#'but you still have to do your paperwork'

[gallusrostromegalus]

My Furnace Broke :(

Hi kids, it's your favorite storytelling chicken, and my Furnace has decided to die. It also decided to take the A/C unit out with it.

This is both very expensive to fix, and also kind of urgent: the more observant of you may have noticed that it is November, and getting onto winter here in the Rockies.

Look at this little man, huddling on my feet for warmth.

I have *some* emergency funds, but not enough to cover even a temporary fix, and that's also the fund that vet, medical, and car repair bills come out of, all of which I've had too much of this year.

I'm currently pitting four HVAC companies against each other to get the best offer possible, and getting the paperwork done for state subsidies, refunds and other discounts, but I still need your help.

Thank you all, everything you can do helps.

[p0orbaby]

if you’re still doing blurbs could you do one with alexia where she’s dating a doctor who has a very busy schedule, and alexia has a concussion in the training and gors to the hospital, and alexia sends a message to reader telling about it but r doesn’t see and when shes going to take care of the next patient it’s alexia? lmao or maybe alexia and r have a daughter and her daughter gets injured and shes the next patient and r goes feral about it idk

i changed the injury but i hope you still like it !

-

The shift is hell, as usual. You’re striding through corridors, flicking through paperwork and half-listening to one of the interns ramble about a patient they’re struggling to diagnose. Something about abdominal pain and “maybe a foreign object ingestion?” You nod distractedly, mentally filing it under deal with later.

“Just send them for imaging,” you say, not breaking your stride. “And next time, don’t say ‘foreign object’ like you’re narrating a true crime documentary. It’s unsettling”

The intern stammers out a response, but you’re already waving them off. “You’ll be fine. Go. Be great or something.” Another day, another long list of problems, it seems. You let yourself drift into autopilot, the professional rhythm of your job taking over as you stride towards the cubicle and pull back the curtain.

“Hi, I’m Dr Putellas,” you begin, still not looking up. “What seems to be—”

“¿Estás bromeando?”

You freeze. Your grip on the clipboard tightens, and your heart drops into your stomach because that voice, that exasperated, honey-warm, decidedly unimpressed voice, belongs to your wife.

Your injured wife, apparently.

“Alexia?” you blurt, snapping your head up to find her sitting on the exam table, her left leg stretched out in front of her, an ice pack balanced precariously on her knee.

She doesn’t look happy.

“Hola, cariño,” she says, dry as dust. “Fancy seeing you here”

For a moment, all you can do is stare, caught between disbelief and irritation. “What—what happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did call you,” she replies, gesturing to her phone sitting next to her on the table. “Several times. Apparently, you’re very busy and important”

Your stomach twists with guilt as you instinctively check your phone. Sure enough, three missed calls from Alexia. You curse under your breath, shoving it back into your pocket and stepping closer.

“Are you okay?” you ask, switching instantly from doctor mode to wife mode. “What happened? Is it bad? Why didn’t someone—”

“Relax, doctor,” Alexia interrupts, lifting her free hand to stop your avalanche of questions. “It’s not that bad. Just a tackle gone wrong at training”

You glance at the ice pack, then at her knee, which looks swollen but not grotesque. “Define ‘not that bad.’ Can you move it?”

Alexia sighs like you’re overreacting and flexes her leg a little, wincing but managing. “See? It’s fine. Probably just a sprain”

“Sprains don’t feel fine,” you mutter, already pulling on gloves and grabbing your supplies. You kneel down, gently pressing around her knee, watching her face for any reaction.

“Your hands are cold,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

“Your knee is swollen,” you counter.

“Touché”

You’re quiet for a moment, focused on the task. The swelling isn’t as bad as you feared, but it’s enough to set off every alarm in your mind. You sit back on your heels, exhaling slowly.

“You need imaging,” you say firmly. “Just to be safe”

“Of course I do,” she replies, her tone light but her eyes softening. “Because I’m married to the most thorough doctor in this hospital”

“Don’t flirt with me right now,” you say, though your lips twitch in a betrayed smile. “You scared me”

Her expression softens further, and she reaches out, brushing her fingers against your cheek. “Lo siento, mi amor. I didn’t mean to”

You close your eyes briefly, leaning into her touch. Then, with a deep breath, you stand up, trying to refocus.

“Alright,” you say briskly, grabbing the chart again. “Let’s get you x-rayed and figure out what’s going on. And after that, you’re resting. No arguing.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Alexia says, her smile turning mischievous. “But I might need some help resting”

You narrow your eyes at her. “Careful, Putellas. I can still make you wait for a nurse”

“Please.” She gestures around dramatically. “You’d never leave me at the mercy of hospital food”

“Not unless you keep up that attitude,” you mutter, but your heart is already lighter.

You press a quick kiss to her temple before heading for the door. “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere”

“Where would I go?” she calls after you, gesturing to her knee.

[harunayuuka2060]

Professor Crewel: Pup, are you listening?

MC: No.

Professor Crewel: *raised an eyebrow* No?

MC: I just had 30 MINUTES of SLEEP. And you expect me to function??

Professor Crewel: ...

Professor Crewel: Shroud hasn’t slept a wink in a week yet he still managed to participate in class.

MC: BECAUSE HE HAS A HYPERFIXATION ON THE THINGS HE LIKES, WHILE I, ON THE OTHER HAND, HAVE FREAKING PAPERWORK TO FINISH—AND I DON’T EVEN GET A SALARY FOR IT!!!

Professor Crewel: ...

Professor Crewel: Pup, breathe.

MC: ...

MC: Sorry.

Professor Crewel: You can skip classes today. I'll inform your other teachers.

Crowley: ...

Professor Crewel and Professor Trein: ...

Professor Trein: It’s no wonder you approved the pay raise; you weren’t the one who reviewed the proposal.

Professor Crewel: And your emails were straightforward and professional, without the usual self-praise and fluff.

Crowley: ...

Crowley: They could include this experience on their CV-

Professor Trein and Professor Crewel: Do your job!

[lostfracturess]

say it again — satoru gojo x f!reader

you've been married to satoru gojo for so long, but you've kept it quiet, so you can imagine his satisfaction at finally hearing you call him "husband" in public.

You've managed to keep your marriage to Satoru Gojo under wraps for nearly two year now. It isn't that you're ashamed—far from it.

Being married to one of the most powerful sorcerers simply comes with complications, especially given his clan's tendency to meddle in everything.

So you both agreed to keep it quiet. No flashy announcements, no public displays, just you and him. Sure, it means wearing your ring on a chain under your clothes and careful planning for your living arrangements, but it's worth it for the peace and quiet.

That is, until you slip up at the most mundane possible moment.

You're both at an official appointment regarding some property documentation. The clerk has been droning on about paperwork when she asks about your relationship to Satoru for the forms.

"Oh, he's my husband," you reply absently, still scanning the documents in front of you.

The scratching of Satoru's pen stops abruptly. You look up to find him staring at you with the most ridiculous expression—somewhere between absolutely delighted and utterly self-satisfied.

"What was that?" he asks, a grin spreading across his face.

You blink, realizing what you've just said. "I mean—"

"No, no, say it again." His eyes are practically shining now. "What am I to you?"

"Satoru," you warn, very aware of the confused clerk watching your exchange.

"Come on," he says, leaning closer. "One more time. What am I?"

"We're in public," you hiss, but you can feel your cheeks warming under his gaze.

"Please?" He bats his eyelashes at you in that ridiculous way of his. "For your beloved husband?"

"You're impossible," you mutter, but you can't help the small smile tugging at your lips.

"Impossibly charming? Impossibly handsome? Impossibly perfect as your husband?"

The clerk clears her throat. "Should I... put down 'married' then?"

"Yes!" Satoru answers before you can. "Put down that I am this wonderful person's husband. Their spouse. Their better half. Their—"

"She gets it," you cut him off.

But Satoru isn't done. For the rest of the appointment, he manages to work the word "husband" into nearly every sentence. "As her husband, I think we should sign here." "My lovely spouse and I would like copies of that." "Do you need both myself and my better half to initial this?"

By the time you leave the office, you're ready to strangle him.

"You're enjoying this way too much," you say as you walk to the car.

"Can you blame me?" He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. "It's not every day I get to hear you call me your husband in public. Usually it's all 'this is Satoru' or 'we're together' or my personal favorite, 'yes, I do unfortunately know him.'"

You roll your eyes, but can't help leaning into him. "You know why we keep it quiet."

"I know, I know. The clan would be insufferable." He presses a kiss to your temple. "But maybe we should tell them anyway? Can you imagine their faces when they find out we've been married this whole time?"

"They'll have our heads for this."

"Perhaps. But you have to admit, the thought is tempting. No more sneaking around, no more hiding that ring." He catches your hand, thumb brushing over where your ring should be. "I want everyone to know exactly who you are to me. And what I am to you. What was it again?"

"Don't push your luck."

"Come on," he coaxes, "just say it once more."

You pretend to consider it. "And what do I get out of this?"

"My eternal love and devotion?" He gives you a long look. "And I'll do the dishes for a week."

"You're supposed to do those anyway," you point out, but he's already pulling you closer, that insufferable smirk of his growing wider.

"Say it again, love," he says, and the way he looks at you then—eyes soft and full of adoration—makes your breath catch in your throat.

All your defenses melt away under that gaze, the one he reserves just for you, the one that makes you forget why you ever try to deny him anything.

"Husband," you breathe, and feel him tense slightly against you.

"Just like that," he whispers. "Though I prefer when you add my name to it."

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

"That's what I do best," he says. "Besides, my darling wife, I think you secretly love it when I am."

The way he says 'wife' sends a shiver down your spine—something you know he notices from the satisfied look in his eyes. "You're impossible."

"Impossibly yours," he corrects, and despite his playful tone, there's something sincere in his gaze. "What do you say? Ready to scandalize some elders?"

Looking at him now, you can't remember why you ever wanted to keep this secret. "With you? Always."

He doesn't wait for more, just leans in and captures your lips with his, and you think maybe going public isn't such a terrible idea after all.

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[xetlynn]

Arcane Imagines- Violet

Sweet and Sour

Requested by: @m0ranna "vi and a s/o who looks, seems and acts very soft but is actually a beast when fighting."

[arcane] [main page]

Summary: you and vi have been apart for some time, and when she sees you all the feelings come back.

“Hey, someone’s here for you.” Your only employee, Mexi says, you hum in response waving that you’re coming. You feel slightly grateful to stand up from your desk and be done with all the paperwork for just a moment. It’s been slow running Benzo’s old shop. Nobody has really come in, especially now with everything going on between Zaun and Piltover so money’s real tight.

 You walk out into the shop from behind the counter after your employee leads you there. You look up with crossed arms. “What can I do for you?” Asked with a fake interested tone.

“[Name]? You own the place now?” A familiar voice rings in your ears. Your eyes widened to look more clearly at your past friend/crush. “Violet?!” You jump over the counter, pulling her into a tight embrace. You hadn’t seen her since that horrible, idiotic heist that went so wrong. “Hey!” She holds you close to her, before pulling you back to get a better look at you. 

“You still have that sweet innocent look.” She whispers, pulling you into another hug. Taking in your scent as tears fills your eyes. “How did you get out?” You back away this time, holding onto her shoulders to make sure she doesn’t go away. “Uh, see that pilty officer out there.” She points to the dark haired lady standing outside the shop with her hands on her hips seemingly impatient. “Yeah?” 

“Her, I don’t know why but I’m not complaining.” Vi chuckles and you smile at her. “Want to invite her in?” It stuns her when you offer that, even Mexi was taken aback. She gets nervous, walking into the back so she doesn't have to speak to an officer. “Eh, she can experience the undercity a little more.” Vi waves it off, jumping onto the glass counter to sit down. 

“Looks the same in here.” She sadly sighs, browses the place. “Tried not to change it drastically. Benzo did a pretty good job.” You frown, thinking back to the man who was like a father to you. “Is Ekko…” 

“Nah, he’s doing his own thing now. Unfortunately it's the same with your sister.” You groan, reminding yourself of the blue-haired girl's antics with Silco. “Powder? What do you mean unfortunately?” Vi perks up. “She’s not really Powder anymore.” You start, hugging yourself as you think back to when Ekko begged you to fight with the fireflies. 

“Let’s talk about something else.” You pick up a random gadget, fidgeting with it in your left hand. “How’s the free life?” 

“I want to talk about Powder.” Vi gets off the counter, walking towards you. “Vi, no. You’ll find out on your own. I really don’t want to get into this.” You tell her simply, pleading silently with your facial expression. She wants to argue with you, beg for you to say more but she can’t. Not when your eyes are full of fear and sadness. You’ve always been so sweet-looking. So kind to people, giving them the benefit of the doubt. Which is rare in the undercity. It’s also stupid to most. 

“Okay, okay. I- I don’t know, I’ve only been free for a few hours. This was the first place I went to.” She averts eye contact now. “Hm, I’m the first person you wanted to see, huh?” You joke, there wasn’t really any other option sadly. “Of course.” Vi smirks, nudging your arm. 

“I’ve missed you.” You turn to her, pulling her into another hug. “I don’t want to let go of you. It’s like you’re going to disappear at any moment.” You whimper out, trying not to cry. Vi’s face softens, kissing the top of your head. “I promise I’m not leaving again.” Her hands go to your waist just letting you cling onto her. 

“I’ll kill you before you get the chance to leave me.” You say, causing her to scoff out a laugh. The door bells go off and you both let each other go to see that officer standing there. 

“Sorry to interrupt, Officer Caitlyn Kiramman.” She bows down to you before looking at Vi. “We should get going, I have important things to get to.” 

You raise a brow on why Vi needs to go with this lady so badly. Vi sighs. “Give me a moment.” She tells the officer whose face contorts into an annoyed expression. “I’ve given you quite a few moments to reunite with your girlfriend here.” Cait spits out, obviously very antsy to get where she needs to be. The both of you awkwardly glance at one another now with flushed faces.

“Uh, it’s alright. I’ll see you later Vi.” You chuckle, taking her hand in yours. “There’s a fight in that one arena we used to go to behind Vander and Benzo’s back. It’s huge and you should come. Just like old times.” You propose to her, your face full of hope that she agrees to come. 

“You can bring your bodyguard too.” You tease making her playfully roll her eyes. Cait tries to bite back a smile at the joke. “I’ll be there. I promise.” Vi squeezes your hand before letting go. “It’s at the usual time as well, I hope you remember.” You tell her as she leaves with the girl. “Oh I remember!” Vi calls back. 

When the door shuts behind them and the bells still ring in your ears you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Mexi comes out of hiding. “You two are dating?” She asks curiously. You choke on your spit. “Huh?” 

“Well the officer said you were her girlfriend and neither one of you denied it.” She shrugs her shoulders, taking out her box of things to put away. “Oh, I mean we had a small thing as children but I haven’t seen her in 7 years. I’m sure she doesn’t think about me that way.” You ramble, putting the gadget back that forgot you were holding. 

“I don’t know. The way she looked at you says otherwise.” Mexi winks, your face heats up. “Whatever.” You mutter, going back behind the counter and heading into the back to finish the paperwork you had. 

•••

Vi and Caitlyn rummage through the crowd of people, trying to find you. “I don’t know if we’re going to find her before the fight!” Cait shouts over the yelling and the music that blasted. “I’m gonna try!” Violet huffs, shoving past all the people, getting to the front where maybe she could spot you on the other side of the arena. Her eyes traveled through the sea of moving bodies. “C’mon.” She mutters to herself. She didn’t want you to think she didn’t come. She had only made it five minutes before the fight even started because of what Cait and her had to do. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen!!!” The announcer screams into the mic, only making everyone louder with their cheers. As he speaks, Vi only zones everything out, trying her hardest not to panic when attempting to find you. 

“Isn’t that her?” Cait points down into the arena with eyebrows scrunched together. Vi’s eyes shoot down to see you standing there against a large woman. “Shit, what’s she doing!?” Violet urgently asks, gripping onto Caitlyn. “I think she’s about to fight.” 

Vi gives her a dirty look, giving her attention back to the scene in front of her right as the announcer starts the fight. The woman attempts to attack you but you swerve out of the way. You look up to see Vi and Caitlyn. You blow them a kiss before turning to the woman and throwing a punch. 

The lady doesn’t dodge it in time, getting hit right in the eyebrow. She tries to throw hits at you but you maneuver around them, hitting her in the right places to cause her to stumble. Vi leans over the edge, now cheering for you. “Kick her ass!” She shouts. Even Caitlyn was amazed at your fighting skills. She wasn’t expecting that from someone so… cute and sweet looking. 

You swiped the lady's feet out from right under her. Going in for the punches. The larger lady attempts to push you away with no avail. 

But when she sees an opening after multiple hits to the face she shoves you off of her. Getting herself up. You roll away, jumping to your feet, you weren’t paying attention when she gets a hit to the middle of your face. Violet gasps, nails digging into Caitlyn’s arm. The dark blue haired girl doesn’t pay attention though. 

You spit out blood, wiping your mouth before going after the woman with more passion than before. Looking like a beast in the ring. You go right for her head, only taking a few hits for her to be back on the ground. 

Not even five minutes into the fight and you win. Leaving her knocked out. 

The announcer commentates as the crowd goes wild. Violet listens to all the people saying how little miss [Name] out there is undefeated. “Holy shit.” Cait whispers. You pump your fists into the air, jumping around for yourself. You have blood guzzling down your nose but you’re having a blast with the attention. You look up, locking eyes with Vi who has a look of bewilderment. You chuckle then motion with your head to the exit doors. She immediately understands what you’re saying. “Meet me at her shop, I’ll see you later.” Violet places a hand on Caitlyn’s shoulder before pushing through the crowd.

You and Vi used to sneak and see the fighters in the back frequently as children. Not to meet them or anything but just to say you were in the same room as them. Even then it was kept a secret between you both. 

She sneaks through the men guarding the doors and slips into the very first room she can. Hands snake around her from behind. “Hey!” You scare her, making her jump away from you. She turns with her fists up in defense. You roar into laughter, mimicking her stance. She pouts from being made fun off and smacks your arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were fighting?! I didn’t even know you could do all that!” She exclaims as you grin. 

“I wanted it to be surprising! Wasn’t I so amazing out there?” You lift your arms, flexing your muscles. “Yeah but honestly I did not see that coming from someone so… adorable?” She tilts her head as she tries to find the right word to call you.

 “Awe I’m adorable?” You poke her side, heading over to the full body mirror in the room, taking the wraps off your hands. “I mean, you’ve always been pretty cute. Like y’know sweet looking. I’ve never seen you even hurt someone!” she maundered, speaking with her hands flailing trying to explain what she meant with bright red ears. 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. I don’t exactly enjoy being some beast fighter but it pays the bills.” You lean against the little table beside the mirror. Staring off into space at Vi’s shoes. “The shop not doing good?” Vi asks. “It’s seen better days. I have enough for everything except paying Mexi but I’m not letting her go. She’s helped way too much for me to do that.” You sigh, thinking about the young worker who you practically took under your wing. 

“So you risk yourself so you don’t have to fire just one person.” She quizzes and you go to defend your actions but she just snickers. “Gosh you really are too sweet for your own good, [Name]. I love you so much.” She holds her stomach as she laughs. Amused by how kind you are. “You love me?” You attempt to tease her but her face drops, realising what she said. “I mean, yeah! I’ve been in love with you since we were kids.” She speaks so nonchalantly it catches you off guard. When she said she loved you, you thought of it as a family thing. Not romantic. You weren’t upset but your mind was spiraling now. 

“I’m sorry if it’s too much. I don’t even know if you have a partner already or something. I’ve been gone for so long I just. I’ve never stopped thinking about you even though we were only 15.” She over-explains, and you go up to her, putting a finger to her lips. “I love you too, Violet. I wasn’t kidding when I said I missed you.” You tell her earnestly, your hand going to her cheek. 

Her shoulders drop, relieved by your words. “Oh thank god, I thought I had just scared you or something. I feel so stupid.” You shush her with a small laugh. “I forgot how much you talk when you’re nervous.” You whisper as she plants her forehead on yours. “I only do it with you.” She shamefully admits. 

“Mm, really?” You ask before locking your lips on hers. She moans into the kiss, deepening it by bringing you closer to her. The kiss was rough, making up for lost time. Wandering hands over one another's bodies. 

When you pull apart you grin, throwing your arms over her shoulders. “We're dating.” You state, not asking but telling her. She shakes her head. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Well you do now.”

 You peck her lips. 

•••

Time passes and Vi comes into the shop whenever she can, you let Mexi watch over so the both of you can go out. Always in cute light colored clothes in such a dark place. 

People never understood how you were so bubbly, giving to others and dancing in the middle of Zaun. 

Violet loved it, watching as a street performer played and you danced to music. Children joining you. Even a few adults. It was these moments the undercity needed. A little distraction from the horrors about to come. 

You’d have these sweet moments everyday and then night comes and you’re in people's nightmares. Fighting to pay the bills you said. Fighting to win and prove you’re more than what others call a weak minded, overly nice girl. And Vi’s there to support her girl through it all. 

Loving every second. 

[euthymiya]

you want to change my mind (and maybe you already have) — ft. wriothesley.

art credits: rana_co_co on twitter

synopsis: november 23rd comes and goes just like every year. wriothesley looks at you in his bed, curled under his sheets—pretty. soft. kind. a gateway to a cushy sort of life he never envisioned for himself. this birthday, he finally realizes that neuvillette sending you down for weekly compliance checks at the fortress was the first time celestia had ever favored him

word count: 8.7k — this was truly agonizing. just know that

before you read: female reader ; reader works at the palais ; work relationships ; fuck buddies who clearly are smitten ; newly turned duke wriothesley ; my own personal headcanons about his childhood and past (spoilers for his backstory ahead!) ; mentions of murder and child trafficking (his canon backstory) ; mentions of serial murders and disappearances of women (the canon missing women’s case so major fontaine spoilers if you’re not done) ; very lightly implied sexual comments about reader made by an inmate ; violence, injuries, and blood descriptions (wriothesley defends her honor) ; blow jobs ; cum eating ; semi public office sex ; exhibitionism ; wet dreams + male maaturbation ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex (he pulls out) ; fluff and getting together

commentary: a little late, but here’s my birthday fic for my birthday boy who owns my whole heart <3_<3

“Duke,” you say as soon as you walk into his office, making Wriothesley want to hide in the corner, “You’re late.”

He saw it coming, really. Knew it would be the first thing you’d point out as soon as your shoes would thump against his quiet, peaceful office floor. Well, peaceful until now—now you’re here to disrupt that tranquility with demands that he’d like to politely ignore. Unfortunately, because Celestia have never exactly favored him, that’s not an option.

“Ah, my favorite babysitter. Whatever do you mean?” He smiles at you innocently. He knows exactly what you mean, of course—and he knows you know it, too, because you stare blankly at him before rolling your eyes. But there’s still a small hint of fondness underneath the staged irritation. He can’t help but throw you a little playful wink as he notices it.

As far as babysitters go, you’re not bad, exactly.

That’s how Wriothesley likes to think of you. His weekly babysitter. You come in once a week, keep an eye on him, check and make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to and following all the rules, tattle on him if he does anything wrong, and you force him to do his homework.

Neuvillette likes to call it an administrative compliance audit. You make sure Wriothesley is keeping things at the Fortress running smoothly, get an update on how the standing situation is, report back to Neuvillette so he stays informed, and make sure that no paperwork is submitted or completed past the expected deadline. 

Wriothesley says babysitter, you say compliance officer. Tomayto, tomahto. 

“You’re late to sending in the quarterly reviews of the most recent batch of prisoners,” you hum, jotting that down in your convenient little notepad that is the bane of Wriothesley’s existence. You return his cheeky wink with one of your own. Every time you pull it out, he knows he’s about to get a write-up. Every time he gets a write-up, he knows a letter from Neuvillette is coming with a lecture about his responsibilities and how seriously he should take them.

Fighting back a groan, he rubs his face tiredly as he mumbles, “I’m getting to it.”

“Yes,” you agree, “You are. It’s not exactly optional—the sooner, the better, of course.”

“You love pushing my buttons, don’t you?” He looks up at you petulantly. 

One thing about Wriothesley is that his rugged, almost tactless demeanor only adds to his charm. He wears formal wear only because he has to—which, to be fair, his outfit choices are considered formal by a very loose definition as is. He keeps his tie knotted loosely and borderline informal. He has a rather sarcastic and playful way of speaking professionally. 

All of these things should scream that he's a misfit for this position, but you think they almost make him the perfect candidate. In an odd sort of way, he’s not as stiff as a board and at risk of using his position to his advantage. He’s down to Earth enough that you can trust him not to take his role too seriously and run the Fortress like his own personal military grounds. 

Grinning, you walk over to him, seating yourself on the armrest of his chair before tracing a finger along his bicep as you lean in and murmur against his ear, “C’mon, they’re not so bad. If you finish it up, you might even have a nice little reward waiting for you after.”

He swallows thickly for a moment before reconstructing his carefully crafted composure. Raising a brow, he gives you an amused—although shaky—smile as he hums, “Oh? Is this some sort of incentive?”

“You could say that,” you bite your lip to keep from letting out a giggle. “Incentive. Reward. Compensation. Whatever you want to call it.”

 “Can I pick what I get?”

“Perhaps if you’re lucky, I’ll let you have your way,” you tease.

Neuvillette sends you from the Palais to the Fortress to make reports about the Fortress of Meropide after observation. It’s imperative, of course, that during this weekly assignment, you stay fair and unbiased. That seemed easy enough when you took on the job.

That is until you met Wriothesley. 

It happens by accident. One second, you’re letting him walk you around the underwater prison that he calls his home, taking notes of the way prisoners do their jobs and how they're compensated. (The name credit coupon still makes you giggle sometimes, but you keep it to yourself for the sake of avoiding his glare). The next second, you’re slipping on leaked water from a burst pipe and heading straight for your demise of a face-first fall onto the hard metal flooring of a tunnel. 

Wriothesley catches you with ease. Effortlessly, his strong arms wrap around you to catch you against his chest before you have a chance to fall any further. It’s cliche, you think—how this weird difference between professionalism and personal attraction gets blurred more and more every day. How it all started with your body being pulled flushed against his for the sake of avoiding a rather painful injury, only to have both of your lips be mere inches away from each other as your wide eyes bore into each other. 

You never knew who kissed first. It never mattered. All you know is that you’ve been kissing in the comfort of his office ever since. Sometimes in his bed, too. He tries to convince you in riskier, less-than-appropriate spots, too—but luckily, between the two of you, one of you has a sense of proper risk calculation. 

That person would not be him.

“Would you do me the honors and make me a lucky man today, then?” He asks sweetly, blinking innocently before his arms wrap around you, pulling you from the armrest of his chair to his lap, comfortably perched for him to have easy access to your lips. 

“I’ll have to see if my schedule allows it,” you say slyly, pretending to look at his clock as you add, “I’m a busy woman, you know. They demand my time underwater and above land. Can you believe the requirements they have for me?”

“Sounds like you’re severely overworked,” he nods in faux sympathy, shaking his head as though he really feels for your predicament. You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands firmly grip your hips.

That’s the thing about Wriothesley. It’s just so easy to be charmed.

“I am,” you murmur, leaning in.

He closes the gap as he mumbles, “I can think of a way or two to take the edge off.”

With that, your lips meet. It’s not the first time, and the Gods certainly know you hope it’s not the last. Your mouth slots against him perfectly enough that it feels like sunlight on water—warm, bright ripples of light gliding along the surface that waits for them to make their home against it. 

He brings you closer, dragging your body up his lap as he kisses you deeper, groaning lowly into your mouth as your fingers tug at the roots of his hair. You feel it between your bodies—the proof of his arousal is clear and so hard to miss that you can’t help but reach a hand between your bodies to get a better feel.

 “Already?” You grin, pressing your hand over his hard, clothed cock. He grunts, glaring at you as he stiffens in his chair at the way your hand offers limited friction to a rather delicate issue. “I’m flattered.”

“Great,” he hisses, “Why don’t you do something about it, then?”

“Here?” You gasp dramatically, “In your office? What if someone walks in?”

“No one would disrupt the Duke without knocking first, sweetheart,” he gives you a smug, self-assured wink. You snort before shaking your head, slowly climbing off of his lap before sinking between his legs onto the floor. His breath hitches—sure, you’ve taken him in your mouth before. But it’s never been here and not there. Never in his office and at his desk instead of the bedroom that's just a few feet away. 

It feels more intimate there. He almost misses that sort of atmosphere. But there’s something filthy enough about watching you unzip his pants and slowly free his cock just enough in his office that almost makes his brain short circuit too.

So beautiful, he wants to tell you. Because you are. And he thinks he will, but just as he opens his mouth, his door interrupts him with a knock, vibrating through its metal surface. You pause. He almost curses under his breath.

“Your Grace?” A voice comes from behind his door. “There are urgent matters I must report to you.”

“Not now,” he grits, fighting back a groan as you take this opportunity to throw him a sly, almost evil grin before wrapping a hand around his cock, leaning in to run your tongue along the slit and get a taste of his pre cum. “I…I’m busy.”

“But Nurse Sigewinne has insisted we tell you immediately.”

Well, fucking hell. It’s not like he can exactly ignore that—and you seem to know it, too, because you blink up at him with innocently expectant eyes. So, gritting his teeth, he gently shoves your under his desk and rolls his chair to cover himself under the open leg space where you’re cramped. 

He clears his throat. “C-come in. I’m late on documents to the Chief Justice, so it better be quick.”

You hold back a snort at his convenient excuse that happens to consist of papers he’s really in no rush to get finished at all. He fights back the urge to glare at you, instead peeking up as soon as the door to his office opens and a guard steps in. 

“You’re Grace,” he nods politely. Respectfully. A small part of Wriothesley is still not used to being addressed so…seriously. So formally. So importantly. “The head nurse would like to bring to your attention that a group of inmates have been ganging up on others. This has been the third fight this week, and the infirmary is busier than usual from flu season for her to properly handle such constant injuries.”

He’s only half listening. It’s hard to pay attention when your lips are wrapped around his cock, sucking slowly as you move your head up and down his length. Warm. Hot. Tight. Your mouth feels obscenely good—he can’t help but let out a low groan of pleasure. 

The guard flinches slightly at the sound. “I apologize for springing this on you while you’re so busy, Your Grace. The head nurse insisted I tell you as soon as possible for things to be handled properly.”

It’s clear the guard is oblivious to the way Wriothesley is hardly holding onto his thinly kept composure. Your tongue traces that heavy, thick vein along the side of his cock. You take him as far as you can, bobbing your head up and down impressively well along his length for being stuck in a tightly cramped place like under his desk. 

He grabs the edge of his desk, gritting his teeth as he lets out a sharp inhale when your hand reaches to fondle the delicate, sensitive sacs of his balls. 

“Your fault,” he hisses abruptly. 

The guard shrinks back, furrowing his brows in confusion as he stammers, “Y-your Grace?”

“I mean,” he clears his throat, barely fighting back a low moan as your swirl your tongue around his tip, “I-I mean it’s…it’s not your fault. That’s all.”

If relief was an expression, it would certainly be the cowering guard’s expression in front of him. Deciding it's time he put both of them out of their misery, Wriothesley barely grits out, “I’ll be done with this report for Monsieur Neuvillette shortly. It’s very—v-very time sensitive.”

You let out a quiet snort that only he hears at that. He nudges you warningly with his knee. 

“As…as soon as I am, I’ll drop a visit to the infirmary and have a chat with the group involved,” he continues. “J-just…fuck…just give me a few minutes.”

The guard rushes to insist a panicked, “No, no, no! No rush! Take your time, Your Grace. I’ll leave you to it—just wanted to get the message across as the head nurse wished.”

“Thank you,” he hardly manages to keep a straight face. A slight grimace of a smile is all he can offer before the guard nods and hurries out as if trying to avoid whatever wrath he thinks he’s conjuring up by being in the Duke’s office any longer than he should be. 

Wriothesley thinks that’s a habit of most guards he needs to correct: assuming that being anywhere near him is a quick to be punished sort of behavior. But for now, he’s too worried about sliding his chair backwards and letting you crawl out of his desk’s enclosure as soon at the door shuts closed and the guard is gone. 

Finally. Fucking finally. 

“You’re a piece of work,” he glares down at you, watching as you suck on his cock innocently. Your lips look so wet. So sticky. So swollen parted around him that he almost wants to pull you off for just another taste. “You know that?”

You only hum around him, the vibrations forcing his head back against the chair as he moans low and drawn-out. Freely this time that no one’s here, but still quiet enough in case anyone’s outside the door. 

One more swirl of your lips around his thick, swollen tip, and he’s limp in his chair, groaning into his hand as he tries to muffle the sounds while cums down your throat. You can feel every twitch of him, hot, thick seed painting your throat white with his release. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, completely lost in his own world of pleasure. You watch him like that. It’s pretty. You’re a little too used to it—a little too dependent on the routine of watching his face break over the devastation of pleasure like that. 

When you pull away, making a show to swallow everything you can, he groans and rubs a hand over his face as he mutters something about trying to kill him. 

“So,” you wink with a cheeky, sly little smirk. “See you next week?”

“If I make it alive long enough,” he says tiredly. “You might kill me before that. Or these damn prisoners and their shenanigans.”

You laugh, standing and dusting yourself off before leaning down and pressing a small kiss to his lips. He tastes himself on you. Something about that makes him swell with more pride than it should. 

“You’ll be fine,” you hum softly. “I’m sure of it.”

────────────────────────

Wriothesley never earned the title of Duke—not at first, anyway.

You’ve heard the story.

He was supposed to be released from his sentence a few months ago. Except, by some stroke of bad luck, the warden at the time was nowhere to be found in his office the day of Wriothesley’s release. So, as on-brand as ever to his nonchalant, carefree attitude, Wriothesley signs the papers himself and effectively crowns himself with the title of Duke. 

He’s been running things down at the Fortress ever since. And pretty well, too—you’ve heard that things have improved rather drastically in prison for inmates. Free meals once a day. Better regulation of currency to exchange for benefits. A system of rules that keeps them in check and prevents them from behaving like dogs.

You’ve heard it all. 

But hearing everything means you hear the snide whispers, too: not everyone thinks he’s earned the title enough to keep it even if he’s done good—he’s a murderer, they gossip. We can’t have someone like that running the Fortress! That’s an outrage! Neuvillette has received enough formal complaints on the matter that you’re the product of a compromise—weekly audits done by a relatively impartial member of the Palais who doesn’t necessarily ignore his stained record but doesn’t particularly deem it as an irrefutable reason why he shouldn’t be Duke. You accept under the agreement of a slightly better paycheck for your troubles of making the trip to the Fortress and a little extra vacation time for the added paperwork to your usual responsibilities. 

Under the Palais and court rules, you take an oath to honesty and promise to offer, to the best of your abilities, the truth of what goes down in the prison and how its warden runs it. 

But, well…Wriothesley grows on you. A lot. It’s not that you ever have to lie about him—he really is a good Duke. But you like him enough that you’re starting to wonder if you could keep your honest streak if it really came down to it. You like him enough that you can’t claim anymore that the once sexually charged tension is just that: sexual. Because it’s not. It’s more complicated than that. Coming down and seeing him every week, finding your way in his sheets, getting to know him through a tangle of sweaty bodies and bantered pillow talk only makes you human. With feelings. Feelings for a man who’s more good than he’s not—you learn that pretty quickly. 

Wriothesley is a good person. Murder be damned. He did it to save people—sure, it’s a sin all the same. An extreme all in the name of justice, but it was to save people. He’s not a cold-blooded man. And he cares about the prisoners, too. That much is palpably abundant with the headaches he takes on to better the quality of life for convicted criminals.

No one believes in second chances like Wriothesley. No one has put as much work into offering people second chances like him, either. You think, despite initially earning his title or not, he’s certainly earned it by now.

So, when you watch him get pulled off of the limp body of a beaten prisoner by a handful of guards, you’re more than a little shocked by the almost feral, heartless look in his eyes as he snarls at the crumpled body on the floor in disgust. 

This is not the Wriothesley that you know. This isn’t the Wriothesley who runs the Fortress. The Wriothesley that you know doesn’t tolerate violence within his walls, and he certainly doesn’t instigate it. 

“What happened?” You ask quietly as you bandage his knuckles. It’s a deadly tone. He doesn’t answer, choosing to stare at his desk instead as he sits and lets you disinfect the broken skin. “Wriothesley.”

“He was being an asshole,” he grumbles vaguely. 

You raise a rather unimpressed brow at the juvenile response. He doesn’t seem to miss it either—even if he doesn’t meet your gaze to see it, the way he wilts a little is a hint enough that you know he’s aware. “Being an asshole,” you repeat. “That’s your sound logic for pounding someone into a bloody pulp?”

“Oh, please. He’s fine—”

“Really? He has a cracked rib, Wriothesley, for crying out loud!”

“So he’s fine,” he snorts almost bitterly. “In my time here, I’d have considered that lucky.”

“That’s exactly why you’re still here even though your time is over,” you say, the anger in your voice almost palpable as you throw your hands up and look at him in disappointment. “You’re supposed to be here making sure something like that is not the standard for luck anymore! Not upholding it.”

Wriothesley exhales sharply, his jaw tightening as he leans back in his chair, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. He looks like a stubborn, moody teenager being scolded. You have to take a deep breath and remind yourself his teen years probably didn’t consist of a lot of patience, so you try to keep yourself calm for both of your sakes—the storm brewing in his icy eyes is far from calm.

“You just wouldn’t understand,” he says, his voice low and strained, “Things are different down here than up there.”

“Then explain it to me,” you challenge, arms crossed as you stand your ground. “Help me understand why the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide—the one who’s supposed to set an example—decided to act out like a rowdy delinquent.”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, it almost looks like he’s going to lose his temper, the same temper that’s already rather thinly composed. His hand clenches into a fist in your hold, the faint wince that follows indicating the pain in his injured knuckles. “He said something,” he mutters finally, his voice barely above a growl.

“Something?” you glare, your voice doing pretty much nothing to hide the frustration that’s mounting. “Wriothesley, I’m going to need a lot more than that. You realize I have to report this, right? To Neuvillette? People already have tons to say about your position as Duke at the Palais—we’re supposed to try and change their minds! You’re telling me you threw the progress away because some asshole said something you didn’t like?”

“Yes. He said something he shouldn’t have said,” he mutters vaguely, voice low but laced with a dangerous edge. It’s almost like he’d do it all over again if it called for it. 

You pause, narrowing your eyes. “Okay, then let’s hear it. What did he say?”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away, his gaze fixed on the faint bloodstains on his knuckles. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Wriothesley.” Your tone is sharper now, more insistent. “Tell me.”

“He said something about you,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the room like one of his well-practiced uppercuts to a jaw. 

“About…me?” you frow, crinkling your brows in confusion. “What about me? Because of my job? Who cares—they’ll realize soon enough that I’m not here to harm the Fortress rather than help it. You didn’t need to—”

He clicks his teeth as his gaze drops to his legs, unable to meet your expectant gaze as his jaw works while he tries to force the words out. “Not like that. Something…disgusting. Something he had no right to even think, let alone say out loud. So yeah, I broke his rib. I could’ve broken more, but he got lucky.”

The ferocity in his tone leaves no room for doubt—he means every word, and he’d do it again if you let him. Maybe even worse without the intervention of guards dragging his body off the limp figure. You chew your bottom lip as you process what he’s telling you, the almost tangible way he’s so…so what? You stop to think. So protective? What exactly is it that he’s making you feel that has your anger washing away so fast? So respected? Perhaps he respects you enough to fight for your dignity, but that’s not quite it.

You know that. 

You know that really, at the heart of things, it’s so easy to stop being mad at him when there’s real proof that he cares. About you. Sure, you have faith in Wriothesley’s ability to be a respectable man to the ladies—you doubt he’d accept someone talking about any woman that way. But it’s clear that…well, he cares enough to take it this far because it’s not just a woman. It’s you.

You.

“Wriothesley…” you start, slow and careful. It’s like you’re approaching a cornered animal in a cage you trapped yourself. 

“I know what you’re going to say,” he interrupts, his tone softer now, almost resigned. He slumps back in his chair almost petulantly as if he’s accepted that this is a lecture he can’t avoid. “That I need to be better. That I need to think before I act. That there’s a lot riding on my behavior and all that nonsense about proving to some assholes in a chair that I deserve this title and so on. And you’re right—I know you’re right,” he sighs.

You raise a slightly shocked brow at his admission. “Oh, well—”

“But I had to, okay? So everyone knows things are different around here now. Things like that were normal before, you know? Things weren’t safe for girls like you in the Fortress, and it’s about time they changed, so yeah, I set an example. Not the best one, but it got the message across, didn’t it? I’ll take some losses, sure, but that’s okay. It’s one minor setback.”

“Yes,” you nod carefully, “And I just want you to know—”

“But…about you? It’s…it’s different when it’s you, and you know it. Hearing someone talk about you like that...” He trails off, his fists clenching again. “I couldn’t let it slide. Not you. So—”

“Thank you.” You interrupt before he can finish. You say it softly. Like you mean it. 

He pauses, reeling back. “What?”

“I said thank you,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Don’t make me say it again, you jerk.”

“You’re not mad?” He looks at you bewildered, like you’ve grown two heads. You snort, looking at him like he’s an idiot. He huffs at just the look on your face alone.

“I’m furious,” you shake your head, “But I’m not ungrateful enough not to appreciate someone defending my honor. I’d prefer it if it was less violent next time.”

Wriothesley sits in silence for a moment after your words, the tension in his frame ebbing. “Less violent,” he repeats, a sulky, almost pouty look on his face. “I guess I’ll work on it.”

“Yes,” you nod, “You will. So that I won’t have to lie to Monsieur Neuvillette next time.”

He blinks. “What—”

“Since an inmate attacked you, I’ll let him know you had no choice but to throw him off and crack a rib from the impact,” you shrug innocently. 

He looks at you in wonder, a small, amused smile curling on his lips as he lets out a soft, quiet snort. “I don’t know if you can crack a rib from—”

“You should be quiet and think about what you’ve done,” you hiss. “Awful behavior means you’re on time out!”

“Oh, yes,” he salutes, obediently straightening as he folds his hands together on his desk. He winces a bit at the strain it puts on his hurt hand, making you bite back a fond smile. “I’m deeply thinking about my mistakes and regretting my deplorable actions. I promise.”

“Good,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t let it happen again.”

You turn to leave, and he sinks back in his chair, sighing as he watches you go. Next week’s audit can’t come fast enough, he thinks.

────────────────────────

When he hasn’t seen you in too long, Wriothesley has dreams. Vivid ones, in fact. 

They start not too long after the shift in your fragile friendship—you’re still friends, of course. It���s not as though that part of your relationship was ever fragile. It's just that….now, you’re more than friends without actually being more. It’s a delicate sort of arrangement that can easily have someone like him wanting more. And regrettably, he wants more. That much is clear by these dreams of his—and you’re often in these dreams of his. Scandalizing dreams, if you will. 

He never really took himself for a guy who’s attracted to someone with a pristine and spotless record—if anything, all Wriothesley seems to be attracted to anymore is trouble. 

But you’re different. Not because you’re unique or anything special by any means (which, he realizes, sounds a little bit rude in his head when he really thinks about it), but that’s exactly why he likes you. You’re rather ordinary. You work your ordinary job at the Palais, go home, do what’s expected of you, and go about life simplistically. He can’t help but enjoy it because there’s this weird, odd sense of normalcy that you grant his life. 

Nothing about Wriothesley’s life is normal. Not now, not then, not ever. 

He was young as an orphan. Doomed to the fate of no family by the tender age of four. A poor, sickly father who left this world long before he left his mother’s womb and, by fate’s desire, later orphaned by a missing mother who never came home from work. By the time he’s old enough to piece together that his mother was yet another victim of the missing young women’s case in Fontaine, he’s far too past that life to properly grieve her. 

And then there’s the darker part of his past…the messy memories of blood and betrayal that he chooses not to dwell on for the sake of his own peace. It landed him on the streets for the better part of his youth and then in a dark, ruthless prison where just even a meal is a burden to acquire. 

Nothing about his life is normal. His mother was ripped away by the nation’s darkest mystery, his siblings weren’t ones he’d acquired by normal means, his “parents” were anything but standard, and his housing conditions (or lack thereof once upon a time) consisted of a large, metal cage situated at the bottom of the ocean. Even his romantic history, which he can count on one hand the instances of, have been odd, unconventional flings that he indulged in rarely because he was but a growing boy turned into a man, raging desires that make any form of relief seem like a blooming romance. 

His first girlfriend left the Fortress after finishing her sentence when he was barely an adult. She promised to write to him every day until his own release. He’d never heard from her again. His second “girlfriend” didn’t even make it far enough to earn that title at all. She was a girl, who was a friend, who sometimes when he was exceedingly lucky, wove herself into his sheets and let him have his way with her so his growing frustrations have an outlet. 

Romantic intimacy is a world beyond the skies of Teyvat for him.

So, when you wander into his life, working a standard nine-to-five job that requires nothing excessively abnormal of you, grinning at him with a happy, free smile that carries little to no burdens, he can only fight the human part of him for so long before his desires come hitting him full force. There was a time when dreaming of a wife and kids and white picket fences was well within his reality. When he dreamt of being like his father, hearing small, excited footsteps pounding against the hardwood floor to greet him at the door. When he dreamt that the mother of his children would smile just as sweetly and brightly as his own mother. 

That’s gone now, of course. Well out of his reach and far from his realm, but at the very least, you bring some rare burst of normality in his fascinatingly odd life. 

So he dreams of you. Admittedly, they’re not always the best-natured of dreams.

He wakes up sweaty and tangled in sheets as a familiar heat is already built between his legs—for quite a while, too, he surmises, because the ache is thick enough to let him know that he’s been sporting this erection for quite a bit. How—he wonders—did he end up with such a shameless problem in the middle of his rare and well-deserved rest? The answer is infuriatingly obvious, but he hates to admit it to himself. 

You. 

You’re the reason for this predicament—that raunchy, filthy dream of his from just a few moments ago, the vision in his subconsciousness of your mouth taking him, your hand stroking him, your lips kissing him. All of it lands him here with a thickly hardened cock and little to no dignity left for the pure filth he indulges himself in. 

Flaring his nostrils with a tired exhale, he decides there’s no point in dragging out his suffering any longer. What’s happened has happened. 

“Fucking hell,” he hisses as he frees his length from his boxers, tugging them down just enough to rest against his balls. Even under the protection of his blanket, he can feel cool air kiss the hot, velvety skin enough to make him twitch involuntarily. “Mmh,” he groans.

His fist takes shape around his cock. It’s different from your touch—he’s felt it enough times briefly to know that your hand is far smaller and far softer. Less wear and tear from boxing and fights, less scabs and calluses of healed skin. But he works with what he has, stroking himself slowly as he throbs in his own hand. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he all but whines to an empty room as if you’re right there with him, helping him through his glaringly obvious problem. “Fuck, it almost hurts, baby. You’ll help, right?” 

You will. You nod from the depths of his imagination in the back of his head, where you live to play out his shameful fantasies. He bites his lips and lets out a shaky breath as he imagines you leaning forward, pressing a soft, delicate kiss to the tip of his cock. 

As if in response to the phantom touch of your mouth, his cock does another little twitch. I’ll take care of you, Wrio.

No one has ever called him that—not affectionately, at least. (He refuses to let his old prison nickname born from bantering mockery count.) The nickname falling from your (imaginary) lips has him throwing his head back against his pillow as he groans deeply. 

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” he demands gently. Obediently, you giggle and listen to him. “Gods,” his back arches as soon as your hand pumps his aching length, finally offering him some sort of relief as he bucks his hips up in time to meet your strokes.

Feels good, huh, baby? You hum. He nods, letting out a throaty sound in response. I can tell. It’s all over your face.

“Quit it,” he clicks his teeth petulantly. A thumb rolls through his slit teasingly, collecting pre cum and smearing it along the thick, sensitive vein along the side of his cock. “You’re…you’re such a brat, you know that?”

You like it, you hum.

“I do,” he lets out an airy, breathless chuckle of admission before the strokes get faster. And faster. He’s grunting freely now; something crossed between a moan and a gasp sounding through the small, secluded bedroom built in with his office. Luckily, it’s deep enough into the Fortress that no one could hear him if they tried—not unless they were standing right outside his bedroom door from his office.

No one has the audacity to do that, he thinks with smug satisfaction, so you don’t have to worry about how much noise he’s making. You’re the type to get stressed about things like that.

Close, Wrio?

“So close, baby,” he chokes.

Do I make you feel good?

“Better than anyone,” he confirms. 

You look so pretty like this, did you know?

“F-fuck, fuck—I…I’m gonna cum, sweetheart,” he warns.

Yeah? Then do it, pretty boy.

He does. He cums in thick, full loads of cum that have his cock twitching with every rope. Your hand is a mess, coated in his release, stroking him through his pleasure and smearing it along the heated skin. You know just what he likes—have his little quirks and preferences memorized as if you know him better than himself. You know he likes having the vein traced with your thumb, and you know that when he’s just about almost finished, giving his balls a soft squeeze makes him gasp and let out one final rope of his seed. 

By the time he’s done, slumped against his bed with boneless, tired muscles, he realizes with a sigh that the hand on his cock is not yours. It’s his.

Somewhere in the midst of his fantasies, he forgets what’s real and what’s not. Your voice in his head sounds so close, so real, so tangible, he forgets he’s talking to the empty air of his room and not you.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groans to himself, rubbing his good hand over his face tiredly, “You’re seriously messing me up in the head. What’re you doing to me?”

────────────────────────

“What time do you need to return to the Palais by?” Is the first thing he says to you when you walk into his office. You pause, staring at Wriothesley before you blink and huff.

“Ah, yes. It’s wonderful to see you, too! I’ve been doing fantastic; it’s so kind of you to ask,” you bat your lashes with a sarcastic smile before adding, “And you? How have you been? Rather well, I’m sure.”

Wriothesley purses his lips, looking at you with a fractional amount of patience before giving you an equally as sarcastic smile and responding, “I’m doing quite well. Thank you for your generous concern. In fact, if it wouldn’t trouble you too much—because you know I’d hate to do that—I would be faring quite a lot better if you’d even more generously answer my question.”

“I don’t have to return to the Palais today,” you roll your eyes, “I go home directly after five and bring Monsieur Neuvillette your report card tomorrow morning.”

“Wonderful,” is all he says. “Perfect.”

“Why—”

You don’t know how he got up fast enough to bridge the distance between you and his desk and cut you off mid-sentence with a crash of his lips to yours, but he does. His lips are pressed to yours in a desperate kiss that has you melting against him against your will. Like he’s expecting it, his arms are there waiting, catching you to hold you upright against him as he chuckles against your mouth.

Bastard, you want to say into his lips. He’s too busy keeping them occupied to give you the chance.

“I need you,” he rasps, “Now.”

“It’s technically still my work day,” you gasp between breaths, “I’m supposed to observe—”

“Then observe me from here,” he grunts.

With that, he sweeps you into the bedroom connected to his office. You’ve been in it so many times, yet you always wonder why it still shocks you that such a convenient room is in his personal office—but you figure the Duke of a prison surely would not sleep with the rest of the prisoners. And more importantly, it’s…good for the noise to be located in such a private, secluded area.

“Been thinking about fucking you all day,” he mumbles in between kisses, his large, callused hands cradling your face as your hands tangle in his hair. 

“Then fuck me,” you challenge, making him let out a low, unimpressed sound from the back of his throat. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says lowly, trailing his lips to nip at your neck and jaw, “Trust me, I will.”

Your back meets his mattress. You don’t have the slightest concept or understanding of time—by the time you’re both bare with all your clothes tossed to the floor, you can feel a dull, building ache between your legs as a pool of slick coats your inner thighs. 

“So wet,” he grins to himself, bringing a hand between your thighs, right to the apex where he studies the leaking essence waiting for him there. “All this for me?”

“Not for long if you don’t make good use of it,” you hiss stubbornly. His gaze darkens at that, making him let out a snarled sound of displeasure before he lowers himself between your legs. 

“Careful, baby,” he warns, “You have no idea what you’re signing yourself up for.”

And you don’t. Because by the time Wriothesley’s face unburies itself from between your legs, your two orgasms and a semi-decent stream of tears smeared along your face in. He finally unlatches himself from your clit once the waves of your second high finally come down, glistening slick coating his chin and lips as he grins. 

“How was that for making good use?”

“I don’t know,” you huff. “I had something else in mind.”

Pointedly, you stare at his tall, standing and neglected cock. It’s clearly painfully hard and painfully aching for some form of relief as it twitches between his legs. 

You admire it for a moment. The nearly trimmed hair at the base—how Wriothesley supplies the necessary equipment to even trim himself downstairs in a place like a prison, you’re unsure but definitely not ungrateful. He’s always been pretty, in a ruggedly handsome way—but his cock…well his cock is pretty because it responds so well to you. To your body. To your every movement. 

You gently grab him, gently stroking a few times and humming in satisfaction as he groans and clenches his jaw while it twitches in your touch. 

“Sensitive,” you tease. 

“I could argue the same about you,” he replies smartly through a labored, breathless voice. You laugh, sweet as honey on warm bread. 

He doesn’t taste that too often in the Fortress, but he doesn’t think he’s missing out. Not with you here. 

“Come here,” you whisper. “I want you too.”

With that, you guide him slowly to your entrance. He shivers as he rubs the tip along your folds, coating himself in your wetness and swearing his own pre cum along your cunt before slowly sinking in. 

“Fuck,” you both hiss in unison. 

“Feel…feel so good,” he says hoarsely, “So fucking tight.”

With that, it’s a blur. Something you’re used to by what feels like your millionth week feeling him, but something that never feels like it’s not the first time all over again. 

He rocks his hips in a steady, perfect rhythm. You pull him close and feel his body searing against yours. Skin on skin. Heat against heat. Body melting into body. 

“Never get enough to you,” he whispers. 

“Then keep taking more of me,” you whisper back. 

“Yeah?” He chuckles, breathless. Hopelessly smitten. It’s written all over his face. You’re sure the same goes for yours. “You want that? Want me to keep taking more and more of this pretty cunt?”

“What, you’re saying you’ll get bored of me?” You pout teasingly. 

He huffs, pulling you into a deep, bruising kiss. “Never. You hear me? Never.”

Like that, you fall apart. And with that, he follows not long after. He pulls out just before he can spill into you, hand moving to pump himself until yours beats him to it, wrapping around his girth and stroking the way you know he likes it. With his vein traced. With a fast pace but not too fast. With everything he needs to feel seen and known because that’s what you do best. 

See him. Know him. Treat him like he matters. 

“Gods,” he says shakily as he finishes. “I needed that. Needed you.”

“You always have me,” you remind him softly. “Always.”

He grins. Kisses you softly—ike you’re a fragile, blooming lakelight lily. He’s gone momentarily to grab a warm, wet towel to clean you off before he’s sinking into the bed beside you, turning to look at you as he takes in your curled up figure under his sheets. 

He could get used to this. More than just once a week. 

“It’s the twenty-third,” you whisper quietly, like it’s a secret. 

Huh, he thinks. It doesn’t register what day it is until you bring the date to his attention—he didn’t even realize today’s date. Not that this date ever matters enough to make his day any different from the rest of the days of the year. But typically, he at least remembers when it passes by. 

It’s the first time it’s slipped his mind completely. 

“It is,” he agrees, looking at you with a slightly confused look. “Any reason why that’s relevant?”

“It’s your birthday,” you look at him incredulously, lifting your head off of the pillow to get a better look at him. 

He lays quietly beside you, still slowly catching his breath. He doesn’t answer at first—just pulls the sheets over both of your bare bodies as he curls an arm around you and pulls you close. You used to never take Wriothesley for the cuddling type. You used to never take him for the affection type, in general. 

Maybe, you like to think, maybe even people like Wriothesley aren’t above enjoying something soft. It’s a comforting thought. It’s nice to know that even someone so strong and immovable like him craves some sort of bond with another human. Some tangible form of safety and kindness. Some form of proof that people can be—and are—good enough to trust, good enough to lie beside and slowly lose consciousness around.

“And who told you that?” He quirks up a half amused, half shocked brow, voice low and smooth enough that you almost think you could go another round just from the sound of him.

You don’t tell him that, of course. The Gods know he doesn’t need any more reasons to be smug. 

“I read the files,” you answer with a wave of your hand, trying to dismiss him. “I like to know who I work with.”

“Yeah?” He snorts, “That so?”

You don’t really have to answer him. You shouldn’t let him win—but something about that wolfish grin and that cocky glint in his eyes tells you he already knows more than you’d like. They have you huffing as you quietly mumble out, “Okay. I asked Sigewinne when it was. You’re awfully ungrateful about the fact that I cared enough to ask.”

“Your benevolence graciously exceeds my expectations every time,” he chuckles. 

“Well,” you raise a brow expectantly, “Are you going to do something to celebrate?”

He shakes his head. It’s too instant for your liking—and he seems to notice that, too, because he takes one look at your frown and shrugs, “My birthday’s not that important to me. I’ve never really celebrated it much.”

“What?” You ask incredulously. You think you’re being a touch dramatic—you seem more hurt about this than him, but you can’t help yourself. “What do you mean? Birthdays are the one important day we get.”

Wriothesley lets out a soft breath, his chest rising and falling steadily against you as he looks up at the ceiling. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—something fleeting and hard to name. It’s not quite pain, but it’s close enough that you can feel it in the way his body tenses beneath your touch.

“They weren’t important growing up,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “And now I’m too old for it, anyway.”

He keeps the answer pointedly vague, like he’s avoiding the truth on purpose. You don’t mind. Not so much when it’s him, not so much when something heavy and unresolved that he doesn’t elaborate on is clearly there. You don’t like to push him—not yet. Maybe not ever. He deserves patience and compassion for once, you think—someone who puts his feelings first so he knows that his feelings aren’t at the bottom of some tiered list of relevancy that he somehow always ends up on the bottom of.

Instead, you shift closer, laying a hand against his chest and feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“Not even when you were a kid?” you ask softly, careful not to sound too intrusive.

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you think he’s going to brush you off. That maybe he’ll throw you off his scent with some annoyingly smooth-talking joke and change the subject. You’re prepared for it—for the disappointment of being pushed away and not let in. You’re prepared for anything because it’s him, and you don’t mind when it’s him. But then, his hand moves, his fingers idly tracing along your arm as he speaks again, his voice low and resigned.

“I did celebrate. Briefly. We’d get a party every year, my siblings and I.” He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly. “And there would be people. I thought they were friends…you know? Friends my parents would invite over to celebrate with us. When I got older, I realized the truth. Those parties were just another excuse to show us off. To market us easier.”

Your heart clenches at the bitterness in his tone. You don’t need to ask what he means—you’ve heard the rumors about his past, heard the whispers about how the Duke of Meropide is a killer. Cold-blooded and ruthless as he watched the life drain from his own parents’ eyes without a single regret. Didn’t even hesitate to plead guilty and admit to his crimes.

You read the files in Neuvillette’s office before he first sent you down. Something about reading his testimony made you feel helpless—like there’s still a child stuck in an awful predicament with no way out instead of a now grown man who’s well on his way to being a rather significantly important figure in Fontaine. 

“—And after that,” he continues, his voice almost a whisper now as it breaks you from your thoughts, “I was stuck down here. Not many birthday festivities you can do down in the ocean alone, so I didn’t see the point. A birthday’s just a day. Another reminder of…everything I’d rather not think about if I can help it.”

“Wriothesley,” you start gently, lifting your head to look at him. He meets your gaze, his eyes darker than usual, guarded but not completely shut off. He doesn’t like being comforted—doesn’t like the idea of his emotions being in someone else’s domain to handle. It leaves him open to worse wounds. But you ignore the way his jaw tenses, cupping his cheek as you hum, “It’s not just a day or some reminder of them. It’s about you if you make it about you. And you’re not a sick marketing scheme. You’re…”

You trail off. Not because you don’t know all the things he is: cunning, resourceful, selfless, incredibly smart. But because you don’t know which one to start with. Like choosing one first means it’s the most important one—you can’t bring yourself to define him as one thing more than the others.

“Devilishly handsome?” he cuts in with a faint smirk, the tension in his face easing just a little as he pushes your buttons. “You seem stuck there, so let’s start with that.” You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your smile is impossible to ignore as you let his good-natured jab slide. 

“Yes, that’s one way to describe you, I suppose. But you’re also just…good.” You settle on that word because he is. He’s good, and he makes things good. He makes life feel okay and the day a little better. Like your own piece of good from the world to have for yourself. “And you deserve to have something good. Something that’s just for you.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, his expression unreadable but soft in a way that makes your heart beat with a painful ache. Then, he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Maybe,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and almost tender. “Maybe next year, I’ll let you change my mind.”

“Next year? Surely, if you mean I’ll be around for that long, then this is your way of asking me out?” Your lip twitches at the corners, hopeful. You force it down to a neutral look before faking a yawn and saying, “What an underwhelming way of asking.”

He raises an amused brow. Still, there’s something dangerously cautious about his expression as he looks at you. Like he’s guarding himself from possible disappointment. “You’re saying you’d say yes if I asked nicely?”

“Depends. Are you asking?” You ask softly. 

He lets out a shaky breath, studying your features and avoiding your eyes as he brings his gaze along your nose and lips and the slight sweatiness of your skin from your earlier activities. “If I’m asking, is that a yes?”

“Yes,” you say breathlessly.

“Then yeah,”  he stares at the ceiling, voice quiet. Hopeful. A rare moment that he lets himself try to be happy without worrying the world will fuck it up for him. You’ll handle it if it tries, he thinks—you always do. “Maybe next year, you’ll change my mind.”

“Not maybe,” you insist. It’s firm enough that he believes you. “I will change your mind.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Happy birthday, Wrio.”

“Thanks,” he grins, “Same time next year?”

“Same time next year,” you laugh, nodding in confirmation. He doesn’t tell you that you’ve already changed his mind. Maybe he’ll even tell you next birthday that you haven’t managed to—just to have an excuse to keep you around one more year.

But something tells him you’ll stay even without such a ploy. 

This fic was genuinely such a struggle for me to write. I’m not sure why. I suppose because it doesn’t have a real conflict to guide me in a sense—I wanted it to be mainly happy and just a small sort of timeline of them having each other but still finding each other. If that makes sense. Idk if it does LOL. The main focus was just making his bday happy. Hopefully I achieved that but ANYWAY!! If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading!! Kissing you on the forehead <3

[moowmoon]

DOCTOR

— spencer reid x bau!fem!reader

— summary: she was with a cold, and he was her personal doctor.

— c/w: sickness, cold and fever

— w/c: 0.9k

— a/n: hello! how are you guys doing? i had fun writing his one and i kinda wish that spencer was here taking care of me lol! i hope you guys like it and let me know your thoughts, my ask box is always open to talk/share things! english is not my first language, so forgive me if there's any mistake!

The rain drummed softly against the windows, filling the apartment with a constant, comforting rhythm. Spencer entered the living room, his footsteps silent on the carpet. He saw her lying on the sofa, curled up under a blanket, her face slightly flushed with fever. A pile of crumpled tissues rested on the coffee table next to an empty mug.

"How are you feeling?" Spencer asked, his voice low but full of concern. He knelt beside the sofa, studying the tired face in front of him.

"Terrible. But at least you're here." the reply came out hoarse but accompanied by a weak smile.

Spencer smiled back, gently pressing his hand to her forehead. "It's still warm, but better than this morning. I'll make some more tea."

Without waiting for an answer, he got up and disappeared through the kitchen door. From the sofa, she followed his movements with heavy eyes, feeling the heat of Spencer's concern as warm as the blanket.

He walked back into the room with measured steps, carefully balancing a tray in his hands. The mug of tea was spewing fine spirals of steam, and beside it lay some simple but inviting cookies. He stopped beside the sofa and watched her for a moment. She was partially covered, one hand loosely holding the blanket while the other rested on her chest, rising and falling in a rhythm that indicated persistent tiredness.

"I've brought you something." Spencer's voice was low, but full of tenderness.

She opened her eyes slowly and, although she didn't have the strength to move much, she managed to give a weak smile and get up slowly. Spencer put the tray on the side table, picked up the blanket, and carefully arranged it, pulling it up to her shoulders.

"You didn't have to…" the voice came out hoarse, but grateful.

"Of course I needed it." he leaned over and rested his palm lightly on her forehead. "The fever has started to come down. That's good." a small but sincere smile appeared on his lips before he picked up the mug and handed it to her. "Drink it slowly. It's still warm."

As she brought the mug to her lips, Spencer sat down next to her on the sofa, close enough for their shoulders to touch. He watched intently as if monitoring every little movement, and when she took a cautious sip, he spoke, his voice a reassuring whisper.

"Just rest. The paperwork can wait, and you don't have to worry about anything now. I'm here."

She stared at him, her eyes shining with something other than tiredness. A feeling of comfort and gratitude that only Spencer could offer at that moment.

After a few minutes, the room was plunged into a comfortable dimness, with only the soft light of a lamp filling the corners. Spencer was sitting on the sofa, a book open in his hands, his voice low and calm as he read.  Each word came out with an almost hypnotic cadence, projecting tranquil images into the room.

Still wrapped in the blanket, she leaned on his shoulder, adjusting her head so that she could hear the warm timbre of his voice more closely. She sighed, gradually relaxing as the tension left her body.

Without interrupting his reading, Spencer let one of his hands slide down her back, his fingers drawing slow, meticulous circles, a gesture that seemed as automatic as it was intentional.

"You know I could listen to this all day, right?" her voice sounded muffled against his shoulder, laden with tiredness but also a slight humor.

Spencer paused and smiled, closing the book for a moment. He watched her with quiet affection, his eyes filled with a fondness that needed no words to understand.

"And I'd read all day if it would help you get better faster."

She let out a low, husky laugh, her head sinking further into his shoulder. Sensing the movement, Spencer adjusted his arm to wrap around her completely, holding her firmly and gently.

"It's working," she murmured, almost falling asleep.

Spencer didn't reply, just resumed reading, continuing to trace those comforting little circles; the sound of his voice blending with the quiet rhythm of the pages being turned and the rain.

Her breathing became slow and rhythmic, signaling that sleep had finally overcome the discomfort of fever. Her head rested on Spencer's shoulder, her features, once marked by fatigue, now softened into an expression of peace.

He remained motionless for a few moments, listening to that calm, steady sound. Carefully, he adjusted the blanket once more, pulling it up to cover her shoulders and making sure she was warm.

Tilting his head slightly, he observed every detail of her sleeping face. The lips parted, the eyelashes casting delicate shadows against the still slightly flushed skin. There was something deeply comforting about that moment of stillness as if the whole world had been put on pause so that he could be there, exactly where he needed to be.

Spencer sighed softly, a sound of relief mixed with gratitude. He placed a soft kiss on the top of her head before leaning back further on the sofa, the comforting weight against him bringing a sense of belonging.

"You'll be fine," he murmured, even though he knew the words wouldn't be heard. Even so, saying them out loud seemed important, almost like a promise.

As the rain continued its gentle rhythm against the windows, Spencer stood there, his arms tightly around the one he loved, treasuring that moment of peace.

[affableramen]

Wriothesley x fem!reader fic

request domestic angst+comfort

Roommate

Pt.1

“Wonderful. Our kettle is broken”, Wriothesley spread out his hands in a mild disappointment. “This is all your doing, you constantly crushed it into the base. As if you don’t know how fragile it is.”

You find yourself incredibly angered by his bold statements. You and your roommate had quite the opposite personalities and would often end up in a heated bicker. You two also had incredibly different schedules which would lead to obviously clashing routines. He woul always do his paperwork at night when you’d try to get a sleep. However Wriothesley was not the worst choice among the other candidates so sometimes you would turn a blind eye on the misunderstandings between you two. But not today.

“What do you mean this is my doing? You left the kettle on.”

“Yeah? I simply did not unplug it. I’m not some paranoid type of idiot.”

“You left the kettle on and it’s broken now. I told you to always unplug it! I requested this of you every single time!”

The arrogance in Wriothesley’s tone is almost palpable, and he simply turned around facing away from you. The movements of his body were artlessly languid, and you could swear you sensed coffee from his hair as he faced away from you. Perhaps the scent was coming from the nape of his head—you thought. Otherwise, it was still intoxicating to you, and even being as irritated and maddened as you are now, you could not deny that you found his scent tolerable if not likeable. Any other candidate to being your roommate could have been a nasty and bad-mannered student or some sort of criminal, but this man definitely stood proud before them all.

“Listen—I really have no time for this. I have more important things to do.”

“More important things to do!”

“Yeah? I’m engrossed in my work, I’m making money, okay?” He was speaking to you as if you were a complete idiot. “See you can’t even come up with a response because you know I’m right.”

“Fine. Whatever. I have enough money to buy a new teapot. Don’t even bother giving me money.”

Wriothesley raised his hand and waved to you not even looking back a second. 

“I take it you’re going to only drink takeaway tea from now on”, you said but he could be hardly bothered to listen to you.

When the two of you were at a respectable distance, his shoulders dropped and he let out an exhausted sigh. He occupied his desk and started working on his usual papers as the duke of Meropide’s ‘homework’.

It’s not that he was not rich, but he preferred saving money thus he rented this house with you. The house itself consisted of two floors (ground floor and first floor). It was not big, but very pleasant to be in. It was not exactly a countryside but not a city centre either. The area was quite tranquil and calm there, and your neighbours did little to disturb you, which was good both for your studies and Wriothesley’s work. But the kettle usage was sincerely a sensitive topic. You only had one in the whole house since Wriothesley did not see any sense in buying his own: you mostly drink water, gallons of it actually, using the boiled water only for noddles, while Wrio would always abuse the poor kettle with his 10 tea mugs a day. But that all did not matter now since the kettle was stupidly broken. It was a cheap one, and something in between its micro wires was faulty which would cause the kettle to turn itself on without the button being pressed on by someone. It was unfortunate, really, because Wriothesley did not bother to unplug the kettle and thought the action completely paranoid. You thought him as a person who doesn't give a single damn about others—well now it seems he doesn't give a damn even if this house ends up in flames.

“Thankfully it just got broken without any flames around”, you sighed exhaustedly, too.

Why wouldn't he listen to your little requests?

That day seemed to be designed for failures, as later in the evening the power of the whole street went down. That day the power was cut off and your room had grown exceedingly cold. 

“This is getting ridiculous. How am I supposed to work like this?”

But unlike Wriothesley who had a fur coat, you were only wrapped into your fuzzy blanket which did, frankly speaking, a bare minimum to save you from the cold.

“How frustrating, I cannot work like this”, he massaged the bridge of his nose. 

Meanwhile you were freezing until your patience finally exploded and you got up from the bed to get a robe for your nightwear. It might have been that Wriothesley heard you rummaging through the closet as he inquired with no visible interest:

“Cold, are you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a little too sensitive to cold, don't you think? Sometimes I wonder if you were a feline in your previous life.”

“Ha-ha”, you utter with a sleepy and grumpy face before pulling the robe and slipping back to the bed. A while after the cold becomes unbearable for you and unacceptable for someone else.

Wriothesley comes from behind, noticing that you never stop shivering. He approached from behind, standing staight a few steps from your bed and cleared his throat to grab your attention.

“You don’t look very comfortable, you know? Looks like you’re still shivering.”

“Yeah?” You parody his manner of speech. “What do you suggest?”

You secretly knew what this was leading to but did not want to suspect it just yet.

“I can think of a few ways. But sharing the body’s heat would top them all.”

You were speechless for the first few seconds before you spat out a response both with horrified expression and loud voice:

“Are you serious?” 

For Wriothesley it didn't seem to be a nasty idea at all. He shrugged, though his gaze ran around the room, trying to suppress the sudden embarrassment he did not once consider appearing. A grown man.

“It’s not like we didn't share the bed before, so I don't see why not-”

“Hello? We are in an argument”, you cut him off. “So there is a reason to avoid close contact now.”

He groaned, because you would put your emotions higher than the rational thought at the moment when you both damn needed the latter.

“What?! Don't be so stubborn. I’m cold too, you know.”

“Oh, are you? I thought you’re invincible.”

“Listen… I can go to my bed but this isn't gonna work, I’m sure you understand. You’re shivering—I am shivering, too. Now, please, move.”

You made a ‘tsk’ with your tongue upon hearing Wriothesley’s convincing proposal. Making a space for him, you share your fuzzy blanket witht he man who smells like tobacco and coffee, though at this time there is a thin layer of sweat added to it, as a natural result of the day coming to an end and his… well, hard work.

“I thought you weren’t going to sleep tonight. You were engaged with your extra hours.”

“Yeah, overtime duties, but at home. Annoying shit”, for the next moment his voice takes a softer tone, indicating his tiredness. “Changed my mind.”

Wriothesley subtly pulls the blanket so that it covers the both of your bodies, and you can feel a slight shift in his body as if he were trying to press flush to you. The beating of his heart was noticed, and to the rhythm of it you found yourself falling asleep with unexpected ease. Wriothesley’s arrogant exterior melted away too as he wrapped his arms around your waist but never going bolder and lower.

Maybe the next morning you two could discuss the kettle issue again and come to a diplomatic decision without unnecessary hostility?

[misswynters]

Seb complaining to you after a days worth of work

short drabble

requested. by anon

Seb’s broad shoulders sagged as he shuffled inside, his gills flaring faintly with every irritated breath. Door creaking as he stepped inside still in his uniform, which carried a lingering dent of zauns smog and dust. He muttered something under his breath, probably about the day he’d had, as he unbuckled his utility belt and tossed it onto a nearby chair with a loud clunk.

You watched from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water in hand, already bracing yourself for the incoming storm of complaints. Which he always does. He sure does love to complain about his job as enforcer.

“Long day?” you asked, breaking the silence.

Seb turned his wide, fish-like eyes toward you, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “You have no idea,” he groaned, flopping down onto the couch like a deflated balloon. His fin-like ears twitched as he rubbed at his temple, his webbed fingers dragging down his face dramatically. “I swear, if one more rookie enforcer tells me, ‘It’s just shimmer addicts, Seb,’ I’m gonna lose it. Like, yeah, Brad, shimmer addicts who could gut you with a rusty knife in two seconds flat. But sure, act tough.” (idk who’s brad lol, just a rando)

You bit back a laugh, crossing the room to sit beside him. “Brad again, huh?”

“Brad always,” Seb whined, throwing his head back against the couch and staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers. “It’s like babysitting with a badge.” He gestured wildly as he spoke, his fins flicking in irritation. “And don’t get me started on the paperwork. Hours of chasing down some punk, and then I have to sit there and write about it. I didn’t sign up for this. Well, okay, I did, but still.”

You leaned closer, resting your chin on your hand as you watched him rant. There was something endearing about the way he vented, his deep voice rising and falling with every exaggerated complaint.

“And then,” Seb continued, throwing his hands in the air for emphasis, “this shimmerhead threw a bottle at me. Me! Do I look like the kind of guy you throw a bottle at?”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to think. “Well, you are pretty intimidating.”

Seb scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, come on. I’m a catch.” He paused, his lips twitching upward as he caught the unintended pun. “Literally.”

You snorted, nudging him with your elbow. “A very dramatic catch.”

“Hey, someone’s gotta keep things interesting,” he said, finally cracking a small smile. He turned his gaze to you, his big eyes softening. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d really start whining.”

“Start whining?” you teased, earning a half-hearted glare.

Seb sighed, leaning back into the couch and letting his head loll toward you. “You know,” he murmured, his tone quieter now, “it’s not all bad. Coming home to you? Best part of the day.”

Your cheeks warmed at his sudden sincerity, and you reached out to take his hand. “Glad I can make it better,” you said softly.

He squeezed your hand, his usual dramatics replaced by a rare moment of tenderness. The two of you sat there in silence, his complaints forgotten for now. Seb might be a whirlwind of grumbling and theatrics, but you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

taglist. @diffusebread @xxblairslairxx

banner. @anitalenia

[bella-goths-wife]

Kiss the barrel of my gun softly: chapter five

Chapter warnings: violence, prostitution, misogyny, men being men, arguing, angst, protective Sevika, mentions of sexual acts, mentions of non-con, cruelty

After the rough few weeks that Sevika had experienced, she decided it was high time to drown herself in her usual vices of drinking, smoking and gambling. So she took the night off from doing Silco’s paperwork and took herself to the bar in The Last Drop and hoped for a peaceful night.

She had hoped that every swig of her whisky would dull the feelings of guilt in her chest, had prayed that if she polluted her lungs with the smoke from her cigarillo she’d eventually be able to swallow the lump of remorse in her throat, begged for the winnings in her pocket to weigh more that the weight of her regretful, shrivelled up heart.

She had told Silco of the decision she had made and he expressed pride at her ability to weaken you, and the actions had been put into  immediate action. Silco had warned all chembarons to not associate with your brothel until his say so, and he wouldn’t lift the ban until you attended the meeting with him that he demanded.

The effects had been immediate from what Sevika had seen from her walks home and past the brothel the past few weeks, the lack of customers and incoming gold had been evident from the lowered prices the girls were offering. She can’t say that the pathetic state of your prized business that Madame Emerald had left for you hadn’t left her with a heavy heart.

But a part of her hoped this would lead you to see sense and to finally accept a partnership with Silco, and hopefully that would lead to you coming back to her and forgiving her-

“You need to see this” young Peter scrambles to her table and to the rest of her crew with a poster in hand which he slams down on the table they were currently playing poker on.

“What the hell” Sevika exclaims with a furious look, anger at her lost winning streak very visible on her face.

“Sorry boss” young peter coughs out sheepishly before pointing excitedly at the poster he’d laid out on the table “but this is just too good”

“What is it?” Sevika asks with a roll of her eyes, assuming it was another pointless fighting event that the younger members of her crew seemed to enjoy so much.

However, she stilled when she read the contents of the poster and her blood ran cold.

‘The Gemstone brothel presents once in a lifetime opportunity: A night with the Madame’ the poster read in large, bold print ‘gold offers will be accepted at brothel, highest bidder wins’

A night with the Madame was always a last resort for brothels, the Madame being the title that requires the utmost respect and one that gains you many enemies. By participating in the night with the Madame you are opening yourself to losing all the respect you had gained and being forced to do the most dehumanising acts all for the entertainment of the highest bidder.

You were prepared to at best have to sleep with a random for money and at worst risk having to perform dehumanising acts to protect your brothel from going into debt over attending a simple meeting with Silco? She knew your hatred could range on for miles but she didn’t think you were this reckless.

“I don’t get the excitement” Buff Wade’s voice breaks Sevika out of her shock as she watches the muscular man shrug and for once she feels something akin to pride for the idiotic man at his lack of reaction.

“Its a night with the Madame” young Peter exclaims in shock “you can pay to fuck her”

“Why pay for what I’ve already had” Buff Wade states smugly with a shrug and a smirk

Sevika loses all the previous hope she held for the moron as her eyes narrowed into a harsh glare.

“You and the Madame fucked?” young Peter shouts out in shock 

“Yep, before she became Madame Obsidian” Buff Wade confirmed with a smarmy smirk “back when she was still old Emeralds lackey and actually had to work for a living instead of sitting there and looking pretty”

“The madame never did brothel work” Sevika grunts out with a challenging glare, not wanting to listen to another one of this fools lies about you.

“Any of the girls living in that brothel will do brothel work if you offer them a gold coin or two” Buff Wade laughs out mockingly “I was just lucky to get the Madame for a night before she got that stick up her ass about us going in that shithole of hers”

“I don’t do brothel work” your voice echoes through Sevika’s mind

Sevika internally has to calm the waves of anger inside of her, she couldn't go making a scene and risking both your reputations over some stupid assholes lies and insults.

“Y’know the offer doesn’t say anything about multiple people spending the night with the Madame” young Peter howls out through laughs with a smarmy grin “Maybe we could finally teach that bitch to respect us”

“What’ve you got in mind?” Buff Wade asks curiously as he and the rest of the crew lean in with interested eyes 

“We can pool our money together and make an offer, we’d be a shoe in combined” young Peter looks almost sinister as the cruel words stumble off his tongue “we can make that prudish bitch do whatever we want and finally get some respect out of her”

The entire table erupts into rounds of laughter as they all list off things they could make you do, each request more grotesque than the last. Sevika can only sit and watch on in silence as her fists clench and she attempts to calm herself.

“Maybe I could go looking for that stick up her ass” Buff Wade laughs out before crudely wiggling his eyebrows “or make her shove something else up there-”

That was the straw that broke the camel's back as Sevika felt herself stand up, the entire table turning silent and looking up at her with curious eyes. She can’t stop herself as her hand snakes out and smashes Buff Wade’s head against the wooden table, her first hit on what would be a very long and violent massacre.

Sevika can’t help but think of you during this bloodbath, of how desperate and scared you must be right now to make this offer, of how much you must need her right now.

Of how stupid you were for not coming to her for help first.

———————————past——————————

Sevika paused in her steps when she saw you and Madame Emerald stood in front of Silco’s office, The madame staring down at you adoringly and patting your head gently before leaving you standing alone.

You hadn’t accompanied the Madame to any meeting for the last month and Sevika hadn’t been able to spot you around the markets like she usually has, its like you’d dropped off the face of the planet until this moment.

That's why Sevika can’t help but just stare at you for a few moments, enjoying seeing your pretty face after so long and all but forgetting your unpleasant ending to your last encounter. Your head turns to her direction after you briefly hear her shoes and Sevika knows she's been caught in her gawking.

“Oh” you say quietly “it’s you”

Sevika nods and wordlessly comes to lean against the wall to your side, almost routinely at this point.

“Didn’t think you’d be here” Sevika comments gruffly, almost wanting to yank you about and question you about your sudden disappearance from her life.

“Madame and Silco are having another meeting” you inform quietly “She needed me here”

“How long are they gonna be?” Sevika asks through a grunt, wondering how much time with you she has.

“Not long, it's unlikely they’ll make a deal” you speak quietly as you throw her own words back in her face.

There’s a beat of awkward silence between the two of you as Sevika looks at your neutral face and fights the urge to hold it in her hands.

“Where have you been?” Sevika asks quietly, breaking the silence between the two of you

“I thought it was best for us to have some distance” you admit through a sigh, your eyes looking down to avoid her narrowed gaze.

“Why would we need distance?” Sevika asks confused through a scoff, why would she need distance from you when all her body craves is to be near yours?

“Because I think we want different things” you say quietly as your voice wavers in hesitation on whether or not to have this conversation now.

“Like what?” Sevika grunts out with a slight sneer.

“I think you want sex” you state with a sigh “and i think you want to have it discreetly so that Silco and Madame never find out”

Your words shock Sevika as her eyes widen and practically bulge out at your forwardness.

“And what do you want?” she asks in an almost defensive tone

“I want love” you admit with a pleading tone “and I can feel it coming and I don’t want you to hurt me”

“You want love?” Sevika scoffs out

“It’s not impossible to want” you exclaim defensively 

“Just impossible to get” Sevika fires back mockingly but regrets it immediately once she sees your hurt expression.

Your hurt eyes look at the ground to avoid showing her your weakness before you let out an exhausted sigh.

“Sevika” your eyes snap up to look at her once again “what do you want from me?”

“What do I want from you?” Sevika repeats in confusion

“You’ve pursued me for a year now, we’ve kissed and you feel jealousy and possessive over me but whenever an opportunity for us to have something appears, you turn it down” you rant off with frustration clear on your face “so i'm asking you directly, what do you want from me because any of the directions you want to go in only lead to trouble”

Sevika lets out a huff of frustration as she listens to you talk.

“What do I…..” Sevika speaks quietly as she attempts to put her feelings into words, something she’s always struggled with “i want you, i want you for myself and you won’t give me what I want”

“Because I don’t want to sneak around behind our bosses backs and be accused of betraying them” your words come out quickly and in a pleading tone “because I don’t want to be your secret”

“Maybe I don’t like the idea of us having to be public for you to want to be with me” Sevika attempts to mask her true feelings with whatever excuse she can find, but you see right through her.

“That’s bullshit and you know it” you raise your voice in frustration at her shitty excuses “I want to be private but not secret, going behind our bosses backs will only end in tears”

“I can’t let my personal life get in the way of business” Sevika scoffs dismissively, not understanding the hurt her words could bring “bringing this to Silco would just be a waste of time”

You visibly stiffen at her words as your face becomes a mixture of hurt and anger, your eyes staring up at her becoming increasingly wet with the need to cry.

“So you see us as a waste of time?” you ask quietly with a hurt tone.

“No, that’s not what I meant-” Sevika quickly tries to backtrack but you cut her off.

“Good to know” you scoff out as you storm away from her and out of her line of sight.

Sevika wants to go after you and apologise, beg on her hands and knees for your forgiveness but she can’t when she sees two of her men approach her. She has to stay in her place, put on her usual stoic expression and pretend like nothing happened.

Pretend like she isn’t yearning to chase you down and beg for forgiveness for her stupid words.

—————————-present——————————

You pace around the room in an anxious panic.

Everything looked perfect, you’d arranged the candles and the decorations in the client room to make a romantic and relaxing atmosphere, you’d dressed yourself in the finest silk lingerie, you’d applied your makeup methodically and made sure to bathe and shave every part of your body to perfection.

But no matter how pretty you make the surroundings, it wouldn’t change the situation.

Tonight would be the night you would have to service a client or clients for the first time in your life for the first time in your life, and it scared you shitless.

The women around you had offered you many tips on how to make certain acts hurt less and reassured you that Ginger and a few others would be outside the entire time in case something went wrong but that did little to calm your raging nerves.

The client wanted to stay anonymous but the extremely generous offer they’d bid was enough gold to fund the brothel and feed its workers for the entire month, buying you enough time to figure out what to do next. You needed to suck up the fear you were feeling, you needed to do this for your girls.

You continued to pace the floor of the bedroom, fussing over small details to distract yourself from your undeniable terror. 

The door slamming open shocked you as you quickly whipped your head around to find Sevika standing there. She was covered with blood and was panting as if she’d just ran from piltover to the undercity just to see you, a bag of gold coins clutched tightly in her hands.

“Oh” you say in shock and disbelief with wide eyes “it’s you”

[sgiandubh]

Just one more question then. T was already a partner/director in two of C's companies, three if you count the Irish one. This movement for the others happened immediately after the end, for good, of the OL recordings. Of course, there are still publicity commitments, but why choose this moment to bring him on board? In fact, two questions then: Is Cait part of any of T's other companies? I imagine that some are still functional, since he keeps them active. Thank you for your time

Dear Two Questions Anon,

Before anything else: there is not one, but two Irish companies. I am formal on this point and I have discussed it before. Well, sort of -lest you would think I am foolish enough to favor cheap bravery and take inconsiderate risks. I don't know if you already figured it out, I am always waiting for the shite to hit the fan across the street: these people are very predictable and it never disappoints, because even if they do have the paperwork (no NASA secrets, either), they have no clue about the proper way to understand and interpret what they read and always get in a vortex of sorts. It is not this blogger's editorial choice to bring these topics forth.

Your first question is a resounding and very rhetorical why. Your guess is as good as mine, Anon and I really do believe it would be wiser not to push your luck. While I do have a point, I feel you are clever enough to think by yourself, too.

Regarding the second question, as per the Companies' House available public documents, there is one Anthony Gerard McGill and one Anthony McGill. Both are, in fact, the same person. I am mercifully not going to discuss Gerard's string of failed entrepreneurial adventures.

The First Siamese Twin, Anthony Gerard McGill currently holds 5 different company officer appointments. If you take away the three companies that are owned in reality by Mrs. CMB only (see my recent posts on the Persons with Significant Control in a company), you will find two more companies. Both are breathing clones of the Business Ghosts of Christmases Past:

Who runs the shop?

Ma:

'Imself:

Da:

Bro (🦷):

Most importantly, perhaps: who really owns the shop?

Surprise 😮?

Family business. I see no trace of C, here. Which really, is perhaps wiser: the Firm is not exactly doing great.

Fair enough. Onwards to...

'Confirmation statement overdue'...oh, the nostalgia...

Who runs the shop (oh, well - 'runs')?

Ma & 'Imself only:

Where on Earth is Caitriona Sandiego? Well, apparently not in Bristol.

Who owns the shop?

'Imself:

Again, nothing to write home about:

The Second Siamese Twin, Anthony McGill is perhaps less active: only one appointment.

Who runs the shop?

Again, Ma and 'Imself:

Who owns the shop?

No C here, either. Not even remotely. That being said, the bulk of his visible, traceable funds is placed here:

Therefore, the answer to your second question is no. Make of it what you wish, Anon. Thank you for your patience and civility.

[screamingviridianforest]

Short post as I wait at the hospital

Hybrid au, fosters, male reader bc i want to

~

The boys were retired now but still looking for something meaningful to do with their life. Being hybrids, work wasn't exactly the most open for them, even small jobs.

So why not foster hybrid kids? Kids who they would make sure they didn't suffer in childhood like they had. Someone innocent they could help blossom in a good person.

Kyle was the one who proposed the idea. Being a big cat hybrid, he longed for kittens to look after. It just so happened that Ghost, a wolf hybrid, wanted pups to look after.

After the discussion, it sprung the want for cubs in Price and Johnny, a bear hybrid and hyena hybrid, respectively. They all wanted to help a young hybrid, someone they could dote on and help prosper.

So, they set to work setting up their house to foster standards and filling out a seemingly endless amount of paperwork. It was a long process, but they were nothing but patient. They all wanted this and on hard nights they'd use it as motivation to keep going. A chance to do good, one that wouldn't hurt anyone.

And you, who were their first placement. A young sheep hybrid. Horns that curled around your head and fleece that was matted down. You were so shy, especially around predator hybrids.

The first night was rough. You hid in your room the entire time. It was enough to send their instincts spiraling.

"Did we already scare the lad?" Johnny whinned, curling around Simon. Johnny's small tail tucked away.

"No, no," John soothed from his spot on the couch, a soft look in his eyes. "He's in a new place with new people, and we're predators in his brain."

Kyle made a chuffing sound, "we'll need to earn his trust, is all. That starts by making sure he knows he's safe here and we don't want to hurt him."

Simon hummed in agreement, hand running up and down Johnny's back. He didn't have anything to add, but he couldn't deny seeing the fear in your eyes set something off in him. It reminded him of his childhood and he was determined to give you better.

"I'll go tuck him in," John finally says, standing up. "Tomorrow we'll talk to him and help get him settled more."

But when John walks into your room, he finds you already curled up in the corner of your bed. Your small hands clutching the small plush you carried everywhere with you. He sighed softly at the sight. It causes your head to shoot up and lock eyes with him.

"Easy now, little lamb," Price chuffs softly, a reassuring sound, even to you. "Just here to tuck you in, alright?"

He waits for your small nod before moving closer. He picks up a blanket, a big beige one. It was soft and very new. John is so careful as he tucks it around your slim shoulders. You were so small.

"Tomorrow, we'll talk more, get you settled in more, hm?" John says kindly, smoothing the blanket out. You nod again. "Maybe go out and get you some new stuff? Or we'll stay in for a movie day."

You just watch him with your wide eyes. Your hair was matted down and John so desperately wanted to brush it out but he didn't dare push any boundaries. He'd make sure you'd get all cleaned up, tomorrow.

For the rest of the boys, tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

They just had to be patient.

They could do that, right?

[mostlieghostlie]

Indulging in silly conversations that only happen in my imagination, but sharing them here for anyone who could use a laugh (i hope).

In which Gale makes Tara sign a contract.

How much did she hate the beard, really?

Fandom: Baldur's Gate

Rating: G

Characters: Gale, Tara

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gale drew a deep breath, then another. The hour was strikingly early, earlier than he would usually be awake. His hands were always steady, but there was a bit of weakness as he lifted the fine tea cup to sip, setting it back on the matching dish with a minuscule clatter. He cleared his throat and stared across the table at Tara.

Tara, who sat ridged and unrepentant in the wake of this morning's... occurrence. The end of her tail flicked subtly against the elaborate table cloth but with enough force to resound through the table. She refused to face Gale, instead watching out the window.

Much as he wanted to just let this go and let bygones be bygones, Gale was setting a boundary. The soft shuffle of the single parchment sheet between them gently broke the silence as he pushed the page toward Tara.

"I know we have had many differences of opinion in the past," he began. His tone was steady, reassuring. "...and I am certain there are many more still to come. I have no doubt that this can be settled amicably between us, as things always have before. That's what old friends do. This... issue... does not have to come between us. We can agree to disagree."

Tara spared him a brief sideways glance with a soft chuff under her breath. Her eyes shifted back to the view outside.

"Hmph. This is highly uncharacteristic of our friendship- our relationship, and entirely unnecessary, Mr. Dekarios! This is a blatant performance on your part and you know it," she grumbled. Another flick of her tail toward the parchment.

"I'll admit, you are correct that this is rather performative, but not unnecessary," he replied with a tap on the paper.

Tara's eyes flashed as she glared at him, finally turning to face her friend.

"ENTIRELY unnecessary! I have known you since before you were big enough to lift your first quarterstaff! I have been your friend and confidant AND your single greatest supporter, shy of your esteemed mother!" Tara's paw swatted down on the edge of the parchment that Gale had pushed to her side of the table. Her ears pinned sideways as the feathers of her wings bristled. "Since when do we have need of- of- PAPERWORK?! Of CONTRACTS between us?!"

"SINCE I WOKE FROM A DEAD SLEEP THIS MORNING WITH A STRAIGHT RAZOR HOVERING PRECARIOUSLY OVER MY THROAT!" Gale's outburst echoed through the kitchen, his chair screeched as he bolted to his feet and threw out his arms in frustration.

The two stared at each other for a moment before Gale recovered, running a hand over his face and balancing the other on his hip. Tara, to her credit, was unfazed and accustomed to his temper.

"Since..." he started again, "Since you decided that taking matters into your own hands included imposing your will on my own grooming habits!"

"It was just a shaving blade, Gale."

"I was ASLEEP. The blade could have slipped-"

"Slipped? Oh, please! I've been conjuring Mage Hand since before you were even born--"

"Tara, sign the paper."

"You canNOT be so serious. I am NOT signing any-"

"YES, you are! I told you time and time again that I am perfectly happy-"

"It looks absolutely unbecoming of you-"

"TARA, JUST SIGN IT." Gale sternly spoke over her in his most adept disappointed-teacher voice. "You are my friend and companion. Your presence in my life stands above many others, above the whole of Toril and beyond, but this is a matter in which I have told you repeatedly that you have no say! Now... read over the agreement and sign."

Another moment lingered before Gale straightened his robes and sat down again. He reached for his tea as he nudged the quill toward Tara.

"Read, if you please," he reiterated.

With a sigh Tara relented, her wings slouching minutely as she leaned over the page.

"Ahem... I, Tara, the undersigned... a resident and esteemed family member of House Dekarios... really, Gale?" Tara glanced up at him. The slight smile she couldn't hide was met with the upward twitch of his eyebrows over the tea cup. "...agree to the establishment of boundaries, specifically in relation to the grooming and preferential upkeep of those in my charge. This includes, but is not limited to, one Professor Gale Dekarios - Master of Evocation and Mystical Theorems Department at Blackstaff Academy, Savior of Baldur's Gate, and present Head of House Dekarios."

Gale couldn't stifle the laugh, but did try to make a convincing sound of clearing his throat as Tara glared up again.

"Go on," he urged patiently.

"I... henceforth will refrain from any physical imposition or actions upon his person in regard to cosmetological matters of barbering. I acknowledge competency of his personal hygiene and will not interfere now or in the future. This includes..." she sighed again, having her crimes clearly scrawled out in ink between them. "Mr. Dekarios, this is silly-"

"Read it," Gale grated.

Tara swallowed her pride and rushed through the last few lines. "This includes swearing that I will never again use any means, magical or otherwise, to shave or alter his appearance. Especially not while he is... asleep."

Another flick of her tail and the quill on the table righted itself and drifted over to sign her name at the bottom of the page. She let it settle gently onto the table before looking back at Gale.

"You know I would have never harmed you, my dear," she muttered before hopping down from the table and making her way toward the door.

Gale exhaled a slow breath and nodded. "I know. Regardless, the beard stays. And no more rude awakenings!"

[foreststarflaime]

One morning at Shinra Sephiroth has a black eye for 3 hours. He will acts like nothing is wrong. Rumors spiral around. What happened?

-Early that morning-

Angeal was away on a mission. That’s usually the first sign proceeding an incident of this nature. Sephiroth and Genesis left together unsupervised—Lazard keeps an extra stash of painkillers in his desk just for this kind of occasion.

They’d been tame enough last night. Genesis had managed to civilly (for once) coax Sephiroth away from his paperwork and into his apartment, where they had proceeded to devour the leftover pie Angeal had left them while watching movies until late in the night. Genesis—who had only just returned from a mission himself, and was lacking on proper sleep—had gotten perhaps a little too comfortable, and had perhaps bought too plush a sofa, since he had slumped over further and further until he had fallen asleep on Sephiroth’s shoulder. Sephiroth, unusually comfortable himself, had been disinclined to extricate himself from the situation, and had drawn the blanket up to cover them both and slept the night through right there.

They’d even been civil for a record amount of time after they’d woken up. Perhaps Genesis’ penchant for chaos had been temporarily soothed by the rare sight of Sephiroth fast asleep and curled up against him like a contented cat, his silver hair turned to gold in the morning sun peeking through the window. Perhaps the sight had stirred him to an act of love instead of mischief, since instead of grabbing a permanent marker to draw a mustache on that perfect face like he’d always wanted, he carefully pulled away—smiling fondly at the barely-audible noise of protest that prompted—and moved to the kitchen to make breakfast.

The problems started soon after.

Sephiroth was watching Genesis move about the kitchen, his head ever so slightly cocked. Genesis, mid-attempted-pancake-flip, noticed this and snorted.

“What?”

“You are…making pancakes?”

“So I am. Don’t look so surprised—or are these not up to his picky highnesses’ royal standards?”

“I…am not opposed to pancakes.”

“My friend, your desire is the bringer of life, the gift of the goddess.” Genesis flashed him a fond smile. And flipped the pancake again. Sephiroth followed it with his eyes intently, almost involuntarily.

He was silent for a moment. Then—“didn’t Angeal make fresh pancakes not three days ago? Were the leftovers not in his freezer?”

Genesis cursed and nearly dropped the pan. He had definitely forgotten about that. Trying to pass it off as him having burned his finger, he tried to save face. “What, would you rather have Angeal’s frozen days-old pancakes than my fresh ones made with love? Do gestures mean nothing to you?”

A hint of a mischevious smile ghosted Sephiroth’s face. Genesis did so love encouraging that look in him, but it was unfortunate when it was turned against him. “Angeal’s food usually tastes better. He actually reads the recipes.”

“Well, maybe I just have better things to be reading, dear. I’ll have you know, anything Angeal can do I can do with style.” He flipped a pancake with a flourish to emphasize this, higher than the last. Sephiroth tracked its movement like a cat stalking a mouse. Genesis finally noticed this and smirked widely.

“That does not seem…efficient,” Sephiroth commented. “Are you not worried about it falling?”

Genesis just smirked wider, and flipped the pancake higher. “I’ve skill enough.”

“Hm.” Sephiroth’s eyes were slightly dilated, like a predator on the hunt. “…How much?”

A challenge. Excellent. Genesis flipped the pancake several feet into the air. Sephiroth was perfectly still.

“We seek it thus…” Genesis weighed the pan in his hand—“and take to the sky!” He flipped the pancake with all of his dramatic prowess. The pancake sailed up, up, up, flipping and flipping…

And promptly collided with the ceiling. And stayed there.

Sephiroth blinked at Genesis. Genesis blinked at Sephiroth.

No one who presumed to have any sort of familiarity with Sephiroth would have recognized the shit-eating grin that spread across his face. Sephiroth took out his PHS, opened to his messages with Angeal, clicked the photo option, and began to point it at the ceiling-cake.

With a yelp, Genesis launched himself at Sephiroth. Sephiroth gracefully pirouetted out of the irate redhead’s path, moving to reposition his PHS. Genesis, for once knowing when he was bested in outright battle, decided he had a better chance of getting rid of the evidence before it could be documented.

Clambering onto the counter, he grabbed Rapier from where it was leaning and used it as a sort of stilt on which to balance to reach the errant pancake. His fingers brushed the edge, and a little of the batter peeled off onto the floor, but a gibbous of pancake still remained, mocking him. Sephiroth was laughing. Genesis strained a little further—why were these ceilings so high?—and just managed to grasp the rest. Sephiroth was moving towards him now, PHS lowered, and Genesis straightened in triumph and indignation—

And promptly felt Rapier slip out beneath him with a horrid sound against the kitchen tile. Flailing, he went down hard. Sephiroth attempted to catch him, but Genesis felt his elbow strike something painfully and they both went down hard.

Genesis scrambled for the PHS, scanning the miraculously uncracked screen to find the delete button—but the evidence had already been sent. “FUCK!”

“Hm,” Sephiroth hummed, sitting up with a hand to his eye. Genesis glanced over at him and did a double take.

“Fuck.”

-3 hours later-

“I dunno, Kuns, doesn’t seem all that believable to me,” Zack mumbled in between bites. Sephiroth was sitting a few tables away, sporting a nasty black eye (partially concealed by what appeared to be hastily-applied makeup), nonchalantly cutting up his lunch. Genesis was nowhere to be seen. “They wouldn’t be that clumsy. They’re Firsts! They have, like, crazy reflexes! I bet he got it from some spy that snuck in or something. That would be totally badass. Where’d you hear that rumor from, anyways?”

[joanofarcs-stigmata]

gave up studying for my midterms so hello here i am! first, i want to give a few disclaimers: i have a degree in sociology, specifically in regards to trauma informed childcare and the school to prison pipeline, and i teach, so while i interact with the prison system i do not have a law degree, and i only know so much. also, i am trans and schizophrenic, both of which have crazy high rates of discrimination by police (especially schizophrenia. out of all people that face police brutality in the usa, 20.1% are schizophrenic!) so i am definitely biased. i'm also from the southern united states. my state has the highest # of people ever killed by the state in prison in the usa, and our last governor swears with his life that we have never executed an innocent person, despite plenty of people being cleared posthumously. (horrifying, i know. i love my home but also gosh i hate it here). so that's where im coming from, life experience wise. also, i apologize if my wording comes off as gruff; being schizophrenic, i have a hard time conveying tone. i 100% mean everything kindly.

also: im not an anarchist or anything lol. i promise

first, police aren't 'problematic'-- they're a militarized institution. they're a system built into the fabric of society. that's far more than problematic. in my state (which i'm keeping vague bc of privacy, but you can probably figure it out real easy at the end of this lol), the police, rangers, and sheriffs were all started for two reasons: genocide and slave catching. "hey, local farmer, need an *insert whatever slur for indigenous person you can think of* to give up their land? just have them bullied off the property by rangers!" "hey, plantation owner, your slave ran away? call the sheriff to come find them!" the police exist to enforce laws, and when the laws are genocidal and pro-slavery, these institutions are founded as colonialist and antiblack. policing in the usa exists because of slavery and genocide. the justice system hasn't 'failed' because it wasn't moral to begin with.

of course, the history of policing in america doesnt 100% start with slavery/indigenous genocide. but, prior to these laws that supported state sanctioned violence, most law enforcement was done by militias. you see a lot of these still in my state, especially in sundown towns and near the mexican border, and a lot of these people get slaps on the wrist for brutalizing others while the people they are harassing-- black people, people of color, immigrants-- are jailed for nothing, which is just the system working as intended. historically, militias were only formalized into a police force when it came time to murder and attack people of color, ESPECIALLY in the case of slave catching. there is an entire department in the police force in my state that still shares a name with a slave catching group.

and that's just historically. in the modern day, the poor and unhoused, black people, indigenous people, other people of color, the severely mentally ill, and in some areas, lgbt people, make up the statistically disproportionately high percentage of american prisoners, and they certainly make up a higher proportion of solitary confinement (which has been outlawed in other countries and actively used for torture in the usa!) and those on death row. people who are the 'undesirables' make up the most of our prisons, and are the first to get murdered by police. in my state, just this month, a family was only just awarded money in damages for the police murder of their son six years ago that a major city here covered up. not some rural backwater town by a hillbilly cop-- one of the biggest metropolises in the state by a decorated officer. and do police do their job? do they stop sexual assaults? thefts? murders? hate crimes? no. often the police are the ones doing these things, and when they aren't, they are just there to do paperwork documenting what happened. this isn't the movies. most of them don't care, and the ones that do dont stay cops long. how many cases in this year alone have there been of schizophrenic people (often black) calling the police for help/getting a wellness check called on them, just to be murdered? or brutalized? police are on the side of the state, not you. there's a reason why i only share hotlines that DONT call the cops.

okay, so the history of policing is bad, and the vulnerable are being imprisoned and killed at disproportionate rates, but we need people to go to prison, right? so here is where religion comes into play for me. first, Jesus calls for us to protect the marginalized: the poor, unhoused, oppressed.... huh, the people most targeted by policing. then, Jesus calls for us to support the prisoner (Matthew 25:36-40) and to radically, radically forgive.

not to get too personal, but i was a victim of medical abuse as a teenager by a doctor who violated my rights and by all means should be in prison. but i don't want him to go to prison. should he face consequences? yeah. strip him of his license and make sure he never gets near patients again. but imprisoning him, placing him in a deeply corrupt system that constantly violates the rights of the people inside it and leaving him to rot? that's not radical forgiveness. that's not Christlike. our criminal justice system is NOT just. It's punitive. it is not focused on rehabilitation, community building, and harm reduction. it is focused on punishing. And who does that help? Not the victims of crimes, that's for sure. Not the community. Not the person in jail. It helps the STATE. Because prisoners are unpaid slave labor, and prisons can be used to beat down the undesirable and get them out of sight where they can be beaten into submission and quietly done away with. As long as prisons are used to punish instead of rehabilitate, build community, and reduce harm, they are a violation of human dignity and decency. and unfortunately, they never will be rehabilitation, community, and harm reduction focused, because a punitive system based on fear and violence gives the state (and corporations!) money and power.

if you would like to hear from people smarter than I, i have some (so many) books to recommend!

Are Prisons Obsolete? - Angela Y. Davis (anything by her, tbh)

Abolition for the People: The Movement For a Future without Policing and Prisons - Colin Kaepernick

Instead Of Prisons - Prison Research Education Action Project

Locked Down, Locked Out: Why Prison Doesn't Work and How We Can Do Better - Maya Schenwar

Until We Reckon: Violence, Mass Incarceration, and a Road to Repair - Danielle Sered

"Prisons Make Us Safer": And 20 Other Myths about Mass Incarceration - Victoria Law

We Keep Us Safe: Building Secure, Just, and Inclusive Communities - Zach Norris

Resist the Punitive State: Grassroots Struggles Across Welfare, Housing, Education and Prisons - Emily Luise Hart, Joe Greener, Rich Moth

PLEASE let me know if you have any questions!!

to be Christian is to be called to love, but to be Christian is also to be called to love the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized, and the imprisoned specifically and explicitly. To be Christian is to abolish police and prisons, because with these institutions the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized, and the imprisoned will never be free. We are called to make Heaven on Earth, and that includes doing away with institutions that enforce worldly shackles.

[likesdoodling]

:)