The news is that, Chief Designer of Peirazo, Lorcan Velyanov, has arrived at the Ashmore march. The words in the wind have it: he shall open a boutique in the heart of the March.
Rumours are: Omegas and perhaps even Betas have taken to gathering outside the shop that was to be inaugurated today.
The rumours, unfortunately, ring true.
When humanity discovered the magic hidden within the magic stones, alongside much else, one particularly bothersome invention was created —
Cameras. Or so, many of the gentry liked to call those little things that gave him a splitting headache and put his anomalous marks at risk of discovery.
Lorcan looked outside through the miniscule gap in the tightly drawn curtains of his carriage. The noise was not without reason.
Outside his boutique people gathered, at least hundreds in number. Rich or poor, Omega or beta, noble or commoner; such intricacies mattered very little.
The Alpha looked away, headache pulsating heavy in his temples, from the flashes of Camera damning. This had to be one of the worst makings of any human mind.
Slowly, he reached to close the curtains tighter, fingers shaking ever so slightly. This wasn't a good sign.
Once the curtains let no light in, the designer pulled his hand back, pressing the other one against it. Opening his eyes slightly, Lorcan glanced around, trying to find the gloves he had earlier discarded.
With a grunt, he roughly pulled the enchanted fabric over his hands, snapping the elastic magic in place.
Every month, half the cost of his living came from enchanting everything of his use to be resistant. It left a sour taste in his mouth.
Slowly the carriage rolled to a stop, horses neighing when the reins pulled. With the crowd in the front of the boutique, he was forced to take the back entrance.
His movements were sluggish, gloved hands trembling as he pushed himself upright. The designer's eyes were narrowed, and decadence bled in every fibre of his being.
Mercifully, the coachman pulled the door open, free hand folding behind his back as he bowed deeply.
"Young Master Velyanov, we have arrived."
Lorcan forced out a nod, neck protesting the motion whilst he let out a hum. "Very well."
With that, he pushed himself outside the carriage, doing away the sick exhaustion to take on an elegant, refined aid of a young master befitting his position. Silently, he stood tall in front of the back entrance, taking a moment to compose himself anew.
His tall figure towered high, dark shadow looming over the dark, polished wood, clad in gorgeous clothing.
The black brocade waistcoat with a maroon cape hanging off one shoulder, a black necktie, white silk shirt, maroon corset with black paints and shoes, lending him a wonderful beauty.
He looked away before walking towards the door, fussing with the suit on his body as he pushed the door open.
Once he was inside, Lorcan saw a flurry of his fellow designers running around the place, some rushing up to the highest floor, some to the middle.
But the moment he stepped into the hall, all the employees stopped short, turning to look at him. On some of the new faces, he could see awe and wonder. And on the familiar ones, he saw exhaustion.
Lorcan ignored their gaze, striding towards the drawn curtains of the window facing front. "Forgive me," he drawled softly, hoarse voice carrying through the silence, "for this nuisance."
As if the noises were lying in wait for him to speak, they rose — the clicking of cameras in a cacophonic harmony, flashes he could see even through the thick curtains blinding.
His longest standing assistant, a female beta with a jolly face — now etched in exhaustion — came forward, holding rolls of fabrics, and shook her head, voice fraying at the seams.
"We all were prepare—"
"Young Master Velyanov!!!" A man's voice from outside pierced through the tension in the room. "Please come outside!!"
Lorcan's assistant choked, swallowing her words of comfort as she glanced at the window.
"... Well, Almost."
Lorcan's head dipped, fist pressing against his lips as he chuckled. "Lovely, is it not?" He asked, cadence faint, looking over his shoulder. "Well, it seems I will not be avoiding this song and dance."
"Young Master Velyanov," his assistant called out, worry deep in her furrowed brows, hand reaching for him, "be careful."
Lorcan gave him a faint smile, lips a violet hue in the lamp flame. His shadow danced with the flame, flickering and looming.
"Do not fret," he stepped away, walking to the door, "and join me outside at the earliest, Isla."
Isla's lips pursed, feeling not at all pleased at the teasing tone in his gravelly voice. "You should not be forcing yourself, Young Master."
Lorcan, already walking towards the door, waved his hand over his shoulder. "I shall be well."
Though he felt anything but.
Standing in front of the closed door, the designer let out a long, heavy breath, lungs stinging with strain. Lorcan rested his hand on the handle, long, gloved fingers curling around the cold metal. It was grounding.
He was still alive.
Then, he turned the handle and pulled open the door.
For a moment, the whole world seemed to fall silent, as if beholding his very entrance. Lorcan could not hear even a single sound, neither of humans nor nature.
And then, all hell broke loose.
From the back someone screamed, the sound shrill and high. Just in time, the bright flashes of those bulky monstrosity went off whilst the voice began yelling.
Some with appreciation. Some with questions. Most scandalous of them all, however, were the ones asking his hand in marriage.
"Young Master Velyanov! Marry me!"
Lorcan reeled back, mostly from the flashes, and looked away. Who said that?
Using his hand as cover, the Alpha looked at the camera, pulling a graceful smile on his face.
The sickly air around him seemed to dissipate almost instantly as he tilted his head, smiling pleasantly. The brightness of flashes made him appear even pallor, almost as if a ghost.
With every smile, every move, the admirers in the crowd swooned.
Lorcan ran his hand through his loose raven curls, pushing the strands out of his handsome visage, lips pale, nearly purple, curling into a smile.
The Omegas made strange noises, betas blushed.
After a while, the Alpha straightened, pulling at his coat, and raised his hand, a gesture for silence. And miraculously, the crowd fell into a hush.
Lorcan turned sideways, the exquisite black fabric of his waist coat and trousers shifting with his movements, the cape attached to one shoulder swaying. Adjusting the cuffs of his white silk shirt, the designer lowered his head, eyes narrow and smile faint.
"Allow me," his voice, baritone and hoarse, carried through the crowd, burrowing into the ears of all, nearly melting them, "to inaugurate the long awaited Peirazo, the first of Ashmore March."
The air buzzed with eager energy, anticipation thick in the crowd as the designer continued speaking, slow, deep, and steady.
Lorcan paused, eyes flickering towards the few flashes of the cameras. "By all means, to ensure the safety and comfort of all the Omegas patrons, with the exception of the staff, none but the customers shall be allowed to enter."
Then, he slowly turned to the crowd, one arm folded behind his back and the other braced against his stomach, Lorcan Velyanov bowed deeply.
The smile on his pallid face was charming as a vibrant flower.
"Come, allow me to welcome you." He stepped to the side, gesturing towards the door with a graceful flourish.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Author has something to say:
Bamboo: New Story kehehehe
Lorcan Velyanov (Seme), side eyes me: Who... Might you be? (becomes suspicious) How did you mind your way into my abode?
Bamboo, freezes and has flashbacks: (sweating) hahahah, I... I accidentally walked in. Don't mind me, Mister Velyanov! I'm no one of note.
Lorcan, (eyes narrow and face cold): Walked in?
Bamboo (sweats more): Haha, exactly that!
Lorcan (smiling coldly): This is the second floor.
Bamboo: Fuck.