling you, Konstantin, he’d join in, there wouldn’t be a problem.”
Constantine disentangled himself from her, shaking off her grasping fingers. “Anna, respect my nay-saying, woman. I need to go. I need to get dressed.”
Madame Karenina pouted. “It’s not even four in the morning, Konstantin!”
“Don’t shout so. You’ll wake your children.”
Kicking up a paisley-spattered shirt, Constantine wound the shirt around his head in a makeshift turban. His dark blue overcoat was thrown on the floor, and Con picked that up easily, throwing it up over his shoulder. He glanced back, seeing Madame Karenina sitting in the middle of her bed, arms resting on drawn-up knees. She was still extraordinarily beautiful despite the fourteen year age gap between the two of them.
“I love you,” whispered Constantine, cracking open the bedroom door.
“And I you, Konstantin,” murmured Madame Karenina.
The drive from the Karenina manor to Ropeworth wouldn’t be peaceful or idyllic under any other circumstance, but at four in the morning, the streets were relatively clear, save for the random cars full of party goers.
The occupant of 23 Grimmauld place knew enough to leave the fire escape down, and Constantine climbed up the rickety ladder to a bedroom window. Knocking on the glass, Constantine adjusted his shirt-turban and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long, however, for the window to be opened.
“What on Earth are you wearing?”
“It is I, Sultan Constantine! I tire of my harem of beautiful women, and indeed, of women in general, and have come to make you mine!” declared Constantine, resting a hand on the window ledge.
The opener of the window rolled his eyes, grabbing at the front of Constantine’s shirt. “Get in here, you ridiculous boy, before you die of embarrassment.”
“Dorian, glorious Dorian, you know that’s impossible.”
Dorian Gray pulled Constantine through the window, twining his fingers with Con’s. “How long are you staying this time, Mr. Olivier?” he asked, giving a maddening half-smile.
“Until you’re satisfied,” said Constantine, moving in to kiss him. Con could feel Dorian smile into the kiss, much like Madame Karenina would do sometimes.
But this was different. Dorian was different.
“I’m having my father over tomorrow. You should swing by, perform a few tricks?” asked Dorian, hands settling on Constantine’s hips. “And where on Earth did you get these pants, darling? They don’t suit you at all. They’re hideous!”
Sober was one thing, and straight was another. Sobriety was an easy enough pastime, but damn, was it dull! Besides, nobody understood that you couldn't just drop everything at once. Debauchery had to be watered down over a period of time. Straight debauchery on ice, if you please.
Bending down, Constantine retrieved a loose white men’s tunic. He knew for a fact that it wasn’t his, but as the saying went, finder’s keepers.
There was a groan behind him from the bed, and Constantine froze. The slow shuffle of sheets confirmed only a sleepy rollover, instead of a wakeup. Con slipped on the tunic, and went for a pair of pants that were possibly his.
“You’re up early.”
Constantine looked up, his blue eyes making contact with her dark brown ones.
“Well, baby-my-girl, I can’t stay, can I?” he responded, stepping into one of the pant legs.
She watched disinterestedly. “Those are his, not yours.”
“Mine now,” gasped Con, wiggling into them.
She tsked, looking over his appearance. “Those pants don’t suit you, my dear. I like them much better off.”
“Madame Karenina!” Constantine gasped in mock scandal. “The very nerve!”
“I know, darling, I know. What will my husband say?” she lamented, brushing a lock of frizzy black hair out of her eyes.
Constantine knelt on the edge of the bed, crawling to loom over her. “Hopefully, he’ll say zip nada,” he leaned in for a kiss.
Madame Karenina knotted her hands in the mop of Constantine’s blond hair. “Stay a little longer. I keep telling you, Konstantin, he’d join in, there wouldn’t be a problem.”
Constantine disentangled himself from her, shaking off her grasping fingers. “Anna, respect my nay-saying, woman. I need to go. I need to get dressed.”
Madame Karenina pouted. “It’s not even four in the morning, Konstantin!”
“Don’t shout so. You’ll wake your children.”
Kicking up a paisley-spattered shirt, Constantine wound the shirt around his head in a makeshift turban. His dark blue overcoat was thrown on the floor, and Con picked that up easily, throwing it up over his shoulder. He glanced back, seeing Madame Karenina sitting in the middle of her bed, arms resting on drawn-up knees. She was still extraordinarily beautiful despite the fourteen year age gap between the two of them.
“I love you,” whispered Constantine, cracking open the bedroom door.
“And I you, Konstantin,” murmured Madame Karenina.
The drive from the Karenina manor to Ropeworth wouldn’t be peaceful or idyllic under any other circumstance, but at four in the morning, the streets were relatively clear, save for the random cars full of party goers.
The occupant of 23 Grimmauld place knew enough to leave the fire escape down, and Constantine climbed up the rickety ladder to a bedroom window. Knocking on the glass, Constantine adjusted his shirt-turban and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long, however, for the window to be opened.
“What on Earth are you wearing?”
“It is I, Sultan Constantine! I tire of my harem of beautiful women, and indeed, of women in general, and have come to make you mine!” declared Constantine, resting a hand on the window ledge.
The opener of the window rolled his eyes, grabbing at the front of Constantine’s shirt. “Get in here, you ridiculous boy, before you die of embarrassment.”
“Dorian, glorious Dorian, you know that’s impossible.”
Dorian Gray pulled Constantine through the window, twining his fingers with Con’s. “How long are you staying this time, Mr. Olivier?” he asked, giving a maddening half-smile.
“Until you’re satisfied,” said Constantine, moving in to kiss him. Con could feel Dorian smile into the kiss, much like Madame Karenina would do sometimes.
But this was different. Dorian was different.
“I’m having my father over tomorrow. You should swing by, perform a few tricks?” asked Dorian, hands settling on Constantine’s hips. “And where on Earth did you get these pants, darling? They don’t suit you at all. They’re hideous!”
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