If there was anything she wasn't expecting from a madman who had a horrifying obsession with her, it was his ability to play the instruments.
And he didn't just play them. He played them wonderfully.
She would never have thought that those pale, crooked, sickly fingers would be able to conjure such hypnotic melodies and beautiful pieces, grounded with intense emotions and dark desires.
Although he claimed that he was best with the piano, she thought that she liked him more playing the violin.
Seeing him standing there, the instrument between his jaw and shoulder, one hand graceful against the violin's neck, while the other running the bow along the strings in a manner only a master was capable of, was captivating. She could not recall a time when she took his eyes off him as he lost himself in his music, whether she was in an old, upholstered seat as an attentive audience, or hiding behind a wall uninvited only to catch a glimpse at the unsuspecting star.
She was scared to admit it, but she may be developing a dangerous infatuation to the man who took her freedom, wrought a calamitous destruction to the once existing Silvery Coral Village, and destroyed many lives with his insane need to find Cheryl, who happened to be her.
It was incomprehensible on how her simple and content life spiraled down to this madness.
Yet she wasn't one to wallow in self-pity, to perish in anger, to succumb to loneliness and finally go as insane as her captor. She was more than that.
If this was how her life was going to be, then she better get something good for her in some way.
And she did. In their little "plays."
She relished how he laid as a captive audience in the bed, looking at her with that beautiful expression of adoration and nervousness as she stalked to him wearing only her skin. The way he shivered and writhed like an animal seeing yet unable to touch the feast held out for him as she glided her fingers teasingly on his scrunched face, his tensed neck, his arching abdomen, then stopping with only her fingertips at his still clothed need.
Moving her dexterous fingers in only a way she knew how to, he would scream in lustful agony, eliciting hunger and desire for his muse.
The sounds he made, the groans, moans, gasps, keens and pleas at the dance of her hands all over his body was her composition. She plucked and strummed him in masterful grace and talent, creating an obra maestra that was only known between them.
In these moments, she and the Crooked Man were no longer the audience. They were both the performers; this time, the woman was the violinist and Blaise was her violin.
AN: Sorry if it's not as good as my previous works. I just wanted to write something out. I can't seem to make anything that doesn't involve smut with Cursery. Meh.
BTW, I apologize for my DP 5 one shot series. I'm working on it, I swear. I can't seem to finish anything I've been working on right now.
Oh, and I know that the girl here is pretty vague. I have a certain character in mind, but I decided to leave it out for the readers to fill out that gap. As long as the girl stays a prisoner of the Crooked Man. Whatever.
One more thing. Since I was lacking ideas, I decided to look for prompts. The one used here was "Violinist. (Or violin)," hence this abomination of a story. The prompts are provided by birdsongs on deviantart.