2. IN YOUR TOP-LEVEL, INCLUDE AS MANY DIALOGUE OPTIONS AS YOU WANT. FEEL FREE TO USE THIS GENERATOR FOR INSPIRATION. OR THIS ONE. OR ANY, OF THEM. THERE ARE SO MANY.
01. "Can't you see that I'm busy?" 02. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" 03. "You can't or you won't?" 04. "Have you eaten anything today?"
My darling man, I was up until sunrise this morning in the embrace of that high priestess of the demimonde, la fée verte. Of course I haven't eaten anything today.
Perish the thought! She is my muse and I am her slave.
[How does he spin this nonsense when he's slumped on Léon's sofa in last night's party clothes? The mystery of the poet class.
He does take the coffee, and the rich, toasted smell does perk him up and he sits up. The green fairy isn't the only thing that keeps him up at night and the warmth of coffee in his chest and belly is a ward against those other things as well.]
Thank you. That is good for the soul, I'll grant you.
[He feels about on his dinner jacket until he finds his cigarette case, balancing it on his knee as he draws out one of his gold-tipped Egyptian cigarettes.]
[ Whether he is talking about a smoke for the coffee or coffee for absinthe, it isn't wholly clear. Under any circumstances, he accepts the offer and picks out a cigarette, looking around for a light and finding a box of matches next to a pair of candlesticks on the table. He lights them in the evening, if he needs light to work. Otherwise, he spares them, sleeps, drinks in the darkness on particularly gloomy evenings.
Now, he holds the box out, another exchange back and forth. ]
We might as well reduce our souls to ashes, now we are at it.
[Lately, Dorian will accept when his friends are merely "alive".]
Well, I suppose that would be good for your work. Not a lot of landscape painting to be done in the city, I imagine. And a vineyard! You'll be swimming in wine! And you'll get paid!
[ How does Léon survive among optimists? God knows. He huffs out a breath and smokes his cigarette, turning his head to blow the smoke away from Dorian's reclining figure. ]
The city is good for network, but nothing truly touches a man's heart like the open landscape. No person opens up like the hillside or a field after harvest. They are truer things.
[He makes a face. A city creature born and bred, with new fears of late that make the prospect of the open country and sprawling estates all the more chilling. But instead of trying to articulate the nausea he feels at the idea of an open sky, especially at night, he chooses to be glib, as usual. He breathes an affected sigh.]
Oh Léon...still searching for your 'truer things' even in this artificial age. Why, they even dye flowers for men's buttonholes nowadays.
[Dorian is in fact wearing such a buttonhole: an entire dahlia dyed a lurid malachite green.]
[ There's just a long, silent look at the dahlia in question, completely disapproving, a hard draw to his lips, like the cigarette tastes bad. It doesn't, it's the only good thing on the table currently.
Dyed flowers. Green dahlias in buttonholes. My God. He doesn't say it, but the eyes can say a lot on their own. ]
Soon they'll paint your faces green, too, and claim you came from the moon. Or scarlet like the devils from Hell.
[ That dahlia was fine the way it was, he means. As men are fine the way they are. ]
If you ever came out with me to Cabaret de l'Enfer you could see any number of beautiful men painted scarlet like devils already!
[Dorian does so love the theatre of the demimonde, where nothing is real. It makes it harder to tell the macabre theatre from the waking nightmares he's been plagued by of late. And it means he can be a wholly artificial beast himself, burying any trace of his own vulnerable self behind the gilding of the dandy. He's sure it irritates the older man to no end, but in his way Dorian is also fascinated by Léon for being utterly his opposite.]
[ It's difficult, being a good, Norman Catholic in Paris these days, the city forgives nothing in terms of sins and pleasure and it isn't because Léon abstains, but regret is a consequence of choosing not to and it forgives just as little as Paris does.
He walks over to the sofa on which Dorian is lying, looking down at him pointedly. ]
Move your feet.
[ He needs a seat and he needs a seat near you. Too few people visit him, unless he owes them money. ]
[Dorian will visit absolutely anybody as he has an almost obsessive fear of being alone. He obligingly lets his long legs slide off the sofa so that Léon can sit. For half a moment he considers laying his legs in the older man's lap but that might be a bridge too far so he lets them dangle. A posture too boyish for a man of nearly thirty but it is what it is.]
If Hell is full of such beautiful devils as you see in L'enfer then I suppose it's just as well that I'll probably go there, eh?
[Like many Aesthetic young men, especially those attracted to their own sex (though Dorian doesn't really see the need to give up women for men or vice versa), he has a far more lackadaisical approach to his own adoption of Catholicism. Attracted by the blood and ritual, the writhing contorted forms of the saints with their upturned ecstatic faces but without the guilt or discipline. Spiritual tourism, a pose much like the rest of himself, much like his trips to those tawdry cabarets. Merely for the thrill, a distraction for the sickness in his soul.]
[ Sitting down, Léon extends his own legs out in front of himself, crossing them a the ankles and folding his hands in his lap for a moment, until he notices Dorian's feet at an awkward angle, hanging off the sofa, so he leans down and scoops them up, placing them wordlessly in his lap. An invitation.
They're not in Hell yet and perhaps, that's all for the better. They must make do of the time they have before Judgement and before whatever end awaits them.
[To Dorian, Léon feels like a grouchy old tomcat that he's been determined to befriend, so when the older man lifts his limbs into his lap it delights him in some foolish way.
Almost enough to take the edge off the fact that his thoughts had, momentarily, strayed to the thought of his own death for a half second. Too long for his liking, really. He blows a jet of bluish smoke at the ceiling plaster to push away the nervy feeling.]
You should come out with me for lunch, if you don't have any work to do this afternoon.
{{1890s Paris/NYC/London. Base setting is Weird/cosmic horror.}} 1. "Step away from the window." 2. "I saw something, I swear!" 3. "I can't sleep, I've tried everything." 4. "You might want to pace yourself." 5. "I'm not wearing that, it's awful!"
Dorian keeps rubbing his eyes, slumped on a bench. The street teems with people despite the late-- or perhaps early-- hour. But none of them pay any attention to the young man who had just burst from a side lane frightened for his life.
Madness is so common as to be blasé in Paris, nowadays.
"I thought it was just a group of ordinary people." He whimpers. "But when they all turned to look at me their faces were..." He drops his voice to a pained whisper. "Only skulls!"
Benedict hummed softly under his breath. The answer was a startling one but he didn't seem to react much beyond the low noise of contemplation. It was sad, or horrific, when seeing skulls was the least worrisome thing in one's life these days.
Well, he'd traveled here for a reason. This was as good a place to start as any.
"Do you think you could show me?" He was afraid that might be asking too much but he went with it anyway.
1. Sometimes I really think you have a death wish. 2. What makes you think I’m going to fuck you? 3. Was that supposed to confuse and distract me, or do you just like the sound of your voice? 4. When you talk like that, I can’t tell if you want to tuck him in at night or stuff him and hang him on your wall. 5. [ wildcard ]
Benedict Fox | The Last Case of Benedict Fox | OTA
1. "Do you think it was real?" 2. "Try another key. It has to be one of them." 3."That's unusual. Do you think they heard me, Benedict?" "Maybe? We could just ask them." 4. "I don't think that was intentional."
1.“Is this how you flirt with everyone?” 2.“Shh, don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of you.” 3."You didn't have to walk me home." 4."Well, don't stand there in the rain. Come on." 5."You can't just come into my life and go right out of it. I won't let you." 6."Are you going to keep looking at me like that or are you actually going to kiss me?"
It's been raining on and off for several days in the City at this point, for reasons nobody can determine. The sky will be clear and blue, summer-hot, and then suddenly freezing rain will start bucketing down, despite there not being a cloud in the sky. Johanna has evidently been caught on Arman'ds doorstep in one of these downpours without even her trench coat for protection: she looks like a drowned rat who'd like to murder something.
In a remarkable moment of happenstance, Armand is already in the foyer of his apartment building and in much the same state. There's a tote slung over his shoulder, clinking glass every time he moves, chucks squeaking on the tile floor as he doubles back at the sound of Johanna's voice. He steps into the dim light coming from the outside evening, holding the door open for her, stoically dripping water from every curl on his head to the hem of his shirt and delivers in a monotone
"Well, don't stand there in the rain. Come on."
He can't help the way his mouth twitches up at the end however.
"Never thought I'd miss London weather, and here we fucking are," she complains as she ducks inside. Swiping water off her face, she makes a disgusted noise. "Who thought a monsoon setting would be a good idea?"
Armand let's the door fall shut, chuckling softly and gesturing for Johanna to follow him. "Indeed - just in case you were feeling homesick perhaps? Come, it is dry in my apartment at least."
He squeaks away to the elevator - it's two floors up - leaving the drudgery of the stairs for another day.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, hm? Happenstance or house call?"
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léon barber | original | ota
04
[He's simply been too queasy.]
no subject
[ And he presents to him a full cup of coffee, no nonsense like milk, just the jet black liquid that can awaken even the dead. ]
no subject
[How does he spin this nonsense when he's slumped on Léon's sofa in last night's party clothes? The mystery of the poet class.
He does take the coffee, and the rich, toasted smell does perk him up and he sits up. The green fairy isn't the only thing that keeps him up at night and the warmth of coffee in his chest and belly is a ward against those other things as well.]
Thank you. That is good for the soul, I'll grant you.
[He feels about on his dinner jacket until he finds his cigarette case, balancing it on his knee as he draws out one of his gold-tipped Egyptian cigarettes.]
Smoke?
no subject
[ Whether he is talking about a smoke for the coffee or coffee for absinthe, it isn't wholly clear. Under any circumstances, he accepts the offer and picks out a cigarette, looking around for a light and finding a box of matches next to a pair of candlesticks on the table. He lights them in the evening, if he needs light to work. Otherwise, he spares them, sleeps, drinks in the darkness on particularly gloomy evenings.
Now, he holds the box out, another exchange back and forth. ]
We might as well reduce our souls to ashes, now we are at it.
no subject
Talking of muses, how are you, old boy?
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[ It's gruff. Humourless. Then, he sighs and elorates, ]
Monsieur Dumont commissioned me yesterday, wants me to go see his vineyard in Provence, paint it there.
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Well, I suppose that would be good for your work. Not a lot of landscape painting to be done in the city, I imagine. And a vineyard! You'll be swimming in wine! And you'll get paid!
no subject
The city is good for network, but nothing truly touches a man's heart like the open landscape. No person opens up like the hillside or a field after harvest. They are truer things.
no subject
Oh Léon...still searching for your 'truer things' even in this artificial age. Why, they even dye flowers for men's buttonholes nowadays.
[Dorian is in fact wearing such a buttonhole: an entire dahlia dyed a lurid malachite green.]
no subject
Dyed flowers. Green dahlias in buttonholes. My God. He doesn't say it, but the eyes can say a lot on their own. ]
Soon they'll paint your faces green, too, and claim you came from the moon. Or scarlet like the devils from Hell.
[ That dahlia was fine the way it was, he means. As men are fine the way they are. ]
no subject
[Dorian does so love the theatre of the demimonde, where nothing is real. It makes it harder to tell the macabre theatre from the waking nightmares he's been plagued by of late. And it means he can be a wholly artificial beast himself, burying any trace of his own vulnerable self behind the gilding of the dandy. He's sure it irritates the older man to no end, but in his way Dorian is also fascinated by Léon for being utterly his opposite.]
no subject
[ It's difficult, being a good, Norman Catholic in Paris these days, the city forgives nothing in terms of sins and pleasure and it isn't because Léon abstains, but regret is a consequence of choosing not to and it forgives just as little as Paris does.
He walks over to the sofa on which Dorian is lying, looking down at him pointedly. ]
Move your feet.
[ He needs a seat and he needs a seat near you. Too few people visit him, unless he owes them money. ]
no subject
If Hell is full of such beautiful devils as you see in L'enfer then I suppose it's just as well that I'll probably go there, eh?
[Like many Aesthetic young men, especially those attracted to their own sex (though Dorian doesn't really see the need to give up women for men or vice versa), he has a far more lackadaisical approach to his own adoption of Catholicism. Attracted by the blood and ritual, the writhing contorted forms of the saints with their upturned ecstatic faces but without the guilt or discipline. Spiritual tourism, a pose much like the rest of himself, much like his trips to those tawdry cabarets. Merely for the thrill, a distraction for the sickness in his soul.]
no subject
[ Sitting down, Léon extends his own legs out in front of himself, crossing them a the ankles and folding his hands in his lap for a moment, until he notices Dorian's feet at an awkward angle, hanging off the sofa, so he leans down and scoops them up, placing them wordlessly in his lap. An invitation.
They're not in Hell yet and perhaps, that's all for the better. They must make do of the time they have before Judgement and before whatever end awaits them.
He makes do. ]
no subject
Almost enough to take the edge off the fact that his thoughts had, momentarily, strayed to the thought of his own death for a half second. Too long for his liking, really. He blows a jet of bluish smoke at the ceiling plaster to push away the nervy feeling.]
You should come out with me for lunch, if you don't have any work to do this afternoon.
[He declares.]
alina starkov . shadow & bone . ota
ii. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"
iii. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
iv. "I just want to belong somewhere again. Or to someone, I guess."
v. BRING YOUR OWN!
caelus // trailblazer | honkai star rail | ota
ii. "Well you look awful. What happened?"
iii. "That's pretty rude of you to say--"
iv. "What are you doing here? It's the middle of the night?"
v. "In the face of overwhelming odds, I'm faced with only one option."
vi. "You are very endearing when you're half-asleep."
vii. "What keeps you up at night?"
viii. "Your hair is so soft~"
ix. "You want some company?"
x. "Don't get up, I'll do it!"
bonus: bring your own!
Dorian Pearl, a poet || OC {The Yellow King RPG} || OTA
1. "Step away from the window."
2. "I saw something, I swear!"
3. "I can't sleep, I've tried everything."
4. "You might want to pace yourself."
5. "I'm not wearing that, it's awful!"
cosmic horror you say...
"All right. Calm down. What did you see?"
Sort of! Chambers' The King in Yellow is like...proto-cosmic horror?
Madness is so common as to be blasé in Paris, nowadays.
"I thought it was just a group of ordinary people." He whimpers. "But when they all turned to look at me their faces were..." He drops his voice to a pained whisper. "Only skulls!"
it's all good to me! :'D
Well, he'd traveled here for a reason. This was as good a place to start as any.
"Do you think you could show me?" He was afraid that might be asking too much but he went with it anyway.
tom hanniger | my bloody valentine
2. What makes you think I’m going to fuck you?
3. Was that supposed to confuse and distract me, or do you just like the sound of your voice?
4. When you talk like that, I can’t tell if you want to tuck him in at night or stuff him and hang him on your wall.
5. [ wildcard ]
Benedict Fox | The Last Case of Benedict Fox | OTA
Armand | Vampire Chronicles (Book canon) | ota
2.“Shh, don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of you.”
3."You didn't have to walk me home."
4."Well, don't stand there in the rain. Come on."
5."You can't just come into my life and go right out of it. I won't let you."
6."Are you going to keep looking at me like that or are you actually going to kiss me?"
4
It's been raining on and off for several days in the City at this point, for reasons nobody can determine. The sky will be clear and blue, summer-hot, and then suddenly freezing rain will start bucketing down, despite there not being a cloud in the sky. Johanna has evidently been caught on Arman'ds doorstep in one of these downpours without even her trench coat for protection: she looks like a drowned rat who'd like to murder something.
maaarvellous
"Well, don't stand there in the rain. Come on."
He can't help the way his mouth twitches up at the end however.
no subject
no subject
"Indeed - just in case you were feeling homesick perhaps? Come, it is dry in my apartment at least."
He squeaks away to the elevator - it's two floors up - leaving the drudgery of the stairs for another day.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, hm? Happenstance or house call?"
no subject
Seeing him does lighten her mood a little bit. Misery loves company. She picks her way across the wet floor in his wake.
"Rather get stuck inside with you when the flood comes than be looking around for an ark."