Malevolent fic: some kind of gothic AU thing

You know that thing where a friend draws you art and then it eats your brain? Yeah.

Characters: so far we have Arthur and Peter. Hastur is mentioned. John’ll be around here somewhere if this keeps going.

Rating: Explicit

Tags & warnings: weird gothic shit, AU, John has his own body, exhibitionism, voyeurism, trans Arthur, crossdressing, generally forcing people to wear sexual/revealing clothing, forced feminization but not for purposes of misgendering (there’s no misgendering–Arthur has boobs and a vag and nobody is confused by this), it’s a mindfuck thing, a lot of mindfuck tbh.

This’ll get real fucky if I write more, but god knows if I’ll write more.

***

“Each of you,” the estate manager intoned, “will find a costume waiting for you in your room. Wearing it is a prerequisite for staying. If you refuse, then the chauffeur will drive you back to town and reserve you a room at the hotel for a one night stay, to provide you with time to secure travel back to your home.”

Arthur and Peter glanced at each other through their masks. 

Everyone there was wearing a mask. Peter and Arthur had gotten theirs along with the invitation that came to their office. “You are cordially invited to Carcosa House to prevent a murder.”

Peter’s was a beautiful lacquered domino mask in diamonds of gleaming black and blood red, traced with silver. Arthur’s was a half mask of delicate white lace with no eyeholes. Though when he’d tried putting it on, both of them baffled and curious, he’d found he could see well enough through the weave of the lace.

Strange designs. Strange invitation. The offered pay rate, however, was generous enough to make up for both—even if they hadn’t found the strangeness itself to be part of the lure.

“Valets will show you to your rooms,” the house manager declared, and apparently that was it. Uniformed men and women fanned out through the room to find their designated guest and in pairs and small groups, everyone was led off. “You will be served dinner there tonight. Tomorrow, when you have been readied for our lord’s desires, we will gather here.”

Peter and Arthur shared another look as they followed theirs, because those were some ominous fucking words. “That is a lot of asshole rich people,” Parker muttered to Arthur behind their staff member’s back. “I recognized a couple from the socialite’s pages.”

“Not all of them,” Arthur answered. “I recognized at least one artist. And I think the woman in the green horned mask is an opera singer.”

“Even weirder,” Peter muttered.

Hastur, the head of the family and lord of the manor, was alive and well so far as their research had found. So what the hell were these people supposed to be inheriting? And what murder were they supposed to be preventing?

“Your room, sir,” the valet said, gesturing Peter toward a carved wooden door. When he opened it, the room beyond was beautiful, dressed in burgundy and sky blue, filled with fine rugs, glowing carved wood and with a beautiful native stone fireplace that hosted a lively fire, driving back the chill of the old building.

When Arthur would have followed him in, the valet gestured to wait, and follow. “Peter?”

Peter turned back to him. “It’s okay, Art. Find out where they’re putting you and then we’ll meet up later.”

He followed the valet and his lamp down a corridor lined with windows. The pale silver wash of moonlight poured through them to illuminate the halls from the lightwell of an inner courtyard. The floor was carpeted by long deep gold runners, and the wood-paneled walls on the side away from the windows were lined with art objects: busts, old suits of armor, tapestries, vases. Here and there a lush bouquet of flowers held space in an alcove not otherwise occupied.

They went around a corner, passed a turnoff to another hall, and went through a door at the far end. The valet led him to the left through another door. “Here is your room, sir.”

Another lovely room, with summery green and blue wallpaper, a hearth with a fire going, and a bed in a curtained alcove along the left wall. To the right, it looked like he would have a balcony. A mahogany wardrobe, carved with vines and leaves curling up its legs and around its sides, held the wall by the door.

“Thank you,” Arthur said to the valet, who gave him a brisk half-bow and left, closing the door behind him. Like many other things in this household, bizarrely formal for this day and age.

They ate dinner together, in Peter’s room. Stayed up talking, over the bottle of very fine riesling that was served with dinner, about what was going on here. Who they had recognized, what they could sort out, what they suspected. Around two thirds of the bottle down, they weren’t suspecting so much as wildly speculating. The Lord of Carcosa had that effect on people, Arthur had found.

Arthur went back to his room to sleep.  Something about the wine had left him flushed, feeling his sensualist tendencies. And so he stripped to crawl into bed, and enjoyed the silken smooth feeling of the luxurious bed linens directly on his skin.

He woke up flushed and aching between his legs from the dreams the wine had triggered. A tall, broad shadowy figure, dark and powerful, sinister yet somehow with an allure that had drawn Arthur to him. Made him spread his legs as it crawled atop him, lowered itself to him, skin almost stingingly hot against his nakedness. 

Its cock had been inescapable. Bigger than he should have been able to take comfortably, yet his body had only found the discomfort that much more arousing. He remembered wanting more, more, more. He’d felt its teeth sharp against his breast where its mouth had wrapped around his nipple, tongue flicking… He felt as if he’d been held just at the edge of orgasm the entire night, steeped in bone-dissolving pleasure that refused to release him.

The first thing he did was roll over and slip his fingers between his thighs to finish himself. It only took moments to bring himself to orgasm, fingers buried in himself, body soft and wet as hell. But when he was done, his body still felt charged with a vibrancy that made him think he could have brought himself to a second climax.

It was tempting, the way it fizzed in his blood. But he had things to do.

But when he slid out of bed to look for his clothes, he discovered that not only had none of his bags been brought up; the clothes he’d worn last night had also disappeared.

The only wearable thing in the room was a nightgown. It barely earned the term, made of lacy chiffon so fine that it was effectively see-through. 

He held it up to the light of the window, and mentally corrected himself to ‘lingerie.’ Who the hell would wear this to sleep? 

With it were a pair of low, lacy panties—good god, were they supposed to cover anything?–and a pair of shimmery-fine thigh high silk stockings topped with lace, along with their matching garter belt.

The lord of Carcosa House, if you knew where to ask, was known for strange tastes. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, a pervert and a sexual sadist. The sorts of people who attended his parties had discretion—if they hadn’t then they would be in prison by now—but when decadence as outre as his was involved, the rumors and quiet gossip couldn’t be entirely silenced.

Lord Hastur seemed disinclined to try very hard, quite frankly. Arthur suspected he enjoyed his reputation. He also had the kind of money and influence that let him get away with it, so long as he abided by the one real rule of behavior among the aristocracy: let people pretend not to see it.

Arthur and Parker had known…well. The masks. There was something about them when they had first picked them up. Something…suggestive in their design. Something sensual in the handwriting, and the phrasing of the letter that had explained the nature of the gathering, the rules…

The rules.

Wear your mask at all times, when others are present. Wear the costume provided to you. Use first names only—honor the anonymity of your fellow guests. Honor the needs and desires of your fellow guests. Honor your own needs and desires. Remember that the laws of the masses have no sway in Carcosa House. Within its walls, the authority of the Lord of Carcosa is the highest authority. Honor his commands. Say nothing of what you see or experience, after you pass the walls of Carcosa House.

Arthur had no doubts, between that and the tales he and Parker had dug up, that this was entirely what he was intended to wear. But still, he wanted to stick his head out into the hall. Find someone to ask—shout at—about this. But wearing what?

He looked at the tumbled bedclothes and gave serious thought to pulling off one of the blankets to wrap around himself.

But it might violate the rules, and…what about Parker?

Lord, what had the master of the house decided to put him in?

A momentary image flickered in his mind of Parker’s body, draped in nothing but a negligee, on display. Fabric pulled tight across broad shoulders, straining over the muscles of his chest—

“Fuck!” He shook his head hard to clear that. Ignored the way it lingered in the corners of his thoughts while he focused, very hard and very fucking intently, on worrying about Parker like a responsible friend, and what might happen if Arthur got his arse kicked out of here before all this bollocks had even gotten started.

Parker would stay. Someone was being threatened. He couldn’t just leave. Arthur couldn’t just leave him. Or someone whose life was on the line. No matter how fucking offensive it was to be given an outfit like this. 

Or be put up in, what he realized now in the light of day, was the young ladies’ cloister.

This series of rooms came from a different time, but he’d been raised in a cut of society where he’d encountered it before. One way in and out, so no unmarried young women of quality could be left to the inappropriate advances of any young bachelors who might be staying in the house.

Fucking charming. Apparently it wasn’t only a mask and costume; it came with a role. 

Seeing as it was the only fucking thing he had to wear, and with the fire out it was more than a bit chilly on his sweat-sheened, cooling skin, he put on the goddamned negligee. And then, after a moment’s thought, he surrendered and put on the garter belt and hose as well. The warmth of it on his legs was a not-inconsiderable help.

He firmly ignored any little flutters of interest at the cobweb-fine fabric whispering over his skin as he slipped into it.

He caught his reflection in the mirror on the far wall near the wardrobe. He was all but naked. The fabric left the outline of his body clearly visible; It draped and clung over the subtle curve of his waist and hips, clearly revealed his breasts and nipples where the fabric pressed against them, nearly transparent in direct contact with his body. The stockings and garter belt… Fuck. They were beautiful. They looked graceful and alluring on his legs, around his waist.

There was no ignoring the flutters of interest after all. An uncomfortable arousal rose up in him at the thought of people seeing him like this. Seeing his body revealed. On display for them.

“Fuck,” he whispered aloud. He wanted this. He wasn’t ready for this.

What would they do? What kind of people were waiting downstairs? In the mirror, at this distance, the mask looked like a blindfold.

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the knock on the door.

“Hey, English?”

“Peter.” The word was an exhale of relief so deep he felt like his body was deflating. But at that…Peter sounded a little…off. Shaky.

Arthur crossed to the doorway, reached out to the knob, and then hesitated. “Parker? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, uh. Yeah. Um. Just…brace yourself, okay? Our host…well, we knew he had, um. Tastes.”

There was a pair of delicately tooled, soft-soled house slippers next to the door. They were stitched with seed pearls, of all the fucking things. Whatever. Better than nearly bare feet on freezing stone. Arthur slipped them on.

A perfect fit. In case he’d needed any more to add to the pile of disturbing.

“I should say the same to you,” he said, voice sunk low enough to vibrate. “Parker, um. I really need, uh. Help, maybe.”

One thump and then a short slide on the door—Parker’s hand dragging down the wood. His voice had gone serious, almost cold when he said, “Let me in, Arthur. I’m here.” 

Arthur swallowed and pulled the door open.

Peter had on a rakish cavalier’s hat topped with a generous dark red plume. His shirt had wide lapels and billowing sleeves…and a neckline that plunged all the way to his belt, leaving a wide V of his chest exposed. Arthur’s agitation took a sudden left turn from outrage.

Peter’s pants, also deep wine red, were frankly inappropriately tight, and black leather boots clad his legs up to above his knee. On one hip he wore a short sword; on the other, a whip.

It all went together beautifully with his mask. Clearly they’d been chosen as part of an ensemble. A very tastefully chosen ensemble. Chosen by someone who was a fan of Parker’s finer assets.

Arthur had seen his bare thighs before. They were men, partners, they lived together for god’s sake. But. Oh, in those trousers…

He jerked his head up belatedly, face burning, remembering what Parker had to be seeing in his turn.

“Oh,” Parker said, when Arthur’s eyes met his. 

They stood there for a long moment, staring helplessly at each other. Finally Parker’s mouth began to work like he was trying to find something to say. Beneath the mask, pink flooded into his face, then down his neck, and over his chest. Arthur followed the spread of color with his eyes, as it flushed across Parker’s large amount of exposed skin, and so he saw his adam’s apple bob in a hard swallow. He hadn’t noticed the black choker wrapped around the base of Parker’s throat before. Somehow it sent the entire outfit over the edge from flashy to sexually charged.

“That, that, that. Uh.” Parker swallowed again. “Is there a, uh. A robe or. Or, or or uh. Something?”

“No,” Arthur said darkly.

“Oh,” Peter breathed again. His eyes…well, they moved. But they didn’t lift. Arthur felt like he might catch on fire as they seemed to track over every line of his terrifyingly visible body. 

“Art,” Parker breathed—he seemed incapable of doing anything else—after another moment. “You…”

Arthur could see the swelling twitch of Parker’s erection in those tight pants. Heart in his throat at the implications, he took a step back, intensely aware of the delicacy of the material swirling around him as well as his body’s readiness for that second orgasm he hadn’t given himself.

Peter took a step forward, almost as if he were under a spell.

“Not into the ladies’ rooms, sir,” came a man’s voice from outside the door. Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Parker, who the fuck was that?!” He took another step back, away from the door, in case they decided to poke their head in.

Parker took a huge breath—holy shit, the things that did to his outfit—with a look on his face like he’d just been dragged away from near-certain death. “It’s the. The fuckin’. It’s the valet.”

“The valet?!” To hell with retreat. Arthur lunged past Peter to the door, grabbing onto the door frame to stop himself. “Where the fuck are my bags?!”

The valet was stood in the door from the main corridor. He backed up a little—probably in case Arthur wasn’t done hurtling, or maybe because he looked inclined to try pulling them out of the valet’s ass. “Uh. In, in safekeeping, sir. They’ll be returned when you leave.”

“Like hell!” The chiffon of the nightgown’s skirts flared out as he spun around, fists balled at his sides. To Parker, he snarled, “I am going to find those bags if I have to turn this house upside down.”

“I can arrange for a ride for you, sir,” the valet said dutifully behind him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth so hard his molars creaked. “I cannot,” he said, shaping each word like a bullet, “go downstairs in this. I am nearly naked.”

“You aren’t the only one, sir,” the valet murmured. Something about his tone sounded odd. Arthur glanced to Peter, who was facing the valet and had clearly caught it too. He was watching the man’s every move like a cat who’d found a mouse. “The expectations of society end at the grounds of Carcosa House. Only our lord’s desires hold sway here. And he desires his guests to be prepared for him.”

Arthur swung around to stare at the man. “Prepared,” Peter muttered.

“Ready to answer to his desires.” 

“Desires,” Arthur repeated blankly. 

There was something wrong with the valet’s eyes. Arthur shuddered.

Peter’s hands landed on his shoulders. They were warm and broad and comforting. “Art,” he muttered near his ear. “I don’t like this. I think this is more fucked up than we thought.”

Arthur twisted his mouth. He was starting to agree. “We could go.”

Peter mulled that one in silence for a moment. “No. I think the people here may be in real deep shit. Some of them at least.”

Arthur nodded once, sharply. Even though he suspected that might include them.