/ˈɒpjʊl(ə)ns,ˈɒpjʊləns/
⇒noun
great wealth or luxuriousness.
"you taste of melancholia and rotting pain"
"and you, of an opulence that courses within the broken veins of a decaying dynasty"
cover by @plutoqissed
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─ · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─
She allowed her feather duster to waltz upon the mahogany architecture of the imperial walls that fermented themselves upon the Thrombey mansion ; honeydew hymns spilt from her cherry sorbet lips, an ode to boredom.
Then a faint door creek mumbled into her ears, its coarser reverberance - the front door, she recognised. Accompanied by it came deep growls and episodic barks of the house dogs, they seemed to grow louder and stink of malice.
Anya knew right then who had entered the mansion, it was him. Her frame shifted outside the study, her steady steps echoed across the room as if they were falling raindrops on a cold winter night. With the elapse of a halted second the halls above rumbled with a plethora of footsteps, worried whispers and perturbed voices seemed to cascade down the staircase.
It had only taken a second - or was it the symbilline presence of a certain someone, to collapse this manor into a scintillating entropy.
She made her way down the corridor, the voices burned louder as the door shut with a rather familiar voice "Fucking dogs! Pieces of shit." He groaned, the depths of his voice diffused into the nerve fibres that lay upon Anya's brain, she could no longer repress the tidal wave of memories that came crashing into the broken shores of her consciousness.
"What the hell" "Why are you back?" "What's happened now?" "Oh lord" "Why's he back?" "Is that..." "Wait, what happened to him?" "Back already to steal again eh?"Just as Anya had got to the scene all she saw was a huddle of bodies and within them, his face, at the center towering over everyone else.
His usual slicked hair fell into a tangled mess upon his beige skin, their mocha strands ruffled at the seams. His face wore a scruffy beard with pigments of scarlet blood dispersed upon them. Delicate amethyst bruises dressed his cheekbone and carved upon his bubblegum lips.
His cobalt orbs made from the skys' summer glow analysed the worry and disdain in his family's cadavers, and all that damned man could do was churn his mouth into a condescending smirk with molecules of exasperation.
He walked between them, their bodies melodically parted as if the red sea, he finally sat on the couch as their voices, statements and fragmented questions merged into a bundle of intangible noise.
"First of all I never stole from this shithole, it was that damned maid we had last time" His voice skinned the miscellaneous noise as everyone grew silent. Demanding a sense of skewed pride.
The weight of his voice bore deep into her epidermis, how she yearned to attach her eyes upon his broad frame, she wanted to run her halcyon finger down his rugged cascade and ask him if he was okay. She continued to watch from afar, where no one had noticed her drinking up the scene.
She craved him but oh, Hugh Ransom Drysdale was sin incarnate.
