taemcains

[taemcains]

might just drop hsr forever

[taemcains]

MBTI reveal pls 🙏🏼🙏🏼

(infp)

[taemcains]

all of me in prayer

happy birthday my dear @hexesandroses congrats on living to see another year (threat)

Renato preached of love like a skein unspooled.

It curled the edges of his favorite verses like a letter burning, held close and looped around his heart, mind skimming them in tune to his fingers on the rosary beads. A source of comfort and constancy, growing alongside him, one he reached for before he would even reach for his own thoughts.

He believed he knew love, if not all there is to it, then the purest kind. He believed in a lot of things, before she walked into the church in a procession of lace and incense, funeral march of his life.

Beautiful, he'd thought. And then, terribly sad.

She'd worn her fate like a wedding veil. More than being melded together by their mission, he was drawn to her hands bound, and wanted to think of a way to help, if only to ease.

But duty soon became wondering at what lay locked to him. How magic would look bent by her hands, her eyes real, her eyes amber, her eyes quietly smiling before sleep. At him, he realized, with no small degree of his world tilting off axis.

He looked because he could not touch. He heard because he could not look. The colors she’d preferred on herself, peeking through the dull black coats, rings of amethyst and emerald held captive by her slender fingers. The smallest mention of her day off the course of their mission. The scent of magnolia and vetiver lingering in the air she leaves in her wake, for him to stay behind for a second and a minute to breathe in.

His faith grew teeth and gnashed at his insides, bleeding guilt over the purity of his worship. But he had to wonder who his service was benefiting if it was meted out under the eye of a system that fed on hatred. Other days, longing lashed so violently, his head fell between the pews, the wide-blown arcs of sunlight watching silently, flaming the church as he held his hand to his chest as if trying to push it back inside.

It does not work. She whips through the life he'd carefully sculpted with devotion and restraint, makes him pick up the debris, and paint a faith reconstructed, veined by a visage of amber eyes, and night-dark waves over the curve of a smooth shoulder. This faith, or love, the love he's believed in before the beginning and end of everything, carries her to him, or him to her.

When all is lost, past the point of no return—this he sighs mostly with relief—he holds her face in his palms, her eyes beseeching, and thinks: you are His holiest creation.

That is what he knows as her lips glide down the line of his neck, sweetly sucking marks in her path. He shudders, mouth parting to let a moan escape, and fumbles for her hair loose, the expanse of bare skin left from her dress, and freezes when his fingernail catches onto the zipper.

Nova raises her head from his collarbone, brighter still against the lowlight of her bedroom, pillows and bedsheets a disarray of silk from when they'd thrown themselves into it. The faintest mark already blooms on his skin, but her attention is caught by his hesitance. She straightens from her perch on his lap, and slowly reaches her hand behind to cover his. Not guiding, but reassurance.

He leans forward and kisses her gently, until anxiety melts away from both their shoulders, and only then does he drag it down, freeing her skin from silk. He skates a hand down smooth skin, the dip of her back, and watches her shiver.

Unused to his boldness, and not one to be bested, her fingers work deftly at the leftover buttons on his shirt falling back, cursing quietly between kisses, and silencing the laugh it produces with a hand over his belt.

Self-consciousness does not have the space to poke its head through when he's bare, with how Nova is staring at him, simultaneously a tender and hungry gaze. He lifts his hips slightly, urging her to please let him slip off the silk torturously sliding off her shoulders. But she rises to kneel, and slowly, almost languidly if not for her rapt eyes on his rapt ones, pushes down the thin straps.

His throat goes dry. His shameful imaginings could never compare to her hot and alive in the circle of his arms, every point of contact another flame against their sweat-blooming skin. Almost drunk, he leans forward to taste, when she stops him with a gentle hand.

‘Later. Now, I…’ she looks at him with a desperation he'd assumed only stalked him.

‘Yes,’ he breathes, consumed by this invading yet sweet ache, ready to follow wherever she leads.

Tenderly raking strands of hair away from his brow, she sinks onto him, earning each other a ragged moan. They still for a second, full where they were half. When she moves, his head falls onto her shoulder, teeth striking skin.

He leaves the smallest marks on the soft, giving skin of her neck and throat, unable to raise his head and look into her face, eyes, like he'd fantasized for so long. The pleasure overwhelms him, his senses and movements reduced to nothing beyond more, please, Nova.

He feels the gentle touch of her finger under his chin, orchestrating the meeting of their eyes. She is a vision in this low candlelight, skin gleaming and flush against his, eyes softer than he'd ever seen them.

‘I’ll show you,’ she whispers in his ear, and then nips the earlobe.

But they don't talk. Words are unnecessary when bliss speaks between their bodies, everything but her quiet urging and praise in his ear unneeded. She corrects when his movements are clumsy, and keens when he outdos her.

When the heat coiling in his stomach tightens dangerously, one hand slides up her stomach, plucking delicately at her breasts, the other joining their joining. He keeps his eyes on her through her panting, and his own blurring vision, mind gone numb from the pleasure. They only refocus on steady amber, his light through it all, when her fingers smudge the tears lining his lashes.

And when it snaps, she has him still looking into them.

Spent, they slide down each other's bodies onto the cool silk sheets, a respite after their activities. He tenderly wipes away the sweat colouring her temples, mouth lifting irrepressibly when she smiles tiredly at him.

They should probably clean up. They should definitely clean up, but when she turns to him, tracing out his cheekbone and nose, looking at him in a way that the words I love you would be an addendum, there’s no world where he's stronger to do anything else but gather her into his arms.

Within the house of each other's limbs, they sleep, and they dream.

[taemcains]

[taemcains]

lock in is awful plot-wise though. four(five?) sex scenes + possible jealousy on multiroutes is a lot of branching. it seems that just like in s1, 9 episode, despite not living up to its potential, still overshadows final

alas, its not like minimum 4 out of 9 episodes were complete filler anyway. i guess lane at least gets her bed warm

five... there is simply no way we're getting everyone's sex scenes at once. right?...right?

i'm not even god's weakest solider when it comes to greg like idc how horrendous the writing may be the second his sprite is on screen you'd need to saw me off of him

back to business, the lock in is going to be Messyyyy and i can't wait to see all the ss. imagine picking yan, who we've seen maybe thrice, over everyone else ohhh the drama potential. and esp if you're stringing along dmitry? seated.

gonna be so honest i completely forgot what happened in s2e9. i haven't even thought about the s2 finale. at least i remember events from s1e9 😭 it is... really not looking good for her.

THE LAST LINE PLEASEEEEEE you're always coming for her neck 😭

[taemcains]

one look give em WHIPLASH 💋

beat drop with a big flash

[taemcains]

very doubtful of the upcoming cain sex scene because writing intimacy is not in sasha's skillset

first thing i see in the morning this took me OUT. not even a chance 😭 please elaborate bc i've been thinking this too but i don't want to be too negative (first off, it should've been the church. two, while the leaks aren't bad, it's not... exceptionally good either. s1 cain found dead in a ditch)

the group scene was awful ofc (both the writing & lane's character being butchered + overtones of... whatever she was trying to do), and i felt absolutely nothing during cain's solo scene after that.

to quote one of my favorite books, "—is totally passive. The pleasure is in finding what pleases her." which is going to impossible with just how passive and uninterested lane is/seems in her own lis. so we may be doomed but this might also come true

[taemcains]

thank you for the tag @reneedenoailles, @yeullove, @hexesandroses ♡

shuffle your on repeat playlist and share the first ten songs:

i. aespa - whiplash ii. the internet - special affair iii. mree - in the kitchen iv. mareux - inamorata v. miserable - damned to love you vi. noita - velvet vii. son lux - cage of bones viii. chelsea wolfe - spinning centers ix. chelsea wolfe - feral love x. the marías - all i really want is you

thank you for the tag, @renninflight !! i love being tagged in music related games <3

shuffle your on repeat playlist and share the first ten songs:

gasolina - daddy yankee

i'll do it - heidi montag

naked in manhattan - chappell roan

unpunishable - ethel cain

guess - charli xcx ft. billie eilish

peggy - ceechyna

paradise - henry morris

whiplash - aespa

real man - beabadoobee

lunch - billie eilish

tagging ;

@taemcains @suckitphaneuf @hexesandroses @liykaii @haitianempress @webanglikethat @rosesandpearlss @a-cloud-for-dreams @lanesrequiem @doranbasu and anyone else who would like to participate !

[taemcains]

hold me, console me

cainpileon + feb 1st prompt: blushing

rating: m

wc: 840

tags: @rc-catalog

divider by @/sweetmelodygraphics

Pileon wishes that all mortals could be eternally silent as they are during the night.

He cannot say that he despises them from the very bottom of his heart; sure, he would prefer not to spend his days among them, working with them and obeying one of them (the worst of them, he'd argue), but they can be fairly interesting - like the mysterious cryptographer, for instance.

Still, not even half as interesting as the white-haired angel that sits across the room.

Black slacks, a white dress shirt with its top buttons undone. His wide, snow-white wings are curled around his form, hiding him away from any unwelcome silent observers. A shame. Pileon, in his sleepless state, would have rather appreciated being able to stare at Cain until sunrise.

Their missions rarely allow them to spend time with one another and circumstances have only been made worse by Cain's sheer interest in the cryptographer. Try as he might, Pileon can hardly stomach seeing the two of them side by side, talking about this and that. Many a time he had stared at them and thought, what's the point? She'll die anyway. Only you and I will live forever.

Cain catches him staring from the other side of the room. His expression shifts from one of utter boredom to interest, curiosity; lips quirked up, an eyebrow raised as if asking, what, can't get enough of me?

As if that is a question worth asking. Mortals, angels and demons alike are bewitched by the intriguing, captivating Cain. Some might have the decency to deny it but others make no secret of their attraction to him.

Pileon rolls his eyes. Childish, insufferable. The night is long and dreary enough already and he doesn't have it in himself to entertain Cain's never-ending teasing.

Cain seems to catch on. He blinks, the smile falls off his lips, and Pileon thinks, that's the end of that.

But then Cain stands up, carefully moves through the countless sleeping bags on the floor, and plops down next to Pileon, careful not to hit him with his wings.

"Are you angry at me?"

Pileon fiddles with the ring on his thumb and scoffs softly. "That's a silly assumption. I thought you more perceptive than that."

"Perhaps my judgement gets clouded by your presence," says Cain. His hand, cold and tender, covers Pileon's own; causing the latter to tense if only temporarily. "Why do you consider yourself the sole admirer out of the two of us?"

That makes Pileon scowl. "Had you spent a little less time hovering over that mortal girl, maybe I wouldn't have assumed your interest in me had dwindled."

"Can't even utter her name, Pileon?"

He should shake his hand free from Cain's grasp. He should reject him in every way that matters - yet Cain's touch renders him useless, weak, craving more of him. Pileon wishes there were no mortals to worry about, no abominations to watch out for, no Lane to keep Cain out of Pileon's reach.

"If your intention is to anger me, then I don't want you near," says Pileon. The words come out loud, louder than he had anticipated, and Cain winces dramatically.

"You'll wake everyone up with your temper," Cain whispers. He leans close, too close, and adds, "I don't mean to anger you; on the contrary..."

Cain's hand, which had enveloped Pileon's, trails the demon's arm, his bicep, causing the latter to freeze. Breath catching in his throat, he stills as Cain's cold touch finds his curls - Cain's fingers stop there, latch onto his hair and tug at it, and Pileon knows he's a doomed man when a whine slips past his lips. Cain always wins. It is the sole reason why he torments Pileon with no mercy, why he runs off with the cryptographer and shamelessly crawls back to the demon with his tail between his legs; because he knows Pileon will always helplessly, miserable cave for him, accept him with angry rants and petty accusations.

"I should make up for my mistake," Cain murmurs. His lips ghost over Pileon's neck, "though I'm beginning to doubt that I will ever earn your forgiveness."

A kiss - barely enough to be felt, just enough to cover Pileon's skin with goosebumps. His wings twitch as he imagines someone waking up to catch the two of them in this illicit proximity.

Pileon closes his eyes, offers himself up to the angel, "you can try."

And he feels it again - a long, soft kiss just beneath his ear, which fills his body with warmth and leaves him waiting for more, Cain's lips, though agonizingly slow, cover his neck in open-mouthed kisses, all the while snow-white hair tickles his face. If only every day felt so good. If only this could last for all eternity, and there were no more problems to solve in the world and the two of them could be left alone. Pileon would trade the entire world for Cain's lips on his skin, for the heat that it brings to his cheeks.

[taemcains]

Infidélité: a VfV oneshot.

heyyy, here's me again with a smutty oneshot for rc-catalog's vday event, for which i mixed both of feb 4's prompts, forbidden romance and making out in secret !

title: Infidélité. fandom: vying for versailles. pairing: renée/madame de montespan rating: E. warnings: explicit sexual content, adultery. word count: 1123 words. MC: julie, altruism, has a secret relationship with montespan after having gotten lou executed. summary: cuckolding the king with his official mistress is a very dangerous path to go down on. luckily, julie's never been afraid of braving authority. an unapologetic, self-indulgent smut(-ish). taglist: @taemcains for supporting me, @rc-catalog.

Rich laughs echoed through the empty room as the two women embraced against the wall, their lips hungrily hunting for each other, a continuous game of predator and prey they were playing with each other.

It all felt revigorating. Spending this much time publicly, with the King, with all those courtiers — of course, Françoise-Athénaïs was a much brighter bird than her shut-in owl of a husband, but even this many falseties can exhaust even the lowest of liars.

Now, she could give in to her true desires, kissing the duchess passionately, leaving faint marks of lipstick upon Julie's mouth, viewing them as her mark of love.

Julie's hands lowered to caress the mistress's hips, one of her hands teasingly moving up, soon finding itself on the other's breasts, caressing all around. Mademoiselle de Noailles knew much about the female body and all its gifts ; and of course, while benefitting from said gifts herself, there was something simply... exquisite about appreciating its forms and tasting its delicacies in someone else.

"I do hope you can be better than Lou. Though endearing, his attempts were.."

The Official Mistress gave a flick of her jeweled wrist — letting the implication of his lack of fortune float into the air. His family didn't give him many important jewels.

That gesture couldn't help but let a laugh escape from Julie, leaning in closer to the other's red lips, pecking them — quickly, but not chastely. It would be more accurate to describe it as an entrée, an appetizer. A taste of what would be to come later down the line.

"I do like to think I'm more experienced in the female form than he is."

With that sentence, Mademoiselle de Noailles pushed her hand into the other's skirts, one finger snaking into the other's undergarments, toying with the edge of them, snapping them against the Madame's skin — leaving short-lived red marks decorating her thighs, making her moan in appreciation.

"More."

"More ?" Julie asked, grinning. This was exactly what she wanted — now, all she did ? All she did was pull away from Françoise-Athénaïs, leaving her mouth wide as she dusted off her blue gown.

"Madame, I do recall you saying you didn't give yourself away so easily, didn't you ?" The duchesse grinned smugly, running one finger over the other's lips, alluding to her affair with Lou that previous summer. An unwelcome reminder that her own words could and had just decided to bite her back.

"That being said..." She soon drove her finger inside of the married woman's mouth, taking control over her, her other hand temptatively going lower into her décolletage, palming at her breasts as if they were dough, making the other go red with pleasure. Soon, the shade of her face would match her lips' if she kept going.

"I could offer you relief from the banquet, tonight. Being so busy with the King must be a pain..." She took her finger out of her mouth, her hand moving to gently, yet mockingly, in a way, caress Françoise-Athénaïs's face.

"I doubt he can appreciate a woman of your kind the way I do. Or any woman, really. You deserve someone who is more... drawn, to your figure." Julie's words, though coated in honey, had a lightly teasing tone to it, which only made the marquise flush more.

"I can offer you that relief, Madame." Her hands moved to lower Madame de Montespan's dress's hem, pushing her breasts out of her stays, mouth latching onto them to cover them in soft, yet hungry kisses. She longed for Françoise-Athénaïs just as Françoise-Athénaïs longed for her.

Both of them couldn't stop kissing. Again, and again, letting their lips be stained by each other's beauty, Julie pushing Montespan down onto the bed. They couldn't get enough of each other. Neither of them wanted to leave, but they both knew she had obligations. A position like either of theirs could compromise them both, especially Françoise-Athénaïs's. Reluctantly, Julie pulled off, rolling to lay down on the bed with her beloved.

And in came the doubts.

Did Montespan value her as much as Julie did ? Was she her dirty little secret ? Something to pass the time while the King was busy ? Her thoughts, of course, did not spare her one second. She loved Françoise-Athénaïs, but she wasn't ready to risk her honor, her dignity, the thing that made her herself - all for a woman who valued this unfaithful, lecherous warmonger of a king that they had as the head of their country.

Official Mistress... what a humiliating position. Branding yourself as the number one of a man who publicly used you to humiliate his wife. But she didn't blame her. What was she supposed to do ? Everyone knew that was arguably the most powerful position a woman in France could get to. They didn't have many choices. They all knew this. Julie's arrival to court hadn't been by choice, either.

But this affair ?

They both chose each other. And in the end, that is what mattered. More than Versailles, than France, than the world. Their love. Love conquered it all. Julie shook away her thoughts, leaning in, giving the other a much more chaste, careful kiss.

"Je t'aime," She whispered into the other's ear, giving it a kiss as well. Montespan breathed out what Julie assumed to be a weak response, helping her get up. As much as she wanted to show the marquise just how much she appreciated her, she preferred not to. It was going to be late soon, anyway.

The two helped each other dress up, Montespan washing her face at the basin. "I'll go and freshen up for tonight. I hope to see you not too far from me."

"Duchesses come before the marquises," Julie replied sharply, a smile indicating she quite enjoyed giving Françoise-Athénaïs a taste of her own wits.

"But you'll see me. At the banquet.." She leaned in, her hand caressing the married woman's face, looking at her with yearning in her eyes. Truth be told, Madame de Montespan yearned for her as well, and she wished the two could just... be. But they couldn't, not in court. Not like this.

"And later." Leaning in, giving the other a kiss, blush rising to her face as Julie moved to help her with her gown.

"You make a fine lady-in-waiting. Had you been a maidservant.."

"Perhaps we shouldn't talk about what isn't." Julie said, not sure how she felt about being likened to her maid.

"Goodnight, Françoise-Athénaïs."

"Goodnight, Julie." The other replied, standing in the doorway, looking at her before she finally left, Julie watching her leave, observing her each step of the way.

[taemcains]

↬shutdown

ANHEALANE + bubble bath

rating: t, suggestive content

tags: @rc-catalog

song: moonbyul - shutdown↻

It takes Lane's top climbing halfway off her torso for Anhea to finally admit to not knowing what exactly a bubble bath entails.

Hoping her gloating is wiped clean by the folds of dusty cloth she pulls over and off her, Lane blinks at her to fool innocence. The angel, standing backlit and dressed by the darkness, but also in her regular attire unfortunately, looks at her with an imperious brow furrowed, chin tipped up, in a pose Lane was starting to recognize as superiority masking curiosity.

The bath bomb they'd found and carefully displaced like a jenga block among the contents of Portia's wide bathroom shelves glitters and blinks from its seat at the edge of the bathtub, a pinprick of light amidst navy blue shadows. Anhea eyes both it and her with vague suspicion as she picks it up, a gaze that washes over in heat at the sight of Lane half bare, stepping around shallow pools of death-cold water on the tiled floor in a bra and loose pants, subtle restraint in her eyes warming her all over.

‘It's as it sounds,’ she says, and waits until Anhea makes her way over to the bathtub with a sigh. She drops it in, and they watch as it fizzes pink and blue, and then serenly swim to the sides in muted blue, cowed under the shade of New York's eternal night. Anhea peers in interest until the last lazy ripple, and then turns away at Lane's satisfied stare. ‘How childish.’

She can't pinpoint when exactly it'd started. Somewhere between protecting her from what stalked the nights in Rotkov, and quiet dinnertime talk, and long, late night insomnia-fueled conversations, she'd wormed her way into Lane's conscious, made herself the centre and sun of it. She was the only one who didn't rest their expectations upon her shoulders, didn't want her warmer or colder but just wanted her.

The silence when she's alone by herself was beginning to feel less and less comfortable, more and more an itching for the presence of white wings, and a scent sweet and heady, like the secretly pleased smiles she allowed so rarely.

Feeling her eyes on her back, Lane quickly unhooks her bra, slides her pants and underwear off her hips, and just as hastily slips into the unforgiving cold of old rain turned bathwater. Anhea left no doubt in her wanting, but this unknown and this variable, she was apprehensive to plunge headlong into. The freezing shock of the water mercifully jolts every other thought out of her head.

‘Cold?’ Anhea asks, watching her closely.

She shoots her a look.

‘Fine, it's obvious.’ She rakes a hand through the blonde wisps escaping her ponytail, the ends in a way Lane knows is a nervous habit, before loosening it entirely and releasing it from its tight grip. ‘I should be able to help.’

Lane almost jolts, then catches herself. ‘Since when do you help without gaining something in return?’ she asks, trying to inject composure into her voice shaky from both the cold and a sudden bolt of heat down her center.

Anhea throws her a long glance, and then turns back to her clothes. ‘I don't.’

Lane watches with her heart knocking once in her chest, twice in her throat, as her fingers strain for her back.

‘Do you need help?’ she asks, words finding her throat too dry to grasp onto and climb out her mouth.

Anhea slides her a look. Having determined something incomprehensible to Lane, her mouth tilts up the barest inch. ‘I can do it on my own.’

Hugging her knees to her chest, Lane watches as her fingers meet behind her back, wrestling with the clasp before it gives in. The harness comes apart under her hands and clatters to the floor. The buzz of a zipper tugged down… her shirt falls away.

Lane stares. She has been staring, for the amount of time it takes to forget there was an amount of time, but she looks just a little different bare, without compression by her tight fitting tops. Her shoulders are slightly broader than she imagined, and imagine she did, and the faint grooves down her stomach set off an impulse she could barely force herself into giving into only in the dark of her room. When her arms rise and then lower to take off her pants, she can see her muscles flex in tune.

She keeps her eyes on her feet as she makes her way over to the tub. She could chain up her desire, but it was impossible to not hear its rattling when Anhea smoothly steps in, and drapes herself over Lane, forcing her to extend her legs to accommodate her body and lean back to accommodate her wings.

She loosens a quivering breath that has no space to exit but the junction of her neck. Anhea shivers, and it gives Lane the courage to timidly put her arm around her waist underwater.

She remembers the haunting wound too late. Anhea winces quietly, but it’s sharp as a whip in the quiet lapping of water over the edges of the bathtub, and sharper still in the ears of Lane, who attuned herself to every minute shift of her body.

‘I’m sorry, did I-’

‘No.’ Not cold, but not warm either.

Helpless to and against her pain, she can do nothing but hold her fragile as a baby bird until she sinks down comfortably into the cage of her arms, her weight making Lane shut her eyes in relief and an odd sense of peace.

She's still too scared to move, so Anhea does it for her, slowly turning back to face her, their fronts brushing together teasingly.

Loose blonde locks trails waves over her shoulders. So close, her eyes are clearer than ever. Lane realizes this is the first time she's seen her with her hair down, and with a faint jolt of something that hurt too sweet to be pain, she thinks she looks so young. Innocent.

Anhea’s eyes flit and flicker to every feature on her face, and Lane follows her example, both of them grasping onto this opportunity for closeness, and when Lane’s reach her lips, they stretch into a full smile.

‘Warm now?’

She drags her gaze back to her eyes with considerable effort. There was the playful, challenging glint in the pale green of her eyes, the upward tilt of her deep pink lips twinning it, the curve of her waist warm against the close-held coldness of water, and then nothing else, for a very long time.

[taemcains]

Un Désir Assassin.

first entry for the rc-catalog valentines event !!

decided to go with the prompt unrequited love for feb 2.

fandom: vying for versailles. pairing: renée/alexandre. (unrequited.) rating: M. word count: 1270 words. trigger warnings: unhealthy obsession, mentions of murder, stalker behavior. MC: isabelle, hedonism path, single, unrequitedly obsessed with the valet. summary: he's got those eyes that drive her crazy, and she's got eyes to watch him sleep. or, a treaty on obsession. special taglist: @liykaii (who made the banner thank you so much, love you kiki <3)

Sigh. He couldn't find the words. Bent over his letter, he continued to mindlessly dip the feather in the inkwell — before his eyebrow raised. Did he just hear a creak ?

Wordlessly, he turned around in his chair. Had he not been the spymaster that he was, the rustling would've gone unnoti—

"Isabelle."

One simple name spoken into the air. And yet, that was enough. The rustling got louder, clearly an attempt from the duchess to hide as he stood up, in his shirtsleeves.

"There is no need to hide. What are you doing ?"

Truth be told, this was a rhetorical question. He knew what she was doing, he knew why she was here. That being said, he didn't like it one bit.

That's when Isabelle, despite her attempts, finally revealed her hiding spot from under his bedsheets, dusting off her gown.

"I got lost."

"And, let me guess — tripped, fell into my bed, which followed to my sheets being possessed by who knows what devil trying to murder you ?"

...Perhaps Isabelle should have thought of a better strategy, or at least a better excuse. She stood there, embarrassed about being caught — but the flush of shame on her cheeks was quickly overtaken by a flush of desire.

She wanted him. She needed him. It ate away at her — the fact that he was never responsive towards her advances, she couldn't help but wonder if the problem lied within herself or within himself.

What could he not want ? She was beautiful, young, witty, wealthy — Oh my god. Perhaps he wanted someone else.

That's when her desire was replaced with burning hot jealousy, raging in her green eyes. Had someone else ensnared him ? She had to find a way to —

"Mademoiselle."

His stern voice snapped her out of her reverie, looking up at him, unable to hide her scowl.

"You can't deny what has grown between us, valet."

"Between us ? The only thing between us is the king, whom we both serve. There is no us, Isabelle."

"No us ? So I mean nothing to you ?"

"That is not what I —"

"Are your eyes set on someone else ?"

She sharply asked the question, threateningly taking one step closer to him, then another — Alexandre backing away in response, his back against the table which she kept him pinned against.

Her chest pushed against his, her eyes throwing daggers. How she wished she could take one of those daggers and stick it through his heart, tear it apart, piece by piece to see what preoccupied it.

Silence followed her question — and to her, that could only mean one thing.

She was right.

SHE WAS RIGHT !

Usually, she loved being right — but not this time. This time, she had been hoping to be wrong.

Meanwhile, Alexandre silently mused over what Isabelle could be thinking about, brewing up in that brain of hers — nothing good, at least that's what he was sure of.

"No."

He responded, his heart being... troubled. He knew he wasn't in love — so why was that word so... uncertain ? He wasn't unsure, was he ? Of course he wasn't — Louis didn't want him to fall in love, so why would he ?

Clearing his throat.

"No."

"You hesitated."

"Get out, mademoiselle."

He frowned at her, trying to appear threatening, but knowing that in front of her determined gaze, he could crumble.

Silently swallowing.

The silence was palpable, you could cut through it with a butter knife.

"I'm afraid you've had too much wine at the Prince's party," He said, fully aware that she was sober, trying desperately to hang onto the slight hint of rationality that this situation could benefit from. But part of him knew it was futile — you can't explain this situation with logic. The heart wins over the head, and the head falls in defeat.

"And I fear you long for a closeness that is not the one we should have."

"Is my status a problem ?"

"The problem is that I don't love you, Isabelle. And I fear your desire for closeness is leading you to see things that aren't there."

So he was calling her crazy. That's how he wanted to play it. Okay. She backed away, tempted to throw everything, grab a letter opener and stab him — or maybe grab him by the hair and throw him face first into the fire of the chimney ! No one makes a duchess feel this humiliated — especially not Isabelle de Noailles of all people.

But she stopped. Despite her spontaneous desires of destruction, she restrained herself. This was not over. He would love her, one way or another. This idea that his heart had been stolen by someone else bothered her a lot. He was hers. Hers ! HERS !

If she couldn't have him, no one would.

Turning away — not saying goodbye before she left for her room, feeling her heart break.

She had known many lovers. Many men, and women, who she could bed with. And yet, her eyes reserved themselves to him — the one thing she couldn't obtain. Did the gods enjoy toying with her like this ?

Isabelle made her way back to her room, to hopefully get the Moon's advice, and a good night's rest. She couldn't believe that she had — crumbled like this, in front of him ? How she wished she could undo it. It killed her that she couldn't have everything she wanted, as much as she tried. Wine, parties, dancing, arts, beautiful gowns and expensive jewelry — all of those meant nothing if she couldn't be with the man she loved.

But someone else would.

With that lingering thought running through her head, she went to bed.

Meanwhile, Alexandre's chest heaved up and down, looking around the room, slowly sliding to the ground.

His knees felt weak. His breathing was uneven. He didn't want to admit it — especially not to Isabelle — but he feared for his life in that moment. And rightfully so, the mademoiselle's hedonism was something to fear. Besides, he knew she was capable of disposing of him if she so desired. Desire is a powerful force, and so is lust — Louis of all people knew it best.

Louis. What would he do, without Alexandre ? Had he died, would he have missed his faithful valet ? Would he mourn ? Be sad, attend his burial ? Even organize one for him ? Or would he simply not bother ? Replace Alexandre as he does with all his other mistresses ? Why would he compare himself to those women ?

And yet, thoughts creeped in intrusively. What would it be like, to have Louis of all people miss him ? The driving force of France, missing him ? Begging for him to be back if he were gone ? Wearing black for his valet ? Why could he not push all repulsive thoughts away from his brain ?

Standing up, wiping his hands over his shirtsleeves, as if they were dirty, as if he was trying to get something off of them.

And that's when he realized. Something brutal, something he couldn't deal with, something that he was never going to admit. Something that would change the way he looked at himself in the mirror for the rest of his life.

Staring at the letter he was writing in horror, the feather dipped in ink suddenly resembling the golden apple that caused the Trojan war, lasting for ten years, destroying so many lives in the process, ending with the burning of the city.

He felt his eyes burn, each word on that letter addressed to the king changing, making him pale in terror.

He knew who he loved, and it wasn't Isabelle, or any courtier.

It was the King himself.

[taemcains]

real sufferers would get him

[taemcains]

what do you think of requiem using "aww i wont tell you for your own good" cliché again to end the update? isnt it getting old (and out of character(for lane))?

and about out of character, do you find writing in scenes about cains "loss of control" off? im not sure if its my general dissatisfaction about updates lately, but even in s2ep1 lane starting this conversation didnt felt like something she would do? i mean, lane in general doesnt talk much, but then she asks about something that is both personal and "not mortals business"? and then she asks about that again? it feels pointless given that lane is aware that cain wont answer? she could be testing his amout of trust on his willingness to answer, but this message is too long already for an ask.

the plot (for the lack of a better term) has flown over my head for the past few months, when was the other time this trope has been employed?

as for this time, s2e9 i believe, i think it makes sense? or at least, it makes sense for cain. it makes sense for him, but not for this point of the story, where events and reveals should be occurring rapidly.

i remember being startled at her asking in s2e1 too, because like you said she's the type to mull over it and come up with her own truth in her head. and i don't understand why she is so intrigued about cain's loss of control (on his non-romance route too apparently) instead of the million times he's alluded to their connection. but the plot must move on, right?

[taemcains]

I'm just passing by to tell you that I love you and think of you often. You're one of my favorite rc blogs on this godforsaken app. Also I love your cainlane fics, they're so good!!!!

thank you angel 🤍 if you love me and think of me then i love you and think of you far more

[taemcains]

HSR cast as texts between me and @taemcains because I was bored

[taemcains]

taemcains its lock in in hsr !!

also sex scene possibly free? although, its not a final version of the scene

taemcains 😭

where is everybody all this info from wow

i was going to say a lock-in in s3 is ridiculous then remembered sl is also following that formula. the pacing is so horrible i can't offer grace for hsr in any aspect

HAHAHA it's probably going to cost a house and my left kidney so might as well enjoy whatever crumbs we're getting for free. i do hope she changes the dialogues now that we know what they are to maintain the intrigue